SinBad the Sand Sailor
by R. Garcia y Robertson
Woman in the Dunes
Near to noon, SinBad saw something flapping on a dune. Loose shiny fabric, with an expensive sheen, shone in the morning light. He had the wind on his port beam, and was making good time on firm red-ochre sward, bordered by sand, headed north for Hastor. Sand goggles hid half his face, showing just the hard line of his jaw, and a black spade beard. Clean, even teeth grinned at the prospect of getting something for free. Barsoom was seldom so giving.
SinBad spilled air, losing precious headway, pulling his sand sail into the wind, skidding to a stop on the sward. Starting up would not be so easy.
Leaping out of his seat, SinBad ran to see why he had stopped.
Up close, SinBad saw the sandy bundle had blond hair, and smooth bare limbs, half-hidden by a torn air hostess uniform. Her big silver badge said, “Hi! I’m Tiffany.” He instinctively looked to heaven. Thuria, the nearer moon, was rising soon. Leave her here, and Slavers would snatch her up.
Feeling a faint pulse, and a flutter of breath, he said a swift prayer to Issus, “Do not take her yet.” SinBad dashed back to his sand sail, breaking into the cargo box. Luckily, he was smuggling offworld drugs. Finding a hydrated sedative and a broad spectrum antibiotic, he injected her, then waited. His employers would hate this. SinBad smuggled for the Aymads, the Number Ones—who did not do charity. “Watch Out for Number One,” was their motto. Whatever meds he used would come out of his end. Or else.
Pulse and breathing grew stronger, more regular. Good. Now what? He could not leave her. His sand sail was fully loaded.
“Shit.” There was just one solution. Removing his cargo box, SinBad buried it in the dune, consigning a fortune in pharmaceuticals to the sand. His employers would hate this even more. If anything happened to the cargo, he had no hope of paying back the Aymads.
Horrible thought. But he could not leave her to dire wolves and Slavers. His trip to Hastor was over. Barsoom’s .4 gravity made lifting the unconscious woman easy. Beneath the sand, sweat, and sunburn she might even be pretty. Probably was pretty, given her air hostess uniform. Silver rings shone on sandy fingers. Her badge said, “Tiffany,” but air hostesses were notorious for using assumed names, and unusual positions.
SinBad rolled his eyes. “Hope to hell you are worth it.” He strapped her to the back on the sand sail, wrapped in his sleeping furs, then turned the wind-powered tricycle about, to get the best of the southeast breeze. Sitting down in the seat, he gripped the boom controls and released the brake.
Off they went. He had been headed north, with the wind abeam. Now he went over to the opposite tack, running almost due west, with the wind on his port quarter. There was a wind wagon track ahead, and a canal a couple of hundred haads farther west—once he got the offworlder to medical care, he would work his way back upwind to retrieve the drugs.
Sward turned to grit and gravel, then to packed sand. SinBad made excellent time until the wind died. At dusk he lit a fire, and hydrated his sleeping supercargo, with a shot of superglucose. Using some precious water, he washed her face. She was air hostess pretty, with a cute turned-up nose, and fine cheekbones. Too bad she was comatose.
He doctored her scrapes and bruises as best he could. Her limbs were not broken, and her ribs felt right. Nice even. Then he covered her with furs to hide her from Thuria.
Hopefully, she had no internal injuries, since his medical skills were minimal. Praying that sleeping booty would survive the night, SinBad lay down by the dying fire, watching Cluros, the further moon, drift across the starry sky until he fell asleep.
Dawn breezes woke him, light airs out of the west. Restarting the fire, he put on coffee, then checked on his fallen angel. Still asleep, but even more beautiful by daylight. Good thing Thuria was down. Or Slavers would be dropping in for breakfast. What had she been doing in the dunes? He would have to ask, when she awoke. If she awoke. SinBad sipped thick black coffee, waiting for the wind to change.
Slowly it did, shifting around to the south. His supercargo stirred. Putting on fresh coffee, he watched her long lashes flutter. Finally her eyes opened wide, looking first at the sky, then at him, revealing a fetching shade of blue.
“Kaor.” He smiled to show he was friendly. “Are you hurting?”
“Not much,” she whispered.
A compliment to his medical care, and offworld painkillers. “It’s Tuesday,” he told her. “You have been out over twenty hours.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, she asked, “Who are you?”
“Your savior.” It was not too early to get on this pretty hostess’ good side.
“Thanks.” She glanced about the gravel wadi he had camped in. “Where are we?”
“South of Hastor, headed for a wagon track.”
Lying back, the woman closed her eyes. “What am I doing here?”
“Hoping you would tell me.”
She shrugged. “I do not remember much. Not since late Sunday night.”
“How about your name?” he suggested.
“Tiffany. Tiffany Panic.” She sounded proud she remembered. Just like on her perky badge. Now his pretty problem had a name. “Your outfit says you are an air hostess.”
Tiffany looked at her torn sleeve. “So it does.”
“Did you fall out of a pleasure palace?”
She sighed. “More likely pushed.”
“By who?”
Tiffany shook her tangled blonde hair. “Cannot say.”
Cannot or would not? Either way, it was not his business.
“It was near to morning.” Tiffany studied her silver rings, seeming shocked that they were still on her fingers. “I had gone out on a balcony, to greet the day. Something shoved me from behind. Then, I was falling. I do not remember hitting the ground.”
Small surprise. “You were passing over high dunes. You must have hit the side of one, and the sand broke your fall. That is where I found you.”
“Thank you,” Tiffany whispered. For salvaging her, not just her rings.
“Thank the dunes.” He just did what he must. Even criminal sex addicts had standards, however low. Offering her some coffee, he prepared to get underway. Wind was perfect for Hastor, but he no longer had the drugs. Instead, he strapped Tiffany into the seat behind him. “I will take you to the wagon track, or the canal, where you could get a boat bound for Exhume beanstalk.” And a safe trip back offplanet. Then he could retrieve his cargo—minus the drugs that went into Tiffany. That would cost him. Tiffany did not comment on his plans for her, merely asking, “What’s your name?”
“People call me SinBad,” he warned her. “Because I sin badly.”
“What sort of sins?” Tiffany inquired.
“Smuggling, drinking, sex crimes...” He released the sail, and they were off, skidding over the gravel onto a starboard tack. He guided his land schooner out of the wadi, then turned due west toward the wagon track, sailing over hard packed sand. “...the usual offenses.” Being in the business, she leaned closer, expressing polite professional interest. “What kind of sex crimes?”
Most women did not want to know. “Abetting adultery, copulating with the wrong clan, co-habiting with known lesbians, that sort of thing. Desert tribes have many rules.” His supercargo understood. “That’s why pleasure palaces are airborne.”
“Right now I am transporting an air hostess without a valid permit. Or her owner’s permission. Both serious felonies.”
Tiffany laughed. “I have no owner.”
“Nor do I.” Sinbad trimmed the sail, to go more with the wind, avoiding patches of deep sand. “Folks take that amiss.”
“Same with me,” Tiffany agreed. “What do your friends call you?”