Classic Fiction

by Hal Clement

  About this time, though, Cunningham managed to restore T’Nekku’s sagging faith in human logic by making a prediction before the event.

  “With a warm water—excuse me, ammonia—current flowing out, and cold wind coming in, I should think we’d hit surface fog before long,” the man remarked thoughtfully. “I hope you’ll still be able to see. I wish I knew what wave lengths your eyes, if they are eyes, use.”

  “If those waves pierced the fog you fear, would I be able to see that cloud we have been watching?” asked T’Nekku. Cunningham frowned thoughtfully and raised his converter goggles for a moment. He was then able to answer.

  “It would seem that you can. The fog is here. My flash goes through it all right, and you didn’t even know it was there, but the cloud scatters light you can see. I wonder what’s up there—maybe snowflakes? Or full-sized raindrops? I’ll have to make a pass through it later with my own ship. Maybe I should have done that first.” He shrugged and made another temperature check.

  “Warmer than ever. I’m surprised you can stand it.”

  The native dipped a hand overside and hastily snatched it back. “I can’t. The wind is what’s keeping me comfortable now, I guess, unless you have a more logical explanation.”

  “Do you think we should go any farther in?”

  T’Nekku rose suddenly to his feet. Cunningham tried to see where his harpoon was pointing, then realized that the giant was not holding his weapon. There was no way to tell where he was looking, and the man swung his flash around wildly in hopes of seeing for himself whatever had caught the pilot’s attention. He saw nothing, of course—the beam lacked any real range—but T’Nekku spoke.

  “It won’t be possible to go farther. I can see wave, breaking on each side of us; we’re practically aground now!” The rumbling voice was calm, but its owner was active. The sail came down; the helm went over. “I don’t want to get farther in, and tacking out would take us too near those breakers. We’ll use the current.” Cunningham stared but could still see nothing—even the nebula and stars were hidden by the fog now. The cloud had been distant when he last saw it; the island must be big. At least, it was now established that there was an island; he had been starting to doubt even that. Would there be any way for T’Nekku to set him ashore, in accordance with the original plan and agreement? The native had started to sheer off without any consultation. Had he seen something he was really afraid of?

  “If there are no waves ahead, Nek, maybe we can land. Couldn’t you show just a little sail and just creep in here?” asked the man.

  “We are going in anyway,” was the rumbling reply. “The current has changed, and it has carried us through the gap in the breakers. Do you have a reasonable explanation?”

  “A river mouth—no, that would take us out. Rivers don’t flow inland on small islands, and there’s no tide on this planet. A deep bay, I suppose, but why the current—maybe it will get us closer to the center; the stuff must be going somewhere, and then—oh, blast, can you—”

  Cunningham didn’t finish organizing his thoughts. He heard the grating sound as the keel struck bottom, but even if he had interpreted it correctly he could not have reacted in time. Inertia swept him gently but firmly over the bow. He made a snatch at the sprit and felt his glove touch some part of the rigging, but he got no grip. Bone-chilling liquid closed over his head. He wondered as he sank why he had never even thought of wearing flotation gear on this trip. No one could swim in liquid ammonia—even if he were protected from the temperature; its density was too low—one might as well try to swim in gasoline.

  At Omituinen’s surface pressure, ammonia boils at about ten below zero, and the sea at this point was almost boiling, fortunately for Laird Cunningham. As it was, even through his airsuit’s insulation he was shocked by the sudden chill. There was no breathing problem, of course, but—

  He struck bottom. Even counting the keel, the draft of T’Nekku’s sailboat was small, and the water was shallow. The man got his feet under him and sprang upward as hard as he could, almost stunning himself on the bottom of the boat. He was helpless for a second or two; then he rose more carefully, hands above his head. He touched the hull before his knees were straight, this time; it must be sliding forward, so he was under the midship section rather than the bow—no, it was pressing down on him! It must be sinking! He had dropped his flash and could see nothing, but he could feel. With frantic haste he groped his way, following the sharpest upward curve he could find. It took perhaps half a minute to get out from underneath, but it seemed much longer. He stood up and found his head above the surface.

