Sandcats of Rhyl by Robert E. Vardeman

though he was part cat by heredity, his night vision was only slightly better than a normal human’s. But then, he didn’t envy the tragic accident crushing Heuser’s arms and legs, breaking his spine and damaging his optic nerves. Nightwind would settle for only slightly better than normal vision and strength rather than being rebuilt from the soles of the feet on up. Even if this wasn’t very far in Heuser’s case.
    “They would have passed us if they knew where we were going,” observed Heuser. “They couldn’t possibly know about Dr. Alfen’s discovery. What put them on the trail?”
    Nightwind’s mind was racing. Finally, he quietly said, “It’s the girl. She’s mixed up with those two, but she’s certainly not in their league. A babe in arms compared to Slayton.”
    “And Dhal’s not exactly the kind of guy you’d shake hands with unless you counted your fingers afterward,” said Heuser.
    “The obvious conclusion is that they know a discovery had been made. They don’t know where it is but are either guessing or are certain we know about it. They have to follow us, then they’ll probably jump us.”
    “But the girl…”
    Nightwind sighed. “Maybe she was Dr. Alfen’s secretary back on Earth. Maybe she was a student and found some notes. Maybe a dozen things. Slayton and Dhal are probably using her, though why they haven’t gotten rid of her by now is odd.”
    Heuser, ever practical, said, “She could be the financier for the operation. Or maybe she gets her jollies hanging around them. I’ve heard of stranger things. Why, on Beetem II, there was a woman who — ”
    “I heard that one, Heuser. Shut up awhile and let me do some computer work.”
    Nightwind’s agile fingers stroked and stabbed at the tiny keys of the aircar’s computer. The glow of the readout screen cast an eerie tint over the cramped scene. Deep in the guts of the computer, a power relay hummed slightly and transmitted the vibration to the man’s fingers. He continued inputing his requests, ignoring both Heuser and the faint shivering of the entire aircar. The storm outside was reaching a fever pitch unknown on gentler worlds.
    The indicators showed the true violence of the night. Minus twenty-eight degrees, winds fiercer than any ever recorded on pacific Earth, dust whipping through the air like particles slung from the mouth of a cyclotron. In spite of the force screen, dust managed to seep through and settle down on the control panel.
    Nightwind’s fingers brushed it aside. He noticed the fine grit, smelled the dryness of the powdery dust. But his answer was slowly forming on the tiny vid-screen.
    He bent over, peering at the figures. Checking the course of the aircar against their destination showed Richards was, indeed, leading them on the optimum path to Devil’s Fang. Due to rocky upjuttings in the desert, it was impossible to simply lay down a straight line and drive. Navigation was a bit more complex, impossible without the computer to record their location and plot future paths while remembering the course back to Rhylston. It would have been so simple if air travel was possible on Rhyl.
    There wasn’t an airship built that would withstand the buffeting winds outside. Even a calm day would require the utmost skill in landing. And, if the sketchy map of Dr. Alfen and the more complete planeto-graphical survey charts were correct, it would be impossible to land less than fifty kilometers from their destination except by helicopter.
    And that was obviously out of the question. Fifty kilometers in this weather, on foot, was a sure death sentence.
    “Well, Rod, how’s it look?”
    “Old PR’s taking us there in fine style. No frills, just a good track through this messy place. Hmm, it just occurred to me. Heuser, how much radiation leakage off the engines could there be?”
    Heuser checked one of the indicators on the control panel. He hummed to himself for a moment, then said, “Looks like very little. Damn