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A Circus of Hells by Poul Anderson

By Poul Anderson

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Presumably her track was designed to avoid storms. Cooler air, moving equatorward from the poles, must turn summer into a "monsoon" season. Considering input energy, atmospheric pressure (which Tryntaf had mentioned was twenty percent greater than Terran), and rotation period (a shade over eighteen hours, he had said), weather surely got more violent here than ever at Home; and a long, thin, massive object like a destroyer was more vulnerable to wind than you might think. Water vapor rose high before condensing into clouds.

No. Certainly not. But the datholch must know…the value of this prisoner as a subject for interrogation—" "The methods your folk would use would leave him of no value for anything else," Ydwyr rapped. "And he can't have information we don't already possess; I assume the Intelligence Corps is not interested in his private life. " "Can the datholch accept that strong a coincidence? Flandry met the mei by chance, yes. " "I say yes. He is precisely the type to whom such things occur. If one exposes oneself to life, qanryf, life will come to one.

The gangway extruded. The prisoners were gestured out. Djana staggered. Flandry choked. Judas on a griddle, I was warned to change clothes and I forgot! The heat enveloped him, entered him, became him and everything else which was. Temperature could not be less than 80 Celsius—might well be higher—20 degrees below the Terran-pressure boiling point of water. A furnace wind roared dully across the ferrocrete, which wavered in his seared gaze. He was instantly covered, permeated, not with honest sweat but with the sliminess that comes when humidity reaches an ultimate.

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