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backbone of the continent was tumbled rock and ice and snow, dead-seeming as the mountains of the
moon.
The cabin was not heated. Waipaljkoon pointed to a cabinet. Eric Dunedin, who sat closest to it,
reached in and pulled out thick blankets of llama wool. Even under three of them, Park felt his teeth
chatter like castanets.
He wanted to cheer when greenery appeared on the mountainsides below. The airwain descended as
the land grew lower. The Tawantiinsuujans took off their oxygen masks. A couple of minutes later,
Waipaljkoon said, "We're down to the height of Kuuskoo. Even you lowland folk ought to be all right
now."
Park shed his mask, and immediately began feeling short of air. The pilot chuckled at his distress. "How
well do you do in hot, sticky weather down by the sea, smart boy?" Park growled.
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"That smelly soup? I hate it," Waipaljkoon said. Park laughed in turn. The pilot glared, then said
grudgingly, "All right, you made your point."
They landed at a town called Viiljkabamba for the night. Park tried to phone Kuurikwiljor to tell her
where he was. After assorted clicks and pops, the call went through. When someone answered it,
though, the connection was so faint that he could not make himself understood at all. Finally, swearing, he
hung up.
They flew on the next morning. Below them, foliage grew ever more exuberant; jungle stretched ahead
as far as the eye could see. To Allister Park, viewing it from above, it might have been a great green
ocean. Only an occasional cleared patch or the glint of sunlight off a pond or river spoiled the illusion.
"How do you find your way when everything looks alike?" Park asked Waipaljkoon. For all he could
tell, they might have been flying in circles.
"By the blessed sun, of course, and the lodestone." The pilot tapped a compass on the instrument panel.
In the profusion of other dials, Park had not noticed it. He felt foolish until Waipaljkoon went on, "And
by keeping track of my air speed and guessing whether the wind is with or against me, and by a good
deal of luck."
"He hasn't crashed yet," Ankowaljuu said jovially, slapping the pilot on the back.
Eric Dunedin intoned,"Patjam kuutiin the world changes," in a voice so sepulchral that everyone
stared at him, the two Tawantiinsuujans in surprise, Park in admiration. Monkey-face grinned. He
sometimes showed unsuspected depths, Park thought.
He'd drunkaka with breakfast at Viiljkabamba. Now it began to have its revenge. He fidgeted in his
chair. Soon fidgeting did not help. "How do I make water here?" he asked.
Waipaljkoon handed him a stoppered jug. "Make sure you put the plug back in tightly," the pilot
warned, "in case we hit choppy air." Though relieved when he gave back the jug, Park reflected that
Tawantiinsuuju still had a lot to learn about proper airline service.
Theaka also left Park sleepy. He was wondering if he could doze in his uncomfortable seat when the
airwain lurched in the air. "What the " he began, while Ankowaljuu and Dunedin made similar dismayed
noises.
Waipaljkoon, red-brown face grim, pointed wordlessly to the starboard engine. The steam plants'
exhaust usually scrawled a big vapor trail across the sky. Now, though, vapor was spurting from several
places in the engine housing where it did not belong. Park watched the spin of the three-bladed wooden
propellor slow, stop.
"Boiler tubes must have failed," the pilot said.
The jungle, all of a sudden, seemed terribly far below and much too close, both at the same time. No, it
was closer the airwain was losing altitude. Park was glad he'd used the jug not long before. "Are we
going to hit the ground hard?" he asked, not knowing how to say "crash" in Ketjwa.
Waipaljkoon understood him. "Unless we find a town or a clearing soon," he said. "We can't fly long
with just one motor, that's certain."
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The next few minutes were among the worst of Allister Park's life. The slow descent of the airwain only
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