Imperial Bounty (22 page)

McCade nodded his agreement. They'd come out of hyperspace so close to the planet they were damned near in orbit. Walker liked them close indeed. Most pilots considered it prudent to leave a little more leeway, even if it meant a day's travel in normal space. It might be slower, but it was a lot safer.

McCade tapped some keys, and the ship's computer obeyed, taking
Pegasus
down into a high orbit. He wanted to look things over before trying to put the ship down. There was nothing in the ship's data bank on a planet called Wind World, and Walker had mentioned something about high winds.

"Well, Rico, let's see if anybody's home," McCade said. "Try all the standard freqs."

Rico ran through the most commonly used frequencies as McCade studied the fleecy ball below. It wasn't hard to see why they called it the Wind World. Here and there the clouds were shaped into huge whorls, and as he watched, he could actually see them move, driven no doubt by some very strong winds. It didn't take a degree in meteorology to see landing could be very dangerous indeed.

"Here we go, Sam, I've got somebody," Rico said. He flipped a switch, allowing a cultured male voice to come over the control room's speakers. Cultured or not, it was clearly synthetic.

"Greetings, gentle beings. I am a weather and communications satellite known as FG65, in geosynchronous orbit above a settlement known as Deadeye, which also happens to be this planet's only spaceport. At this particular moment surface weather conditions are such that radio communications with Deadeye are somewhat intermittent. Perhaps I could be of help."

"This is the ship
Pegasus,
"
McCade replied, "requesting permission to land, and instructions on how to do so."

"Permission granted," the satellite responded gravely. "I have scanned your ship for illegal weapons and technology, and have found none. Providing that you agree to obey the laws and customs of our planet, you are welcome."

"We agree," McCade said solemnly.

"Excellent. Now, if you will put your computer on line," the satellite continued, "I will send it Deadeye's position, some basics on the planet's atmosphere, ecology, laws, and so forth, plus the relevant meteorological information regarding current conditions."

McCade tapped a quick sequence of keys, and said, "Our computer's on line."

Three seconds later, the satellite was back. "Please review the information I've provided, and prepare to land in approximately one half standard hour, on my command. Current conditions suggest a brief period of calm at that time. Until then, remember, 'Those who ride the wind must accept where it goes.'" Then there was a click, followed by static.

McCade looked at Rico with a lifted eyebrow, and the other man shrugged his massive shoulders. "I've seen everything now, ol' sport, includin' a philosophical satellite."

For the next half hour they studied the information the satellite had sent them. It quickly became clear that the winds which whipped across the surface of the planet below were not all that random. In fact most were quite predictable. Which explained why the spaceport was located at the very center of a large, circular, semipermanent storm. Although the storm occasionally shifted a little from north to south, and from east to west, it didn't go far. In fact, according to the information supplied by FG65, it stayed right where it was most of the time. Once in a while it would vanish for a time, but it always returned to take up the same position.

The com set buzzed, and satellite FG65 said, "Please initiate your descent. Based on past weather patterns, a brief period of relative calm should prevail in all layers of the atmosphere above Deadeye during the next hour or so."

"Understood," McCade replied. And while one didn't usually thank computers, in FG65's case, it seemed quite natural to say "thank you."

McCade assumed control from the ship's computer as
Pegasus
entered the planet's atmosphere. Tricky atmospheric landings were one of the few things human pilots usually did better than computers. Lots of research had been done trying to figure out why, since logic seemed to suggest it should work the other way around, but no one had come up with any really believable answers. The best they could do was suggest that sentients were capable of something called kinesthetic intuition, which meant human pilots could "feel" subtle things computers couldn't, and could then "guess" what to do about them.

The ship shuddered as the wind hit and shoved it sideways. McCade corrected, and then swore when the wind suddenly fell off, forcing him to compensate.

"If this is 'relative calm,' then I'm a Tobarian Zerk monkey," Rico said, frowning at his instruments.

"Now that you mention it, I do see a certain family resemblance," Phil growled.

