The young officer glanced quickly at the instrument he had previously ignored. Then he said relievedly:
“Not this time, sir. The communicator's turned on all right."
Bordman said:
“Do you think they might be calling you without shifting from ship-frequency? They were talking to the ship, you know."
“I'll try, sir."
The young man leaned forward and switched to ship-band adjustment of the communicator. Different wave-bands, naturally, were used between the ship and shore, and a ship and its own boats. A booming carrier wave came on instantly. The young officer hastily turned down the volume and words became distinguishable.
“...What the devil's the matter with you? Acknowledge!"
The young officer gulped. Bordman said mildly:
“Since he ranks you, just say ‘sorry, sir.’”
“S-sorry, sir,” said Barnes into the microphone.
“Sorry?” snapped the voice from the ground. “I've been calling for five minutes! Your skipper will hear about this! I shall—"
Bordman pulled the microphone before him.
“My name is Bordman,” he observed. “I am waiting for instructions to land. My pilot has been listening on boat-frequency, as was proper. You appear to be calling us on an improper channel. Really—"
There was stricken silence. Then babbled apologies from the speaker. Bordman smiled faintly at young Barnes.
“It's quite all right. Let's forget it now. But will you give my pilot his instructions?"
The voice said with strained formality:
“You're to be brought down by landing-grid, sir. Rocket-landings have been ruled non-permitted by the Sector Chief himself, sir. But we are already landing one boat, sir. Senior Officer Werner is being brought in now, sir. His boat is still two diameters out, sir, and it will take us nearly an hour to get him down without extreme discomfort, sir."
“Then we'll wait,” said Bordman. “Hm. Call us again before you start hunting us with the landing-beam. My pilot has a rather promising idea. And will you call us on the proper frequency then, please?"
The voice aground said unhappily, “Yes, sir. Certainly, sir."
The carrier-wave hum stopped. Young Barnes said gratefully:
“Thank you, sir! Hell hath no fury like a ranking officer caught in a blunder! He'd have twisted my tail for his mistake, sir, and it could have been bad!” Then he paused. He said uneasily. “But—beg pardon, sir. I haven't any promising ideas. Not that I know of!"
“You have an hour to develop one,” Bordman told him.
Internally, Bordman was startled. There were few occasions on which even one Senior Officer was called in to Sector Headquarters. Interstellar distances being what they were, and thirty light-speeds being practically the best available, Senior Officers necessarily acted pretty much as independent authorities. To call one man in meant all his other work had to go by the board for a matter of months. But two! And Werner?
Werner was getting to ground first. If there was something serious ashore, Werner would make a great point of arriving first, even if only by hours. A keen sort of person in giving the right impression. He'd risen in the Service faster than Bordman. The other Lawlor field would have been his ship getting out of the way.
The young officer at his elbow fidgeted.
“Beg pardon, sir. What sort of idea should I develop, sir? I'm not sure I understand—"
“It's rather annoying to have to stay parked in free fall,” said Bordman patiently. “And it's always a good practice to review annoying situations and see if they can be bettered."
Barnes’ forehead wrinkled.
“We could land much quicker on rockets, sir. And even when the landing-grid reaches out for us, they'll have to handle us very cautiously or they'd break our necks, since we've no gravity coils."
Bordman nodded. Barnes was thinking straight enough, but it takes young officers a long time to think of thinking straight. They have to obey so many orders unquestioningly that they tend to stop doing anything else. Yet at each rise in grade some slight trace of increased capacity to think is required. In order to reach really high rank, an officer has to be capable of thinking which simply isn't possible unless he's kept in practice on the way up.
Young Barnes looked up, startled.
“Look here, sir!” he said, surprised. “If it takes them an hour to let down Senior Officer Werner from two planetary diameters, it'll take much longer to let us down from out here!"
“True,” said Bordman.
“And you don't want to spend three hours descending, sir, after waiting an hour for him!"
