build a
primitive aircraft here—” he broke off and struggled for a moment with the controls.
“No, if the climate is all like this, I wouldn’t expect aviation to be a science they’d develop very soon. Maybe on the plains to the south, but not here in the mountains.”
“But we can land here,” Commander Britton said. It sounded to Ysaye like a
question, although it was not phrased as such; she wondered, was the Commander about to order MacAran to break off and return to the ship?
“I’m doing my best,” MacAran said, “but this place has hit a new low for flying
conditions.”
That did not sound good to Ysaye.
“I’ll be glad when we get on the ground,” the Commander muttered.
If we get on the ground, Ysaye thought. Suddenly she realized that her fears were not groundless, nor were they over-reaction; he was examining all possibilities to get them out of deadly peril. She swallowed, but the lump in her throat would not go away, and her mouth was paper dry. His manner made it pretty obvious that this was far more dangerous than it had sounded on board ship.
This was not what I bargained for, when I signed on with the Space Service.
They had plunged into clouds, thick and seemingly bottomless, a few moments
ago; now, as the ship rolled and yawed like an amusement-park thrill ride, they came out below clouds, and Ysaye saw an endless vista of evergreen trees of some kind, lined with black scars from old forest-fires. As they continued downward, still bucking and yawing, she knew MacAran was searching desperately for ground level enough to set the shuttle down. She knew that atmospheric craft were usually landed facing into the wind, but they were not meant to fly into a gale like this. And as if the wind weren’t enough—a moment later, the vista below was obscured by a pall of snow as thick as the clouds had been.
She could only hope that MacAran’s instruments were working, and working
well.
The search for the optimum landing space must be balanced against the shuttle’s
remaining power; if he delayed too long —there would be no power left for a landing.
And an unpowered landing, here, now—
Balance this against the dangers of the landing area—which had not looked
particularly good when Ysaye had glimpsed it.
The snow cleared for a moment; Ysaye craned her neck, ignoring the way the
shuttle was throwing her against her straps, and caught a glimpse of his enhanced IR/UV
imager; it, at least, had not been affected by the snow. And there was evidently enough ambient heat for the IR scan to work. “Beyond the trees,” MacAran said jerkily, “that clearing. We’ll set down there. Going to have to try anyhow. Not much choice.”
“Look!” Elizabeth said suddenly. She was still glued to her window, and
apparently she had seen something, the first evidence of the native IBs she had seen with her own eyes. “A castle.”
“Can’t be,” David said. “Not exactly. Remember how the French, landing among
the Iroquois, christened their fortress cities of wood chateaux, and ended up naming three or four cities ‘Castletown.’”
Ysaye stared at them aghast. Only David and Elizabeth, Ysaye thought, would
argue the fine points of linguistics in the face of an imminent crash landing.
“Elizabeth!” she squawked. “I hardly think—”
Elizabeth turned a face toward her that was so white it looked green, and her
expression was as strained as Ysaye’s. “I didn’t think praying would do much for morale,” she replied, her voice trembling.
She heard MacAran mutter from the controls, “Here goes nothing. This is about as good as we’re going to get.” He raised his voice. “All right, back there! Brace for landing! Crash positions!”
She bent over obediently, taking the approved tuck and covering the back of her
neck with her hands. She felt them strike hard, rebound, and come down again; the crash restraints deployed, nets holding them in their fetal curls.
primitive aircraft here—” he broke off and struggled for a moment with the controls.
“No, if the climate is all like this, I wouldn’t expect aviation to be a science they’d develop very soon. Maybe on the plains to the south, but not here in the mountains.”
“But we can land here,” Commander Britton said. It sounded to Ysaye like a
question, although it was not phrased as such; she wondered, was the Commander about to order MacAran to break off and return to the ship?
“I’m doing my best,” MacAran said, “but this place has hit a new low for flying
conditions.”
That did not sound good to Ysaye.
“I’ll be glad when we get on the ground,” the Commander muttered.
If we get on the ground, Ysaye thought. Suddenly she realized that her fears were not groundless, nor were they over-reaction; he was examining all possibilities to get them out of deadly peril. She swallowed, but the lump in her throat would not go away, and her mouth was paper dry. His manner made it pretty obvious that this was far more dangerous than it had sounded on board ship.
This was not what I bargained for, when I signed on with the Space Service.
They had plunged into clouds, thick and seemingly bottomless, a few moments
ago; now, as the ship rolled and yawed like an amusement-park thrill ride, they came out below clouds, and Ysaye saw an endless vista of evergreen trees of some kind, lined with black scars from old forest-fires. As they continued downward, still bucking and yawing, she knew MacAran was searching desperately for ground level enough to set the shuttle down. She knew that atmospheric craft were usually landed facing into the wind, but they were not meant to fly into a gale like this. And as if the wind weren’t enough—a moment later, the vista below was obscured by a pall of snow as thick as the clouds had been.
She could only hope that MacAran’s instruments were working, and working
well.
The search for the optimum landing space must be balanced against the shuttle’s
remaining power; if he delayed too long —there would be no power left for a landing.
And an unpowered landing, here, now—
Balance this against the dangers of the landing area—which had not looked
particularly good when Ysaye had glimpsed it.
The snow cleared for a moment; Ysaye craned her neck, ignoring the way the
shuttle was throwing her against her straps, and caught a glimpse of his enhanced IR/UV
imager; it, at least, had not been affected by the snow. And there was evidently enough ambient heat for the IR scan to work. “Beyond the trees,” MacAran said jerkily, “that clearing. We’ll set down there. Going to have to try anyhow. Not much choice.”
“Look!” Elizabeth said suddenly. She was still glued to her window, and
apparently she had seen something, the first evidence of the native IBs she had seen with her own eyes. “A castle.”
“Can’t be,” David said. “Not exactly. Remember how the French, landing among
the Iroquois, christened their fortress cities of wood chateaux, and ended up naming three or four cities ‘Castletown.’”
Ysaye stared at them aghast. Only David and Elizabeth, Ysaye thought, would
argue the fine points of linguistics in the face of an imminent crash landing.
“Elizabeth!” she squawked. “I hardly think—”
Elizabeth turned a face toward her that was so white it looked green, and her
expression was as strained as Ysaye’s. “I didn’t think praying would do much for morale,” she replied, her voice trembling.
She heard MacAran mutter from the controls, “Here goes nothing. This is about as good as we’re going to get.” He raised his voice. “All right, back there! Brace for landing! Crash positions!”
She bent over obediently, taking the approved tuck and covering the back of her
neck with her hands. She felt them strike hard, rebound, and come down again; the crash restraints deployed, nets holding them in their fetal curls.
Similar Books
