“Maybe—but I’d just as soon we didn’t do anything so dramatic again. Let’s get that track set up.”
Chester studied the panorama. “We’ll angle it to the right to avoid that depression near the edge. I’ll aim her right off there between those two knolls. With luck, we can stretch our glide to half a mile. That ought to give us all the start we need on our welcoming committee.”
“Wonder what’s happened to the artillery this morning? I guess maybe that little pebble we dropped on ’em shook ’em up a little.”
“I hope so. It would be a shame to suffer a hit now.”
Chester and Bandon set to work pegging wooden rails in place. They finished, then took up positions on opposite sides of the craft and lifted it clear of the ground.
“Hey, it’s not so heavy,” Bandon commented.
“Watch your footing,” Chester said.
Together they toiled up the slope, maneuvered carefully, then settled the ship in place on the track.
“Hold her while I chock her,” Chester called. He wedged a sizable stone fragment in place under the down-tipped nose. “All right, now we rig the restraining cable.”
Chester payed out a length of nylon to the nearest tree, tied it securely, then attached the other end to the keel of the glider between the two pilot positions.
“All set,” he said, removing the chock from the track. “All that’s holding her now is the cable. When I cut that—off we go.”
“It sure is quiet,” Bandon commented, looking around. “I wonder . . . ”
“Let’s just be grateful,” Chester said. “I wasn’t looking forward to having to launch right out through a hail of arrows. I’ll lay out the ballast line now while you bring in a stone.”
At the edge of the precipice, Chester dropped the coil of nylon line and tied a secure noose ready to receive the weighting stone. As he rose to turn back, an unshaven face rose into view not ten feet from him; two grimy hands scrabbled for a grip.
Chester jumped, put a foot square in the face and pushed. With a yelp, the man dropped back; a tremendous crash followed. Chester looked over the edge. Twenty feet below, a rickety platform thrust up; three men crouched atop it, while another sprawled on his back, half through the shattered decking. One of the three brought a bow into position and launched an arrow in one motion; it whistled past Chester’s ear. He whirled, grabbed up a hundred-pound rock and eased it over the edge. There was a noisy crunch. Now two of the men clung frantically to the shattered remains of the platform, while the third scrambled agilely down the rickety structure. The fourth man was gone. Looking to the left Chester saw a second platform and beyond it a third. And there were more to the right.
Chester was up and running. “Bandon! Forget the stone! Get to the glider!”
Bandon stared, then dropped the rock and headed for the craft at a run. From the woods behind the glider a man in a soiled shirt and torn pants emerged, his bow at the ready. Bandon, in mid-stride, nocked an arrow and let fly. The newcomer fell backward, feathers at his throat.
“Into your seat, fast!” Chester yelled.
“Say, I’m not really sure I want to risk this,” Bandon exclaimed.
At the cliff edge, two men came into view simultaneously, scrambling up, starting for the glider at a run. Bandon whipped his bow up, set an arrow, twanged it on its way, sped a second. One man whirled and fell; the other dived for cover. Bandon dropped the bow and slid into his place, face down. Chester jumped in after him, wriggled his feet up against the rudder bar. Reaching down with his right hand, he sawed at the tether with the knife blade. More men appeared. One raised a bow and let an arrow fly. It struck the nose block with a whack!, stood quivering in the wood. The rope parted. With a lurch, the little ship started forward, grinding and bumping along the green-wood tracks. Wind whistled in Chester’s face. The running men had halted, staring. The bowman raised his bow, loosed an arrow, missed by yards. As the glider bore down on him, he turned and fled. More men were coming over the edge now.
“The skunks stayed up late last night plannin’ this one,” Bandon yelled in Chester’s ear. “They—”
“Quiet!” Chester choked.
The glider seemed to move forward with infinite leisure. The grass and gravel moved past in a ribbon that blurred slowly. The cliff edge was ahead now, coming closer.
“We’re not going to make it!” Chester mumbled. “Not enough speed.”
