The Lotus Eaters

Tapping the Condor back into autopilot mode, Montoya removed his clumsy gloves and tore open a pouch of 'mystery meat.' It wasn't 'mystery meat' because the cockpit was so dark he couldn't see the labeling on the pouch. It was 'mystery meat' because no one really knew what its origin was.

The thing was about half frozen, frozen enough, in any event, that his spoon was useless. He squeezed the bottom of the pouch with his right hand to force the semi-solid chunk upwards. Then, pulling the oxygen mask away with his left hand, he bent his head and drove his teeth through the slab.

'Oh, yummy,' Montoya sneered into his mask, while chewing. 'Note to self: Word with the duque, first opportunity. Not good.'

Once the meat chunk was but an unpleasant memory, Montoya reached down for another pouch. He could feel the texture of the next one through the foil wrapping.

'Tortilla, fried, chorley and corn, mixed,' he recited from memory. 'How grand.'

Actually, the tortilla, a half-inch thick yellow patty, wasn't bad. It wasn't home cooking, no, but it wasn't bad.

After those two, Montoya's fingers did a little searching through the container under his legs. Soon they came to something he really did want, a small plastic bottle he knew from memory was labeled, 'Rum, legionary, 50 ml, 160 proof, product of Distilleria Legionario, Arraijan, Balboa.'

After that, he slept, dreaming of a girl who was considerably warmer than the frozen cockpit that was his reality.

* * *

The sun had risen, set, risen again, and was now setting, as Montoya heeled over to leave the Atacama behind. His altitude was just over fourteen thousand meters. That, alone, would be enough to reach the UEPF's island of Atlantis, but it would not be enough to reach it, overfly it, and return.

Montoya turned a hand crank to elevate the Condor's small propeller. Once it was in position, and the warning light shone 'locked,' he pressed the starter.

Nothing.

He pressed the starter again.

Still nothing.

'Fuck. This is going to cost a little time and fuel. Assuming, of course, that it works. Well . . . it usually works.'

Taking his hand off the starter button, but leaving the throttle open, Montoya nosed his Condor over into a steeper dive. He felt the pressure on his posterior lessen. As the thing picked up speed, the propeller also began to turn more rapidly. It took several minutes, and several thousand feet, before Montoya felt the jolt of the small engine starting and then the mild, steady vibration of the motor turning on its own.

With the engine still running Montoya turned the glider back, wandering back toward the mountain range to regain some of the altitude he had lost.

* * *

The mind wanders sometimes. In the uneventful portions of his flight, Montoya's mind wandered, too.

Long flight . . . slow flight . . . nothing to see but my instruments and the clouds. Alone . . . as usual.

I can't say I've never had any luck with the women. I just never had any luck that lasted. Wonder if I'll ever meet the right girl.

Gisela was nice . . . but too hot tempered. Jocasta . . . well . . . who wants to share. Yelena Samsonova had beautiful eyes but when she turned, so did they. Besides, she was three inches taller than me; more in heels. We looked silly together. Still . . . those eyes . . .

I wish I could find a nice girl like Caridad, Cruz's wife. Sadly, she has no unmarried sisters. Or maybe a little jewel like Marqueli Mendoza. Ah, but such women are rare . . . rare.

I don't even remember how many women I've had. More than fifty? No, closer to one hundred. And the ones I wanted to keep didn't want me . . . and the ones who wanted me I didn't want to keep.

I think the fault must be in me somehow . . .

* * *

Fernandez, whose project this was, and the people who worked for him, including one section of Obras Zorilleras, had thought about the problem quite a lot: At what range is it even possible for the UEPF on Atlantis to pick up electrical signals from the glider's instrumentation, or the tiny amount of radio energy created by the sparkplugs in the motor? Ultimately, they'd had to admit, they had not a clue. Their best guess was worthless.

'But,' had argued one of the OZ people, 'we know the UE routinely lets aircraft and airships pass to within about two hundred and fifty kilometers. We also know that at two hundred and ten they engage without warning. Maybe that's the effective range of their weapons, true. But, just as likely, maybe that's the effective range of their sensors.'

It was the best guess they had, from the best brains available.

* * *

And time to stop thinking about girls. Even if they are the most pleasant subject of contemplation . . . especially when one does not know how much longer the pleasure will even be available.

The sun was sinking again into the horizon, casting long rays out across the azure sea. Montoya could not help himself from glancing at it. And why not? It might be his last sunset.