“Relax, Hugh.” The voice was not recognizable through the translation system, but the tone was that used by the equipment to identify male native Habras. Simultaneously three figures resembling dragonflies with three pairs each of, to Erthumoi, unbelievably short wings swooped into the lighted area above the ramp, diving toward the skier. They were flying almost in line, twenty-five or thirty meters apart.

The first missed; reflexes able to deal easily with Habranha’s chaotic air turbulence were defeated by Barrar’s inadequate attempts to steer himself.

“Ged! Just go straight! They’ll pick you up!” Hugh keyed out before realizing how silly he was being. If the Samian had been able to go straight, there would have been no problem. It was too bad Janice had heard — but she’d never remind him unless he asked for it.

The next native had an additional second or two to allow for the extra variables, and neatly inserted four sets of handling appendages among the upper bars of Ged Barrar’s pseudobody. This was light, far lighter than an armored Erthuma, and, with no obvious effort, the Habra lifted it clear of the ramp and around to the right of its upcurved end. Seconds later he set his burden down beside Janice, swooped gracefully up and around, and landed in front of them with his fellows.

“I’m coming,” keyed Hugh. “I can’t guarantee just where I’ll land; you fellows should be ready for a quick lift.”

“We know, Boss,” came the translated reply. “We’ve seen you often enough. Come on down. We’re ready.”

Hugh came. By some combination of luck and personal skill he held a relatively straight course both on the slopes and in the air, and landed on both skis at once, fifty meters or so to one side of, and seventy short of, the waiting group. He slid to a halt beside them, spraying snow.