echanic," answered Sanchez, with a
sliding sidelong glance at Jan's face. "He has been dead for three
years."

Jan grunted.

"The copters at Oostpoort can't buck this wind," he said thoughtfully,
"or I'd have come in one of those in the first place instead of trying
to cross Den Hoorn by land. But if you have any sort of aircraft here,
it might make it downwind--if it isn't wrecked on takeoff."

"I'm afraid not," said Sanchez.

"Too bad. There's nothing we can do, then. The nearest settlement west
of here is more than a thousand kilometers away, and I happen to know
they have no planes, either. Just copters. So that's no help."

"Wait," said Sanchez, lifting the scalpel and tilting his head. "I
believe there is something, though we cannot use it. This was once an
American naval base, and the people here were civilian employes who
refused to move north with it. There was a flying machine they used for
short-range work, and one was left behind--probably with a little help
from the people of the settlement. But...."

"What kind of machine? Copter or plane?"

"They call it a flying platform. It carries two men, I believe. But,
_senor_...."

"I know them. I've operated them, before I left Earth. Man, you don't
expect me to try to fly one of those little things in this wind? They're
tricky as they can be, and the passengers are absolutely unprotected!"

"_Senor_, I have asked you to do nothing."

"No, you haven't," muttered Jan. "But you know I'll do it."

Sanchez looked into his face, smiling faintly and a little sadly.

"I was sure you would be willing," he said. He turned and spoke in
Spanish to Mrs. Murillo.

The woman rose to her feet and came to them. As Jan arose, she looked up
at him, tears in her eyes.

"_Gracias_," she murmured. "_Un millon de gracias._"

She lifted his hands in hers and kissed them.

Jan disengaged himself gently, embarrassed. But it occurred to him,
looking down on the bowed head of the beautiful young widow, that he
might make some flying trips back over here in his leisure time.
Language barriers were not impassable, and feminine companionship might
cure his neurotic, history-born distaste for Spaniards, for more than
one reason.

Sanchez was tugging at his elbow.

"_Senor_, I have been trying to tell you," he said. "It is generous and
good of you, and I wanted _Senora_ Murillo to know what a brave man you
are. But have you forgotten that we have no gasoline engines here?