Wind | Page 5

Jan puffed at the Heerenbaai-Tabak and cogitated. The place was aptly
named. It was a ratty community. The boy was a dark-skinned little
Spaniard--of Mexican origin, perhaps. But he was a boy, and a human
being.
A thought occurred to him. From what he had seen and heard, the entire
economy of Rathole could not support the tremendous expense of
sending the boy across the millions of miles to Earth by spaceship.
"Who's paying his passage?" he asked. "The Dutch Central Venus
Company isn't exactly a charitable institution."
"Your Señor Dekker said that would be taken care of," replied Sanchez.
Jan relit his pipe silently, making a mental resolution that Dekker
wouldn't take care of it alone. Salaries for Venerian service were high,
and many of the men at Oostpoort would contribute readily to such a
cause.

"Who is Diego's father?" he asked.
"He was Ramón Murillo, a very good mechanic," answered Sanchez,
with a sliding sidelong glance at Jan's face. "He has been dead for three
years."
Jan grunted.
"The copters at Oostpoort can't buck this wind," he said thoughtfully,
"or I'd have come in one of those in the first place instead of trying to
cross Den Hoorn by land. But if you have any sort of aircraft here, it
might make it downwind--if it isn't wrecked on takeoff."
"I'm afraid not," said Sanchez.
"Too bad. There's nothing we can do, then. The nearest settlement west
of here is more than a thousand kilometers away, and I happen to know
they have no planes, either. Just copters. So that's no help."
"Wait," said Sanchez, lifting the scalpel and tilting his head. "I believe
there is something, though we cannot use it. This was once an
American naval base, and the people here were civilian employes who
refused to move north with it. There was a flying machine they used for
short-range work, and one was left behind--probably with a little help
from the people of the settlement. But...."
"What kind of machine? Copter or plane?"
"They call it a flying platform. It carries two men, I believe. But,
señor...."
"I know them. I've operated them, before I left Earth. Man, you don't
expect me to try to fly one of those little things in this wind? They're
tricky as they can be, and the passengers are absolutely unprotected!"
"Señor, I have asked you to do nothing."
"No, you haven't," muttered Jan. "But you know I'll do it."

Sanchez looked into his face, smiling faintly and a little sadly.
"I was sure you would be willing," he said. He turned and spoke in
Spanish to Mrs. Murillo.
The woman rose to her feet and came to them. As Jan arose, she looked
up at him, tears in her eyes.
"Gracias," she murmured. "Un millón de gracias."
She lifted his hands in hers and kissed them.
Jan disengaged himself gently, embarrassed. But it occurred to him,
looking down on the bowed head of the beautiful young widow, that he
might make some flying trips back over here in his leisure time.
Language barriers were not impassable, and feminine companionship
might cure his neurotic, history-born distaste for Spaniards, for more
than one reason.
Sanchez was tugging at his elbow.
"Señor, I have been trying to tell you," he said. "It is generous and good
of you, and I wanted Señora Murillo to know what a brave man you are.
But have you forgotten that we have no gasoline engines here? There is
no fuel for the flying platform."
* * * * *
The platform was in a warehouse which, like the rest of the structures
in Rathole, was a half-buried dome. The platform's ring-shaped base
was less than a meter thick, standing on four metal legs. On top of it, in
the center, was a railed circle that would hold two men, but would
crowd them. Two small gasoline engines sat on each side of this railed
circle and between them on a third side was the fuel tank. The
passengers entered it on the fourth side.
The machine was dusty and spotted with rust, Jan, surrounded by
Sanchez, Diego and a dozen men, inspected it thoughtfully. The letters

USN*SES were painted in white on the platform itself, and each engine
bore the label "Hiller."
Jan peered over the edge of the platform at the twin-ducted fans in their
plastic shrouds. They appeared in good shape. Each was powered by
one of the engines, transmitted to it by heavy rubber belts.
Jan sighed. It was an unhappy situation. As far as he could determine,
without making tests, the engines were in perfect condition. Two
perfectly good engines, and no fuel for them.
"You're sure there's no gasoline, anywhere in Rathole?" he asked
Sanchez.
Sanchez smiled ruefully, as he had once before, at Jan's