After they gently touched down at the base of the ship, Nightwind found a better view of this arid planet of Rhyl. From the top of the starship, the cloying dust obscured the view. On the ground, he could see the city streets radiating out in front of him like a spread fan. The distinctly dry dust odor stabbed at his nostrils, invaded the man’s mouth, and made his space black eyes water until tears left salt and sand streaks down his cheeks. Grit underfoot, grit on the luggage, dust everywhere.
Nightwind wryly thought the planet should have been called Dustball instead of Rhyl.
Like all such frontier worlds, customs inspection was a joke. Few ever came to backwater planets — if a world so cloaked with airborne dust could be considered backwater. The customs men were more interested in seeing what type fool would venture here on “business.”
Rhyl had very little industry. Potash was the primary source of revenue, and it wasn’t very lucrative, not with potash being available on virtually every planet ever found by man. Rhyl boasted no other industry worth mentioning.
Certainly not tourism, thought Nightwind as he looked up and down the street outside the customs shed. The brown veils of sand obscured everything; thin tendrils of dust reached out to touch his face with a coarse caress.
“Let’s go looking for some help, Heuser. On this sand hill, we’re not going to be able to find anything by ourselves.”
“Right,” Heuser agreed. “But what kind of man would be able to guide us on this mess? A desert rat?”
“Why not? There’s a sign that says ‘Desert Rat Tours, Ltd.’ Sounds like the kind of man we want.”
“He’s certainly got a sense of humor. A dry sense of humor.”
Nightwind laughed as he pushed his way through the airlocklike door into the store. He dropped his single piece of luggage on the floor. A small brown cloud of fine grit surged up to settle slowly back down around his boots. Nightwind sneezed in spite of the nose filters. This planet would take a lot of getting used to.
“Well, gentle beings, what might I be doin’ to help you?”
Nightwind turned and saw a wizened man standing behind the dirty counter. The man was dressed in a simple overall lacking in zippers or any other visible fastener. Nightwind guessed that a pressure strip or an electrostatic band might hold everything together. It would provide a dustproof seal, a vital commodity on Rhyl.
The man’s hair was shot with streamers of gray. Perhaps once, in younger days, it might have been a deep black like Nightwind’s own. Nightwind guessed years, possibly decades, on Rhyl had assaulted it, bleached it and added the iron gray touches. The face under the straight hair was deeply tanned by wind and wear. Deep furrows cut across his forehead and crow’s feet danced at the corners of hazel eyes.
Nightwind introduced himself and stuck out a hand. He winced with the pressure exerted when the man squeezed down. It was obviously a ritual to show the city boys what a real he-man from a frontier world could do.
“I’m P.R. Richards,” the man boomed louder than necessary in the small enclosure. “And what’s your name, shortie?”
“Heuser. Put it there, old man!”
Nightwind watched, amused, as Richards’ face deepened in color. When the tendons stood in bold relief on the man’s arm, Nightwind knew the guide had met his match. A tiny bead of perspiration formed on Richards’ face as the silent duel continued. Nightwind knew Richards didn’t dare let up on the pressure or Heuser would crush his hand. And the small man seemed capable of increasing the pressure to any level he desired. He was showing no signs of exertion.
Heuser innocently said, “You’re sweating. Doesn’t seem that hot in here to me,” as he released the desert rat’s hand.
Richards rubbed his palm against the gray overall he wore. A look of respect replaced the scorn of a few minutes earlier. “Hard to keep thermostats working around here. Dust gets into everything. Damn stuff. A real shame you folks had to come this month. In a couple, three months the winds will’ve died down to nothing. Be summer then and hotter than the core of a super nova. Wind, dust, sun. Take your pick.”
“What’s the P.R. stand for in your name?” asked Heuser.
“Just initials,” he answered coughing a little. “Nothing more. What can I do for you?”
“Tell me what the initials stand for,” prodded Heuser, intent on his quest for useless knowledge.
Richards rubbed his hand again, then said weakly, “Patton Rommel.”
Nightwind smiled but had the grace not to laugh. “Do you live up to the names? You don’t seem to be built like a tank, so how are you on the desert?”