McCade grinned, but quickly lost track of their friendly insults as he fought his way down through layer after layer of disturbed air. Finally, after a braking orbit which seemed years long, they came in on final approach. Below, the storm which surrounded Deadeye raged on as it had for more than a thousand years. Ahead, clouds swirled around a vertical tube of calm air which marked the eye of the storm. All he had to do was stop
Pegasus
in midair and drop her straight down that tube. "Nothing to it," he told himself. "Child's play for a pilot of my experience." But as the critical moment approached, sweat trickled down his spine, and the tic in his left cheek locked into permanent spasm. Then it was too late to worry. He killed power, kicked the nose up, felt her drop, goosed the drives to slow their descent. Now all he could do was sit back and hope for the best.

And much to his surprise he got it.
Pegasus
dropped as smoothly as a lift tube in an expensive hotel, giving him a chance to grab a quick look at the planet's surface. Where the rest of the surface was hidden by wind-driven sand and dust, the area directly below was clear. The first thing he noticed was the relative sameness of the land. Yes, he could see distant mountains poking their peaks above the roiling storms, but directly below the land was flat, ridged here and there where the eternal hand of the wind had carved topsoil away from solid rock, but otherwise smooth and featureless. He saw nothing resembling vegetation, and quickly checked the computer to confirm a breathable atmosphere. Sure enough, the atmosphere was within a couple of points of Earth normal, so there was some biomass somewhere even if he couldn't see it at the moment.

His thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of a proximity alarm as the ground rose to meet them. He turned his attention back to the controls, and a few minutes later felt a gentle thump as the ship settled onto its landing jacks.

He was still congratulating himself when the com set buzzed. This voice was real, somewhat nasal, and belonged to a fat woman. Her hair had been braided and then piled on top of her head. She had laughing eyes, a button nose, and at least four chins. Due to where the viewscreen cut her off, McCade couldn't see below the level of her chest, but if her enormous bosom was any indication, she was very, very large. "Hey, good lookin', unless you plan to stay here the rest of your life, you'd better move that toy. The winds'll shift soon, and when they do, that little thing's goin' bye-bye. So follow the red drone, and then come on down to Momma's Saloon for a drink." She winked a tiny eye, and then disappeared.

McCade had dropped into some pretty casual spaceports in his time, but this was the first time he'd run into a combination air traffic controller-saloon keeper. He checked the main viewscreen, and found a large red sphere had indeed appeared, and was waiting for them to move. The words "follow me" flashed on and off across the front of it, and as a small gust of wind hit, the drone bobbed slightly.

McCade fired his repellors, lifted the ship off the ground, and danced her toward the red ball. The drone drifted left and he followed. As
Pegasus
moved, her repellors cut shallow trails through the dirt, throwing up rooster tails of dust, which were quickly blown away by the light breeze.

There wasn't much to look at, and what there was didn't qualify as works of art. To the right, a heavily reinforced, all-purpose antenna housing pointed a dark finger toward the sky, looking like some sort of primitive obelisk. And to the left, a pylon shaped like a vertical airplane wing soared upward, ending in a sleek housing, and a slowly turning propeller. When the wind was blowing full force, the aero-dynamically shaped pylon would rotate to meet it, and the propeller would turn at incredible speeds. Wind power made practical. So, while the surrounding countryside looked a bit bleak, at least the locals had plenty of cheap nonpolluting power.

And things did look bleak. The sky, the ground, and the rocks were all done in different shades of gray. As a result, the red ball seemed even brighter than it was. It stopped, and McCade did likewise, noticing that the ground below had given way to a huge durasteel plate. Now the words "follow me" disappeared, and were replaced by "cut repellors." McCade obeyed, dropping
Pegasus
gently onto the scarred metal surface.

Moments later he felt a slight jerk, and the metal plate, ship and all, began to sink underground. It didn't surprise him, since the arrangement was quite similar to the underground hangars on Alice, which also served to get ships down and out of the weather.

The rock walls which slid upward around them were as smooth and uniform as duracrete. Suddenly the walls vanished, giving way to a large, brightly lit open space, rectangular in shape, and quite uniform in construction. This was no work of nature but a well-executed creation of man.

