by Hal Clement
Nick spent only a few moments wondering whether they’d find more torch wood before using up what they had. He had turned his mind to other matters even before the cavalcade was out of sight.
He had been given a free hand. Very well, he still felt that leaving the village was best; they would do so as soon as possible. Of course, it wouldn’t be possible for a few days, until everyone was able to travel again, but the time could be spent in planning. There was certainly the question of where to go, and the corollary one of how to get there—Nick began to realize with a shock just what leaving the village, with its lifetime accumulation of property and equipment, would mean—and how to get back in touch with Fagin when the move was accomplished. It was easy to tell one’s self that the teacher could always find them wherever they went; but Nick was mature enough to doubt the omniscience of anyone, including the robot. That meant, then, three problems to solve. Since Nick had no desire to resemble Swift in any way, he postponed solving them until the others would be awake and able to help in the discussion.
The fire lasted until morning, but only just, and only by virtue of Nick’s running around the hut rapidly on a number of occasions to stir oxygen into an oncoming mass of dead steam. He got very, little sleep after the last of the outer fires went, and that was pretty early in the night.
Morning brought no relief. The first task normally accomplished was to put a guard on the village herd, which was penned in a hollow near the village. The depression remained full of water a little later than the surrounding country, so the “cattle” were normally safe from predators until the guards could arrive; but at the moment there simply weren’t enough people in condition to guard both herd and village. They suffered several losses that morning as a result, until Nick could round up the reviving creatures by himself and herd them into the village. Then there was the problem of firewood for the next night; he had told the absolute truth to Swift in that respect. Someone had to get it. There was no choice but for the still battered Jim and Nancy to do the job together, dragging as best they could the cart on which they piled their fuel. They had never succeeded in training their cattle to pull the conveyance; the creatures stubbornly refused to budge under any sort of load.
By the second day, most of the others were on their feet if not at full efficiency, and matters were considerably easier. A consultation was held that morning, in which Nick proposed and defended vigorously the notion that they move to the viciously rough country he had crossed during his flight from the cave village. His chief point was the presence of so many spots which could only be approached from a single, narrow point, like a canyon or ridge, and could therefore be defended effectively by a small force. It was Nancy who answered the suggestion.
“I’m not sure that’s a very good plan,” she said. “In the first place, we don’t know that any of the places you describe will still be that way when we get there.” A quake lent emphasis and support to her words.
“What if they aren’t?” retorted Nick. “There will always be others. I wasn’t suggesting any of the specific spots I described, only the general area.”
“But how is Fagin to find us? Supposing one of us does get to the cave village and get a message to him, how are we to describe the way to him? We’d have to guide him directly, which would probably interfere with his own plans—you judged, and I think rightly, that he is planning to take advantage of his ability to travel at night without fire.”
Nick felt a very human surge of annoyance at this opposition, but remembered Swift in time to keep from yielding to it. He didn’t want to be compared with that savage in anyone’s mind, he told himself; besides, there was something to what Nancy was saying, now that he really gave his mind to it.
“What sort of place would you suggest?” he asked. “You’re right about getting back in touch with Fagin, but I certainly can’t think of any place which we will ever defend as easily as those canyons in the west.”
“It seems to me that Fagin was right when he said it was foolish to fight Swift’s people at all,” returned Nancy quietly. “I was not thinking of defense; if we have to defend ourselves, we’re already out of luck, I fear. What I had in mind was the sea.”
“What?”
“You know. You helped map it. Off to the east there’s a body of water that isn’t water—at least, it doesn’t dry up entirely during the daytime. I don’t remember just what Fagin called it when we reported it to him . . .”
“He said he supposed it was mostly sulphuric add, whatever that is, but he didn’t know how to make sure,” interjected the still crippled Dorothy.
“. . . Whatever it is, it stays there, and if we’re on the edge of it Fagin can’t help finding us if he simply travels along its border. Probably he can travel in it for a distance, too, so the cave people can’t track him.” A hum of approving surprise greeted this notion, and after a few moments of thought Nick gestured agreement.
“All right,” he said. “If no one has other ideas, we’ll move to the edge of the sea; we can settle on the exact spot after we get there and have looked around. It’s a year or two since we mapped the place, and I don’t suppose we could trust information that old.
“The next problem is getting there. We’ll have to decide how much we can take from the village here, and how we can carry it. I suppose we can start with the wood cart, but I’ll bet there are places we won’t be able to move it across. No matter how we figure it, there’s a lot we’ll have to leave behind.
“Then, finally, there’s the matter of getting a message to Fagin. That we can leave until we’re settled; there’s no point telling him where we are before we know.
“I hope we can travel by tomorrow; in the meantime, the second question is the one to work on. Anyone who has more ideas, let’s hear them at any time.” They dispersed, each to the tasks of which he was capable.
