Alan E. Nourse

by Trouble on Titan

  "This isn't a supply ship."

  "Then what is it?"

  The Colonel smiled. "Call it an informal check on production in the mines, if you like," he said.

  Anson Torm's face darkened. "So you're the trouble shooter that Security was going to send?"

  "I'm representing the Earth Security Commission, yes."

  Slowly the big man began to peel off his pressure suit. His clothing was coarse, with a multitude of patches and careful repairs, and his heavy face was wrinkled with worry and strain. But there was something arresting about the man's face, something that brought a flicker of warmth to Tuck's mind. Anson Torm looked like a powerful man, and not only in terms of physical strength. There was a light of pride in his eyes, a curious air of fierce bravery about him that the coarsest of clothing could not diminish. He stepped from the suit like a man completely in command of himself and of all those around him, and when he turned to the Colonel, it was as if he were meeting the Security Commission President on his own grounds. "All right—I'm representing the interests of the Titan colonists," he said. "I suggest that we go where we can talk, and without delay. I also suggest that you, sir, talk more sensibly than the last few representatives of Earth Security—"

  The Colonel's eyebrows went up in surprise. "You mean you've talked to Security men before this?"

  "Until my tongue froze," Anson Torm replied coldly. "You must remember that I've lived in this colony for a very long time. This time, I think it would be wise for us to reach an understanding, and reach it fast. Because if your ship leaves Titan without an agreement that meets with the satisfaction of the Titan colonists, I am afraid Earth has received her last cargo of ruthenium."

  The Colonel's eyes widened. "You mean your people are refusing to work the mines?"

  "Not at all," said the Titan leader. He looked at the Colonel, and his voice was heavy with weariness. "I mean that there will be no mines left for my people to work."

  Chapter 4 " There's Trouble at the Co/ony/"

  F

  OR A MOMENT they stood in shocked silence, staring at the big man. The Colonel's face was pale, and all traces of his smile had fled. "If that was meant as a threat, I'm afraid you're talking to the wrong man," he said quietly. "I'm not here to listen to threats. I'm here to collect facts, and to draw my own conclusions on the basis of those facts."

  Anson Torm was shaking his head. "That was not a threat. It was a simple statement of fact. I don't care to see the mines shut down—I'll do everything in my power to keep them open.That's why I'm here, to talk to you before you go on to the colony." He eyed Tuck and the pilot with frank hostility. "I'd prefer to talk privately."

  The Colonel hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he nodded. "Would you mind, Tuck? Perhaps you could get the gear ready to go back to the colony." He turned to the pilot. "Tuck and I will plan to go to the colony after I've talked with Mr. Torm. I'd like you and your crew to stay with the ship, at least for the time being. And we'd rather not be disturbed by anyone for a while."

  Tuck made his way down the corridor toward the sleeping quarters, trying to make some sense from the colony leader's words. He was shocked by the big man's appearance far more than he realized. Granted that he hadn't been entirely sure of what to expect a colonist to look like—he had had mental pictures of crafty, shifty-eyed, bitter-faced people, more animal than human—after all, that was the generally accepted picture back home. But Anson Torm's cold blue eyes could hardly have been called shifty, and far from giving a crafty appearance, he had struck Tuck as the sort of man who would prefer sharp conflict to any kind of trickery. Almost shamefacedly, Tuck realized that he had liked the big man on sight, liked him without any basis whatsoever. Yet Torm, he realized, was a Titan colonist with a record for treachery a mile long; no matter how he looked, he couldn't be trusted.

  Swiftly Tuck packed the great pressure-sealed bag that was to be taken back to the colony, impatient for the conference to end. He was eager to move, anxious to get out of the ship, to get his feet on the ground of this strange world. What would the colony be like, how could the people live under a plastic bubble?

  An idea struck him suddenly, and he hurried aft and poked his nose into the control room. The pilot was sitting at his desk, working on a pile of reports; he looked up and grinned when he saw Tuck. "Looking for something?"

  "Well—maybe. I just had an idea. Do we have pressure suits for the outside here on the ship?"

  "Of course.Specially made for the surface of Titan, with built-in heaters."

  "How about letting me go outside for a while? I'd like to go up on the ridge and see if I can see the colony."

  The pilot shrugged. "No harm in that." He stepped into the corridor, broke open one of the storage bins hanging from the overhead. The suit was bulky, well-padded, with the heating element and compressed oxygen tanks built into a compact unit on the back. "Ever been in one of these things?"

  "Oh, sure, I went out with the crew when we had to repair that sprung hull plate, on the way out here."

