He woke early, and for some reason his first thought was: The wind has died down. Then he remembered Aniel and, with some discomfort, his fantastic visions of the night before, on the borderline of sleep. He lay there a good while before coming to the somewhat reassuring conclusion that they had not been conscious fantasies, even though, unlike in a dream, they must have had some encouragement, however little and unwilled, from him. But why was he sweating such psychological subtleties? He raised himself up on his elbow and listened: dead silence. He slid back the shutter of the little port beside his head, saw through the cloudy pane a pale dawn on the rise, and knew at once that he would be going up the mountain. He bolted out of bed to double-check the common room. No robot.
The others were already up. Over breakfast, as if the matter were already settled, Krull said it was time to get a move on, that the Ampère was due in before nightfall and they would need an hour and a half, minimum, for breaking camp. He neglected to say why the urgency, whether it was the missing data or the absent Aniel.
Pirx ate enough to make up for the night before and said nothing the whole meal. The others were still working on their coffee when he got up and, after rummaging in his duffel bag, took out a spool of white nylon, a hammer, and a few pitons; on second thought, he made room in his backpack for his climbing boots—just in case.
They went out into the still-unlit dawn. The sky was drained of stars, colorless. A heavy violet-gray, stagnant and bone-bracing, hugged ground, faces, air; the mountains to the north were a black mass, solidified in murk; the southern ridge, the one closest to them, its peaks brushed with a swatch of strident orange, stood silhouetted like a molded mask with blurred, runny features. The distant, unreal glare caught the plumes of breath billowing from their mouths—despite the thinner atmosphere, breathing was easy. They pulled up on the plateau’s outer rim as the stunted vegetation, dingy-brown in the halflight between retreating night and advancing day, yielded to a barren landscape. Before them stretched a rock-littered moraine that shimmered as if under water. A few hundred meters higher, a wind blew up, bracing them with its brisk gusts. They climbed, clearing with ease the smaller boulders, scaling the larger ones, occasionally to the sound of one rock slab nudging against another, of a piece of detritus, dislodged by a boot, cascading down with a rippling echo. The intermittent squeak of a shoulder strap or a metal fitting lent their expedition a certain esprit de corps, the professional air of a mountaineering party. Pirx went second, behind Massena. It was still too dark to discern the outline of the far walls; time and again, with his attention entirely at the mercy of his straining eyes, his absent-mindedly placed foot slipped, as if he was intent on distracting himself, not only from the terrain, but also from himself, from his qualms. Shutting out all thought of Aniel, he immersed his concentration in this land of eternal rock, of perfect indifference, which only man’s imagination had invested with horror and the thrill of adventure.
It was a planet with sharply defined seasons. Hardly had they landed at the tail end of summer when an alpine autumn, lush with reds and golds, began fading in the valleys. Yet even though leaves were borne on the foam of rushing streams, the sun was still warm—on cloudless days, even sweltering—on the tableland. Only the thickening fog signaled the approach of snow and frost. But by then the planet would be deserted, and to Pirx the prospect of that consummate wasteland cast in white suddenly seemed desirable beyond all else.
The brightening, so gradual as to be imperceptible, with every step brought a new detail of the landscape into prominence. The sky had taken on that pallor between night and day—dawnless, stark, hushed, as if hermetically sealed in a sphere of cooling glass. A little farther up, they passed through a fog bank, its wispy strands clinging to the ground, and after they emerged Pirx saw their destination, still untouched by sunlight but now at least whitened by the dawn: a rock-ribbed buttress that reached up to the main ridge, up to where, a few hundred meters higher, its twin peak, the most prominent, loomed blackly. At one point the rib flared out into a troughlike basin; in this saddle Aniel had conducted his last survey.
