Alan Dean Foster - Ye Who Would Sing

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Ye Who Would Sing

By Alan Dean Foster

Caitlanddidn't hate the storm anymore.than he had the man he'd just killed, but he was less indifferent to

it. It wouldn't have mattered, except that his victim had been armed. Not well enough to savehimself , but

sufficiently to make things awkward forCaitland .

Even so, the damagedfanship could easily have made it back to theVaanland outpost, had not the

freakish thunderstorm abruptly congealed from a clear blue sky. It was driving him relentlessly northward,

away from one of the few chicken scratches of civilization man had made on this world.

If adrenalin and muscle power could have turned the craft,Caitland would have done better than anyone.

But every time it seemed he'd succeeded in wrenching the fan around to a proper course, a fresh gust

would leap from the nearest thunderhead and toss the tiny vehicle ass over rotor.

He glanced upward through the rain-smearedplex-idome . Only different shades of blackness

differentiated the sky above. If theStyx was overhead, what lay below?—granite talons and claws of

gneiss, the empty-wild peaks of theSilverSparRange . He'd been blown further north than he'd thought.

Time and again the winds sought to hammer the fan into the ground. Time and again he somehow

managed to coax enough from the weakening engine to avoid the next ledge, the next crag, the next cliff.

He could not get above the ice-scoured spires; soon he was fighting just to stay in the air, thefanship

dancing through the glacier valleys like a leaf running rapids. The weather was playing a wailing game with

bis life, but he was almost too tired to care. The fuel gauge hovered near empty. He'd stalled the

inevitable, hoping for even a slight break in the storm, hoping for a minute's chance at a controlled

landing. It seemed even that was to be denied him.

The elements had grown progressively' more inimical. Lightning lit the surrounding mountains in rapid-fire

surreal flashes, sounded in the thin-shelled ship cabin like a million kilos of frying bacon. Adhesive rain

defeated the best efforts of the wipers to keep the front port clear. Navigation instrumentation told him

that he was surrounded by sheer rock walls on all sides. As the canyon he'd worked his way into

narrowed still further, updrafts became downdrafts, downdrafts becamesidedrafts , andsidedrafts

becameaeolian aberrations without names.Mobiusdrafts.

If tie didn't set the fan down soon, the storm would set it down for him. Better to retain a modicum of

control. He pushed the control wheel. If he could get down in one piece, he ought to be home free. There

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was a high-power homing device built into the radio-corn. It would transmit an automatic SOS on a

private channel, to be received by an illegal station nearVaanland .

Caitlandwas a loyal, trusted, and highly valued employee of that station's owners. There was no doubt in

his mind that once it was received by them, they would act on the emergency signal. Just now his job was

to ensure they would find something worth taking back.

Thefanship dipped lower.Caitland fought the wind with words andskillful piloting. It insisted on pushing

him sideways when he wanted to go up or down.

There ... a place where the dense green-black mat of forest thinned briefly and the ground looked almost

level.Low, over, a little lower.Now hard on the stick, slipping the fan sideways, so that the jets could

counteract the force of the scudding wind. Then cut power, cut more, and prepare to settle down.

A tremendous howl reverberated through the little cabin as a wall of rain-laden wind shoved like a giant's

hand straight down on thefanship . Jets still roaring parallel to the ground, the fan slid earthward at a

45-degree angle.

Firstone'blade , then a second of the double rotors hit a tree. There were a metallic snap, several

seconds of blurred vision—a montage of tree trunks, lightning and moss-covered earth—followed by

stillness.

He waited, but the fan had definitely come to a stop. Rain pierced the shattered dome and pelted

forehead and face, a wetness to match the saltier taste in his mouth. The fan had come to rest on its side.

Only a single strap of the safety harness had stayed intact. It held him in the ruined cabin by his waist.

He moved to release it—slowly, because of the sharp, hot pain the movements caused in thecenter of his

chest. He coughed, spat weakly. Bits of broken tooth joined the rest of the wreckage.

His intention was to let himself down gently to a standing position. His body refused to cooperate. As

the waist buckle uncoupled he fell the short distance from his seat to the shattered side of the fan. Broke

inside, he thought hazily. Rain seeped into his eyes, blurred his vision.

Painfully he rolled over, looked down the length of the fan. The flying machine was ruined forever. Right

now, the walking machine had to get away from it. There was always the chance of an explosion.

It was then he discovered he couldn't move his left leg. Lying exhausted, he tried to study the forest

around him in the darkness and driving rain.

Driving rain.The fan had broken a circle in the branches overhead. It would be drier under the untouched

trees—and he had to get away from the explosive residue hi the fan's tanks.

It appeared to be the lower part of the leg. All right, if he couldn't walk, he could crawl. He started to

get to his knees—and couldn't finish. Hurt worse than he'd first thought.

Never mind the chance of explosion, rest was what he had to have.Rest. He lay quietly in the

water-soaked ruins of the fan, rain tinkling noisily off the brokenplexidome and twisted metal, and

listened to the wind moan and cry around him.

Moan? Cry? His head came up dizzily. There was something more than wind out there.A sharp, yes

definitely musical quaver that came from all about him. He stared into the trees, saw no one. The effort

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Alan Dean Foster - Ye Who Would Sing

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