“None finer!”
“We’re looking for someone to take us into the deep erg. A good ways into the boondocks. Think you could guide us in and back?”
Richards scratched his chin. “For a price, I might be willin'. But it all depends on where. No pile of credits is going to make me go out to some places on this world. Born and raised on Rhyl, I was. I know it better’n most of the wet-worlders that drift in here. And I know how far to press my luck with the desert.”
Nightwind ambled over to a topographical three-dimensional map and looked at it. Mentally recreating the sketchy map found in Dr. Alfen’s diary, he searched until he found the rocky spires marking their destination. His finger stabbed out with finality. “There. This spot marked Devil’s Fang.” Nightwind looked over his shoulder at Richards. The man propped himself against a dusty corner of the counter and was attacking his chin with a ferocity that made Nightwind wonder if the man had dry skin or was intent on ripping his own flesh from his bones.
“That’s a rough area, mister. Right rough. Close to eight hundred kilometers into the nastiest desert around. Not only these filthy dust storms all the time but sandcats out there in the deep desert. Yeah, that’s a right dangerous trip you’re thinkin’ on.”
“Now that the sales pitch is over, what’s your rate to take us there? Fully outfitted, so we have a good chance of getting back in one piece and un-sandblasted.”
Richards smiled, his face seeming to crack with the strain. “Ten thousand a day, full equipment, no guarantee about getting sandblasted. You take your chances like everybody else on this planet.”
Nightwind nodded slightly. The price was steep but probably fair for a planet like Rhyl which could turn into a death trap for the inexperienced. Nightwind made the small hand signal to Heuser indicating he agreed but wanted to dicker some more.
“How long would we be traveling?” Heuser asked. “That’s a lot of my money you’re asking.”
“Travel a hundred, maybe two hundred klicks a day depending…”
“Depending on what?”
“The wind, man, the wind! It blows here, if you hadn’t already noticed. We go to ground when it kicks up over two hundred kilometers an hour. Sand driven at that speed’ll cut right through your bones and knock an aircar spinning, no matter what kind of gyros you have. And I have the best, count on it. I also got the force dome to set up. Nothing gets through that, even at three hundred kilometers per hour. Above that, well, some sand’ll leak in.”
Nightwind chewed his lower lip and tasted dust again. They would definitely need the force dome. It would withstand the fiercest winds on Rhyl and protect them from the tiny motes of dust trying to gnaw the flesh from their bodies. “What about the rest of the supplies? The water, food, stuff like that?”
“You furnish.” Richards sat crosslegged on the counter now. The look on his face told Nightwind the guide enjoyed haggling as much as he did roaming the deep desert.
“Rod,” Heuser said, “let’s get out of here before he picks our pocket, too. The man’s a flaming thief. For the price he’s charging, he should throw in the food and water. We couldn’t be big enough eaters to scare him off.”
Richards looked at Nightwind’s tall, lank form. “You two seem sort of scrawny. Why you interested in the desert here?”
“That’s our business. Call it sightseeing, if that suits you. But you see
we aren’t rimmed with fat. And we know what we’re getting into. By your own appraisal, how much could we eat?”
“Food’s part of the deal,” Richards conceded. “But let’s get it straight right now, you two, I’m not going to be fattening you up for the market. To tell you the truth, neither of you look like you’re up to surviving out there. This is not just a desert. I heard about the Sahara from my old man. With a name like Patton Rommel Richards, you can bet I heard and plenty! But he told me the Sahara these days is mostly irrigated farmland. That’s why he left his people, the Tuaregs, to their too-wet paradise. He drifted around lookin’ for real desert. Hellsgate, Primus, he hit ‘em all,” Richards said, cocking an eyebrow and meeting Nightwind’s cool gaze.
“My old man thought those were sissy places. Too much water. Had this thing about dry, he did. Loved deserts, real deserts. That’s why he ended up here. Rhyl’s different, drier, nastier by a quantum jump. I charge a lot for nursemaiding the tourists. But you’re only the second folks I ever heard of that wanted to go all the way to Devil’s Fang. Not an easy trip. Can you stand it? Or will you break?”