“I don't,” admitted Bordman. He could have given orders, of course. But if a junior officer was spurred to the practice of thinking, it meant that some day he'd be a better senior officer. And Bordman knew how desperately few men were really adequate for high authority. Anything that could be done to increase the number—
Bordman nodded again.
“So by the time they've got that other boat landed—why—I can use rockets and get down to one diameter myself, sir! And they can lock onto us there and let us down a few thousand miles only. So we can get to ground half an hour after the other boat's down instead of four hours from now."
“Just so,” agreed Bordman. “At a cost of little thought and a little fuel. You have a promising idea after all, Lieutenant. Suppose you carry it out?"
Young Barnes glanced at Bordman's safety-strap. He threw over the fuel-ready lever and conscientiously waited the few seconds for the first molecules of fuel to be catalyzed cold. Once firing started, they'd be warmed to detonation-readiness in the last few millimeters of the injection-gap.
“Firing, sir,” he said respectfully.
There was the curious sound of a rocket blasting in emptiness, when the sound is conveyed only by the rocket-tube's metal. There was the smooth, pushing sensation of acceleration. They tiny ship's boat swung and aimed down at the planet. Lieutenant Barnes leaned forward and punched the ship's computer.
“I hope you'll excuse me, sir,” he said. “I should have thought that out myself without prompting. But problems like this don't turn up very often, sir. As a rule it's wisest to follow precedents as if they were orders."
Bordman said dryly:
“To be sure! But one reason for the existence of junior officers is the fact that some day there will have to be new senior ones."
Barnes considered. Then he said surprisedly:
“I never thought of it that way, sir. Thank you."
He continued to punch the computer keys, frowning. Bordman relaxed in his seat, held there by the gentle acceleration and the belt. He'd had nothing by which to judge the reason for his summoning to Headquarters. He had very little now. But there was trouble of some sort down below. Two senior officers dragged from their own work. Werner now.... Bordman preferred not to estimate Werner. He disliked the man, and would be biased. But he was able, though definitely on the make. And there was himself. They'd been called to a headquarters where no ship was to be landed by landing-grid, nor any rocket to come to ground. A landing-grid could pluck a ship out of space ten planet-diameters out, and draw it with gentle violence shoreward, and land it lightly as a feather. A landing-grid could take the heaviest, loaded freighter and stop it in orbit and bring it down at eight gravities. But the one below wouldn't land even a tiny Survey ship! And a landing-boat was forbidden to come down on its rockets!
Bordman arranged those items in his mind. He knew the planet below, of course. When he got his Senior rating, he'd spent six months at Headquarters learning procedures and practices proper to his increased authority. There was one inhabitable island, two hundred miles long and possibly forty wide. There was no other useable ground outside the Arctic. The one occupied island had gigantic sheer cliffs on its windward side, where a great slab of bedrock had split along some submarine fault and tilted upward above the surface. Those cliffs were four thousand feet high, and from them the island
sloped very gently and very gradually until its leeward shore slipped under the restless sea. Sector Headquarters had been placed here because it seemed that civilians would not want to colonize so limited a world. But there were citizens, because there was Headquarters. And now every inch of ground was cultivated, and there was irrigation and intensive farming and some hydroponic establishments. However, Sector Headquarters included a vast reserve area on which a space-fleet might be marshaled in case of need. The overcrowded civilians were bitter because of the great uncultivated area the Survey needed for storage and possible emergency use. Even when Bordman was here, years back, there was bitterness because the Survey crowded the civil economy which had been based on it.
Bordman considered all these items, and came to an uncomfortable conclusion. Presently he looked up. The planet loomed larger. Much larger.
“I think you'd better lose all planet-ward velocity before we hook on,” he observed. “The landing-grid crew might have trouble focussing on us so close if we're moving."
“Yes, sir,” said the young officer.
“There's some sort of merry hell below,” said Bordman. “It looks bad that they won't let a ship come down by grid. It looks worse that they won't let this one land on its rockets.” He paused. “I doubt they'll risk lifting us off again."
