Free Sandcats of Rhyl by Robert E. Vardeman

storms, the aircar was beginning to show signs of metal fatigue and damage. Neither Dhal nor Slayton was mechanic enough to keep the machinery running properly. The gyros precessed slightly, requiring a constant vigilance. It was no longer possible to simply put the desired course into the computer and let the machine do the work. Steorra was the one who discovered the discrepancy between their intended course and their actual location.
    It would have been funny if their lives didn’t depend on the aircar’s perfect operation.
    “There,” said Dhal, wiping his hands on the sides of his desert suit. “I think we can get a few more hours of running out of it. Coolant tube into the reactor developed a hairline crack and was leaking. I don’t think it’s too bad.”
    “But you don’t know for sure?” pressed Steorra.
    The man glared at her.
    Slayton quickly said, “We’re not going back, if that’s what is worrying you. Dhal can keep this bucket of bolts running long enough to catch up with Nightwind. We’re agreed the only place he could be going was Devil’s Fang. The topographical map of the area doesn’t show anything else in that direction.”
    “How much longer do you think it’ll be?” Steorra ished now she hadn’t come along. Yet, she had to be here when Slayton forced Nightwind to admit he nurdered her father to steal his discovery.
    “It’s another couple hours, if this damned computer isn’t lying to me again!” Slayton slammed his hand against the control panel. A few lights flickered as if in protest.
    “Do you think it’s wise to abuse the equipment like that?” Steorra knew nothing about the on-board computer or the operation of the aircar. She was at home in the laboratory, chemical apparatus in hand. This was a new experience for her and not a very pleasant one.
    “Phase off,” snapped Slayton. His face suddenly lost its hard lines as he said in a lower voice, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. It’s just that this heat is getting to me. I’d give anything for a nice, cool, icy drink.”
    “You mud-world types always scream for ice. Me, I’d be satisfied with a nice, long drink of pure water. Tepid, cold, boiling, it doesn’t matter. As long as it’s wet and doesn’t taste like piss.” Dhal licked his lips under the filter, then pulled it away from his face and properly wet his lips.
    “We’ll be getting a little extra water ration soon,” Slayton said. “Look out there.”
    He settled the aircar to the ground and pointed. The dasteel dome was badly pitted and it was difficult to see, but Steorra could make out a peculiar herringbone flattern in the sand. “What is it?” she asked.
    “That’s the track left by an aircar. The magnetic field causes eddy currents that push the sand into those patterns. Since the sand hasn’t been blown round, it means Nightwind’s not too far ahead. Let’s go out and do some scouting on foot.”
    “Right, Slayton. It wouldn’t do to drive right up on them. They, uh, they might shoot us,” said Dhal.
    “Get the blasterifle out.”
    “Wait!” Steorra protested. “No violence. We … we’ll get the drop on them after they’ve shown where my father’s dig was.”
    “Why, Steorra, we’re not going to use the rifle. It’s the ‘scope on top that I want to use.” Slayton hefted the bulky blasterifle, showing her the variable power electronic telescopic sight.
    “Oh.”
    “Come on. Let’s go find them.” The aircar door opened amid a scratchy noise indicating sand in the mechanism. Slayton and Dhal ignored it; Steorra began to worry. The sand was all pervasive. It seemed like a thing alive, digging into the deepest, tightest, most protected recesses of their equipment.
    She dropped down into the sand beside the others. It was apparent to her that Dhal was used to moving in sand. He barely left tracks, so light and sure was his tread. Slayton left deep depressions, and Steorra’s were barely less pronounced in spite