Outside, the wind was deafening. It thundered and roared like breaking surf. His adjusted his mask for more oxygen and went to work.
Two hours later, he had completed a fifteen-minute repair job. His clothing was shredded and his air extractor was completely clogged with dust.
He climbed back into the Brute, sealed the port and lay on the floor, resting. The truck was starting to tremble in the wind gusts. Clayton ignored it.
“Hello? Hello?” Nerishev called over the radio.
Wearily, Clayton climbed back into the driver’s seat and acknowledged.
“Hurry back now, Clayton! No time to rest! The wind’s up to 138! I think a storm is coming!”
A storm on Carella was something Clayton didn’t even want to think about. They had experienced only one in eight months. During it, the winds had gone over 160 miles an hour.
He nosed the truck around and started back, driving directly into the wind. At full throttle, he found he was making very little progress. Three miles an hour was all the heavy diesel would do against the pressure of 138-mile wind.
He stared ahead through the slit-window. The wind, outlined by long streamers of dust and sand, seeming to be coming straight at him, funneled out of an infinitely wide sky to the tiny point of his window. Windborne rocks sailed at him, grew large, immense, and shattered against his window. He couldn’t stop himself from ducking each time one came.
The heavy engine was beginning to labor and miss.
“Oh, baby,” Clayton breathed, “don’t quit now. Not now. Get Papa home. Then quit. Please!”
He figured that he was about ten miles from the station, which lay directly upwind.
He heard a sound like an avalanche plummeting down a mountainside. It was made by a boulder the size of a house. Too big for the wind to lift, it was rolling at him from windward, digging a furrow in the rocky ground as it came.
Clayton twisted the steering wheel. The engine labored, with infinite slowness the truck crept out of the boulder’s path. Shaking, Clayton watched the boulder bearing down. With one hand, he pounded on the instrument panel.
“Move, baby, move!”
Booming hollowly, the boulder rolled past at a good thirty miles an hour.
“Too close,” Clayton said to himself. He tried to turn the Brute back into the wind, toward the station. The Brute wouldn’t do it.
The diesel labored and whined, trying to turn the big truck into the wind. And the wind, like a solid gray wall, pushed the truck away.
The windspeed indicator stood at 159 miles an hour.
“How are you doing?” Nerishev asked over the radio.
“Just great! Leave me alone, I’m busy.”
Clayton set his brakes, unstrapped, and raced back to the engine. He adjusted timing and mixture, and hurried back to the controls.
“Hey, Nerishev! That engine’s going to conk out!”
It was a full second before Nerishev answered. Then, very calmly, he asked, “What’s wrong with it?”
“Sand!” Clayton said. “Particles driven at 159 miles an hour—sand’s in the bearings, injectors, everything. I’m going to make all the distance I can.”
“And then?”
“Then I’ll try to sail her back,” Clayton said. “I just hope the mast will take it.”
He turned his attention to the controls. At windspeeds like this, the truck had to be handled like a ship at sea. Clayton picked up speed with the wind on his quarter, then came about and slammed into the wind.
The Brute made it this time and crossed over onto the other tack.
It was the best he could do, Clayton decided. His windward distance would have to be made by tacking. He edged toward the eye of the wind. But at full throttle, the diesel couldn’t bring him much closer than forty degrees.
For an hour, the Brute forged ahead, tacking back and forth across the wind, covering three miles in order to make two. Miraculously, the engine kept on running. Clayton blessed the manufacturer and begged the diesel to hold out a little while longer.
Through a blinding screen of sand, he saw another Carellan land ship. It was reefed down and heeled precariously over. But it forged steadily to windward and soon outdistanced him.
Lucky natives, Clayton thought—165 miles of wind was a sailing breeze to them!
The station, a gray half-sphere, came into sight ahead.
“I’m going to make it!” Clayton shouted. “Break out the rum, Nerishev, old man! Papa’s getting drunk tonight!”
The diesel chose that moment to break down for good.
Clayton swore violently as he set the brakes. What lousy luck! If the wind were behind him, he could roll in. But, of course, it had to be in front.
“What are you going to do now?” Nerishev asked.
“I’m going to sit here,” Clayton said. “When the wind calms down to a hurricane, I’m going to walk home.”
The Brute’s twelve-ton mass was shaking and rattling in the wind blasts.
“You know,” Clayton said, “I’m going to retire after this tour.”
“That so? You really mean it?”
“Absolutely. I own a farm in Maryland, with frontage on Chesapeake Bay. You know what I’m going to do?”
“What?”
“I’m going to raise oysters. You see, the oyster—hold it.”
The station seemed to be drifting slowly upwind, away from him. Clayton rubbed his eyes, wondering if he were going crazy. Then he realized that, in spite of its brakes, in spite of its streamlining, the truck was being pushed downwind, away from the station.
Angrily he shoved a button on his switchboard, releasing the port and starboard anchors. He heard the solid clunk of the anchors hitting the ground, heard the steel cables scrape and rattle. He let out a hundred and seventy feet of steel line, then set the winch brakes. The truck was holding again.
“I dropped the anchors,” Clayton said.
“Are they holding?”
“So far.” Clayton lighted a cigarette and leaned back in his padded chair. Every muscle in his body ached from tension. His eyelids were twitching from watching the wind-lines converging on him. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.
The sound of the wind cut through the truck’s steel plating. The wind howled and moaned, tugging at the truck, trying to find a hold on the smooth surface. At 169 miles an hour, the ventilator baffles blew out. He would be blinded, Clayton thought, if he weren’t wearing sealed goggles, choked if he weren’t breathing canned air. Dust swirled, thick and electric, within the Brute’s cabin.
Pebbles, flung with the velocity of rifle bullets, splattered against the hull. They were striking harder now. He wondered how much more force they’d need before they started piercing the armor plating.
At times like this, Clayton found it hard to maintain a common-sense attitude. He was painfully aware of the vulnerability of human flesh, appalled at the possibilities for violence in the Universe. What was he doing out here? Man’s place was in the calm, still air of Earth. If he ever got back....
“Are you all right?” Nerishev asked.
“Making out just great,” Clayton said wearily. “How are things at the station?”
“Not so good. The whole structure’s starting sympathetic vibration. Enough wind for long enough and the foundations could shatter.”
“And they want to put a fuel station here!” Clayton said.
“Well, you know the problem. This is the only solid planet between Angarsa III and the South Ridge Belt. All the rest are gas giants.”
“They better build their station in space.”
“The cost—”
“Hell, man, it’ll cost less to build another planet than to try to maintain a fuel base on this one!” Clayton spat out a mouthful of dust. “I just want to get on that relief ship. How many natives at the station now?”
“About fifteen, in the shed.”