Direct Descent by Frank Herbert Page B

human groups. The Naos planets were known today for the dynamic spirit of their people, a fact recorded in the inscription beneath the golden boot:
    “Information is the tool and the goad of intelligence.”
    Tchung replaced the winged boot on the shelf. The thing had filled him with a momentary sense of the hoary antiquity over which he presided—a sense he had not experienced in quite that way since his youth. This was followed immediately by a nostalgia which tightened his throat.
    Is it about to end?
    Unconsciously, he turned in the direction of Free Island Dornbaker. Your secret is out, but the stakes are higher than anyone anticipated. Act wisely, Sil-Chan … but not too wisely.
    O O O
    Sil-Chan had approached Free Island Dornbaker at mid-morning, his hands on the jetter’s controls slippery with perspiration. He found himself in the grip of an illogical desire to turn and run. The closer he came to the island, the greater this feeling became.
    There had been nerve-straining delays at Magsayan while officials cleared his flight to the island. The officials had professed surprise that an island lay out there in the misty sea, although they had cleared flights around the area all of their professional lives. Sil-Chan had provided them with a special channel code, however, and a voice-only communication had ensued, someone out there identified as Free Island Control being very obstructive and then, unexplainably helpful.
    Sil-Chan kept his equipment tuned to the Free Island channel while he winged over the sea. The island was growing more distinct by the minute, emerging from silvery mists. He saw steeply wooded hills, the flashing blue of streams, rare white dots of buildings half hidden in greenery. White surf frothed the coastline.
    The place looked wild … un-Terran—not at all like the familiar rolling contours of the parklike mainland. He emerged from the last of the mists into sunlight and more details impressed themselves upon him. Sil-Chan gasped. What had appeared from a distance to be steep hills covered with mossy scrub was actually ranks of gigantic trees. They speared the sky. Monstrous trees!
    His speaker burped, crackled and a feminine voice came on: “This is Free Island Control calling the jetter.”
    Sil-Chan punched his transmit button: “This is the jetter.”
    The feminine voice said: “We have you on longshot. You are approaching on isthmus and bay. At the head of the bay you will see a line of low white buildings. Turn inland directly over them. Come down close. You want to be no more than fifty meters above the ridge behind those buildings when you cross it.”
    “Fifty meters, right.” Sil-Chan tuned his altimeter.
    The feminine voice continued: “Just over that hill we’ve mowed an east-west landing strip for you. If you line up over the white buildings and stay low, you should …”
    “Mowed?” Sil-Chan blurted the word with his finger pressed hard on transmit.
    The feminine voice paused, then: “Yes, mowed. You should’ve taken a copter instead of that hot jobby. I was about to suggest it when the PN said he would like to see one of the new jetters.”
    Sil-Chan tried to swallow past a thickness in his throat. “I see the white buildings. There are three of them. I am turning.”
    “Fifty meters, no more.”
    Sil-Chan checked his crash harness. “Right.”
    “Do you see one taller tree on the hill?”
    “Yes.”
    “As low as possible over that tree. Dip into the valley beyond. Line up with the flagpole at the far end of the mowed field. Stay right down the middle and you’ll miss the tall grass. I sure hope the strip’s long enough.”
    So do I, Sil-Chan thought.
    The tall tree loomed ahead. He lifted slightly, then dipped and gasped as he saw the tiny field. There was time only for a blurred glimpse of flagpole, trees beyond and a mist-colored cliff rising abruptly right behind the trees. No time to swerve or climb out. He kicked on full flaps, fired the rocket