by Hal Clement
The remaining researchers and technicians might possibly be the better for his presence to keep their center-boards down, but there were other things to do. If they couldn’t hold course without his pincers on their helms, they’d just have to drift for a while.
He should talk to the human station soon; but if there were to be an argument, as seemed rather likely, he had better do a little course-plotting himself. Some of the two-legged giants such as Aucoin, who seemed to have a great deal to say about their policy, were reluctant to expend or even risk any sort of reserve equipment, no matter how important the action seemed from the Mesklinite viewpoint. Since the aliens had paid for it, this was perfectly understandable—even laudable; but there was nothing immoral about talking them around to a more convenient attitude if it could be done.
If he could arrange it, the best plan would be to work through that particularly sympathetic female named Hoffman. It was too bad the human beings kept such irregular hours; if they had set up decent, regular watches in their communication section, Barlennan would long since have worked out their schedule and been able to pick his party. He wondered, not for the first time, whether the irregular schedule might not be deliberately set up to block that very technique; but there seemed no way to find out. He could hardly ask.
The Settlement’s comm center was far enough from the laboratories to give him thinking time en route. It was also close enough to his office to encourage a pause for making a few notes before actually opening the verbal fencing match.
The central theme would have to be the question of rescue, if Dondragmer’s trouble wound up crippling his cruiser. If the corresponding situation involving the Esket, months before, was any indication, the tightwads up above would be basically against sending the Kalliff. Of course, there was nothing they could do if Barlennan chose to go his own way in that matter—or in any other, come to think of it—but the commander was hoping to keep that fact cushioned in the decencies of polite conversation. He would be happiest if that aspect of the situation never came up at all; this was one reason he hoped to work Easy Hoffman into the other end of the discussion. For some reason, she seemed prone to take the Mesklinite side when disagreements arose. She was certainly one reason that there had been no open argument during the Esket incident—though a more important one was the fact that Barlennan had never had the slightest intention of sending a rescue cruiser that time, and had, therefore, actually been siding with Aucoin.
Well, he could at least go as far as the comm room door and find out who was on duty above. With the rippling equivalent of a shrug, he lifted his sprawled eighteen inches from the office floor and made his way into the corridor. It was at that moment that the wind reached the Settlement.
There was no fog at first, or for some minutes thereafter. Barlennan, promptly changing his plans as the roof began rippling, got all the way back to the laboratories; but before he had a chance to get any constructive information from his scientists the stars began to fade. Within a few minutes the lights showed a solid gray ceiling a body-length above the Mesklinites. The ceilings here were rigid and did not vibrate in the wind as those in the corridor had, but the sound outside was loud enough to make more than one of the scientists wonder how stable the buildings actually were. They didn’t express the thought aloud in the commander’s presence, but he could interpret the occasional upward glances when the whine of the heavy outside air increased in pitch.
It occurred to him that his present location was about the most useless possible one for a commander who was not a scientist, since the people around him were about the only ones in the Settlement to whom he could not give reasonable orders. He asked just one question, was informed in reply that the wind speed was about half that which Dondragmer had reported some ten thousand miles away, and headed for the communication room.
He thought briefly of going back to the office on the way, but knew that anyone wanting him would find him almost as quickly at Guzmeen’s station. Anyway, a question had crossed his mind which could probably be answered by relay from the human station faster than any other way, and that question was seeming more and more important as the seconds passed. Forgetting about his intention to make sure that Easy Hoffman was on duty above, he shot into the radio room and nudged politely aside the staff member in front of the transmitter. He began to speak almost before he was in position, and the sight of the Hoffman features when the screen lighted up was merely a pleasant surprise rather than a major relief.
“The wind and fog are here, too,” he began abruptly. “Some people were outdoors, and there’s nothing I can do about them at the moment; but some were working in the cruisers parked outside. You could check through their communicators whether everything is all right there. I’m not too worried, since the wind speed is much less than Don reported, and, of course, the air is far less dense at this height; but we can’t see at all through this fog, and I’d be relieved to know about the men in the cruisers.”
Easy’s image had started to speak part way through the commander’s request—obviously not in answer, since there had not been time enough for the light-speed round trip. Presumably the human beings had something of their own to say. Barlennan concentrated on his own message until it was done, knowing that Guzmeen, or one of his crew, would be writing down whatever came in. Message crossing, under the general circumstances, was a frequent event and handled by established routine.
With his own words on the way, the commander turned to ask what the humans had wanted, but the question was interrupted. An officer shot into the room and began reporting as soon as he saw Barlennan.
“Sir, all groups, but two, which had checked out the north gates are accounted for. One of these was working in the Hoorsh, the other was leveling ground for the new complex twenty cables north, on the other side of the parking valley. There were eight people in the first group, twenty in the second.”
Barlennan made the gesture of understanding, all four nippers clicking shut simultaneously. “We may have radio reports from the space station shortly on the Hoorsh group,” he replied. “How many who were actually outside after the wind and fog arrived have come in? What do they report on living and traveling conditions? Was anyone hurt?”