Jim and Nancy were practically whole again, and were now looking after the cattle. There had been no further losses since they had been able to take over the job. Dorothy was at the wagon, with all the articles they hoped to take stacked around her, arranging and rearranging them in the vehicle. No matter how she packed them, there was more outside than in, and nearly constant discussion and even argument was going on between her and the other members of the group. Each wanted his own belongings to go, and it took a good deal of talk to convince some of them that since everything couldn’t be taken the losses should be shared.
The argument was still going on, to a certain extent, when the journey started. Nick was beginning to feel a certain sympathy for Swift by that time; he had discovered that at times it was necessary for a group to have a leader, and that it was not always possible for the leader to reason his followers into the desired action. Nick had had to give his first arbitrary orders, and was troubled by the thought that half his friends must by now be comparing him with Swift. The fact that he had been obeyed should have clarified him on this point, but it didn’t.
The cart was perilously overloaded, and everyone except those actually herding had to pull with all his strength. When fighting was necessary, hauling had to be stopped while weapons were snatched up and used. Actually, of course, there was not too much fighting; the average Tenebran carnivore wasn’t very brainy, but most of them steered clear of such a large group. The chief exception was formed by the floaters, which were more vegetable than animal anyway. These creatures could be downed fairly safely by anyone having a spear longer than their tentacles; but even after their gas bladders were punctured they were dangerous to anyone coming within reach of the poisonous appendages. Several animals of the herd were lost when one of the monsters fell almost into it, and two of the party were painfully poisoned on the same occasion. It was some hours before they could walk unaided.
Contrary to Nick’s pessimistic forecast, it proved possible to get the wagon all the way to the sea. Late in the second day of travel they reached a, after some hours of threading their way among ever larger pools of quiet, oily liqu
id.
They had seen such pools before, of course; they formed in hollows in their own valley toward the end of the day—hollows which were lakes of water at sunrise, but only tiny pools of oleum when the day reached its height. These were larger, filling a much bigger fraction of their beds.
The ground was different, too; vegetation was as thick as ever, but underfoot among the stems the ground was studded with quartz crystals. The cattle didn’t seem to mind, but the feet of their owners were not quite so tough, and progress became decidedly difficult. Such masses of crystals did occur elsewhere, but usually in isolated patches which could be avoided.
The search for a stopping place was therefore briefer, and perhaps less careful, than it might otherwise have been. They agreed very quickly on a peninsula whose main body was a hill thirty or forty feet above the sea, joined to the mainland by a crystal-studded tombolo a dozen yards in width. Nick was not the only one of the party who was still considering the problem of physical defense; and in addition to its advantages in this respect, the peninsula was roomy enough for the herd. They guided and trundled their belongings out to sea and up the hill, and immediately settled down to the standard business of hunting for firewood. This was plentiful enough, and by dark a very satisfactory supply had been laid in. The watch fires were built, one of the herd animals slaughtered and eaten, and the group settled down for the night. It was not until the drops had appeared and the fires lighted that anyone thought to wonder what happened to the sea level during the nightly rain.
IV
Aminadabarlee fell silent, his eyes fixed on the vision screen; and nasty as the creature had been, Raeker felt sympathetic. He himself would have been at least as unsociable under similar circumstances. There was no time for pity, however, while there was still hope; too much had to be done.
“Wellenbach! What’s the combination of the bathyscaphe?” he snapped. The communication watch officer reached over his shoulder.
“I’ll get her for you, doctor.” Raeker pushed his hand aside.
“Wait a minute. Is it a regular set at the other end? An ordinary phone, I mean, or something jury-rigged into the panels?”
“Perfectly ordinary. Why?”
“Because if it weren’t and you punched its combination, those kids might open their air lock or something like that in trying to answer. If it’s standard in design and appearance, the girl will be able to answer safely.”
“I see. She won’t have any trouble; I’ve seen her use the punch-combination sets here.”
“All right. Call them.” Raeker tried not to show the uncertainty he felt as the officer punched the buttons. It was not possible to tell yet just what had happened above Tenebra’s atmosphere; something had evidently breached the air lock of the tender, but that might or might not have affected the bathyscaphe. If it had, the children were probably dead—though their guide might have had them in spacesuits, of course. One could hope.
Behind him, Aminadabarlee might have been a giant statue of an otter, cast in oiled gray steel. Raeker spent no time wondering at his own fate if bad news came back through the set and that statue returned to life; all his attention was concentrated on the fate of the youngsters. A dozen different speculations chased themselves through his mind in the few seconds before the screen lighted up. Then it did, and the worst of them vanished.
A human face was looking at them out of it; thin, very pale, topped by a mop of hair which looked black on the screen but which Raeker knew was red; a face covered by an expression which suggested terror just barely held under control, but—a living face. That was the important fact.
At almost the same instant a figure came hurtling through the door of the communications room and skidded to a halt beside the motionless figure of the Drommian.
“Easy! Are you all right?” Raeker didn’t need the words to identify Councilor Rich. Neither did Aminadabarlee, and neither did the child in the screen. After the two-second pause for return contact, the terror vanished from the thin face, and she relaxed visibly.