  It had been deeper than that where he fell—or had it? He had fallen in an awkward, crumpled position—but he had not struck his head on the hull until his feet were of the bottom, on that leap—what was happening, anyway? He heard T’Nekku’s voice thundering his name and tried to answer, but the speaking diaphragms of his face mask were not clear yet, and only an inarticulate sputtering emerged.

  The liquid was down to his shoulders. To his armpits His chest. He reached around, found the hull, and felt it move slowly away from him—it was tipping.

  That oriented him. The keel had struck bottom, hurling him overboard, because the ocean had started to withdraw. The boat was right where it had struck but was heeling over as the supporting ammonia disappeared from under it. Thoughts of tsunamis flashed across Cunningham’s mind—they were too close to land to survive the high side of such a wave. It would break over them—would T’Nekku know what to do? Could he do anything? Or was this something other than a tsunami—something strictly native to Omituinen, beyond the man’s experience?

  He was only waist-deep now. His speakers should have drained. “Nek! Are you all right?” he called.

  “Somewhat upset, but not hurt,” was the calm answer. “How is it that you are alive? I saw you go overboard and assumed you would die at once.”

  “Your ocean isn’t all that different from your air, as far as my suit and I are concerned,” Cunningham pointed out. “The real worry is how long either of us can stay alive. The water—excuse me, ammonia—is draining away somewhere, and even you won’t last long around here with your boat high and dry.”

  “True. We must think. At least, this draining away explains the onshore current that caught us.”

  “I suppose so, but I’d like to know what explains the draining. Even if there’s some sort of crater in the island that isn’t full, which is hard to believe, why isn’t ocean still coming in after us?” The man was only knee-deep in ammonia by this time, and he began to splash his way around to the low side of the hull. As he passed the bow his foot struck something he recognized, and with great relief he picked up his flash, sweeping its beam along the tilted vessel to see what had happened.

  T’Nekku was just stepping out over the submerged port gunwale. The boat had, of course, filled the moment this side had gone under. As far as the man could tell neither T’Nekku’s personal supplies nor his own equipment had shifted seriously, but the fact remained that the vessel was not only solidly aground but also, for the moment at least, an unknown distance inland.

  Its owner remained calm, of course, and Cunningham tried to imitate him. He had always known, naturally, that his retirement would in some drastic fashion come sooner or later; everyone’s did. He was not, however, prepared to resign himself to the notion that this must be the time.

  “We’d better find out how far away the ocean is now, if you want to take the chance,” he suggested.

  “What chance?” asked the native. “I see no risk in walking back toward the ocean.”

  “What has just happened reminds me of a huge wave I have known of on other worlds, whose low side comes first. If that is what is happening here, the high side will be along shortly, and you might be caught away from the boat.”

  “What good would the boat do me now?” asked T’Nekku practically.

  “Hmph. That’s a point. Well, if we could get it righted and emptied, there�
�s a chance it would float when the wave comes in.”

  The giant pondered this for a moment.

  “Righting it should not take long,” he said at length. “This sand feels firm but should dig easily.” One of his broad feet demonstrated briefly. “If we dig it away under the keel, which is all that is holding the hull tipped, she should settle back on her bottom easily enough.”

  “All right; but maybe we’d better do that before you go exploring.”

  “Frankly, I am very curious. Also, the walk may show that digging would be a waste of time—that something else would be more advisable. I suggest that I go to find the sea while you start the digging. I should be back quickly.”

  It never occurred to Cunningham to suspect his companion of laziness, so he took the suggestion at face value. “All right, I guess. What do you have that I can use for digging?”

  “Why, your hand—but you have only two, of course. I hadn’t thought of that. How about one of my spare harpoons?”

