To make matters worse, a hurricane raged along the seacoast west of him. To wait in orbit till the window for an approach from the east opened would squander time. Besides, weather along that flight path had its own nasty spots. This atmosphere was not Earth’s. Steep axial tilt and rapid rotation increased the treacherousness. Meteorologist Hrodny was still struggling to develop adequate computer programs. Crewfolk argued about whether to recommend naming the planet Satan or Loki.
“We have a course for you that should skirt the big storm,” Gascoyne said. “Do you accept it?”
“Yes, of course,” Nansen answered.
“Good luck,” Dufour whispered. “Bonne chance, mon bel ami.” She kissed him, quickly. He cycled through the airlocks.
As he harnessed himself before the control panel, the boat told him, “All systems checked and operative. Launch at will.”
Nansen grinned. “Ay, la sensacion del poderio absoluto!” Beneath tautness and concern, exhilaration thrilled. The mission wasn’t crazily reckless, but it challenged him. He touched the go pad.
Acceleration pushed him back in his seat, gently at first, then hard. Aft, the ship receded from sight. Forward, the globe swelled until it was not ahead, it was below, the circle of it bisecting his universe.
The drive cut off. Slanting steeply downward, the boat pierced atmosphere. A thin wail grew into thunder, the view turned into fire, he lost contact with the ship. The force on him became brutal. He could have taken an easier route, but he was in a hurry.
Slowing, the boat won free of radio blackout. Vision cleared, weight grew normal. Wings captured lift. His hands ordered the airjet to start. He flew.
An ocean gleamed below. Broad patches of weed and scum mottled its azure. A darker wall rose over the rim, higher and higher, crowned with alabaster cloud.
“Damn!” he muttered. “The hurricane. It’s not supposed to be dead ahead.”
The ship had passed under his horizon and couldn’t help. His own Instruments probed. Unpredictably, incredibly fast, the tempest had veered.
“Advise returning to orbit,” said the boat.
Nansen studied the map unrolling in a screen. We can’t simply fly around, he agreed. The boat was too awkward in the air for such a maneuver. Normally it dipped into the stratosphere and released a proper aircraft when an exploration party wanted one. The two made rendezvous at that height when the time came to return. Someday we’ll have boats that can perform as well in atmosphere as in space. But today —
“No,” he decided. “We’ll push straight through.”
“Is that wise?” The synthetic voice remained as calm as always. Once in a while you had to remind yourself that there was no awareness behind the panel, no true mind, only a lot of sophisticated hardware and software.
“Aborting and trying again would take too long,” Nansen said — needlessly, since command lay with him. “We have enough momentum to transect the fringe at this altitude, if we move with the wind.” Unless we hit something unknown to pilots on Earth. Into Your hands, God — “Go!” His fingers pounced on the controls. The boat surged.
Far downward, he glimpsed monstrous waves on a sea gone white. A skirling deepened to a cannonade. The hull shuddered. Darkness and fury engulfed him. Rain hammered like bullets. The boat dropped, battled upward again, pitched and yawed. He did not now pilot it. With manifold sensors, multiple flexibilities, computer nodes throughout, and a nuclear power plant, it flew itself. His was the will that drove it onward.
They burst forth into clear day. The violence diminished. Nansen gusted a breath and sank back. His ears rang. Sweat dripped off his skin and reeked in his nostrils. Flesh ached where the forces had slammed him against his harness. But what a ride it had been!
The storm fell behind, the air quieted. He flew over a continent. Sandy wasteland, stony hills, gullies carved by rain, and talus slopes spalled by frost stretched dun toward distant mountains. Here and there, sun-flash off a lake or a river gave bleak relief. Soon the map showed he was where he wanted to be. “Land according to plan,” he said. The order was scarcely necessary, except as a sound of triumph.