“Yes, Dad. I was pretty scared for a minute, but it’s all right now. Are you coming?”
For a moment there was some confusion at the set as Rich, Raeker, and the Drommian all tried to speak at once; then Aminadabarlee’s physical superiority made itself felt, and he thrust his sleek head at the screen.
“Where is the other one—my son?” he shrilled.
Elise replied promptly, “He’s here; he’s all right.”
“Let me talk to him.” The girl left the pickup area for a moment, and they heard her voice but not her words as she addressed someone else. Then she reappeared, with her dark hair badly disheveled and a bleeding scratch on one cheek.
“He’s in a corner, and doesn’t want to come out. I’ll turn up the volume so you can talk to him there.” She made no reference to her injury, and, to Raeker’s surprise, neither did her father. Aminadabarlee seemed not to notice it. He shifted into his own shrill language, which seemed to make sense to no one else in the room but Rich, and held forth for several minutes, pausing now and then for answers.
At first he received none; then, as he grew more persuasive, a feeble piping came back through the set. Hearing this restored the Drommian’s composure, and he talked more slowly; and after a minute or so of this Aminadorneldo’s head appeared beside Easy’s. Raeker wondered whether he looked ashamed of himself; Drommian facial expressions were a closed book to him. Apparently one of the family had a conscience, anyway, for after a few moments’ more talk from the elder one the child turned to Easy and shifted to English.
“I’m sorry I hurt you, Miss Rich. I was afraid, and thought you’d made the noise, and were trying to make me come out of the corner. My father says you are older than I, and that I am to do whatever you say until I am with him again.”
The girl seemed to understand the situation. “It’s all right, ’Mina, she said gently. “You didn’t really hurt me. I’ll take care of you, and we’ll get back to your father—after a while.” She glanced at the pickup as she added the last words, and Raeker grew tense again. A glance at Councilor Rich confirmed his suspicion; the girl was trying to get something across, presumably without alarming her companion. Gently but firmly Raeker took the Drommian’s place in the pickup field. Easy nodded in recognition; she had met him briefly on her own tour through the Vindemiatrix some time earlier.
“Miss Rich,” he began, “we’re still a little in the dark about just what happened down there. Can you tell us? Or is your guide there, to give a report?”
She shook her head negatively at the latter question. “I don’t know where Mr. Flanagan is. He stayed in the tender to have a smoke, I suppose; he told us to be sure not to touch any controls—he must think we’re pretty stupid. We stayed away from the board, of course—in fact, after the first look, we stayed out of the control compartment altogether, and looked through the other rooms. They’re all observation or bunk-rooms, except for the galley, and we were just going to suit up to go back to the tender when a call came from Mr. Flanagan on the set he’d left tuned to suit radio frequency. He said he was at the outer lock and would open it as soon as he closed the one on the tender—the two ships were so close together we could touch them both at once when we came across—and that we were to stay absolutely still and not do a thing until he came. ’Mina had just opened his mouth to answer when the jolt came; we were flung against the wall, and I was held there by what felt like three or four G’s of acceleration. ’Mina could move around all right, and tried to call Mr. Flanagan on the set, but there was no answer, and I wouldn’t let him touch anything else. The acceleration lasted half a minute or so, I guess; you can tell better than we can. It stopped just before you called us.”
By this time the communication room was packed with men. Several of them began to work slide rules, and Raeker, turning from the set, watched one of these until he had finished; then he asked, “Any ideas, Saki?”
“I think so,” the engineer replied. “
The kid’s report isn’t exact, of course, but judging from her estimate of acceleration and time, and the mass of the bathyscaphe, one full ring of the solid-fuel boosters was touched off somehow. That should give just over four G’s for forty seconds—about a mile a second total velocity change. There’s no way to tell where the ship is, though, until we get there and home on it; we can’t compute, since we don’t know the direction of acceleration. I wish the ’scaphe weren’t so close to the planet, though.”
Raeker knew better than to ask the reason for this, but Aminadabarlee didn’t.
“Why?” The engineer glanced at him, then at the image of the other Drommian in the screen, and then apparently decided not to pull punches.
“Because a one mile a second change in any of a good many directions could put it in an orbit which would enter atmosphere,” he said bluntly.
“How long to entry?” cut in Councilor Rich.
“Not my pidgeon. We’ll get it computed while we’re under way. My guess would be hours at the outside, though.”
“Then why are we standing here talking?” shrilled Aminadabarlee. “Why aren’t preparations for rescue being made?”
“They are,” returned the engineer calmly. “Only one shuttle was in regular use, but there are others here. One of them is being made ready, and will leave in less than ten minutes. Dr. Raeker, do you want to come?”
“I’d just add mass without being useful,” Raeker replied.
“I suppose the same could be said for me,” said Rich, “but I’d like to come if there’s room. I certainly don’t want to hamper the work, though.”
“It will be better if you don’t,” admitted Sakiiro. “We’ll keep in touch with this ship and the ’scaphe, though, so you’ll know what’s happening.” He ran from the room.