  Cunningham sighed again. “If that’s what you have, it will have to do. Let’s have it—and please find that ocean as soon as you can.”

  Work in even the most flexible and pressure-balanced airsuits, under extra gravity, would not be easy. Cunningham knew this before he started. But he did hope it would be possible. With the native out of sight, he made his way back around to the starboard side with the uncomfortably heavy harpoon, set his light on the ground so that it would illuminate the work area and began scraping sand from under the keel.

  It was not too difficult, at that. Within a few minutes the keel settled half an inch into the groove he had made under it. Of course, as he went deeper there would be more sand to move—the third-power law was against him. However, T’Nekku should be back before long. Also, as he recalled from similar beach-digging experience during his childhood, he would probably reach the liquid table quickly, and the saturated sand should practically flow out from under the pressure of the keel. It was hardly possible for a granular surface which had been submerged only minutes before to be anything but saturated at any real distance below its surface.

  But this idea did not work out. Another inch, and yet another, the keel settled. Each inch brought the hull a little closer to upright, but the firm dampness of the sand did not change. As an experiment, Cunningham left the job long enough to dig a cylindrical hole straight down for about two feet. The sand was firm enough to permit vertical sides to the little well, but its bottom showed no signs of filling. Curious now, he shuffled around to the other side of the hull and scooped a specimen-bucket of the ammonia it contained out onto the sand. It disappeared with surprising speed. He carried another bucketful around to his hole and poured it in; here, too, it soaked in instantly.

  He was really puzzled now, but worked and thought simultaneously. Once he stopped as an idea struck him; he returned to his equipment supply, found a length of flexible tubing and rigged a siphon to start emptying the hull. Unfortunately, the hose was not long enough to let him use the stream as a digging tool where it was needed. He continued to dig and puzzle. This sand was firmly packed, and he had never heard that ammonia was very much less viscous than water; how did the liquid soak in so fast? And where did it go?

  He did not hear T’Nekku approach, but the giant was suddenly looming beside him.

  “It is not one of your waves,” the native boomed. “The bottom seems to have risen just enough to cut the sea off from this bay—just barely enough—some waves are splashing over, but they sink in before getting this far. If it had only happened a few minutes earlier, we would be safe outside.”

  “I hate to sound paranoid,” said Cunningham thoughtfully, “but usually in the past when the timing has been that good it has been deliberate. I’ve seen no other sign of life here, though.”

  “Could it be something that happens at regular intervals, rather than just once, or randomly? I would find the whole matter less surprising.”

  “I don’t know. With neither a sun nor a moon, you don’t have tides here. Wait, though, maybe it could. I’ve just remembered something—let’s see. Heat from below, which we’re taking for granted; regular water—ammonia—supply; liquid flows down, very rapidly in this case, gets heated but can’t boil at first because of pressure due to depth—yes. It could be. This would be the biggest geyser I’ve ever seen or heard of, but that doesn’t make it impossible. I don’t see why the shore should rise, though—maybe gas pressure as heat accumulates—I don’t know. It’s a good idea, and we can work out details later. The real question, if it’s basically right, is what period we can expect? Also, if the dam behind us does go down again, what will keep us from being washed downstream toward whatever reservoir this geyser uses? We’d have to claw your boat out against quite a current and against the wind.”

  “We could leave and build another, supposing there are animals on this island big enough to provide bone and skin. Or we could take this one apart, get the pieces to safety and rebuild it at our leisure.”

  “Would that be possible? What if the river came in while we had it too far apart to float but not carried to safety?”

  He paused in thought for a moment. “How about getting it upright and floatable and then waiting through a cycle of this thing—or at least long enough to suggest the cycle will be too long for us. If the river comes in, we can’t fight it, but I should think you could guide us to one side and ground there, or anchor. Then we’d know we were close to a safe spot, and we’d know about how long we’d have to do the dismantling and rebuilding. Can you stand the heat here, just waiting?”