It was a straightforward ascent and descent—no surprises, no crevasses, nothing but gray scree dappled with chick-yellow mildew. As he trod nimbly from one clattering rock pile to another, Pirx fixed on the black wall leaning against the sky and, perhaps to distract himself, imagined he was making an ordinary ascent Earthside. Suddenly these crags seemed quite natural to him, the illusion of a conquest in the making rendered even more compelling by their vertical climb toward the notched spine heaving up out of the scree. The buttress ran one-third of the way up the face before disintegrating in a riot of wedged slabs, whence a sheer rock face shot straight up like a flight arrested. A hundred meters higher, the face was cleaved by a vein of diabase—red-tinted, brighter than granite—that bulged above the surface and snaked across the flank, like a trail of varying width.
Pirx’s eyes were held in thrall by the summit’s sublime outline, though as they climbed higher, and, as was usual with a mountain viewed from below, it receded farther, and the abrupt foreshortenings broke it up into a series of overlapping planes, the base lost its former flatness, and columns sprang up—a wealth of faults, shelves, aimlessly winding chimneys, a chaos of old fissures, an anarchy of cluttered accretion, momentarily illumined by the top now gilded by the sun’s first rays, fixed and strangely placid, then once more swallowed by shadow. Pirx could not tear his eyes from it, from this colossus that even on Earth would have commanded respect, challenging the climber with that rudely jutting vein of diabase. The stretch from there to the gold-plated summit looked short and easy compared with the overhangs, especially the largest of them, whose lower edge glistened with ice or moisture, reddish-black, like congealed blood.
Pirx let his imagination run wild, conjuring up not the cliff of some anonymous highland under a foreign sun, but a mountain surrounded by a lore of assaults and reverses, somehow distinct, unique, like a familiar face whose every wrinkle and scar contained a history of its own. Its sinewy, snakelike cracks on the border of visibility, its dark, threadlike ledges, its shallow grooves might have constituted the highest point achieved in a series of attempts, the sites of prolonged bivouacs, of silent reckonings, of momentous assaults and humiliating defeats, disasters sustained even though every variety of tactical and technical gimmick was applied. A mountain so bound up with the fate of man that every climber vanquished by it came back again and again, always with the same store of faith and hope in victory, bringing to each successive pass a new fixed route with which to storm the petrified relief. It could have been a wall with a history of detours, flanking movements, each with its own chronicle of successes and victims, documented by photos bearing the dotted lines of trails, little x’s marking the highest ascent… Pirx summoned this fantasy with the greatest of ease, actually astonished that it was not the real thing.
Massena walked ahead of him, slightly stooped, in a light whose growing limpidity annulled all illusion of an easy ascent, this illusion of easy access and safe passage having been fostered by the bluish haze that had peacefully engulfed every fragment of the glimmering cliff. The day, raw and full, had caught up with them; their shadows, exaggeratedly large, rolled and pitched under the ridge of the alluvial cone. The talus was fed by two couloirs, brimming with night, and the detritus ran straight up before being consumed by unrelieved black.
The massif could no longer be encompassed by the eye. Proportions had shifted, and the wall, similar to any other from a distance, now revealed its unique topography, its singular configuration. Bellying outward was a mighty buttress that rose out of a tangle of slab and plate, shot up, swelled, and spread until it obscured everything else, to stand alone, encircled by the dank gloom of places never touched by light. They had just stepped onto a patch of permanent snow, its surface strewn with the remnants of flying debris, when Massena began to slacken his pace, then finally stopped, as if distracted by some noise. Pirx, who was the first t
o catch up with him, saw him make a tapping gesture on his ear, the one fitted with the olive-sized microphone, and immediately grasped its meaning.
“Any sign of him?”
Massena nodded and brought the metal-detector rod up close to the dirty, snow-crusted surface. The soles of Aniel’s boots were impregnated with a radioactive isotope; the Geiger counter had picked up his trail. Though the trail was still alive from the day before, there was no way to read any direction in it—whether deposited on the robot’s way up, or back. But at least they knew they were on the right track. From here on in, they took their time.
