Crashlander

It was no playboy's yacht he was flying. Such an expensive toy would have been long and slender, with a superfluous needle nose and low maneuverability due to its heavy angular movement. The Drunkard's Walk was short, with big attitude jets showing like nostrils in the stubby nose. I should have known when I saw the landing legs. Big and wide and heavy, folded now into the hull, but when they were down, they were comically splay-footed, with a wide reach to hold the ship on almost any terrain.

The playboy's flashy paint job was indirection only. The ship …

The ship made a wide loop ahead of me and came slashing back.

I pulled back hard on the wheel.

The blood left my head, and then the crash field took hold. I was in a cushioned shell, and the crash field held my shape like an exoskeleton. As I curved up to meet him Bellamy came down my throat.

Give him a taste of his own medicine!

If I hadn't been half-loaded, I'd never have done it.

A crash now was the last thing Bellamy wanted. It would leave evidence not only on the car but on the Drunkard's Walk. But space pilots crack up more cars. They can't get used to the idea that in the atmosphere of a planet Mach four is fast. He must have been doing Mach eight himself.

He pulled up too late.

I smashed into the ship's flank at a low angle. Without the crash field I'd have been hamburger. As it was, I blacked out instantly.

I woke in the midst of a flaming maelstrom, gripped in a vise that wouldn't let me breathe, with agony tearing at my hands. The car was diving out of the sky at four times sonic speed, with its aerodynamic stability smashed to hell. I could feel the terrific deceleration in my inner ear.

I tried to use the controls. Not that they would have worked; the ship was obviously stone dead. But I tried it anyway, and then the pain came. My hands had been outside the crash field, naturally; how else could I control the car? Half the joints had been dislocated in the crash.

The ground came up, rotating. I tried to pull my hands back, but deceleration pulled me hard against the crash web, and the crash field held. I was embedded in glass.

I hit.

The car was on its nose in high fern grass. All the plastic windows had become flying shards, including the windshield; they littered the car. The windshield frame was crushed and bent. I hung from the crash web, unable to unfasten it with my crippled hands, unable to move even if I were free.

And I watched the Drunkard's Walk, its fusion drive off, floating down ahead of me on its gravity drag.

I didn't notice the anomaly then. I was dazed, and I saw what I expected to see: a spaceship landing. Bellamy? He didn't see it, either, but he would have if he'd looked to the side when he came down the landing ladder.

He came down the ladder with his eyes fixed on mine and Emil's sonic in his hand. He stepped out into the fern grass, walked over to the car, and peered in through the bent windshield frame.

«Come on out.»

«I can't use my hands.»

«So much the better.» Bellamy rested the sonic on the rim of the frame and pointed it at my face. With his other hand he reached in to unfasten the crash web and pull me out by the arm. «Walk,» he said. «Or be dragged.»

I could walk, barely. I could keep walking because he kept prodding the small of my back with the gun.

«You've helped me, you know. You had a car crash,» he said. «You and Jilson. Then some predators found you.»

It sounded reasonable. I kept walking.

We were halfway to the ship when I saw it. The anomaly. I said, «Bellamy, what's holding your ship up?»

He prodded me. «Walk.»

«Your gyros. That's what's holding the ship up.»

He prodded me without answering. I walked. Any moment now he'd see …

«What the — «He'd seen it. He stared in pure amazement, and then he ran. I stuck out a foot to trip him, lost my balance, and fell on my face. Bellamy passed me without a glance.

One of the landing legs wasn't down. I'd smashed it into the hull. He hadn't seen it on the indicators, so I must have smashed the sensors, too. The odd thing was that we'd both missed it, though it was the leg facing us.

The Drunkard's Walk stood on two legs, wildly unbalanced, like a ballet dancer halfway through a leap. Only her gyros held her monstrous mass against gravity. Somewhere in her belly they must be spinning faster and faster … I could hear the whine now, high-pitched, rising …

Bellamy reached the ladder and started up. He'd have to use the steering jets now, and quickly. With steering jets that size, the gyros — which served more or less the same purpose — must be small, little more than an afterthought.

Now was my chance!

I struggled to my feet and staggered a few steps. Bellamy looked down, then ignored me. He'd take care of me when he had time. Where could I go? Where could I hide on this flat plain?

Some chance. I stopped walking.

Bellamy had almost reached the air lock when the ship screamed like a wounded god.