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midsummer-assuming that they could walk away from the wreck that was about to
occur.
Should he set it down? He shook his head. The rotors were fine, and so were
the control links. Sabotaging those would have been coo obvious, and too
easily detected by the most cursory of preflights. So that meant a fire on
touchdown or flare.
He wasn't sure about the form of the sabotage, but he had an . idea that the
turbines would seize rather abruptly, and the key to their survival lay in his
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shutting them down just before they seized-and not being in the driest part of
the badlands.
From what he recalled . . . he eased the craft into a gentle turn to bring it
onto a west-northwest heading. "Isn't Lanceville that way?" asked Sylvia. "We
may be having some mechanical trouble, and, if we do, I don't want to set down
in the middle of this wasteland."
"Accidental trouble, or assisted trouble?"
"If it's accidental, it's all too convenient." He cocked his ears again,
straining. Was the abrasive whine louder? He shook his head. How could he
tell? "Lock your harness. Were going to lose power, and when we do, we're
going down fast."
"Locked."
"Good." He scanned the terrain below, noting each possible landing site,
hoping for hard and flat rock. Sand was too uncertain, and could conceal too
much, though he'd take sand over sharp rocks.
"We'll need to clear the cockpit as soon as the rotors stop. Can you make sure
you take that desert kit?"
"I've got it here."
The Ecolitan kept scanning the instruments and looking westward toward what he
hoped was a darker gray-the river and the planoformed lands that bordered it.
The flitter continued to gain altitude slowly, as Nathaniel tried to calculate
the strain and altitude trade-offs, as the river neared imperceptibly.
An almost subsonic vibration began to shake the fuselage, but not the rotors-a
sure sign that the vibration was coming from the turbines. Abruptly, the EGTs
pegged, and a sheering sound lashed through the cockpit. Even before the sound
vanished, along with the sound of the turbines, Nathaniel had dumped all the
pitch off the rotors, and dropped the nose, aiming due west-for a slightly
inclined sheet of what seemed to be rock.
As the flitter dropped abreast of his hoped-for landing site, he eased the
craft into a slight bank, trying to keep the flitter in balance to stretch
every meter of altitude.
"Too fast," he muttered to himself. "Slow. . . ease it back. . . check the
altitude."
Two more red lights blazed on the panel-fire lights. "Easy..."
At a hundred meters, he leveled the nose, and at thirty, brought back the nose
and pulled full pitch, then flattened the flare as the flitters sickening drop
slowed. ". . . tail straight . . ."
The ground still seemed to rise too quickly, and he could see small jagged
edges in the rocky plain. The smell of hot metal and smoke was seeping into
the cockpit as he pulled full collective, trying to milk the last bit of lift
from the slowing rotors. ThuMdddd. . . Clumkkkkk. . .
As the flitter swayed on the uneven, rocky ground, one hand went to the
overhead rotor brake, while the other slashed along the electrical switches.
He unfastened his own harness, and when he could see the front blade quiver to
a halt, he slid back the door and grabbed the kit from under the scat, not
knowing what was in it.
"Run? Straight ahead! Get behind that hump!" His feet were pumping as he
stumbled out of the cockpit. Sylvia was in front of him and opening space
between them. They both half-crouched, half-skidded behind the low line of
boulders, Sylvia first. Whwoshhh!
Even from behind the small outcropping, he could feel the heat wash across the
air above them, but he just lay on his back gasping. "Out of shape . . . can't
believe . . ."
"Give . . . me . . . some . . . credit . . ." She gasped back. "Lots . . .
wasn't talking about you."
As he lay there, he opened the kit he'd pulled from beneath the seat, reading
the label. "Emergency pilot supplies . . ." he murmured, "New Avalon military
issue," He looked through the items. A plastic flask of water-that would help,
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as would the floppy sun hat. He set the desalinization kit aside and pocketed
the three-shot miniature stunner, as well as the pencil flare set. That might
have other uses.
Finally, he rolled over and peered out. The flitters incense initial fireburst
had subsided to a mere roaring fire. "Are you up to a short fifteen kilo
walk?"
Sylvia sat up and brushed the short dark hair off her damp forehead. "I assume
it's necessary?"
He gestured back at the burning wreckage. "I doubt that the locator beacon is
operating, and there isn't a satellite surveillance system. Besides, do we
wish to accept the hospitality of those most likely to find us?"
"When you phrase it that way . . . which direction?"
"That way." He pointed west.
. "Isn't Lanceville in the other direction?" She shook her head. "I'm an
idiot. So is a lot of sand."
"Fifty kilos, give or take a few."
"And you figure how many going west?" asked Sylvia. "Ten in the sand, four or
five beyond that."
"I was getting out of shape anyway. I would complain about eating too much."
She adjusted the desert kit into its pack form and shouldered it.
Nathaniel did the same with the supply kit. The hills weren't that high or
steep, not to the eye, but they had crossed only half a dozen before Sylvia
stopped, panting. "My legs ache already."
"Mine, too. More CO2 in the air. System has a harder time flushing out
wastes," said Nathaniel in between deep, heaving breaths.
They looked back to where a thin line of smoke circled into the cloudless
green-blue sky. "No one is looking yet." "Not yet. They wouldn't want to find
survivors. That would be embarrassing."
"Then we'd better keep moving."
"Try to avoid the sand . . . takes coo much effort."
"Fine with me," Sylvia answered over her shoulder, as Nathaniel struggled to
catch up.
Having more mass also had its disadvantages, he reflected as he finally drew
even with her, trying to keep his feet from sinking into the deeper sand.
That was the pattern-three or four small hills and a rest, then three or four
more.
After several dozen hills, Nathaniel found himself squinting-because the sun
was hanging just above the western horizon. "Where . . . did . . . the . . .
day. . . go?"
"Happens , . . when . . . you're having . . . a good . . . time." Sylvia
panted as she stopped at the hill crest.
He offered her his water bottle, taking out the kerchief and blotting his
forehead. Forest lord, late afternoon or not it was hot! The sun hat helped,
but not a lot. "Why . . . the . . . the flitter?"
"Because," Nathaniel glanced at the low hill beyond the one where they stood,
"they were doing double duty-crippling Walkersons resources and getting us."
"Who? The smaller growers? Kennis What's-his-name? Or. . . it isn't the Empire
. . ."
"Probably not, but who knows?" He laughed, and the sound was harsh because his
throat was dry, despite the water. "It's almost as complex as New Augusta.
Lets go. We need to reach the river. They've got boats there. Maybe we can get
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