The dark buttress should have loomed just ahead, but Pirx knew how easy it was to misjudge distances in the mountains. They climbed higher, above the snowline and rubble, proceeding along an older, smaller ridge notched with rounded pinnacles, and in the dead silence Pirx thought—wishful thinking?—he could hear Massena’s earphones crackling. Intermittently, Massena would stop, fan the air with the end of the aluminum rod, lower it until it nearly touched the rock, trace loops and figure eights like a magician, then, relocating the trail, move on. As they neared Aniel’s surveying site, Pirx scoured the area for any signs of the missing robot.
The face was deserted. The easiest part of the route was now behind them; before them towered a series of slabs that cropped up from the foot of the buttress at diverse inclinations. The whole resembled a gigantic cross-section of the wall’s strata, the partly exposed interior revealing the core’s oldest formation, fissured in places under the sheer rock mass lifting several kilometers up into the sky. Another forty or a hundred paces and—an impasse.
Massena worked in a circle, waving the end of the detector rod, squinting—his sunglasses were already propped up on his forehead—rotating aimlessly, expressionless, before stopping in his tracks a dozen or so meters away.
“He was here quite a while.”
“How can you tell?”
Massena shrugged, plucked the olive from his ear, and handed Pirx the earphone dangling on its thin connecting wire. Then Pirx heard it for himself, a twittering and screeching that at times rose to a whining plaint. The rock face was devoid of any prints or traces—nothing but that unremitting sound filling the skull with its strident crackling, the intensity of which was such that nearly every millimeter of rock testified to the robot’s prolonged and diligent presence. Gradually Pirx came to discern a certain logic in the apparent chaos: Aniel had apparently come up by the same route they had taken, set up the tripod, got the camera into position, and circled it several times in the process of surveying and photographing, even shifting it in search of the most favorable observation points. Right, that made sense. But then what?
Pirx began moving out concentrically, spiral-fashion, in hope of picking up his centripetal trail, but none of the trails led back to the starting point. Much as if Aniel had retraced his every step, which did not seem likely: not being equipped with a gamma-ray counter, he could hardly have reconstructed his return route to within a few centimeters. Krull made some comment to Massena which the circling Pirx ignored, for his attention was diverted by a sound, brief but distinct, transmitted by his earphones. He began backtracking, almost millimeter by millimeter. Here—I’m sure it was here. Staring intently, he scanned the terrain, squinting the better to concentrate on the whining. The rediscovered trail lay at the base of the cliff, as if, instead of taking the trail campward, the robot had headed straight for the vertical buttress.
That’s odd. What could have lured him there?
Pirx scouted around for a follow-up to the trail, but the boulders were mute; unable to divine Aniel’s footing on the next step, he had to canvass all the fissured slabs piled at the base of the buttress. He finally found it, some five meters away from the previous one. Why such a long jump? Again he backtracked, and a moment later picked up the missing step: the robot had simply hopped from one rock to another.
Pirx was still stooping and gracefully flourishing the rod when he was jolted by an explosion in his head—by a crackling in his earphones loud enough to make him wince. He peered behind a rock table and went numb. Wedged between two rocks so that it lay hidden at the bottom of a natural hollow was the surveying apparatus, along with the still camera, both intact. Propped up against a rock on the other side was Aniel’s backpack, unbuckled but unemptied. Pirx called out to the others. They came on the run and were as dumbfounded as he by the discovery. Immediately Krull checked the cassettes: surveying data complete, no repeat necessary. But that still left unsolved the mystery of Aniel’s whereabouts. Massena cupped his mouth and hollered several times in succession; as they listened to the distant echo bouncing off the rock, Pirx cringed, because it had the ring of a rescue call in the mountains. The intellectronician took from his pocket a flat cassette housing a transmitter, squatted, and began paging the robot by his call numbers, but his gestures made it plain that he did this more from duty than conviction. Meanwhile Pirx, who kept combing the area for more radioactivity, was bewildered by the profusion of traces resonating in his headset. Here, too, the robot had lingered. When at last he had established the perimeters of the robot’s movements, he began a systematic search in hope of finding a new lead to steer him in the right direction.
