Birdie sighed and leaned back in his wicker chair. Perry’s office stood on the top floor of Opal’s highest Quakeside building, a four-story experimental structure that had been built to Perry’s own specifications. Birdie Kelly still felt uncomfortable inside it. The foundation extended down through layers of mud and a tangle of dead and living roots, right on past the lower basement of the Sling to the brackish waters of Opal’s ocean. It was buoyed by a hollow chamber just below the surface, and the hydrostatic lift from there carried most of the load.

Even such a low building did not feel safe to Birdie. The Slings were delicate; without firm foundations, most buildings on Opal were held to one or two stories. For the past six months this Sling had been tethered in one spot, but as Summertide approached that would be too dangerous. Perry had ordered that in eight more days the Sling should be released to move at the mercy of the tides — but was that soon enough?

The communicator sounded. Max Perry ignored it. He was leaning back in his reclining chair, staring up at the ceiling. Birdie rubbed at his threadbare white jacket, leaned forward, and read the crude display.

He sniffed. It was not a message likely to put Max Perry in a better mood.

“Captain Rebka is closer than we thought, sir,” he said. “In fact, he left Starside hours ago. His aircar should be ready to land in a few minutes.”

“Thanks, Birdie.” Perry did not move. “Ask the Slingline to keep us posted.”

“I’ll do that, Commander.” Kelly knew he had been dismissed, but he ignored it. “Before Captain Rebka gets here you should take a look at these, sir. As soon as you can.”

Kelly laid a folder on the plaited-reed tabletop that lay between them, sat back, and waited. Max Perry could not be rushed in his current mood.