Young Barnes finished his computations. He looked satisfied. He glanced at the now-gigantic planet below, and deftly adjusted the course of the tiny boat. Then he jerked his head around.
“Excuse me, sir. Did you say we mightn't be able to lift off again?"
“I could almost predict that we won't,” said Bordman.
“Would you—could you say why, sir?"
“They don't want landings. The trouble is here. If they don't want landings, they won't want launchings. Werner and I were sent for, so presumably we're needed. But apparently there's uneasiness about even our landing. They won't send us off again. I suspect—"
The loud-speaker said tinnily:
“Calling boat for landing-grid! Calling boat for landing-grid!"
“Come in,” said Barnes, looking uneasily at Bordman.
“Correct your course!” commanded the voice. “You are not to land on rockets under any circumstances! This is an order from the Senior Chief himself. Stand off! We will be ready to lock on and land you gently in about fifteen minutes. But meanwhile, stand off!"
“Yes, sir,” said Barnes, looking uneasily at Bordman.
Bordman reached over and took the microphone.
“Bordman speaking,” he said. “I'd like information. What's the trouble down there that we can't use our rockets?"
“Rockets are noisy, sir. Even boat-rockets. We have orders to eliminate all physical vibration possible, sir. But I am ordered not to give details on a transmitter, sir."
“I sign off,” said Bordman, dryly.
He pushed the microphone away. He deplored his own lack of aggressiveness. Werner, now, would have pulled his rank and insisted on being informed. But Bordman couldn't help believing that there was a reason for orders that overruled his own.
The young officer swung the rocket end-for-end. The sensation of pressure against the back of Bordman's seat increased.
Minutes later, the speaker said.
“Grid to boat. Prepare for lock-on."
“Ready, sir,” said Barnes.
The small boat shuddered and leaped crazily. It spun. It oscillated violently through seconds-long arcs in emptiness. Very gradually the oscillations died. There was a momentary sensation of the faint tugging of planetary weight, which is somehow subtly different from the feel of artificial gravity. Then the cosmos turned upside down as the boat was drawn swiftly toward the watery planet below it.
Some minutes later, young Barnes spoke:
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said apologetically. “I must be stupid, sir, but I can't imagine any reason why vibrations or noises should make any difference on a planet. How could it do harm?"
“This is an ocean-planet,” said Bordman. “It might make people drown."
The young officer flushed and turned his head away. And Bordman reflected that the young were always sensitive. But he did not speak again. When they landed in the spidery, half-mile-high landing-grid, Barnes would find out whether he was right or not.
He did. And Bordman was right. The people on Canna III were anxious to avoid vibrations because they were afraid of drowning.
Their fears seemed to be rather well-founded.
* * * *
Three hours after landing, Bordman moved gingerly over grayish muddy rock, with a four-thousand-foot sheer drop some twenty yards away. The ragged edge of a cliff fell straight down for the better part of a mile. Far below, the sea rippled gently. Bordman saw a long, long line of boats moving slowly out to sea. They towed something between them which reached from boat to boat in exaggerated catenary curves. The boats moved in line abreast straight out from the cliffs, towing this floating, curved thing between them.
Bordman regarded them for a moment and then inspected the graying mud underfoot. He lifted his eyes to the inland side of this peculiar stretch of mountainside muddiness. There was a mast on the rock not far away. It held up what looked like a vision camera.
Young Barnes said:
“Excuse me, sir. What are those boats doing?"
“They're towing an oil-slick to sea,” said Bordman absently, “by towing a floating line of some sort between them. There isn't enough oil to maintain the slick, and it's blown landward. So they tow it out to sea again. It holds down the seas. Every time, of course, they lose some of it."