“No one hurt, sir. The wind was only a minor inconvenience; they came in because they couldn’t see to work. Some of them had trouble finding their way, and my guess is that the ground-leveling crew is still groping its way back, unless they just decided to wait it out where they were. The ones on the Hoorsh may not even have noticed anything, inside. If the first bunch stays out of contact too long, I’ll send out a messenger.”
“How will you keep him from getting lost?”
“Compass, plus picking someone who works outside a lot and knows the ground well.”
“I’m not—” Barlennan’s objection was interrupted by the radio.
“Barlennan,” came Easy’s voice, “the communicators in the Hoorsh and the Kalliff are all working. As far as we can see, there is no one in the Kalliff and it’s just sitting there; nothing is moving. There are at least three, and possibly five, men in the life-support section of the Hoorsh. The man covering those screens has seen as many as three at once in the last few minutes, but isn’t too confident of recognizing individual Mesklinites. The cruiser doesn’t seem to be affected. The people aboard are going about their business and paying no attention to us. Certainly they weren’t trying to send an emergency message up. Jack Bravermann is trying to get their attention on that set now, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. As you say, slower wind and thinner air should mean that your settlement is in no danger if the Kwembly wasn’t hurt.”
“I’m not worried, at least not much. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll find out what your last message, but one, was and try to answer it,” returned Barlennan. He turned to the duty officer whose place at the set he had taken. “I assume you got what she said.”
“Yes, sir. It wasn’t urgent, just interesting. Anot
her interim report has come up from Dondragmer; the Kwembly is still afloat, still drifting though he thinks it has dragged bottom once or twice, and the wind is still blowing there. Because of their own motion, his scientists won’t commit themselves to an opinion on whether the wind velocity has changed or not.”
The commander gestured acceptance, turned back to the communicator, and said, “Thanks, Mrs. Hoffman. I appreciate your sending even ‘no change’ reports so quickly. I will stay here for a while, so if anything really does happen I will know as soon as possible. Have your atmospheric scientists come up with predictions they trust? Or explanations of what happened?”
To the other Mesklinites in the room it was obvious that Barlennan was doing his best to keep his expression unreadable as he asked this question. His arms and legs were carefully relaxed, chelae neither too tightly closed nor gaping open, his head neither too high nor too close to the floor, his eyes fixed steadily on the screen. The watchers did not know in detail what was in his mind, but could tell that he attached more than its obvious face value to the question. Some of them wondered why he bothered to control himself so, since it was most unlikely that any human being could interpret his body expression anyway; but those who knew him best realized that he would never take a chance on a matter like that. After all, there were some human beings, of whom Elise Rich Hoffman was emphatically one, who seemed to think very easily from the Mesklinite viewpoint, besides speaking Stennish as well as human vocal equipment would permit.
All watched the screen with interest, wondering whether the human being on it would show signs of having noticed the commander’s attitude when her answer came back. All communication room personnel were reasonably familiar with human facial expressions; most of them could recognize at least a dozen different human beings by face or voice alone, the commander having long ago expressed a strong desire that such abilities be cultivated. Barlennan, his glance leaving the screen for a moment and roving around the circle of intent listeners, was amused at their expressions even while he was annoyed at his own obviousness. He wondered how they would react to whatever answer Easy returned, but he never found out.
The human female had evidently received the question and was starting to form a sentence in reply when her attention was distracted. For several seconds she was obviously listening to something, and her eyes shifted away from the pickup of the Settlement communicator. Then her attention came back to Barlennan.
“Commander. Dondragmer has reported again. The Kwembly has stopped, or almost stopped, aground. They are still being dragged a little, however; the flow of liquid has not slowed. They have been tipped so that the trucks are out of contact with whatever surface is below them. If they aren’t dragged free by the river, they’re there to stay; and Dondragmer thinks the level is going down.”
IV
It was a curious, helpless sensation for Beetchermarlf. The Kwembly’s helm was connected to the trucks by simple pulley-and-cord rigging; even Mesklinite muscles could not turn the trucks when the vehicle was at rest, and while forward motion made steering possible it certainly did not make it easy. Now, floating with the driving units clear of the bottom, the helm flopped limply in response to a casual nudge, or even to a slight roll of the hull. In theory, the cruiser was supposed to be maneuverable at sea, but this involved installing driving paddles on the treads—something most easily done while still on land. Dondragmer had thought fleetingly, as he realized they were adrift, of sending out airsuited men to attempt the task, but then decided that it wasn’t worth the risk even if everyone were attached solidly to the hull by lifelines. It was likely enough, as far as anyone could tell, that they might reach the end or the edge of the river, or lake, or whatever they were floating on before any such job could be completed, anyway; and if men were outside when that happened, lifelines might not be the need.
The same thoughts had crossed the helmsman’s mind as he lay at his station, but he did not voice them. Beetchermarlf was young, but not so young as still to assume that no one else could recognize the more obvious facts. He was quite prepared to grant his captain’s professional competence.
