to deal with the non-functional communications equipment. With the spare components available for the lasercom, she thought she could repair it. When all her efforts in the cockpit failed to restore the system, she got the youth to boost her atop the C-47’s horizontal stabilizer where she demounted the transmitting laser. The housing was scarred by the impact of a stone, the lasing crystal shattered.
When she retrieved her spare, she found to her dismay that careful packaging hadn’t saved it from the effects of the rough landing, either. It was neatly cracked in half. She wished that she had kept the old radio-frequency equipment, even though the transmitters radiated excess heat like blast furnaces. The useless lasercom went into the back corner of the cargo compartment. It was too sophisticated and delicate a technology for the rough and ready life of an ancient C-47. She should have known better.
As a late morning haze spread across the canyon, Kesbe poked her fire dispiritedly. No sign of rescue craft.
Well, the Barranca was a big place in which to search for a lost C-47. Even if Canaback Base received her last lasercom transmission they might not even have anything capable of landing in such rugged country.
As the day drew to an end without any sign of rescue, Kesbe began to mull over her position. If Canaback hadn’t found her by now, they weren’t likely to. It was possible that they had given up and written her off as another casualty of the Barranca, perhaps a little crazier than most. All right, she argued to herself, the searchers had wreckage detectors, but Gooney was made of 29ST aluminum alloy. The stuff hadn’t been used in aircraft design for a hundred years! It was all exotics now: titanium, beryllium, niobium…
She suspected that the delay would be much longer than she had anticipated.
And then the wish that she kept pushing away came creeping back. This time she accepted itwith relief.
If Canaback doesn’t find me soon, I’ll go to the boy’s village , she said to herself. She almost hoped they wouldn’t.
Chapter 4
Day came once again, without signs of search craft. A bank of gunmetal clouds sat atop the canyon. The overcast lifted a little, allowing a wan sunrise to filter through. The youth and his flier were gone, probably to find breakfast. The signal fire was out.
It seemed to Kesbe that her aircraft looked forlorn as she hiked her makeshift pack further up on her shoulders and strode away from the plane. A last inspection of the blown tire and battered wheel hub confirmed what she already knew, she couldn’t fix the wheel without jacking the plane up and for that she would need help.
She had done the best she could for the old Douglas—used a few tie-down stakes to secure her against any malicious winds, taped up the broken cockpit window, set the control locks and latched the doors.
It wasn’t as if she was abandoning the aircraft for good, she told herself. She’d return when she could, hopefully with the means to get the C-47 airborne once again. And if she didn’t return, there was a note stuck to the inside of the windshield just in case someone from Canaback did spot the downed aircraft. Along with an explanation of the circumstances leading to her forced landing, Kesbe had included a crude map with her probable route marked by a broken line. If she couldn’t persuade the boy to guide her to his village, she thought she would strike out toward the great Hellshatter River and follow it down, hoping that the hidden settlement lay somewhere atop its cliffs.
She thought of trying to walk all the remaining way to Tony Mabena’s installation. No. That was too far. The boy’s village might be primitive, but it had one advantage, she could probably make it there.
The plan looked feasible, based on the area sectional she had. But her map wasn’t a detailed topographic, just an aerial survey and not complete at that.
She shifted her pack again. Her pilot’s jacket kept
When she retrieved her spare, she found to her dismay that careful packaging hadn’t saved it from the effects of the rough landing, either. It was neatly cracked in half. She wished that she had kept the old radio-frequency equipment, even though the transmitters radiated excess heat like blast furnaces. The useless lasercom went into the back corner of the cargo compartment. It was too sophisticated and delicate a technology for the rough and ready life of an ancient C-47. She should have known better.
As a late morning haze spread across the canyon, Kesbe poked her fire dispiritedly. No sign of rescue craft.
Well, the Barranca was a big place in which to search for a lost C-47. Even if Canaback Base received her last lasercom transmission they might not even have anything capable of landing in such rugged country.
As the day drew to an end without any sign of rescue, Kesbe began to mull over her position. If Canaback hadn’t found her by now, they weren’t likely to. It was possible that they had given up and written her off as another casualty of the Barranca, perhaps a little crazier than most. All right, she argued to herself, the searchers had wreckage detectors, but Gooney was made of 29ST aluminum alloy. The stuff hadn’t been used in aircraft design for a hundred years! It was all exotics now: titanium, beryllium, niobium…
She suspected that the delay would be much longer than she had anticipated.
And then the wish that she kept pushing away came creeping back. This time she accepted itwith relief.
If Canaback doesn’t find me soon, I’ll go to the boy’s village , she said to herself. She almost hoped they wouldn’t.
Chapter 4
Day came once again, without signs of search craft. A bank of gunmetal clouds sat atop the canyon. The overcast lifted a little, allowing a wan sunrise to filter through. The youth and his flier were gone, probably to find breakfast. The signal fire was out.
It seemed to Kesbe that her aircraft looked forlorn as she hiked her makeshift pack further up on her shoulders and strode away from the plane. A last inspection of the blown tire and battered wheel hub confirmed what she already knew, she couldn’t fix the wheel without jacking the plane up and for that she would need help.
She had done the best she could for the old Douglas—used a few tie-down stakes to secure her against any malicious winds, taped up the broken cockpit window, set the control locks and latched the doors.
It wasn’t as if she was abandoning the aircraft for good, she told herself. She’d return when she could, hopefully with the means to get the C-47 airborne once again. And if she didn’t return, there was a note stuck to the inside of the windshield just in case someone from Canaback did spot the downed aircraft. Along with an explanation of the circumstances leading to her forced landing, Kesbe had included a crude map with her probable route marked by a broken line. If she couldn’t persuade the boy to guide her to his village, she thought she would strike out toward the great Hellshatter River and follow it down, hoping that the hidden settlement lay somewhere atop its cliffs.
She thought of trying to walk all the remaining way to Tony Mabena’s installation. No. That was too far. The boy’s village might be primitive, but it had one advantage, she could probably make it there.
The plan looked feasible, based on the area sectional she had. But her map wasn’t a detailed topographic, just an aerial survey and not complete at that.
She shifted her pack again. Her pilot’s jacket kept
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