Mid-Death
by Alan Dean Foster
-I-
MARSTON REGARDED THE man standing before him as if he was fully certifiable. “Are you out of your mind? Have you taken leave of your senses? You can’t go down in there.” The station supervisor took a deep breath. “I thought this was to be a robotic expedition, conducted from a distance. Nobody actually goes down deep into the forest. Nobody. Thom Olin did, and nobody’s seen him since.” His tone hardened. “And you’ve only been here a couple of days.”
Urbinski stubbed out the end of the stimstick he’d been puffing and smiled. He was used to people, both within the company and outside of it, underestimating his abilities. They, and his complete self-confidence, had allowed him to rise high within the former and take revenge on the latter. He decided to be patient with Marston. The supervisor knew nothing of his official visitor’s history, and therefore could be excused his ire. For a little while.
“Company wants Olin back. They want him back very badly indeed.” Urbinski’s eyes, which were small and dark and missed nothing, glittered. “Since your people appear to be too unskilled to go after him, or too afraid, I was instructed to come here and bail you out.”
. . .
