“Mark Twain land?”
“That’s it.”
Garamond nodded. “This is completely illogical, of course. We can’t measure other cultures with our own yardstick, but I have a feeling that that’s a low-technology agricultural community up there. Maybe it’s because I believe that any race which settles on Orbitsville will turn into farmers. There’s no need for them to do anything else.” “Hold on a minute, Vance.” Ralston’s voice was taut. “Maybe you’re going to get those bearings, after all. I think I see an airplane.”
Numb with surprise, Garamond took the offered binoculars and aimed them where Ralston directed. After a moment’s search he found a complicated white speck hanging purposefully in the lower levels of the air. The absence of any lateral movement suggested the other plane was flying directly away from or directly towards his own, and his intuition told him the latter was the case. He kept watching through the powerful, gyro-stabilized glasses and presently saw other motes of coloured brightness rising, swarming uncertainly, and then settling into the apparently motionless state which meant they were flying to meet him head-on. Ralston gave the alert to the six other ships of the fleet.
“It’s a welcoming party, all right,” he said as the unknown planes became visible to the naked eye, “and we’ve no weapons. What do we do if they attack us?”
“We have to assume they’re friendly, or at least not hostile.” Garamond adjusted the fine focus on the binoculars. “Besides — I know I’m judging them by our standards again-but that doesn’t look like an air force to me. The planes are all different colours.”
“Like ancient knights going out to do battle.”
“Could be, but I don’t think so. The planes seem to be pretty small, and all different types.” A stray thought crossed Garamond’s mind. He turned his attention back to the city from which the planes had arisen, and was still scanning it with growing puzzlement when the two fleets of aircraft met and coalesced.
A green-and-yellow low-wing monoplane took up station beside Garamond’s ship and wiggled its wings in what, thanks to the strictures of aerial dynamics, had to be the universal greeting of airmen. The alien craft had a small blister-type canopy through which could be seen a humanoid form. Braunek, now at the controls, laughed delightedly and repeated the signal. The tiny plane near their wingtip followed suit, as did a blue biplane beyond it.
“Communication!” Braunek shouted. “They aren’t like the Clowns, Vance — we’ll be able to talk to these people.”
“Good. See if you can get their permission to land,” Garamond said drily.
“Right.” Braunek, unaware of the irony, became absorbed in making an elaborate series of gestures while Garamond twisted around in his seat to observe as many of the alien ships as he could. He had noted earlier that no two were painted alike; now he was able to confirm that they all differed radically in design. Most were propeller-driven, but at least two were powered by gas turbines and one racy-looking job had the appearance of a home-made rocket ship. In general the alien planes were of conventional/universal cruciform configuration, although he glimpsed at least one canard and a twin-fuselage craft.
“A bit of a mixture,” Ralston commented, and added with a note of disappointment in his voice. “I see a lot of internal combustion engines out there. If that’s the level they’re at they won’t be much use to us.”
“How about supplies of fossil fuel?”
“There could be some about — depends on the age of Orbitsville.” Ralston surveyed the ground below with professional disgust. “My training isn’t worth a damn out here. The ordinary rules don’t apply.”
“I think it’s okay to go down,” Braunek said. “Our friend has dipped his nose a couple of times.” “Right. Pass the word along.”
As the fringes of the alien settlement began to slide below the nose of the aircraft Braunek sat higher in his seat and turned his head rapidly from side to side. “I can’t see their airfield. We’ll have to circle around.”
Garamond tapped the pilot’s shoulder. “I think you’ll find they haven’t got a centralized airfield.”
The aircraft banked into a turn, giving a good view of the ground. The city wheeling below the wing was at least twenty kilometres across but had no distinguishable roads, factories or other buildings larger than average-sized dwellings. Garamond’s impression was of thousands of hunting lodges scattered in an area of woodland. Here and there, randomly distributed, were irregular cleared areas about the size of football pitches. The brightly coloured alien planes dispersed towards these, crossing flight paths at low altitude in an uncontrolled manner which brought audible gasps from Braunek. They landed unceremoniously, one to a field, leaving the humans’ ships still aloft in the circuit.
“This is crazy — I’m not going to try putting us down in somebody’s back yard,” Braunek announced.
“Find a good strip outside of town and we’ll land in sequence the way we’d already planned,” Garamond told him. He sat back in his seat and buckled his safety straps. The plane lost altitude, completed two low-level orbits and landed, with a short jolting run on its skids, in an expanse of meadow. Braunek steered it off to one side and they watched as the six other ships of the fleet touched down on the same tracks and formed an untidy line. Their propellers gradually stopped turning and canopies were pushed upwards like the wing casings of insects.
Green-scented air flooded in around Garamond and he relaxed for a moment, enjoying the sensation of being at rest. The luxuriousness of his body’s response to the silence awakened memories of what it had been like arriving home for a brief spell after a long mission. Ecstasy-living was a phenomenon well known to S.E.A. personnel, as were its attendant dangers. Rigid self-control was always required during home leave, to prevent the ecstasy getting out of control and causing a fierce negative reaction at the beginning of the next mission. But in this instance, as he breathed the cool heavy air, Garamond realized he had been tricked into lowering his guard…
I can’t possibly take another two years of flying night and day, the thought came. Nobody could.
“Come on, Vance — stretch the legs,” Braunek called as he leapt down on to the grass. He was followed in close succession by Delia Liggett, Ralston and Pierre Tarque, the young medic who completed the crew of No 1. Garamond waved to them and made himself busy with his straps.
Two whole years to go — at least! — and what would it achieve?
The sound of laughter and cheerful voices came from outside as the crews of the seven aircraft met and mingled. He could hear friendly punches being swapped, and derisive whoops which probably signified an overlong kiss being exchanged.
Even if I get near enough to the President to kill her, which is most unlikely, what would that achieve? It’s too late to do anything for Aileen and Chris. Would they want me to get myself executed?
Garamond stood up, filled with guilty excitement, and climbed out of the glasshouse. From the slight elevation, the alien settlement looked like a dreamy garden village. He glanced around, taking in all the lime-green immensities, and dropped to the ground where Cliff Napier and Denise Serra were waiting for him. Denise greeted him with a warm, direct gaze. She was wearing regulation-issue black trousers, but topped with a tangerine blouse in place of a tunic, and he suddenly appreciated that she was beautiful. They were joined almost at once by O’Hagan and Sammy Yamoto, both of whom looked greyer and older than Garamond had expected. O’Hagan wasted no time on pleasantries.
“We’re at a big decision point, Vance,” he began. “Five of our ships have sub-standard propeller bearings and if we can’t get them upgraded there’s no point in continuing with the flight.” He tilted his head and assumed the set expression with which he always heard arguments.