With the super-hurricane on his beam, the ponderous truck heeled over, lifting one entire side into the air. Quickly Clayton released a few feet of mainsheet. The metal-link sail screamed and chattered as the wind whipped it.
Driving now with just the sail's leading edge, Clayton was able to keep the truck on its feet and make good a course to the windward.
Through the rear-vision mirror, he could see the black, jagged cliffs behind him. They were his lee shore, his coast of wrecks. But he was sailing out of the trap. Foot by foot, he was pulling away.
"That's my baby!" Clayton shouted to the battling Brute.
His sense of victory snapped almost at once, for he heard an ear-splitting clang and something whizzed past his head. At 187 miles an hour, pebbles were piercing his armor plating. He was undergoing the Carellan equivalent of a machine-gun barrage. The wind shrieked through the holes, trying to batter him out of his seat.
Desperately he clung to the steering wheel. He could hear the sail wrenching. It was made out of the toughest flexible alloys available, but it wasn't going to hold up for long. The short, thick mast, supported by six heavy cables, was whipping like a fishing rod.
His brake linings were worn out, and his speed over the ground came up to 57 miles an hour.
He was too tired to think. He steered, his hands locked to the wheel, his slitted eyes glaring ahead into the storm.
The sail ripped with a scream. The tatters flogged for a moment, then brought the mast down. Wind gusts were approaching 190 miles an hour.
The wind now was driving him back toward the cliffs. At 192 miles an hour of wind, the Brute was lifted bodily, thrown for a dozen yards, slammed back on its wheels. A front tire blew under the pressure, then two rear ones. Clayton put his head on his arms and waited for the end.
Suddenly, the Brute stopped short. Clayton was flung forward. His safety belt checked him for a moment, then snapped. He banged against the instrument panel and fell back, dazed and bleeding.
He lay on the floor, half conscious, trying to figure out what had happened. Slowly he pulled himself back into the seat, foggily aware that he hadn't broken any limbs. His stomach was one great bruise. His mouth was bleeding.
At last, looking through the rear-vision mirror, he saw what had happened. The emergency anchor, trailing at 250 feet of steel cable, had caught in a deep outcropping of rock. A fouled anchor had brought him up short, less than half a mile from the cliffs. He was saved –
For the moment, at least.
But the wind hadn't given up yet. The 193-mile-an-hour wind bellowed, lifted the truck bodily, slammed it down, lifted it again, slammed it down. The steel cable hummed like a guitar string. Clayton wrapped his arms and legs around the seat. He couldn't hold on much longer. And if he let go, the madly leaping Brute would smear him over the walls like toothpaste –
If the cable didn't part first and send him hurtling into the cliffs.
He held on. At the top of one swing, he caught a glimpse of the windspeed indicator. The sight of it sickened him. He was through, finished, done for. How would he be expected to hold on through the force of a 187-mile-an-hour wind? It was too much.
It was — 187 miles an hour? That meant that the wind was dropping!
He could hardly believe it at first. But slowly, steadily, the dial hand crept down. At 160 miles an hour, the truck stopped slamming and lay passively at the end of its anchor line. At 153, the wind veered — a sure sign that the blow was nearly over.
When it had dropped to 142 miles an hour, Clayton allowed himself the luxury of passing out.
Carellan natives came out for him later in the day. Skillfully they maneuvered two big land ships up to the Brute, fastened on their long vines — which tested out stronger than steel — and towed the derelict truck back to the station.
They brought him into the receiving shed and Nerishev carried him into the station's dead air.
"You didn't break anything except a couple of teeth," said Nerishev. "But there isn't an unbruised inch on you."
"We came through it," Clayton said.
"Just. Our boulder defense is completely flattened. The station took two direct hits from boulders and barely contained them. I've checked the foundations; they're badly strained. Another blow like that —"
"— and we'd make out somehow. Us Earth lads, we come through! That was the worst in eight months. Four months more and the relief ship comes! Buck up, Nerishev. Come with me."
"Where are we going?"
"I want to talk to that damned Smanik!"
They came into the shed. It was filled to overflowing with Carellans. Outside, in the lee of the station, several dozen land ships were moored.
"Smanik!" Clayton called. "What's going on here?"
"It is the Festival of Summer," Smanik said. "Our great yearly holiday."
"Hm. What about that blow? What did you think of it?"
"I would classify it as a moderate gale," said Smanik. "Nothing dangerous, but somewhat unpleasant for sailing."
"Unpleasant! I hope you get your forecasts a little more accurate in the future."
"One cannot always outguess the weather," Smanik said. "It is regrettable that my last forecast should be wrong."
"Your last? How come? What's the matter?"
"These people," Smanik said, gesturing around him, "are my entire tribe, the Seremai. We have celebrated the Festival of Summer. Now summer is ended and we must go away."
"Where to?"
"To the caverns in the far west. They are two weeks' sail from here. We will go into the caverns and live there for three months. In that way, we will find safety."
Clayton had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. "Safety from what, Smanik?"
"I told you. Summer is over. We need safety now from the winds — the powerful storm winds of winter."
"What is it?" Nerishev said.
"In a moment." Clayton thought very quickly of the super-hurricane he had just passed through, which Smanik had classified as a moderate and harmless gale. He thought of their immobility, the ruined Brute, the strained foundations of the station, the wrecked boulder barrier, the relief ship four months away. "We could go with you in the land ships, Smanik, and take refuge in the caverns with you — be protected —"
"Of course," said Smanik hospitably.
"No, we couldn't," Clayton answered himself, his sinking feeling even lower that during the storm. "We'd need extra oxygen, our own food, a water supply —"
"What is it?" Nerishev repeated impatiently. "What the devil did he say to make you look like that?"
"He says the really big winds are just coming," Clayton replied.
The two men stared at each other.
Outside, a wind was rising.
— End —