Chapter 7
Jorden Macardel grunted as Race, hunching his shoulders against the shrill wind that blew up the Port River from the south, stepped onto the platform of the lift. He was a tough, gnarled, unapproachable sort, but Janinda had dealt with him. The hoist shot them rapidly into the air, causing some of the crewmen to mutter and stamp their feet. The smooth face of the Plate approached them; then the hoist slowed, stopped.
Below, the hoist slid along its rails and the platform crawled toward the top of the Plate, closing the unleapable gap. An attendant dropped a ring around a bollard, locking it in contact. They trooped off after Macardel’s gangling figure.
Race looked about eagerly and fearfully. This was a small Plate, a hundred feet in diameter and holding only the smaller ships
