by Hal Clement
In the control room, Feth did not find his task too difficult. He was not on the best of terms with the pilot, but had never held toward him the blazing hatred he had felt toward his chief. Lee was not particularly scrupulous, as he had shown in the past, but Feth knew of nothing in his record to call forth whole-souled detestation. In consequence, there was nothing strange in the mechanic’s entering the control room and settling down for a talk. The pilot was reading, as usual when off duty; to his question concerning Ken’s whereabouts, the mechanic responded that he was “fooling with his vegetables in the air lock.”
“Why does he have to use the lock for a laboratory?” the pilot asked plaintively. “I’ve already told him it’s bad practice. He’s got a lab in the station—why doesn’t he take them there?”
“I guess he figures if a refrigerator breaks down he can pump the air out of the lock and have a chance of the specimen’s lasting until he can make repairs,” Feth replied. “I imagine you’d have to ask him, to be really sure. I wouldn’t worry—there are just the three of us aboard, and those cases aren’t too big to get around if your engines start to get out of hand.” The pilot grunted, and returned to his reading; but one eye flickered occasionally to the board of telltale lights. He knew when Ken evacuated the lock and opened the outer door, but apparently did not consider it worth while to ask why. Feth, as a matter of fact, did not know either; he was wondering a good deal harder than Lee. Fortunately the pilot was used to his taciturnity and habitual glumness of expression, or his attitude might have aroused suspicion. It was, as a matter of fact, his awareness of this fact that had caused Ken to refrain from telling his whole plan to Feth. He was afraid the mechanic might look to happy to be natural.
The next interruption caused the pilot to put down his book and rise to his feet. “What’s that fool doing now?” he asked aloud. “Drilling holes in the hull?” Feth could understand the source of his worry; the outer door of the air lock had been closed again, and pressure had returned to normal some time before—but now the pressure was dropping rapidly, as though through a serious leak, and air was being pumped into the chamber. The outer door was still closed.
“Maybe he’s filling some portable tanks,” suggested Feth hopefully.
“With what? There isn’t a pump on board that could take air faster than the lock bleeders can deliver it, except the main circulators. He’s not using those, where he is.”
“Why don’t you call him and ask, then? I notice the inner door is sealed, too; he’ll probably have a fit if you opened it in the middle of his work.”
“I’ll have one myself if this goes on,” growled Lee. He watched the indicators for another moment, noting that the pressure now seemed to be holding steady at about half normal. “Well, if it’s a leak, he had sense enough to plug it.” He turned to the microphone, switched to the local wavelength used in the suit receivers, and made the suggested call. Ken answered promptly, denying that he had bored any holes in the hull and stating that he would be through shortly. Lee was able to get nothing else from him.
“One would almost think you didn’t trust him,” gibed Feth as the pilot turned away from the microphone. “You have as much reason to believe him as you have to believe me, and I notice you don’t worry much about me.”
“Maybe after he’s had a few more sniffs I’ll feel the same about him,” Lee replied. “Right now, just listening to him makes me think he’s not convinced yet about being under the influence. I never heard anyone talk like that to Drai before.”
“I did—once.”
“Yeah. But he’s done it more than once. Drai feels the same way—he told me to camp in this control room as long as you two were on board. I don’t think it matters, myself—I’ve got the key, and if anyone can short the whole control system out from under a Bern lock he’s darned good. However, orders are orders.” He relaxed once more with his book. Feth resumed his gloomy train of thought.
“So they’re trusting on just that one hold on us. As if I didn’t know it. If Ken could figure out some means of getting at Drai’s cold-safe—I certainly have never been able to—but then, we couldn’t find Sarr anyway—if only we were looking for a sun like Rigel or Deneb, that a fellow could recognize at thousands of parsecs instead of having to get close enough to spot planets—” his thoughts rolled on, consisting largely of “If only’s” as they had now for years. The drug had one little if anything to Feth’s mind, but the fact of his subjection to it had long since given him an apathetic attitude toward all suggestions for escape. He wondered why he had consented to do as Ken asked—how could the scientist possibly keep the assurance he had given?
Ken’s own voice eventually interrupted this line of cogitation. “Feth, could you come down here to help me for a moment? I’m nearly through; there’s some stuff I want to take out of the lock.” Both Sarrians in the control room glanced at the indicators. The lock pressure was rising again.
“All right, I’m coming,” replied Feth. “Get the inner door open as soon as pressure’s up.” He started down the corridor, leaving the pilot behind. Ken’s message had been well worded.
He was not gone long enough to make the pilot suspicious; within two or three minutes Lee heard both mechanic and scientist returning. They were not talking, and as they approached the pilot grew curious. He started to rise to meet them, but had time just to reach his feet before the two entered the door. The gloomy expression had left Feth’s face, to be replaced by one much harder to decipher. Lee, however, spent no time trying to solve its meaning; his eyes were both drawn instantly to the object the two were carrying in a cloth sling between them.
