Twenty km’s outside of Caras the lipstick-red Corsair V came to a noiseless halt. The sun was peeping over the mountain tops. Carlos unpeeled his hands from the handholds. He was looking a bit green in the face. Perdita was a fast driver.
“Stay in the car,” ordered Perdita. She got out and breathed in the fresh air. Carlos needed a bath! It was tiring travelling with him. But she didn’t have the heart to send him back to the old man.
The secret Rebellion air base nestled in the nook of the mountains. It was still in full shade at seven in the morning. She marched in, sought out the office. The man on duty was half-asleep from the graveyard shift; nevertheless her appearance had the effect it always had on strange men, that of surprised admiration and a trace of hopefulness.
Perdita produced her identity override card. The man ran it through the system and registered with shocked eyes who she was.
“I need a jet,” said Perdita.
A jet was provided.
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