“Another group?” Nightwind glanced to Heuser, then fixed his gaze back on the guide. “Archeologists a few months ago?”
“Yep.” Richards furrowed his brow, then nodded. “More’n a year back, though. Strange types to run off into the dunes. They didn’t look like they could handle it, either. Old duKane took’em in. They made it; he didn’t. Shame. He was a damn good chess player. Hard to find ‘em out here. Hard to find good men, for that matter.”
Richards looked defiantly at the two men in his store, as if demanding proof of their competence.
Heuser quickly said, “If any university type can make it, I’m strong enough.” He looked around until he spied a crow bar resting against one wall of the cubicle. The cyborg hefted it, then began forcing his wrists together. When they touched, the carbon steel bar was bent double like a hairpin. Heuser wiped his hands off on his trousers and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “You’re right, PR, it does get hot in here.”
Richards’ only comment was, “If I do take the job, that crowbar’s on your bill. Damn things cost, freighting them all the way from Tackett’s Folly. Close to six light years’ freight.”
Nightwind said easily, “We’ll take care of it.” He looked over the man, then said, “You’re wearing a sidearm. Why don’t you draw and try to drill me between the eyes?”
Richards dropped to his feet from the counter top and, in a smooth, coordinated motion had his blaster out.
And was lying flat on his back.
He hadn’t even seen Nightwind cross the floor between them, grab his gun arm, and throw him to the dirty linoleum. Nightwind stood over Richards, the man’s own blaster negligently dangling from slender fingers.
“You’re fast,” came the flat statement. A meaty hand looped out around Nightwind’s leg and attempted to pull it out from under him. The black-haired man eluded Richards’ attack with contemptuous ease.
Richards came to his feet facing Nightwind, then suddenly swung a short, straight punch aimed directly at the solar plexus. Nightwind’s left hand caught the fist and held it. He had to take a half step back to absorb the shock of the blow, but this was the only indication Richards’ punch was more than a love pat.
“Here’s your blaster back.” Nightwind shoved it butt first in Richards’ direction.
“Thanks. Whatever you two are, you sure ain’t greenhorns. Where’d you get that fast?”
“I’m part cat.”
“And I’m part piledriver. Want me to take a swing at you?” asked Heuser.
Richards hastily holstered his blaster and cried, palms flat and extended in front of his chest, “No! Uh, no need. You’ve both proved your point. You’re a lot stronger than you look.”
“Which isn’t hard,” Nightwind murmured.
“Yeah. Anyway, you’re going to need all the strength you got to put up with Rhyl. The planet’s a killer. No malice out there, leastways not much. But if you can’t handle the dust and wind and heat, forget it.”
Nightwind propped himself against a dusty ledge. “Why not tell us a little about Rhyl? What we’ll be needing to survive out there, for starters.”
Richards easily jumped back onto the bare counter, sitting crosslegged. “Okay. First of all, no water. You carry what you drink. Forget about baths. Even here in Rhylston, water’s a scarce commodity. I expect you’ll be puttin’ up at the Ambassador. Water ration’s fifteen liters a day, and that’s because it’s the poshest place on planet. In the deep desert, you get five liters a day and you’d better use all of it for drinkin'.”
“Don’t you use air-conditioned desert suits?”
“Can’t. Might work in a mild desert like the Atacama on Earth but not here. The dust drives its way through just about everything mobile. When it gets into machinery, it literally chews up gears and cogs. Harder to make something dustproof than it is sealing a spaceship making it airtight. This patch of desert we’ll be crossin’ … well, it’s bad news. This time of year is equivalent to spring. High winds, lots of dust. We make maybe a hundred klicks a day and we’re lucky. The aircar’s got to be taken care of, regardless. Lose it and we’re in big trouble. With all the wind causing static, no radio beam’s going to get through to tell a rescue party where we’re stranded. Best chance is to nail one of the comm satellites with a laser distress beacon. And if the dust’s really blowin', no way of even seeing the sky. But that’s the minor stuff. I take good care of my aircar. Have to if I’m going to stay alive long. The hard part is that … that…” Richards’ voice faltered for the first time.
