Simak, Cliffard D - Project Pope
and would track it on its course across the water, but at its low altitude, the
base would soon lose contact with it.
His fall was slackening and suddenly, as the chute popped open to its full
extent, he was jerked sidewise and began swinging in wide arcs. An updraft
caught the chute, forcing it back toward the looming peaks and slowing the
swinging; but in a moment it slid out of the updraft and was floating smoothly
downward. Tennyson, dangling at the end of the lines, tried to make out where he
would land; it seemed toward the south end of the spaceport. He held his breath
and hoped. He threaded his arms through the chute straps and clutched his
medical bag, holding it close against his chest. Let it go well, he prayed - let
it continue to go well. So far it had gone surprisingly well. All the way he had
held the flier low, rocketing through the night, making wide circuits to avoid
feudal holdings, where radars would be groping skyward, for in this vicious
world of contending fiefs, a close watch was always kept. No one knew at what
time or from what direction raiders might come swooping in.
Peering down, he tried to gauge how close he might be drifting to solid ground,
but the darkness made it impossible to judge. He found himself tensing, then
consciously willed himself to relax. When he hit, he had to be relaxed.
The grouping of lights that marked the town was some distance to the north; the
spatter of brilliance that was the spaceport was almost dead ahead. A blackness
intervened to shield out the spaceport lights and he hit the ground, knees
buckling under him. He threw himself to one side, still holding tightly to the
bag. The chute collapsed and he struggled to his feet, pulling on lines and
shrouds.
He had landed, he saw, close to a group of large warehouses at the south end of
the port. It had been the bulk of the warehouses that had cut off the spaceport
lights. Luck, he realized, had been with him. Had he been able to plan it, he
could not have chosen a better landing site.
His eyes now were becoming accustomed to the night darkness. He was situated, he
saw, near an alley that ran between two of the warehouses. He saw also that the
warehouses were set on pilings; a foot or so lay between the ground and the
foundations of the buildings. And there, he thought, was where he could hide the
chute. He could bundle it together and push it as far into the space as he could
reach. If he could find a stick of some sort, he could even push it farther. But
all that was needed was to push it far enough that it would not be spotted by a
passerby. This would save him considerable time. He had feared that he might
have to try to dig a hole or find a clump of trees in which to hide the chute.
All that was necessary would be for it not to be found for several days; hidden
underneath the warehouse, it might not be found for years.
Now, he thought, if he could find a ship and, somehow, get aboard. He might have
to bribe some member of the ship's personnel, but that should not be hard. Few
of the ships, most of which were freighters, that touched down at Gutshot would
visit the port again for a long time, perhaps for years; others of them might
never come this way again. Once on the ship, he would be safe. Unless someone
found the chute, there would not be any evidence that he had ejected from the
flier.
The chute safely hidden, the bag now unstrapped from about his waist and carried
in his hand, he made his way down the alley between the two warehouses. At the
mouth of the alley, he stopped. Out on the port, directly opposite where he
stood, was a ship. The gangplank was down and a long line of people - all of
them aliens of various sorts - were being herded up the plank and into the ship
by a small group of ratlike creatures. The line extended some distance back from
the ship, and the ratlike guards were yelling at the aliens in the line, waving
clubs at them to hurry them along.
The ship would be taking off soon, Tennyson told himself, puzzled at what kind
it was. Few passenger liners came down at this port, and this one did not have
the appearance of a liner. It was a dumpy old tub, blackened and disreputable.
Its name was painted above the port and it was some time before Tennyson could
make out that it spelled WAYFARER, for the paint was flaking and there was much
rust upon the hull. There was no smartness to the ship. It was not the sort of
craft that any self-respecting traveler would choose. But, while he looked at it
with some distaste, Tennyson reminded himself that he was not in a position to
be discriminating. The ship apparently would be leaving soon, and that was far
more important than knowing what kind it was. If he could manage to get aboard,
that would be good enough. If his luck still held for him...
Tennyson edged out beyond the alley's mouth. To his right, beyond the warehouse,
a splash of light flared out across a walk that paralleled the perimeter of the
field. Walking out cautiously a few feet farther, he saw that the light came
Side 3