Lester del Rey - The Wind Between the Worlds

He wondered about Pat and looked for her. There was no sight of the other machine. Thank God, she’d turned back. But there was bitterness in his relief; he’d figured Pat was one human he could count on completely. Then he looked at the driver’s wider screen, and sick shock hit him.

The other tank had turned turtle and was rolling over and over, straight toward the portal! As he looked, a freak accident bounced it up and it landed on its treads. The driver must have been conscious; only consummate skill accounted for the juggling that kept it upright then. But its forward momentum was still too strong, and it lurched for the portal.

Vic jerked against his driver’s car, pointing frantically. “Hit it!”

The driver tensed, but nodded. Though the shriek of the insane wind was too strong for even the sound of the motor, the tank leaped forward, pushing Vic down in his webbed and padded seat. The chances they were taking now were pure gamble, but the driver moved more smoothly with a definite goal. The man let the wind help him pick up speed, jockeying sidewise toward the other tank. They almost rolled over as they swung, bucking and rocking frantically, but the treads hit the ground firmly again. They were drifting across the wind now, straight toward the nose of the other tank.

Vic strained forward; the shock of hitting the tank knocked his head against the gun slit. He hardly felt it as he stared out. The two tanks struggled, forcing against each other, while the portal gaped almost straight ahead.

“Hit the west edge and we have a chance,” Vic yelled in the driver’s ear. The man nodded weakly, and his foot pressed down harder on the throttle. Against each other, the two tanks showed little tendency to turn over, but they seemed to be lifted off the ground half the time.

Inch by slow inch, they were making it. Pat’s tank was well beyond the portal, but Vic’s driver was sweating it out, barely on the edge. He bumped an inch forward, reversed with no care for gears, and hitched forward and back again. They seemed to make little progress, but finally Vic could see the edge move past, and they were out of the direct gale into the portal.

Anew screen had lighted beside the driver, and Pat’s face was in it, along with the other driver. The scouring of the wind made speech impossible over the speakers, but the man motioned. Vic shook his head, indicated a spiral counter-clockwise and outward, to avoid bucking against the wind, with the two tanks supporting each other.

They passed the south portal somehow, though there were moments when it seemed they must be swung in, and managed to gain ten feet outward on the turn. The next time around, they had doubled that. It began to be smoother going. The battered tanks lumbered up to their starting point and a little beyond.

Vic crawled out of the seat, surprised to find his legs stiff and weak; the ground seemed to reel under him. It was some comfort to see that the driver was in no better shape. The man leaned against the tank, letting the raw wind dry the perspiration on his uniform. “Bro-ther! Miracles! You’re nervy, guy, but I wouldn’t go in there again with the angel Michael.”

Vic looked at the wind maelstrom. Nobody else would go in there, either. Getting, within ten feet of the portal was begging for death, even in the tank—and it would get worse. Then he spotted Pat opening the tank hatch and stumbled over to help her out. She was bruised and more shaky than he, but the webbing over the seat had saved her from broken bones. He lifted her out in his arms, surprised at how light she was. His mind flicked over the picture of her tank twisting over, and his arms tightened around her. She seemed to snuggle into them, seeking comfort.

Her eyes came up, just as he looked down at her. There was no other way than kissing her to show his relief. “You scared hell out of me, Pat.”

“Me, too,” She was regaining some color, and wriggled to be put down. “Do you know how I feel about what you did in there?”

Flavin cut off any answer Vic could have made, waddling up with his handkerchief out, mopping his face. He stared at them, gulped, shook his head. “Lazarus twins,” he growled. “Better get in the car—there’s a drink in the right door pocket.”

Vic looked at Pat and she nodded. They could use it. They found the car and chauffeur waiting farther back. Vic poured her a small jigger, and took one for himself before putting the bottle back. But the moment’s relaxation over cigarets was better than the drink.

While Flavin was talking to the tank drivers, a small roll of bills changed hands, bringing grins to their faces. Political opportunist or not, he knew the right thing to do at the right time. Now he came back and climbed in beside them.

“I’ve had the office moved back to Bennington. The intercity teleport manager offered us space.” The locally owned world branches of intercity teleport were independent of Teleport Interstellar, but usually granted courtesy exchanges with the latter. “They’ll be evacuating the city next, if I know the Governor. Just got a cease and desist order—came while you were trying to commit suicide. We’re to stop transmitting at once!”

He grunted at Vic’s grimace, and motioned the chauffeur on, just as a radiophone call reached them. Vic shook his head at the driver and looked out to see Ptheela ploughing along against the wind, calling to them. The plant woman’s skin was peeling worse than ever.

Flavin followed Vic’s eyes. “You going to let that ride with us? The way Plathies stink? Damned plants, you can’t trust ’em. Probably mixed up in this trouble. I heard…”

“Plathgol rates higher in civilization than we do,” Pat stated flatly.

“Yeah. Ten thousand years stealing culture we had to scratch up for ourselves in a thousand. So the Galactic Council tells us we’ve got to rub our noses to a superior race. Superior plants! Nuts!”

Vic opened the door and reached for Pat’s hand. Flavin frowned, fidgeted, then reached out to pull them back. “Okay, okay. I told you that you were in charge here. If you want to ride with stinking Plathies—well, you’re running things. But don’t blame me if people start throwing mud.” He had the grace to redden faintly as Ptheela came up finally, and changed the subject hastily. “Why can’t we just snap a big hunk of metal over the entrances and seal them up?”

“Too late,” Ptheela answered, sliding down beside Pat, her English drawing a surprised start from Flavin. “I was inspecting the tanks; they’re field-etched where they touched. That means the field is already outside the building, though it will spread more slowly without the metal to resonate it. Anyhow, you couldn’t get metal plates up.”

“How long will the air last?” Pat asked.

Vic shrugged. “A month at breathing level, maybe. Fortunately the field doesn’t spread downward much, with the Betzian design, so it won’t start working on the Earth itself. Flavin, how about getting the experts here? I need help.”

“Already sent for them,” Flavin grunted. They were heading toward the main part of Bennington now, ten miles from the station. His face was gray and he no longer seemed to notice the somewhat pervasive odor of Ptheela.

They drew up to a converted warehouse finally, and he got out, starting up the steps just as the excited cries of a newsboy reached his ears. He flipped a coin and spread the extra before them.

It was all over the front page, with alarming statements from the scientists first interviewed and soothing statements from later ones. No Teleport Interstellar man had spoken, but an interview with one of the local teleport engineers had given the basic facts, along with some surprisingly keen guesses as to what would happen next.