Must Love Hellhounds

breathing.
    When they got very close to the grate, Batanya leaned Crick up against the wall and stepped silently up to it by herself.
    She was looking down into one of the soldiers’ mess rooms. There were about twenty various creatures sitting around a table eating bread and meat, and drinking—those that had mouths—from bowls. They were all talking (or growling, or hooting), and when there was a loud alarm, at first they ignored it. Suddenly a large snakeman bounded into the room, and he bellowed (as much as his throat would permit him), “To arms! Lucifer has been attacked!” Whether from devotion or fear or professional pride, the collection of soldiers cleared out of the mess hall in double quick time.
    “Shit,” Batanya said, and Crick tried to smile.
    “I agree,” he said. “But at the same time, this is the last place they’d expect us to come, and if they’re clearing out, this is our best chance to retrieve the ball.”
    “Which way?” Batanya said, having no argument to make with that.
    “Forward,” he said, trying to put some energy in his voice.
    So on they hurried. Two more grates were passed, Crick taking a careful look down each one, and at the third one he said, “This is it.”
    Batanya’s shoulders wanted to sag with relief, but she kept herself braced and ready for action. She had an awful feeling she could hear the sound of pursuit coming up the passage; it was some way distant, but their pursuers would catch up quickly since they were all fit. So she wouldn’t think about what would happen after that, she squatted down to remove the grate, which wasn’t secured in any way; why would it be? Before she could speak, Crick grasped the rim and lowered himself down to the bed that was almost squarely beneath the grate. Crick gasped in sudden pain and dropped heavily, and the bed broke. Crick ended up on the floor, curled in a ball. In a flash, Batanya lowered herself through the opening and dropped a lot more gracefully.
    “You idiot,” she said as she helped Crick to rise. “Where is it?” He pointed to some cabinets lined up against the wall, obviously intended to hold the soldiers’ effects.
    “On top,” he said. “On top of the first cabinet to the right.” This proved to be a narrow cabinet with three lines scratched on it. Batanya opened the cabinet, stood on the lowest shelf, and heaved herself up. Sure enough, back against the wall where it would be out of sight, there was the conjuring ball, hastily concealed by Crick months before. It was wrapped in a rag that had been used to wipe it clean. Remembering where Crick had kept it concealed, Batanya was grateful. She grabbed the ball and leaped down, bounding over to Crick in almost the same moment. He took it and tossed it up to Clovache. Batanya gripped Crick around the hips and lifted. Clovache and Amelia reached down and seized Crick’s upstretched hands, and together they bundled the thief up into the passage again. Once he was out of the way, Batanya made a good leap to seize the lip of the opening herself, and with the help of the two women she managed to join the others, just as the door of the room below opened with a crash.
    “Now,” she said to Clovache. “Now!”
    Clovache pressed a lump behind her ear where the beacon was implanted. Then she pressed it again. Batanya reached behind her own ear and pressed hers three times. Five people to transport.
    Nothing happened.
    “Fuck,” Batanya said. “Can the ball get us out of here?”
    “I don’t know how to get it to . . .” Crick began, and then the sounds of pursuit became immediate. Batanya swung around to face the oncoming horde, and Clovache picked up her short spear and hurled it at the lead figure, one of the snakemen. He fell and the others stumbled around him, but it was only a matter of seconds before they were overwhelmed. Crick dropped the conjuring ball, and Amelia retrieved it automatically. “I want to go back,” she said, almost weeping.
    Pop!
    There was confused swirl of colors and sounds, the impression of a high wind, and they were standing under a brilliant sun on what appeared to be a small island. The sea surged all around; there was no other land in sight. There were a few palm trees, and Batanya heard a bird scream. A wrecked airplane was crumpled on the beach before them, a dead man lying next to it. Amelia’s face was a study in shock, and Batanya was sure her own face matched it. Clovache, thinking very quickly, seized