“Something about this Devil’s Fang makes it worse than other places?” asked Nightwind, his voice almost gentle.
Richards’ reply was a hoarse whisper. “Damn sandcats. The sandcats are filthy around that pile of rock. I’d rather be lost on foot in the worst dust storm ever than tangle with just one of … them!”
Steorra daintily put her hand in front of her mouth as she sneezed. Even inside the dust-sealed hotel intruded the patina of dryness, of sand. Slayton had stuffed his nostrils with filters; those didn’t help much. The room clerk looked amused as he handed both of the wet-worlders tiny packets containing a special chemical-soaked cloth to coolly wipe away the grit.
Only Dhal seemed not to notice. His home planet wasn’t as dry and dusty as Rhyl, but nature provided him with a greater tolerance for sand and desiccation. The climate of Rhyl was closer to his home planet of Shudd, Shudd of the lovely mauve deserts stretching to the horizons, than it was to Earth.
“I suppose I’ve got to get used to this. Daddy did,” coughed the woman. “Have you been able to find out what happened to … them?”
Slayton nodded. “They stopped by a small shop and seem to be lining up a guide to take them into the desert. I did a little checking around. They’ve got the best one in Rhylston. Name’s P. R. Richards. A native — one of the few. Been taking tourists into the desert for close to thirty planet years. But he makes his big money going out and collecting sandblasted sections of rock. Sells them offplanet as ‘native art,’ as if this miserable place had any real natives.”
“This Richards,” Steorra asked, “he’s the best?”
Dhal solemnly nodded, backing up his partner’s statement.
“Then we’d better find a guide of our own. Or perhaps try to outbid Nightwind.” There was a small catch in her voice when she mentioned Nightwind’s name. It seemed ridiculous to her, but she couldn’t believe the man was the heartless fiend he must be. Something called out to her, attracted her to the gaunt, dark man. In spite of knowing he was intent on stealing the credit for her father’s discovery — whatever it was — Steorra found herself admiring him. Hadn’t he easily bested both Dhal and Slayton aboard the Ajax? He’d made it look like child’s play, yet the woman knew Slayton was a dangerous man. And Dhal might be the more cunning of the pair. The desert-worlder could look at her with h
is pale eyes and send cold shivers racing up and down her spine.
“I suggest a different course,” Slayton said in his casual manner. Underneath, Steorra felt as if a coiled snake lay ready to strike. “Why not merely follow them? It’d be simplicity itself to plant a tracking bug on their aircar. Nightwind would lead us directly to your father’s discovery, and we wouldn’t tip our hands by hiring a guide. Once at the site, it’d be easy to find our way back.”
Steorra hesitated, then said, “But we don’t know anything about the planet. Wouldn’t it be dangerous going out without someone who knew what they were doing?”
“Dhal’s a good man. That’s why we brought him along, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” Dhal chimed in, “I was born on Shudd. One desert’s just like another. Dry, dusty, a little wind. Like Lane says, we track ‘em out, make them own up to stealing your father’s stuff, then we hightail it back here to Rhylston. Radio the news subspace to Earth and your old man’s a hero!”
“If you think we can do it, okay. Why don’t the two of you get the supplies and equipment we’ll need? I … I want to go to my room and see if I can’t get some of this horrid dust out of my hair.”
Steorra watched Slayton and Dhal leave to rent a serviceable aircar and complete desert equipment. There was something in the way they carried themselves, their posture, their attitude, that made her uneasy. She shrugged it off. The dust was clogging her sinuses; it must be the discomfort making her think, even for a minute, that Slayton and Dhal were doing other than her wishes.
CHAPTER THREE
“DOESN’T THE WIND ever stop?” complained Heuser. He brushed a hand through his now dusty-brown hair. His fingers came away covered with the fine grit borne by the stiff wind blowing off the desert.
“Wind?” laughed Richards. “What wind? This is just a gentle breeze. Wait until we get out into the desert. You’ll see real wind, then. Here in Rhylston, we’re protected by those buttes.”
Sandcats of Rhyl Page 3