For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [82]
Five minutes later, she held a large flask up to the dim early-morning light. “There, that should do it. Pheromones and blood and a few other nose-ticklers. If this doesn’t draw them, nothing will.”
“They’ll set off the alarm when they cross the sonic fence,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but by that time they’ll be so berserk, nothing will turn them. Then it won’t matter what they set off.” She smiled nastily, then hesitated at the thought. “My only concern is that we find your mother before they start in on the buildings.”
“We’d better,” Flinx said.
“There should be enough confusion,” she went on, “to distract everyone’s attention. Unless they’re downright inhuman, the inhabitants of the camp aren’t going to be thinking of much of anything beyond saving their own skins.
“As to getting your mother out fast, I think we can assume that she’s not in the hangar area or the power station or that central tower. That leaves the two long structures off to the west. If we can get inside and get her out before whoever’s in charge comes to his senses, we should be able to get away before anyone realizes what’s happening.
“Remember, we’ll be the only ones ready for what’s going to happen. A lot will depend on how these people react. They’re obviously not stupid, but I don’t see how anyone could be adaptable enough to react calmly to what we’re going to do to them. Besides, I don’t have any better ideas.”
Flinx shook his head, “Neither do I. I can see one difficulty, though. If we’re going to convince this herd that they’re chasing after an injured Devilope in heat, we’re going to have to stay on the ground. I don’t see them following the scent up in the air.”
“Quite right, and we have to make our actions as believable as possible. That means hugging the surface. Not only would tree-level flight confuse the herd, air currents would carry the scent upward too quickly and dissipate it too fast.”
“Then what happens,” Flinx pressed on, “if this idea works and the herd does follow us back toward the camp and we hit a tree or stall or something?”
Lauren shrugged. “Can you climb?”
“There aren’t many trees in Drallar free for the climbing,” he told her, “but I’ve done a lot of climbing on the outsides of buildings.”
“You’ll find little difference,” she assured him, “with the kind of motivation you’ll have if the skimmer stalls. If something happens, head for the biggest tree you can find. I think they’ll avoid the emergents. The smaller stuff they’ll just ignore.” She hesitated, stared sideways at him. “You want to wait a little while to think it over?”
“We’re wasting time talking,” he replied, knowing that every minute brought Mother Mastiff closer and closer to whatever fate her abductors had planned for her. “I’m ready if you are.”
“I’m not ready,” she said, “but I never will be, for this. So we might as well go.” She settled into the pilot’s chair and thumbed a control. The rear of the cabin’s canopy swung upward.
“Climb into the back. When I give the word, you uncap the flask and pour out, oh, maybe a tenth of the contents. Then hold it out back, keep it open, and pour a tenth every time I say so. Got it?”
“Got it,” he assured her with more confidence than he felt. “You just drive this thing and make sure we don’t get into an argument with a tree.”
“Don’t worry about that.” She gave him a last smile before turning to the control console.
The skimmer rose and turned, heading slowly back toward the somnolent herd. When they were just ten meters from the nearest animal, Lauren pivoted the craft and hovered, studying the scanner’s display of the forest ahead.
Violent grunts and an occasional bleating sound began to issue from the herd as Flinx held the still tightly sealed flask over the stern of the skimmer. He looked around until he found a piece of thin cloth and tied it across his nose and mouth.
“I should have thought of that,” she murmured, watching him. “Sorry.”
“Don’t you want one?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m up here, and the wind will carry the scent