Wind | Page 7

we can't fly
the platform because we have no power for it."
Windmills. Again Jan could imagine the flat land around them as his
native Holland, with the Zuider Zee sparkling to the west where here
the desert stretched under darkling clouds.
* * * * *
Jan looked at his watch. A little more than two hours before the
G-boat's blastoff time, and it couldn't wait for them. It was nearly eight
hours since he had left Oostpoort, and the afternoon was getting
noticeably darker.
Jan was sorry. He had done his best, but Venus had beaten him.
He looked around for Diego. The boy was not in the dome. He was
outside, crouched in the lee of the dome, playing with some sticks.
Diego must know of his ailment, and why he had to go to Oostpoort. If
Jan was any judge of character, Sanchez would have told him that.
Whether Diego knew it was a life-or-death matter for him to be aboard
the Vanderdecken when it blasted off for Earth, Jan did not know. But
the boy was around eight years old and he was bright, and he must
realize the seriousness involved in a decision to send him all the way to
Earth.
Jan felt ashamed of the exuberant foolishness which had led him to
spout ancient history and claim descent from William of Orange. It had
been a hobby, and artificial topic for conversation that amused him and
his companions, a defense against the monotony of Venus that had
begun to affect his personality perhaps a bit more than he realized. He
did not dislike Spaniards; he had no reason to dislike them. They were
all humans--the Spanish, the Dutch, the Germans, the Americans, even
the Russians--fighting a hostile planet together. He could not
understand a word Diego said when the boy spoke to him, but he liked
Diego and wished desperately he could do something.

Outside, the windmills of Rathole spun merrily.
There was power, the power that lighted and air-conditioned Rathole,
power in the air all around them. If he could only use it! But to turn the
platform on its side and let the wind spin the propellers was pointless.
He turned to Sanchez.
"Ask the men if there are any spare parts for the platform," he said.
"Some of those legs it stands on, transmission belts, spare propellers."
Sanchez asked.
"Yes," he said. "Many spare parts, but no fuel."
Jan smiled a tight smile.
"Tell them to take the engines out," he said. "Since we have no fuel, we
may as well have no engines."
* * * * *
Pieter Heemskerk stood by the ramp to the stubby G-boat and checked
his watch. It was X minus fifteen--fifteen minutes before blastoff time.
Heemskerk wore a spacesuit. Everything was ready, except climbing
aboard, closing the airlock and pressing the firing pin.
What on Venus could have happened to Van Artevelde? The last radio
message they had received, more than an hour ago, had said he and the
patient took off successfully in an aircraft. What sort of aircraft could
he be flying that would require an hour to cover eighty kilometers, with
the wind?
Heemskerk could only draw the conclusion that the aircraft had been
wrecked somewhere in Den Hoorn. As a matter of fact, he knew that
preparations were being made now to send a couple of groundcars out
to search for it.

This, of course, would be too late to help the patient Van Artevelde was
bringing, but Heemskerk had no personal interest in the patient. His
worry was all for his friend. The two of them had enjoyed chess and
good beer together on his last three trips to Venus, and Heemskerk
hoped very sincerely that the big blond man wasn't hurt.
He glanced at his watch again. X minus twelve. In two minutes, it
would be time for him to walk up the ramp into the G-boat. In seven
minutes the backward count before blastoff would start over the area
loudspeakers.
Heemskerk shook his head sadly. And Van Artevelde had promised to
come back triumphant, with a broom at his masthead!
It was a high thin whine borne on the wind, carrying even through the
walls of his spacehelmet, that attracted Heemskerk's attention and
caused him to pause with his foot on the ramp. Around him, the rocket
mechanics were staring up at the sky, trying to pinpoint the noise.
Heemskerk looked westward. At first he could see nothing, then there
was a moving dot above the mountain, against the indigo umbrella of
clouds. It grew, it swooped, it approached and became a strange little
flying disc with two people standing on it and something sticking up
from its deck in front of them.
A broom?
No. The platform