It was roughly cubical, perhaps a foot on a side. It was yellow in color. It trailed a visible stream of mist, and yellow droplets appeared and grew on its surface—droplets of a deeper, honey-colored hue; droplets that gathered together, ran down the sides of the block, soaked into the sling, and vanished in thin air. For an instant Lee, watching it, showed an expression of bewilderment; this changed almost at once to one of horror; then he regained control of himself.
“So that’s where the air was going,” he remarked. “What’s the idea?”
Ken, who was clad in a space suit except for the helmet, did not answer the question directly. Instead, he asked one of his own.
“You know the coordinates of Sarr, and could get there from here, don’t you?”
“Of course. I’ve made the trip often enough. So what— I hope you don’t think I’m going to tell you in order to get out of a frostbite.”
“I don’t care whether you want to tell us or not I plan for you to do the piloting. And I don’t plan to freeze you on this block—in fact, we’ll put it down right here. You have until it evaporates to make up your mind. After that, we’ll be in a position to make it up for you.” The pilot laughed.
“I was expecting that one. Am I supposed to believe you have some tofacco in the middle of that? You just made the block a couple of minutes ago.”
“Quite true. Since you bring up the matter, there is a cylinder of tofacco inside the block. I put it there myself—a few minutes ago, as you say.”
“I suppose you broke into Laj Drai’s safe and borrowed it.” The pilot was obviously incredulous.
“No. However, Drai’s suggestion of playing on the sympathies of the natives of Planet Three was a very good idea.”
“I suppose they gave you a hundred units for rescuing their kids.”
“As a matter of fact, it seems to be more like two thousand. I didn’t exactly count them, but they’re very neatly arranged; and if the unit you mean is one tenth of one of the cylinders they come in, that figure is about right.” The pilot might have been just a trifle uneasy.
“But there weren’t any landings after Drai had the idea—you couldn’t have asked for it.”
“Are you trying to insult me by saying I had to wait for Drai to have such an idea? I thought of it myself, but having been brought up with a conscience I decided against tryi
ng it. Besides, as I keep saying, I don’t know their language well enough yet. As it happened, the native I’d been talking to gave me a container of the stuff without my mentioning it at all. He seems to be a nice fellow, and apparently knows the value we place on tofacco. I fear I forgot to report that to Drai.”
Lee looked positively haggard as the likelihood of the story began to impress him; Feth, on the other hand, had brightened up amazingly. Only a slight expression of doubt still clouded his features—could the scientist be running a bluff? It seemed impossible; it was hard to see how getting started for Sarr would do any good unless he had a supply of that drug, and he had made no mention of forcing Lee to help them get it from Drai’s safe.
These points must have crossed the pilot’s mind, too; he was looking at the dwindling lump of sulfur with a growing expression of terror. He made one last objection, knowing its weakness even before he spoke.
“You won’t dare let it out—Feth has no suit, and you don’t have a helmet.”
“What difference does it make to us?”
With that, Lee made a sudden, frantic break for the door. He dived headlong into Feth, and for a few seconds there was a nightmarish swirling of legs and tentacles. Ken stood by, but his assistance was not needed. The pilot suddenly rolled back almost to his control board, tentacles lashing madly; but when he regained his feet, he did not seem eager to renew the struggle.
“If I’d only had—”
“Yes—it would have been very nice if Drai had let anyone but himself carry a gun. The fact is, he doesn’t; and you haven’t too much time. How about it?” Feth emphasized his words by turning up the control room thermostat, which was within his reach.
The pilot gave in. If any shred of doubt about Ken’s truthfulness remained in his mind, he did not dare gamble on it—he had seen drug addicts other than Feth, and remembered some harrowing details.
“All right—take it away!” he gasped. “I’ll do whatever you want!”
Without comment Ken picked up both ends of the sling and carried the now much lighter bundle back toward the air lock. He was back in two or three minutes.
“Made it!” he said. “I was wondering if it might not boil through before I got there—you held out longer than I thought you would, Lee. However, the air is clear after all. I may mention that that particular block is the top one in my little refrigerator, and it will take remarkably little time to bring it into action.
“Well, let’s make plans. I’d rather like to arrest our friend Drai, but I don’t quite see how we’re to go about it. Any ideas?”
“Arrest him?” A faint smile suddenly appeared on Feth’s face.
“Yes. I’m afraid I’m some sort of deputy narcotics investigator—not that I asked for the job, and certainly I’m not a very efficient one. Maybe I ought to swear you in, too, Feth—I guess I can do it legally.”
“You needn’t bother. It was done more than eighteen years ago. Apparently they didn’t bother to tell you that the stunt of taking an innocent general science dabbler and trying to make a policeman out of him had been tried before, with no visible results?”
“No, they didn’t. I’ll have something to say to Rade when we get back. If he knew that—”
“Take it easy on him. Under the circumstances, I’m very glad he tried again. You haven’t done such a bad job, you know.”
“Maybe not, but the job’s not done. I see the reason, now for a lot of things that puzzled me about you. As far as I’m concerned, this is your show as much as mine, from now on. How do we go about collecting Drai? I suppose the others aren’t worth bothering with.”
