Star Winds

Bodies lay unmoving. Casks and demijohns from the cracked-open hold spilled their contents onto the sand. It seemed to Rachad’s numbed mind, as he gazed at the scene, that he was the sole survivor.

He turned to survey the landscape. The ship appeared to have come down in a semi-desert region. He saw a rock-strewn plain, the sandy ground ranging in color from reddish-brown to orange and dotted here and there with stunted shrubs. Beyond the horizon there jutted up a range of hills and scaurs.

The sky was mauve, shading from grayish-pink to purple. Near the mid-heaven was the wan, half-size sun, casting a gentle, undecided light, and if one looked, one could make out glimmering stars.

Altogether it was a world sufficiently novel in appearance to hold considerable charm, albeit an alien charm, but Rachad was unable to take pleasure in the sight. He unhooked his safety line and wondered unhappily where he might be. Certainly nowhere near the city of Kars, and probably not even in the region known as Syrtis Major.

Behind him he heard the sound of falling timber. Captain Zhorga, unhelmeted like himself, was emerging from the wreck. Rachad hurried to meet him, but Zhorga ignored him and immediately bent to unscrew the helmet of the first body he came to.

With a start Rachad realized that he had been negligent. He was not the sole survivor, and his inaction might be condemning others to suffocation. He hurried to copy Zhorga, who grunted with pleasure to see him.

“I might have known you would come through all right,” he congratulated sourly.

“A pity about your ship, Captain.”

Zhorga sighed, and spared a glance for his ruined merchantman. She, at least, would never take to the air again. But he judged there was enough timber and silk to build some sort of flying raft to explore the surrounding countryside, and perhaps to ferry his men and goods to the nearest town. Thoughts of that, however, would have to wait. His first duty was to his dead and injured.

There was more movement from within the wreck. Clabert and Patchman appeared. Zhorga went over and talked with them.

Rachad pulled off a helmet. The man inside was Boogle and he was dead, his neck broken.

More men were stirring, climbing to their feet groaning and looking about them with awe. Rachad straightened, and then he heard a familiar noise—a whistling noise, the interference effect of a ship sailing too close to the ground.

Something long and dark went hurtling by overhead. It was the dragonfly, sails outstretched, its pointed tail trailing like a sting. It executed a neat turn, swooped, and put down with poise and precision on the gravelly soil.

Between them Zhorga and Rachad had by now checked all the bodies that still lay motionless on this side of the ship, and had found three who breathed and three who did not. Rachad retreated toward Zhorga, as did most others who were able to walk. The air captain glowered at the alien craft as a ramp dropped from the side of the dragonfly. A party of about eight to ten men, marching with springy step, emerged and advanced in a squad.

All but the leader, who carried a holstered pistol, bore long-barreled guns with bell-shaped muzzles. And they wore spacesuits—elegant garments, slim as cat-suits, made of some silky, deep purple material, the backpacks molded into them and making only slight humps, an armorial device—a rampant star beast—stitched on each man’s breast. The helms were likewise close-fitting, the faceplates a single curved piece of tinted glass.

The squad halted. The leader stepped forward, and with a flick of his wrist slid back his apparently flexible faceplate.

The face that stared at Zhorga with steady blue eyes was of a man about thirty. A confident, military sort of face, sporting a neat brush moustache. “Why did you ignore my instructions?” the officer inquired incisively, in a guttural but fluid accent unfamiliar to Zhorga. “Why did you open fire on me?”

Zhorga spluttered his indignation before answering. “Ignore?” he said in a strangled voice. “How in hell could I—”

He took a hold on himself. “What do you mean by shooting down a peaceful merchantman?” he said angrily. He spread his arm to indicate the scene of destruction. “Just take a look at what you’ve done! Do you know who we are? We are Earthmen! We’ve just completed the crossing from Earth—the first to do so for two generations. And the first thing that happens when we finally make it is that we get smashed up by you!”

“From Earth?” the officer echoed. He looked suspiciously at Zhorga, and seemed puzzled. “The sunward planet? I would hardly have thought your vessel fit for such a journey. I was sure you were Martians, trying some stupid attack on the Bucentaur.”

He sauntered past Zhorga, suddenly noticing the bottles, chests and bales that were scattered over the ground. He kicked at a cask. He raised his eyebrows.

“Trade goods,” he remarked on a note of surprise.