"And then?"
"Then I'll try to sail her back," Clayton said. "I just hope the mast will take it."
He turned his attention to the controls. At windspeeds like this, the truck had to be handled like a ship at sea. Clayton picked up speed with the wind on his quarter, then came about and slammed into the wind.
The Brute made it this time and crossed over onto the other tack.
It was the best he could do, Clayton decided. His windward distance would have to be made by tacking. He edged toward the eye of the wind. But at full throttle, the diesel couldn't bring him much closer than forty degrees.
For an hour, the Brute forged ahead, tacking back and forth across the wind, covering three miles in order to make two. Miraculously, the engine kept on running. Clayton blessed the manufacturer and begged the diesel to hold out a little while longer.
Through a blinding screen of sand, he saw another Carellan land ship. It was reefed down and heeled precariously over. But it forged steadily to windward and soon outdistanced him.
Lucky natives, Clayton thought — 165 miles of wind was a sailing breeze to them!
The station, a gray half-sphere, came into sight ahead.
"I'm going to make it!" Clayton shouted. "Break out the rum, Nerishev, old man! Papa's getting drunk tonight!"
The diesel chose that moment to break down for good.
Clayton swore violently as he set the brakes. What lousy luck! If the wind were behind him, he could roll in. But, of course, it had to be in front.
"What are you going to do now?" Nerishev asked.
"I'm going to sit here," Clayton said. "When the wind calms down to a hurricane, I'm going to walk home."
The Brute's twelve-ton mass was shaking and rattling in the wind blasts.
"You know," Clayton said, "I'm going to retire after this tour."
"That so? You really mean it?"
"Absolutely. I own a farm in Maryland, with frontage on Chesapeake Bay. You know what I'm going to do?"
"What?"
"I'm going to raise oysters. You see, the oyster — hold it."
The station seemed to be drifting slowly upwind, away from him. Clayton rubbed his eyes, wondering if he were going crazy. Then he realized that, in spite of its brakes, in spite of its streamlining, the truck was being pushed downwind, away from the station.
Angrily he shoved a button on his switchboard, releasing the port and starboard anchors. He heard the solid clunk of the anchors hitting the ground, heard the steel cables scrape and rattle. He let out a hundred and seventy feet of steel line, then set the winch brakes. The truck was holding again.
"I dropped the anchors," Clayton said.
"Are they holding?"
"So far." Clayton lighted a cigarette and leaned back in his padded chair. Every muscle in his body ached from tension. His eyelids were twitching from watching the wind-lines converging on him. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.
The sound of the wind cut through the truck's steel plating. The wind howled and moaned, tugging at the truck, trying to find a hold on the smooth surface. At 169 miles at hour, the ventilator baffles blew out. He would be blinded, Clayton thought, if he weren't wearing sealed goggles, choked if he weren't breathing canned air. Dust swirled, thick and electric, within the Brute's cabin.
Pebbles, flung with the velocity of rifle bullets, splattered against the hull. They were striking harder now. He wondered how much more force they'd need before they started piercing the armor plating.
At times like this, Clayton found it hard to maintain a common sense attitude. He was painfully aware of the vulnerability of human flesh, appalled at the possibilities for violence in the Universe. What was he doing out here? Man's place was in the calm, still air of Earth. If he ever got back …
"Are you all right?" Nerishev asked.
"Making out just great," Clayton said wearily. "How are things at the station?"
"Not so good. The whole structure's starting sympathetic vibration. Enough wind for long enough and the foundations could shatter."
"And they want to put a fuel station here!" Clayton said.
"Well, you know the problem. This is the only solid planet between Angarsa III and the South Ridge Belt. All the rest are gas giants."
"They better build their station in space."
"The cost —"
"Hell, man, it'll cost less to build another planet than to try to maintain a fuel base on this one!" Clayton spat out a mouthful of dust. "I just want to get on that relief ship. How many natives at the station now?"
"About fifteen, in the shed."
"Any sign of violence?"
"No, but they're acting funny."
"How so?"
"I don't know," said Nerishev. "I just don't like it."
"Stay out of the shed, huh? You can't speak the language, anyhow, and I want you in one piece when I come back." He hesitated. "If I come back."
"You'll be fine," Nerishev said.
"Sure I will. I — oh, Lord!"
"What's it? What's wrong?"
"Boulder coming down! Talk to you later!"
Clayton turned his attention to the boulder, a rapidly growing black speck to windward. It was heading directly toward his anchored and immobilized truck. He glanced at the windspeed indicator. Impossible — 174 miles a hour! And yet, he reminded himself, winds in the stratospheric jet stream on Earth blow at 200 miles an hour.
The boulder, large as a house, still growing as it approached, was rolling directly his way.
"Swerve! Turn!" Clayton bellowed at the boulder, pounding the instrument panel with his fist.