"I know them. I've operated them, before I left Earth. Man, you don't expect me to try to fly one of those little things in this wind? They're tricky as they can be, and the passengers are absolutely unprotected!" "_Senor_, I have asked you to do nothing." "No, you haven't," muttered Jan. "But you know I'll do it." Sanchez looked into his face, smiling faintly and a little sadly. "I was sure you would be willing," he said. He turned and spoke in Spanish to Mrs. Murillo. The woman rose to her feet and came to them. As Jan arose, she looked up at him, tears in her eyes. "_Gracias_," she murmured. "_Un millon de gracias._" She lifted his hands in hers and kissed them. Jan disengaged himself gently, embarrassed. But it occurred to him, looking down on the bowed head of the beautiful young widow, that he might make some flying trips back over here in his leisure time. Language barriers were not impassable, and feminine companionship might cure his neurotic, history-born distaste for Spaniards, for more than one reason. Sanchez was tugging at his elbow. "_Senor_, I have been trying to tell you," he said. "It is generous and good of you, and I wanted _Senora_ Murillo to know what a brave man you are. But have you forgotten that we have no gasoline engines here? There is no fuel for the flying platform." * * * * * The platform was in a warehouse which, like the rest of the structures in Rathole, was a half-buried dome. The platform's ring-shaped base was less than a meter thick, standing on four metal legs. On top of it, in the center, was a railed circle that would hold two men, but would crowd them. Two small gasoline engines sat on each side of this railed circle and between them on a third side was the fuel tank. The passengers entered it on the fourth side. The machine was dusty and spotted with rust, Jan, surrounded by Sanchez, Diego and a dozen men, inspected it thoughtfully. The letters USN*SES were painted in white on the platform itself, and each engine bore the label "Hiller." Jan peered over the edge of the platform at the twin-ducted fans in their plastic shrouds. They appeared in good shape. Each was powered by one of the engines, transmitted to it by heavy rubber belts. Jan sighed. It was an unhappy situation. As far as he could determine, without making tests, the engines were in perfect condition. Two perfectly good engines, and no fuel for them. "You're sure there's no gasoline, anywhere in Rathole?" he asked Sanchez. Sanchez smiled ruefully, as he had once before, at Jan's appellation for the community. The inhabitants' term for it was simply "_La Ciudad Nuestra_"--"Our Town." But he made no protest. He turned to one of the other men and talked rapidly for a few moments in Spanish.