The red ball had dropped with them, and now its "follow me" sign reappeared. McCade fired his repellors again, lifting
Pegasus
only inches off the deck, and followed the sphere into a rather generous berth. Once in place, he killed the drives, and delegated control to the ship's computer. It began a post-flight diagnostic check on all systems. When McCade looked up he found the red ball had disappeared.

"Well, gentlemen," McCade said, releasing his harness, "the lady said we should have a drink, and I think it would be rude to ignore her invitation."

"Hear, hear," Phil said. "Never let it be said that we were rude."

"I wouldn't think o' such a thing," Rico agreed solemnly, heading for the lock.

A few minutes later, McCade and Phil waited as Rico set all the ship's security systems. It never hurt to be careful.

McCade noticed there were only three other ships in sight, although the hangar could have easily handled three times that number. One was a beat-up lifeboat, with a for sale sign painted across its port side in sloppy lettering, the second was a fairly well-maintained freighter, probably on a supply run, and the third was a wreck, a twisted pile of junk only vaguely resembling a ship. Although there was no one in sight, the scaffolding which surrounded the wreck suggested an optimist at work, someone who thought it could be put back together. He'd seen a few spaceports even more deserted, but not many.

Rico sealed the ship's lock and then joined them. Together they followed a series of signs which simply read, "Momma's," through a series of clean, but deserted passageways. A short time later they descended a steep flight of stairs, and went through a narrow doorway. Over it hung a sign which spelled out "Momma's" in pink neon letters.

They found themselves in a large open room. In the tradition of bars everywhere it was dimly lit and filled with smoke. A huge mirror dominated the far wall making the room seem bigger than it really was. Below it was a massive bar of polished black rock. Huge columns of the same stuff reached up at regular intervals to support a vaulted ceiling. The columns and the high ceiling combined to give the bar an aura of dignity more appropriate to the lobby of a grand hotel than a spaceport saloon on a remote frontier planet. It was also well furnished and quite clean. A most unusual rim world bar indeed.

As he approached the bar, McCade felt the other customers watching him. Not too surprising, since the newcomers were probably the most interesting event of the day, or maybe the week. Nonetheless he sensed that while most were simply curious, others had deeper, darker thoughts. He sighed. Some things never changed.

As they bellied up to the bar McCade found himself face-to-face with the combination air traffic controller-saloon keeper. "Well, look what the wind blew in. Welcome to Momma's, and if ya ain't guessed yet, I'm Momma." Her eyes twinkled, and her chins rippled when she spoke. "Your berth is costin' you two hunnert credits a day, my rooms are clean, the food's good, my booze ain't been watered down, and if you shoot anybody in here, you pay for damages and clean up the mess. Now what'll it be for you, gentlemen?"

"Let's start with some o' that booze which ain't been watered down," Rico said pragmatically, "and then maybe some o' that food you mentioned."

"An excellent choice," Phil rumbled. "Make that two."

McCade nodded in response to Momma's inquiring look, and as she waddled off to fill their order he used the big mirror behind the bar to check out the rest of her clientele. Off to his right there were three women and a man all seated together. From their matching uniforms, he figured them for the freighter crew, and the oldest of the three women as the captain. A short distance away, an older man and a boy still in his teens sat locked in earnest conversation, their worn gear somehow reminding him of the wreck he'd seen in the hangar. Beyond them sat two men and a woman, all dressed in gray one-piece suits of a style he'd never seen before, and all watching him while pretending not to. As their eyes brushed his, he nodded gravely, as if already acquainted. And in a way he was. He'd met their kind a thousand times before, in a thousand other bars. The users and the takers. Every planet had its share, and the Wind World was apparently no exception. They avoided his gaze as they stood, threw something metallic on the table, and ambled toward the door. He noticed all three wore blasters.

"Cute, aren't they," Phil said, his eyes on the mirror.

"Probably on their way to church," Rico observed, picking up the large tankard Momma had just placed before him, and taking a noisy sip.