Milekey Mountain

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AS A planet, thought Killashandra, Ballybran rated the parenthesized question mark in the Galactic Guidebook. It made even fusty Fuerte, her birthworld and one she’d previously maligned, seem a pleasure planet in comparison. Fuerte at least looked interesting from space, which Ballybran with its lowish rounded hills and monotonous plains didn’t.

“There’s not much on Ballybran,” she’d been told repeatedly as she shepherded the mindless Carrik back to the tender loving care of the Heptite Guild after his brain-blowing supersonic overload.

She’d been tremendously impressed by the Guild’s omnipotence: high-rank medicorps men had awaited her inert charge at every intermediary port and she herself had been accorded the most deferential treatment. She’d been required to do very little more than check the life support cradle which carried Carrik; i.v. feeding, therapy, bathing, etc., had all been expertly managed by appropriately trained personnel. Nothing, apparently, was too good for a Heptite Guild member. Or his escort. She had open credit in the ships’ stores and preferential treatment when they transferred ships. She was at every captain’s table. Except for the fact that she was left strictly alone she thoroughly enjoyed her position.

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