“Why not leave him where he it? There’s no other ship; he’s stuck as long as we have this one, unless he wants to take a ride in a torpedo. Since there’s nowhere else in this system where he could live for any length of time, I don’t think he’ll do that. My advice would be to take off right away, and let him worry about what’s happened until we get back with official support.”
“The motion is carried—except for one thing. I have to run a little errand first. Feth, you keep an eye on our friend and pilot while I’m gone.” He disappeared toward the air lock before any questions could be asked.
As a matter of fact, his absence was quite long, and eventually the ship had to go after him. He was in a valley adjacent to that of the station, with a problem he could not handle alone. Sallman Ken liked to pay his debts.
None of the Wings, of course, felt that the strange “fire-man” owed them anything. On the contrary. They did not blame him for the fire—he had been on the ground, talking to them, when the ship started it. The blaze was out by night, anyway, with the aid of the crew from Clark Fork. The only real concern the family felt was whether or not the alien would return.
It was not until evening that anyone remembered that a torpedo load of metal should have arrived that day. Don and Roger went out in the morning to the site of the transmitter, and found a torpedo, but its cargo door was closed and there was no answer to their shouts. This, of course, was the one Drai had sent down, and which he had completely forgotten in the rush of events. It had been operating on radio rather than achronic transmitter control, since the Karella had been so near at the time, and there was no way to switch it back from a distance even if the drug-runner’s memory should improve. Ken himself, with his “payment” safely on board the Karella, never thought of it; his attention had promptly switched to the obvious need for a survey of the Solar System before he left it. A full Earth day had been spent looking briefly over Sol’s frozen family, before he could be persuaded to start for home—Feth did not try very hard to persuade him, as a matter of fact, since he had his own share of scientific curiosity. At last, however, they plunge back to make the final call at Planet Three. The transmitter was just emerging into sunlight; this time even Lee appeared willing to home down on it. A mile above the peaks, Ken guided him on a long downward slant to a point above the Wing home.
The natives had seen them coming; all seven of them were standing outside, watching the descent with emotions that Ken could easily guess. He waved Lee into a position that brought the air lock directly over the clearing in front of the house, and the lowest part of the ship’s hull thirty feet above the treetops. Then he climbed into his armor, entered the air lock with his “payment,” and opened the outer door without bothering to pump back the air. For a moment he was enveloped in a sheet of blue fire, which burst from the port and caused the natives to exclaim in alarm. Fortunately the flame of burning sulfur licked upward, and was gone in a moment. Then Ken, waving the natives away from directly below, rolled his payment over the sill of the lock.
It made quite a hole in the ground. A carefully made diagram, drawn on the fluo-silicone material the Sarrians used for paper, followed; and when the Wings looked up after crowding around this, the Karella was a dwindling dot in the sky, and Ken was already preparing a report for the planetary ecologists and medical researchers who would return with them. Perhaps a cure for the drug could be found, and even if it weren’t he was on good enough terms with the natives so that he needn’t worry too much. Not, of course, that that was his only interest in the weird beings; they seemed rather likable, in their own way—
He even remembered to write a brief report for Rade.
On the ground, no one spoke for some time.
“I can’t budge it, Dad,” were the first words finally uttered. They came from Roger, who had been vainly trying to move the grayish lump that had landed at their feet.
“It must weigh two hundred pounds or so,” supplemented Don. “If it’s all platinum—”
“Then we’ll have a fine time breaking it up into pieces small enough to avoid comment,” finished his father. “What interests me right now is this picture.” The others crowded around once more.
It was a tiny diagram of the Solar System, such as they had drawn before the fire two days ago. Beside it was the unmistakable picture of a space ship like the Karella—heading away
from it. Then another diagram, apparently an enlarged view of the orbits of the inner planets, showed the arcs through which each would move in approximately a month; and finally a third picture reproduced the first— except that the space ship was pointing toward the system. The meaning was clear enough, and a smile broke out on Mr. Wing’s face as he interpreted it.
“I guess we continue to eat,” he remarked, “and I guess our friend wants to learn more English. He’ll be back, all right. I was afraid for a little while he’d take that carton of cigarettes in the wrong spirit. Well—” he turned to the family suddenly.
“Don—Roger—let’s go. If he’s going to be away a month, and that torpedo is still lying where you found it, we have a job of tinkering to do. Roger, by the time you’re Don’s age you may be able to pilot us on a return visit to your hot-blooded friend—we’re going to find out how that gadget works!”
THE END
1952
HALO
Only a solar system can offer farming land, of course . . . but clumsy or reckless farmer can turn any green planet into a dustbowl.
“YOU disappoint me,” the class superintendent said with some feeling. “I have a personal as well as a professional dislike of wastefully run farms, and you seem to have furnished a prime example.” He paused briefly, watching in silence as the spheroidal forcing beds drifted smoothly about their central radiator. “Of course, I would be much more sympathetic with you if your own ill-advised actions were not so largely responsible for this situation.” He checked his young listener’s half-uttered protest. “Oh, I realize that youngsters have to learn, and experiment is the only source of knowledge; but why not use the results of other people’s experiments? This sort of thing has happened before, I think you’ll find.”