“But—"
“There are trade-winds,” said Bordman, not looking to seaward at all. “They always blow in the same direction, nearly. They blow three-quarters of the way around the planet, and they build up seas as they blow. Normally, the swells that pound against the cliff, here, will be a hundred feet and more from trough to crest. They'll throw spray ten times that high, of course, and once when I was here before, spray came over the cliff-tops. The impacts of the waves are—heavy. In a storm, if you put your ear to the ground on the leeward shore, you can hear the waves smash against these cliffs. It's vibration."
Barnes looked uneasily at the cliff's edge and the line of boats pushing over an ocean whose waves seemed less than ripples from nearly a mile above them. But the line of boats was incredibly long. It was twenty miles in length at the least.
“The slick holds down the waves,” Barnes guessed. “It works best in deep water, I believe. The ancients knew it. Oil on the waters.” He considered. “Working hard to prevent vibrations! Are they really so dangerous, sir?"
Bordman nodded inland. A quarter mile from the edge of the cliff there was a peculiar, broken, riven rampart of soil. It might have been forty feet high, once. Now it was shattered and cracked. It had the look of having been pulled away from where it was withdrawn. There were vertical breaks in its edges and broken-off masses left behind. At one place, a clump of perhaps a quarter-acre had not followed the rest, and trees leaned drunkenly from its top, and at the edge had fallen outward. All along the top of the stone cliff as far as the eye could see there was this singular retreat of soil and vegetation from the cliff's edge.
Bordman stopped and picked up a bit of the mud underfoot. He rubbed it between his fingers. It yielded like modeling clay. He dipped a finger into a gray, greasy-seeming puddle. He looked at the thick liquid on his finger and then rubbed it against his other palm. Young Barnes duplicated this last action.
“It feels soapy, sir!” he said blankly. “Like wet soap!"
“Yes,” said Bordman. “That's the first problem here."
He turned to a ground-service Survey private, and jerked his head along the coastline.
“How much have other places slipped?"
“Anywhere from this much, sir,” said the private, “to two miles and upward. There's one place where it's moving at a regular rate. Four inches an hour, sir. It was three-and-a-half yeste
rday."
Bordman nodded.
“Hm. We'll go back to Headquarters. Nasty business!"
He plodded over the messy footing toward the vehicle which had brought him here. It was not an ordinary ground-car. Instead of wires or caterwheels, it rolled upon flaccid, partly-inflated five-foot rollers. They would be completely unaffected by roughness or slipperiness of terrain and if the vehicle fell overboard it would float. It was thickly coated with the gray mud from the cliff-top.
As he moved along, Bordman was able to see the pattern of the rock underneath the mud. It was curiously contorted, like something that had curdled rather than cooled. And, as a matter of fact, it was believed to have solidified slowly under water at such monstrous pressure that even molten rock could not make it burst into steam. But it was above-water now.
Bordman climbed into the vehicle, and Barnes followed him. The bolster-truck turned and moved toward the broken barrier of earth. Its five-foot flabby rollers seemed rather to flow over than surmount obstacles. Great lumps of drier dirt dented them and did not disintegrate. There were no stones.
Bordman frowned to himself. The bolster-truck more or less flowed up the crumbling, inexplicably drawing-back mass of soil. Atop it, things looked almost normal. Almost. There was a highway leading away from the cliff. At first glance it seemed perfect. But it was cracked down the middle for a hundred yards, and then the crack meandered off to the side and was gone. There was a great tree, which leaned drunkenly. A mile along the roadway its surface buckled as if something had pressed irresistibly upward from below. The truck rolled over the break.
It was notable that the motion of the truck was utterly smooth. It made no vibration at all. But even so it slowed before it moved through a place where buildings—houses and a shop or two—clustered closely together on each side of the road.
There were people in and about the house, but they were doing nothing at all. Some of them stared at the Survey truck with hostility. Some others deliberately turned their backs to it. There were vehicles out of shelter and ready to be used, but none was moving. All were pointed in the direction from which the bolster-truck had come.
The Planet Explorer Page 16