  “As long as the wind blows, yes. The sand is uncomfortable. but once the boat is level I can stay in that. I can’t say your plan really satisfies me, but I can think of nothing better. Let’s get on with the digging. What’s this hole you made, with liquid in the bottom? Wasn’t there enough in the boat already?”

  Cunningham was slow to react. “I noticed how quickly the liquid soaked into the sand and was trying to find how far down the table was. I still don’t see how it disappears so fast. I wish I knew the viscosity of ammonia—but even if it’s ten or a hundred times that of water, where did—What? Did you say there is liquid in the hole?”

  “Yes. Look.” Cunningham shone his flash downward. The well had mushroomed at the bottom, like the holes he had dug in an Earthly beach so long ago, as sand from the walls settled into the liquid to form a loose slurry. As he watched, another lump fell and lost its identity. He reached down with his gloved hand and scooped up some of the sand-and-liquid mixture, bringing it and his face both toward the light. “It’s warm, even for me!” he exclaimed.

  T’Nekku extended a hand toward it, then withdrew the member in startled haste, ejaculating an indescribable sound.

  “What a stink! That’s not sea-ammonia! What do you have there, anyway?”

  The man looked up, frowning. “It’s not? You’re sure?”

  “I never dipped a finger into a smell like that in my life, and I will never willingly do it again!”

  Cunningham thought for half a minute. Then he got to his feet as quickly as the gravity permitted and shuffled hastily around the bow toward his specimen containers, still cupping the offensive stuff in his hand. He called back over his shoulder, “Dig like mad! Get this boat upright! And when we’ve managed that, keep on digging—I want to see what’s under this sand!”

  Two hours later and a mile offshore, with the beginning flickers of lightning playing on the looming cloud, Cunningham spoke more calmly.

  “It all makes perfectly good sense, though I wish we’d had more time to dig. I’m sure I know what we would have found. I was just being trapped by my own prejudices, as usual. I was looking for microscopic life which could fix Omituinen’s atmospheric nitrogen and produce the basic food compounds which you find so distasteful in concentrated form. I’d be surprised at that if I hadn’t had to live on straight amino acids for a while, once. When I saw the lightning, I was sure its high-energy quanta must b
e the key. But I didn’t stop to think how little of the total available energy was going into that lightning, and what a big advantage would be possessed by a life form able to use the heat directly, for anabolism. I just never thought of the possibility of a single huge plant underlying—practically forming—the island. I had to be slammed on the nose—and underfoot—by it. The geyser idea was good but left out some facts that needed explaining.”

  “I suppose you know what you’re talking about, and that awful-smelling stuff is what I basically live on,” rumbled ‘T’Nekku, “but I’ll keep taking it in meat, I think. I still don’t see, though, what led you to think of a single big creature, even when the food appeared in that well. “I can see now how it must have got there. The creature must be only a little way down, to take in ammonia from the river so fast and get the waste products back so quickly—but why a single creature? Why not millions of the little things you expected, living among the sand grains?”

  The man smiled. “It wasn’t the stuff in the hole. Then is a process carried out by many organisms—though not, in my experience, by plants—which you would have no way of knowing about. You get all your food chemically by eating and drinking. It was the changing height of the ground, alternately raising and lowering the sandbar which shut us off from the sea, which was the real clue. I’m afraid I never explained breathing to you.”

  He did.

  “It does make sense,” the ‘Tuinainen admitted. “This would mean, then, that every hot place in the world is surrounded by a creature of this sort, living on the heat and putting out chemicals which are food for real people.”

  “Possibly.” Cunningham was hesitant as a new thought struck him. “I can’t tell, or more than guess, whether the others would be just like this one. Maybe—hmmm. It’s hard to say whether the word species would mean anything in this connection. Maybe each one developed individually—or from cells shed by others—but modified as it developed. Plants differ in individual characteristics more than animals, at least on worlds I know . . .” His voice trailed off, and he thought silently for a minute or two.