An arrow slammed off the framework above Chester’s head, knocking off splinters. Ahead was blue sky and distant, hazy hills.
“Now!” Chester gasped. Abruptly the grate of wood on wood ceased—and the bottom dropped from under them. Chester shoved forward on the stick convulsively, his breath caught in his throat, his heart slamming madly under his ribs. Down, down, falling, the wide spread of green rushing up, wind screaming now in the wires at Chester’s side, buffeting his face. Lying prone, he pulled back on the stick, neutralizing it, then farther back . . .
He could feel the air pressure resisting the stick. He pulled harder, felt pressure build against his chest, saw the green below tilting away, flattening, saw the hills sliding down into view, with sky above them. He looked over the side. Treetops rushed past a hundred feet below.
“Hey!” Bandon yelled. “We’re flyin’, Chester!”
The nose rose, aiming now at the distant sky. Chester pushed the stick, felt the ship slow, hesitate minutely, then drop her nose. He swallowed. “Whip stall,” he muttered. “Pilot-killers.”
“Say, Chester, this is great!” Bandon called.
Chester inched forward, applied a little right rudder. The ship turned sloppily.
“A little aileron,” Chester told himself. He edged the stick to one side, felt the ship tilt sharply. Air currents buffeted the glider. Chester gritted his teeth, fighting the motion. “Let it fly itself,” he reminded himself, consciously relaxing. A gust rocked the craft; it righted itself. The nose crept up; Chester eased the stick forward. The nose came down. The flank of a hill was approaching. Chester applied rudder, coordinating the ailerons; the ship heeled, curved away.
“Wheeeee!” Bandon cried. “Just like a bird, Chester!”
There was a valley ahead, a steep cleft between hills. Chester aimed for it, holding a straight course. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Nothin’ to it, Chester,” Bandon said. “Here, have some nuts.”
“Not yet, thanks,” Chester called. “For heaven’s sake lie still and let me fly this thing.”
“Say, Chester, that’s funny,” Bandon said.
“What’s funny?”
“We’re gettin’ higher instead of comin’ down. Hey, Chester, how are we goin’ to get down if this thing keeps goin’ up?”
“You’re raving,” Chester said.
Wind screamed past his face, making his eyes water. He twisted his head and looked over the side. The trees below were a smooth blanket of green. He looked back. The mesa was visible a mile away.
“You’re right!” Chester said. “I can see the top of the mesa. I guess we’ve snagged a thermal!”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Good. Now don’t bother me for a few minutes, and I’ll see if I can stretch our glide to a new Tricennium record!”
* * *
“Five miles,” Chester called. “That was the Center back there.”
“What keeps her in the air, Chester, without flappin’ her wings?”
“We’re riding rising air currents off these slopes. We’ve got a very poor glide angle, I’m afraid, but the updrafts are so strong we’re gaining altitude in spite of our inefficiency. I’m hoping to catch some true thermals over the plains ahead. I’d estimate our altitude at about three thousand feet now. I’d like to work her up to about five and then set out west toward the Tricennium of the Original Wisdom. If we can make a few miles it will save us a long, hot walk.”
“I’m all for it, Chester. I like it fine up here.”
“That remark seems to indicate you’ve abandoned your simple-life philosophy. An aircraft—even a primitive one like this—is a far cry from chipping flints.”
“Why, what do you mean, Chester? We made this ourselves, out of plain old wood and rabbit glue.”
“Plus a few bits of nylon and some steel wire. But after all, every manufactured item is made from simple raw materials—even a Tri-D tube. All materials are natural, if you trace them back to their beginnings. There’s nothing wrong with rearranging nature to give ourselves a few more comforts—it’s misusing what we make that takes the savor out of life.”
“Maybe so. But it’s not really the stuff; it’s the people that gravel me. I don’t want anybody tellin’ me what to do, tryin’ to push me around. Soon’s we land, I guess I’ll head for the hills again.”