This wasn’t his first tour of duty; he’d been stationed here twice, though it was his first visit to this southern continent.
He shuddered and quivered: his body’s rebellion. How did the grey techs do it? It wasn’t only the unimaginable distances; it was the way the sleep reversed most signs of aging. Think what that did for his pulling-power; it had to be worth a little sickness.
Beneath him … white, a blanket of cloud … his craft cut through it … it thinned …
Woah! Shit! No!
He’d have hit the brakes hard if his craft had had them.
Land in the high places, the grey techs said, where the natives can’t see your craft.
Yikes! But what were those natives doing, building houses up here?
Semjaza pulled up, a steep bank to his right.
Too late; ill-judged. His craft smashed into the mountain’s granite face.
Written for What Pegman Saw: Cusco