Pirx described a full circle until he was back under the buttress. A cleft, roughly one and a half meters wide, its bottom littered with tiny, sharp-edged ejecta, yawned between the shelf that supported him and the sheer wall opposite. Pirx probed the near side—silence. A riddle, as incomprehensible as it was inescapable: all indications were that Aniel had virtually melted into thin air. While the others conferred in subdued voices behind him, Pirx slowly craned his head and for the first time took stock of the steeply rising face at close range. The wall’s stony silence summoned him with uncanny force, but the summons was more like a beckoning, outstretched hand—and instantly the certitude of acceptance, the recognition that the challenge would have to be met, was born in him.
Purely by instinct, his eyes sought out the first holds; they looked solid. One long, carefully executed step to cross the gap, first foothold on that tiny but sturdy-looking ledge, then a diagonal ascent along that perfectly even rift that opened a few meters higher into a shallow crevasse… For some reason, unknown even to himself, Pirx lifted the rod, arched his body as far as he could, and aimed it at the rock ledge on the far side of the cleft. His earphones responded. To be on the safe side, he repeated the maneuver, fighting to keep his balance—he was practically suspended in midair—and again heard a crackle. That cinched it. He rejoined the others.
“He went up,” Pirx said matter-of-factly, pointing toward the wall. Krull did a double take, while Massena asked:
“Went up? What for?”
“Search me,” replied Pirx with seeming apathy. “Check for yourself.”
Massena, rashly thinking that Pirx had made a mistake, conducted his own probe and was soon convinced. Aniel had most definitely spanned the gap and moved out along the partly fissured wall—buttress-bound.
Consternation reigned. Krull postulated that the robot had malfunctioned after the survey, that he had become “deprogrammed.” Impossible, countered Massena; the positioning of the surveying gear and the backpack was too deliberate; it looked too suspiciously like a jettisoning prior to attempting a rugged ascent—no, something must have happened to make him go up there.
Pirx held his peace. Secretly he had already made up his mind to scale the wall, with or without the others. Krull was out of the picture, anyway; this was a job for a professional, and a damned good one at that. Massena had done a fair bit of climbing—or so he had said once in Pirx’s presence—enough, at least, to know the ABC’s of belaying. When the other two were finished, Pirx made his intention known. Was Massena willing to team up?
Krull immediately objected. It was against regs to take risks; they had to be mustered for that afternoon’s pick-up; the camp still had to be broken, their gear to be packed. They had their data now, didn’t t
hey? The robot had simply malfunctioned, so why not chalk it up and explain all the circumstances in the final report…
“Are you saying we should just cut out and leave him here?” inquired Pirx.
His subdued tone obviously unnerved Krull, who, visibly restraining himself, answered that the report would give a complete rundown of the facts, along with individual comments by the crew, and a statement as to probable cause—short-circuiting of the memory mnestrones, directional-motivation circuit, or desynchronization.
Massena pointed out that none of those was possible, since Aniel didn’t run on mnestrones but on a homogeneous, monocrystalline system, molecularly grown from supercold diamagnetic solutions vestigially doped with isotopic contaminants.
It was plainly a put-down, Massena’s way of telling the cosmographer that he was talking through his hat. Pirx played deaf. Turning his back on them, he again surveyed the base, but with a difference: this time it was not a fantasy but the real thing. And although he somehow sensed the impropriety of it, he now exulted over the prospect of a climb.
Massena, probably just to spite Krull, took Pirx up on Ms offer. Pirx listened with only one ear to Massena’s spiel about how they owed it to themselves to solve the riddle, how they could hardly go back without investigating something urgent and mysterious enough to provoke such an unexpected reaction in a robot, and how even if there was only a thousand-to-one chance of ascertaining the cause, it was well worth the risk.
More Tales of Pirx the Pilot Page 4
