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 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 near Vaanland.
Caitland was 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
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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . .
was to ensure they would find something worth taking back.
The fanship dipped lower. Caitland fought the wind with words and skillful 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 the fanship. Jets still roaring parallel to the ground, the fan slid earthward at a 45-degree angle.
First one’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.