As the minutes slipped by, however, he began to worry at Dondragmer’s failure to issue any orders. Something should be possible; they couldn’t just drift eastward—he glanced at the compass; yes, eastward—indefinitely. There had been hills that way according to the last flight reports—the same hills which had bordered the snowfield on their left, sometimes showing slightly above the distant horizon, for the last three or four thousand miles. Judging by their color they were rock, not ice. If the surface the Kwembly was floating on were simply melted snowfield, they almost had to hit something soon. Beetchermarlf had no more idea than anyone else how fast they were going, but his confidence in the strength of the hull matched that of the captain. He had no more wish to strike a reef on Dhrawn than he had ever had on Mesklin.
At least, the wind should not move them too fast, dense as the air was. The top of the hull was smoothly curved except for the bridge, and the trucks on the bottom should give plenty of drag. As far as the air scouts had been able to tell the snowfield had been level, so the liquid itself shouldn’t be moving. Come to think of it, the outside pressure should give a check on that. The helmsman stirred at the thought, glanced up at the captain, hesitated, and then spoke.
“Sir, how about checking hull-squeeze watch? If there is any current in what we’re floating in, we’d have to be going downhill, and that should show—” Dondragmer interrupted.
“But the surface was level—no, you’re right. We should check.” He reared up to the bank of speaking tubes and called the laboratory. “Born, how is the pressure? You’re keeping track, of course.”
“Of course, Captain. Both bow and stern safety bladders have been expanding ever since we began to float. We’ve descended about six body lengths in twice that many minutes. I’m about ready to tap more argon.”
Dondragmer acknowledged, and looked back at his helmsman.
“Good for you. I should have thought of that. That means we are being carried by current as well as wind, and all bets on speed, distance, and where we stop are off. There couldn’t be a current unless the air scouts missed a slope, and if there’s a slope this plateau must drain somewhere.”
“We’re secure for rough travel, sir. I don’t see what else we can do.”
“There’s one thing,” Dondragmer said grimly. He reared to the tubes again, and emitted the sirenlike general quarters call. Reasonably sure that all were listening, he pulled his head back so as to be equally distant from all the tubes, and spoke loudly enough to get through them all.
“All hands into airsuits as quickly as possible. You are relieved from stations for that purpose, but get back as soon as you can.” He lowered himself to his command bench and addressed Beetchermarlf. “Get your suit and mine, and bring them back here. Quickly!”
The helmsman was back with the garments in ninety seconds. He started to assist the captain with his, but was dismissed by an emphatic gesture and went to work on his own. In two minutes both were protected except for head covering, and were back at their stations.
The haste, as it turned out, was unnecessary. More minutes passed while Beetchermarlf toyed with the useless helm, and Dondragmer wondered whether the human scientists were ever going to come through with any information and what use it was likely to be if they did. He hoped that satellite fixes could give him some idea of the Kwembly‘s speed; it would, he thought rather cynically, be nice to know how hard they were likely to hit whatever finally stopped them. Such fixes were, he knew, hard to get on order; there were over thirty of the “shadow-satellites” in orbit, but they were less than three thousand miles above the surface. No attempt had been made to arrange their orbits so that their limited fields of visual and microwave coverage would be either uniform or complete; communication was not their primary purpose. The main human base, in synchronous orbit over six million miles above the Settlement meridia
n, was supposed to need no help with that task. Also, the ninety-plus mile per second orbital speed of the lower satellites, helpful though the human observers claimed it to be for moving-base-line location checking, still seemed to Dondragmer an inevitable cause of difficulty. He was not at all hopeful about getting his speed from this source. This was just as well, since he never got it.
Once, about half an hour after going adrift, a brief shudder went through the Kwembly and the captain duly reported to the station that they had probably touched bottom. Everyone else on board made the same assumption, and tension began to mount.
There was a little warning just before the end. A hoot from the laboratory speaking tube was followed by a report that pressure had started to rise more rapidly, and that an additional release of argon into the ship’s atmosphere had been necessary to keep the safety bladders from rupturing. There was no sensation of increasing speed, but the implication of the report was plain enough. They were descending more rapidly. How fast were they going horizontally? The captain and helmsman looked at each other, not asking the question aloud but reading it in each other’s expressions. More minutes passed; the tension slowly mounted, chelae gripping stanchions and holdfasts ever more tightly.
Then there was a thunderous clang, and the hull swerved abruptly; another, and it tilted sharply to starboard. For several seconds it rocked violently, and those near bow and stern could feel it yawing as well, though the fog still prevented any outside view which might have confirmed the sensation. Then there was another, much louder clang, and the Kwembly rolled some sixty degrees once more to starboard; but this time she did not recover. There were scraping, grinding sounds which suggested that she was moving slightly, but no real change of attitude accompanied them. For the first time, the sound of liquid rushing past the hull was noticeable.
