idiot-brakes in the nose and fought to hold control as the ship bucked down into dangerous low speed.
A path of darker green lay down the middle of the lighter green field. He aimed into the center, slammed on the wheel brakes when he felt the ground. The jetter bounced up onto its nose wheel, skidded in the slippery grass, crabbed sideways into tall grass. One wing dipped. The ship cartwheeled—once, twice.
It came to rest upside down.
Sil-Chan hung in his harness trying to breathe deeply while his mind replayed the whirling madcap landscape through which he had just dervished. He felt his heart pounding. His left shoulder ached.
That cost me half my longevity.
The adrenaline reaction began to set in. His hands trembled uncontrollably. He knew he would have to find a supply of anti-S soon. That dive had taken him through months of normal life.
The jetter creaked and settled slightly. A strange quiet intruded upon Sil-Chan’s awareness. The quiet bothered him. Faint swishing grew discernible. A masculine voice intruded on the quiet. “Hey in there! You all right?”
Sil-Chan could imagine the racing stream of robot emergency equipment which would have greeted such a landing on a regular field. He shuddered. All of the quiet, single-purposed reserve which had marked his life to this point dissolved like the mists around the island. It was as though he had passed through an invisible barrier to become an unexpected person on the other side.
“You funnel-mouthed, vacuum-headed idiots!” he bellowed.
The jetter trembled as someone forced open the door beside him. He turned his head, looked upside down into the face of a man who reminded him of a younger Director Tchung. It was the set of the eyes and the reserved look in a narrow face.
“You sound healthy enough,” the man said. “Did you break anything?”
“No thanks to you!” Sil-Chan raged.
“Here, let me help you out of the harness,” the man said. He knelt and gently helped Sil-Chan remove the crash harness. The man’s hands were rough and there was unexpected strength in his arms. He smelled of some odd spice.
Sil-Chan winced as the straps were eased over his left shoulder.
“Bit of a bruise there,” the man said. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. How about your legs and back?”
“They’re fine. Get me out of this stupid …”
“Easy there. Easy does it.”
The man gentled Sil-Chan out the door and onto the grassy ground, helped Sil-Chan to sit up. There was an acrid fuel smell mixed with the odors of crushed grass. The sky swayed a bit above his rescuer.
“Just sit there a bit until you feel better,” the man said. “You seem to be all in one piece.”
Sil-Chan studied this first Dornbaker he had seen. The man was a loosely hung figure in a brown fringed jacket, tight pants. The jacket was open almost to his navel and exposed a smooth, almost hairless chest. The same could not be said of his head—which was a tangle of black hair, some of which straggled over his forehead, He looked as primitive and wild as this island.
“David! David! Is he all right?”
It was the voice of the young woman at Free Island Control. She came panting around the end of the wrecked jetter, bare legs swishing in the long grass. At sight of Sil-Chan, she came to a stop and leaned against the jetter, gasping for breath. “Thank the Stone you weren’t killed,” she panted. “I ran all the way from Control.”
Sil-Chan stared up at her: skin as dark as Tchung’s but her hair was a golden cloud and her eyes were the blue of the misty sea, full of lurking merriment that even her obvious worry could not conceal. She, too, wore the oddly fringed clothing, but a curve of bright red blouse filled the wedge of her jacket. It came to Sil-Chan that she was the most delicately beautiful creature he had ever seen. He found himself unable to look away from that lovely face, the soft mouth, the tiny nose, the smooth rounding of chin and cheeks. All
A path of darker green lay down the middle of the lighter green field. He aimed into the center, slammed on the wheel brakes when he felt the ground. The jetter bounced up onto its nose wheel, skidded in the slippery grass, crabbed sideways into tall grass. One wing dipped. The ship cartwheeled—once, twice.
It came to rest upside down.
Sil-Chan hung in his harness trying to breathe deeply while his mind replayed the whirling madcap landscape through which he had just dervished. He felt his heart pounding. His left shoulder ached.
That cost me half my longevity.
The adrenaline reaction began to set in. His hands trembled uncontrollably. He knew he would have to find a supply of anti-S soon. That dive had taken him through months of normal life.
The jetter creaked and settled slightly. A strange quiet intruded upon Sil-Chan’s awareness. The quiet bothered him. Faint swishing grew discernible. A masculine voice intruded on the quiet. “Hey in there! You all right?”
Sil-Chan could imagine the racing stream of robot emergency equipment which would have greeted such a landing on a regular field. He shuddered. All of the quiet, single-purposed reserve which had marked his life to this point dissolved like the mists around the island. It was as though he had passed through an invisible barrier to become an unexpected person on the other side.
“You funnel-mouthed, vacuum-headed idiots!” he bellowed.
The jetter trembled as someone forced open the door beside him. He turned his head, looked upside down into the face of a man who reminded him of a younger Director Tchung. It was the set of the eyes and the reserved look in a narrow face.
“You sound healthy enough,” the man said. “Did you break anything?”
“No thanks to you!” Sil-Chan raged.
“Here, let me help you out of the harness,” the man said. He knelt and gently helped Sil-Chan remove the crash harness. The man’s hands were rough and there was unexpected strength in his arms. He smelled of some odd spice.
Sil-Chan winced as the straps were eased over his left shoulder.
“Bit of a bruise there,” the man said. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. How about your legs and back?”
“They’re fine. Get me out of this stupid …”
“Easy there. Easy does it.”
The man gentled Sil-Chan out the door and onto the grassy ground, helped Sil-Chan to sit up. There was an acrid fuel smell mixed with the odors of crushed grass. The sky swayed a bit above his rescuer.
“Just sit there a bit until you feel better,” the man said. “You seem to be all in one piece.”
Sil-Chan studied this first Dornbaker he had seen. The man was a loosely hung figure in a brown fringed jacket, tight pants. The jacket was open almost to his navel and exposed a smooth, almost hairless chest. The same could not be said of his head—which was a tangle of black hair, some of which straggled over his forehead, He looked as primitive and wild as this island.
“David! David! Is he all right?”
It was the voice of the young woman at Free Island Control. She came panting around the end of the wrecked jetter, bare legs swishing in the long grass. At sight of Sil-Chan, she came to a stop and leaned against the jetter, gasping for breath. “Thank the Stone you weren’t killed,” she panted. “I ran all the way from Control.”
Sil-Chan stared up at her: skin as dark as Tchung’s but her hair was a golden cloud and her eyes were the blue of the misty sea, full of lurking merriment that even her obvious worry could not conceal. She, too, wore the oddly fringed clothing, but a curve of bright red blouse filled the wedge of her jacket. It came to Sil-Chan that she was the most delicately beautiful creature he had ever seen. He found himself unable to look away from that lovely face, the soft mouth, the tiny nose, the smooth rounding of chin and cheeks. All
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