in

even of being conscious. They had sat about like terrorized children for the past several days; they lay there now like stunned animals. Regaining her balance, Lane realized the bubble was falling much too fast, and for an instant she had the fierce hope that it was out of control.
Then she understood: he wants to get us down near that station—near a food supply! A wave of sick, helpless fury washed over her.
The Nachief looked around, grinning briefly, almost as if he had caught the thought.
“Pot-shooting at us, Lane! But we’ll make it.”
The deep voice; the friendly, authoritative, easily amused voice she’d been in love with for over a year. The voice that had told her, quite casually, less than thirty-six hours ago, that she and Sean and Grant would have to die, because she had found out something she wasn’t supposed to know—and because she had made the additional mistake of telling the other two. The voice had