Wind | Page 3

The flat land, stretching into the
darkening west, was spotted with patches of cactus and leather-leaved
Venerian plants. Amid the windmills, low domes protruded from the
earth, indicating that the dwellings of Rathole were, appropriately,
partly underground.
* * * * *

He drove into the place. There were no streets, as such, but there were
avenues between lines of heavy chains strung to short iron posts,
evidently as handholds against the wind. The savage gale piled dust and
sand in drifts against the domes, then, shifting slightly, swept them
clean again.
There was no one moving abroad, but just inside the community Jan
found half a dozen men in a group, clinging to one of the chains and
waving to him. He pulled the groundcar to a stop beside them, stuck his
pipe in a pocket of his plastic venusuit, donned his helmet and got out.
The wind almost took him away before one of them grabbed him and
he was able to grasp the chain himself. They gathered around him.
They were swarthy, black-eyed men, with curly hair. One of them
grasped his hand.
"Bienvenido, señor," said the man.
Jan recoiled and dropped the man's hand. All the Orangeman blood he
claimed protested in outrage.
Spaniards! All these men were Spaniards!
* * * * *
Jan recovered himself at once. He had been reading too much ancient
history during his leisure hours. The hot monotony of Venus was
beginning to affect his brain. It had been 500 years since the
Netherlands revolted against Spanish rule. A lot of water over the dam
since then.
A look at the men around him, the sound of their chatter, convinced
him that he need not try German or Hollandsch here. He fell back on
the international language.
"Do you speak English?" he asked. The man brightened but shook his
head.

"No hablo inglés," he said, "pero el médico lo habla. Venga conmigo."
He gestured for Jan to follow him and started off, pulling his way
against the wind along the chain. Jan followed, and the other men fell
in behind in single file. A hundred meters farther on, they turned,
descended some steps and entered one of the half-buried domes. A
gray-haired, bearded man was in the well-lighted room, apparently the
living room of a home, with a young woman.
"Él médico," said the man who had greeted Jan, gesturing. "Él habla
inglés."
He went out, shutting the airlock door behind him.
"You must be the man from Oostpoort," said the bearded man, holding
out his hand. "I am Doctor Sanchez. We are very grateful you have
come."
"I thought for a while I wouldn't make it," said Jan ruefully, removing
his venushelmet.
"This is Mrs. Murillo," said Sanchez.
The woman was a Spanish blonde, full-lipped and beautiful, with
golden hair and dark, liquid eyes. She smiled at Jan.
"Encantada de conocerlo, señor," she greeted him.
"Is this the patient, Doctor?" asked Jan, astonished. She looked in the
best of health.
"No, the patient is in the next room," answered Sanchez.
"Well, as much as I'd like to stop for a pipe, we'd better start at once,"
said Jan. "It's a hard drive back, and blastoff can't be delayed."
The woman seemed to sense his meaning. She turned and called:
"Diego!"

A boy appeared in the door, a dark-skinned, sleepy-eyed boy of about
eight. He yawned. Then, catching sight of the big Dutchman, he opened
his eyes wide and smiled.
The boy was healthy-looking, alert, but the mark of the Venus Shadow
was on his face. There was a faint mottling, a criss-cross of dead-white
lines.
Mrs. Murillo spoke to him rapidly in Spanish and he nodded. She
zipped him into a venusuit and fitted a small helmet on his head.
"Good luck, amigo," said Sanchez, shaking Jan's hand again.
"Thanks," replied Jan. He donned his own helmet. "I'll need it, if the
trip over was any indication."
* * * * *
Jan and Diego made their way back down the chain to the groundcar.
There was a score of men there now, and a few women. They let the
pair go through, and waved farewell as Jan swung the groundcar
around and headed back eastward.
It was easier driving with the wind behind him, and Jan hit a hundred
kilometers an hour several times before striking the rougher ground of
Den Hoorn. Now, if he could only find a way over the bluff raised by
that last quake....
The ground of Den Hoorn was still shivering. Jan did not realize this
until he had to brake the groundcar almost to a stop at one point,
because it was not shaking in severe, periodic shocks as it had earlier. It
quivered constantly, like the surface of quicksand.
The ground far ahead of