The Time of Cold

The Time of Cold by Mary Carlson - Queer creatures! They fled the life-giving sun and hid where even tin froze solid!

Curt felt the airship going out of control as he passed over a rock spattered stretch of sand. Automatically he looked for a smooth place to land and steered the bucking ship for it. The jolt of the landing triggered the ejector seat and in a second he was hurtling through the air away from the explosion of the damaged vehicle. Just before he blacked out, he thought—almost calmly—"a good hundred and fifty miles from the colony."

When he regained consciousness, night was passing and the first of the three suns was peeking over the horizon. Curt lay still for a while, afraid to find out what might be wrong with him. And the rescue ship could take anything from an hour to a week to find him. He moved his head to discover if there might be anything left of his ship; he saw nothing but pieces.

"Well," he said aloud, "so much for that." He reached back gingerly and undid the seat straps. Carefully, he sat up and began to ease his weight onto his feet. A sharp twinge of pain in his knee dropped him back to a sitting position. He probed at the knee but found no broken bones.

"Well," he said again, quietly. The colony leaders had had very little to offer in the way of survival. Rule number 1: Mark the crash site and your direction of travel. Number 2: Get into shade before the combined heat of the three suns boils your blood. Number 3: Carry your pistol for protection against liquid scorpions, and always save the last pellet for yourself.

© 2024 Scott Miller (Hljóðbók): 9798882384813

Útgáfudagur

Hljóðbók: 25 augusti 2024