She poured out a cupful, left it balanced on the rail, and he swooped down on the fin, took the water, drank it and left the empty cup where he had found it. He nodded, but he didn’t thank her, and he kept the crossbow pointed at her. The sky-fin didn’t get any water. They never drink. They seem to survive on vapour. We sailed on. The sky was as empty as a pocket. (One of Peggy’s sayings, but then she never did have much money.) After half an hour’s travelling we saw a cluster of islands, mostly small, some little bigger than rocks. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Cut the solar.’ Peggy closed the shields and we slowed, then drifted. ‘We’ll see what the troops say.’ But it was hard to see them. I sneaked a look through the telescope, but I couldn’t see anyone. Maybe I was looking at the wrong island, so I moved the telescope around, but they all appeared to be deserted, except that on the largest of them there were dark, crouching shapes – many of them, and menacing-looking, as if they were predators, waiting to pounce.