  "That's right. Well, then you know how to handle the palm controls for heat and air conditioning and all. Just remember, though—the oxygen supply will last for eight hours, but you'll probably get cold long before that. Keep an eye on the peripheral circulation gauge, and when it says your feet are getting cold, come in! It means your feet are getting cold, whether they feel cold or not. And don't hesitate to let out a loud yowl if something happens. If you rip that suit on the rocks, clamp down the section sealer, and scream bloody murder."

  Tuck clambered into the clumsy suit, adjusting his fingertips to the row of buttons on the palm, and made sure he could work the joints with ease. On the surface of Titan the suits were more necessary to keep out the cold and the poisonous atmosphere than to regulate body pressures, but without some care in handling the joints of the suit, he would soon be spread-eagled and helpless. Once securely inside, with die oxygen flow adjusted, he lumbered down the corridor into the lock, waved to the pilot, and dogged down the pressure hatches. The pumps whirred until the pressure registered "even" with the atmospheric pressure of the planetoid's surface; then he opened the outer hatch, and stepped onto the crane.

  When he stepped off onto the ground, a wonderful feeling of excitement struck him. For the first time, he was setting foot on another world, a world so alien to the warm, comfortable Earth he knew that it seemed impossible that the two could be in the same universe. This was a cruel, cold world, yet just five miles away was a little nucleus of the same warm Earth that he had left behind, a single oasis in a barren wilderness. Man could not live with the hostile cold of Titan's surface, but they could do the next best thing: adapt part of the surface to conditions they could live with. Slowly Tuck walked out on the flat crater floor, turned and looked back at the ship, standing like a slender silver finger against the dark blue sky. The white powder crunched under his feet as he walked, and rose in little whirlwinds around his legs, and though it was only two inches deep, he could feel the unearthly chill under his feet. Glancing down, he saw the frost already forming knee-high on the legs of his suit. But close to the skin of his feet he could feel the soft pads of the thermocouples, constantly registering the temperature of his feet. If the blood flow to his feet slowed below a critical level, the thermocouple would register a danger signal, the signal that all spacemen knew too well, which meant that they must return to the warmth of their ships or their feet would be frozen. Tuck shivered, even in the warmth of his suit. He'd wait until he had a half-track before he strayed too far.

  The floor of the crater was covered with small, jagged rocks; he carefully picked his way between them, moving off in the direction of the worn path of the half-track. Perhaps up over the first ridge he would be able to see the colony, if the terrain were smooth enough. The going was rough, but by following the ruts, he was able to make good time. These ruts had been worn by the heavy tread of the half-tracks for the past hundred and fifty years, ever since the colony was
built, and since the first of the semiannual supply ships had selected this crater as the closest landing place to the colony that would be safe. How could the colonists dare to close down the mines, even to make such threats, if their food and other living necessities must come by such a precarious pipe line from Earth? It seemed incredible to Tuck, as he clambered up the rugged pathway, but he had heard Anson Torm's words, and he had seen the paleness of his father's face. Whatever the answer, the mines were in danger of closing. And that, above all, they had to prevent.

  He had almost reached the top of the ridge when he suddenly froze in his tracks, staring at the large black rock in the path before him. Frantically he shook his head, then looked again, and his skin broke into a sweat. But there was no question about what he had seen. Just as he had started to pass it, the black rock had moved—

  Panic rose up in Tuck's throat, but he stood steady. Then it moved again, and Tuck recoiled in horror. It looked just like all the rest of the black rocks, but it slowly changed shape, and slithered down the grade a few inches, then stopped and lay motionless, like a black rock again. Even as Tuck watched it, he saw the bit of rock that lay under the thing dissolve away, and suck up into it, like ink into a sponge—

  And then Tuck remembered the paragraph on one of the microfilms he had read, describing these strange black creatures, an incredible sort of half-living thing with a silicon-based metabolism. The report had called them "clordelkus" and said they were quite harmless, but could dissolve away and suck up almost any kind of silicon rock. Tuck shuddered, starting up in the opposite direction from the creature. Harmless or not, it had given him a horrible start. For the first time he realized, almost with a shock, the true strangeness and desolation of the place. This was a harsh world—what could it mean to live here, actually live under a plastic bubble, with a cruel, barren, frozen world on all sides, just waiting for the seal to break? These colonists—how could they feel? How could anyone help but hate a life on such a wasteland, in an outpost so remote that contact with Earth could come but once or twice a year? How could anyone live here, and not become desperate after a while? Suddenly Tuck felt terribly alone. There were so many dangers, so many pitfalls, so many ways they might simply disappear on a world like this—

  He had started on toward the ridge again when the whine of a motor came to his ear. Suddenly, from over the ridge there was a flash of silver, and a tiny jet plane swooped in, extremely low, skimming through the thin atmosphere with an angry squeal. Tuck stared open-mouthed at the plane as it swung up, barely missing the ship, then made a great whining arc, and settled smoothly in, dropping like a graceful bird onto the smooth floor of the crater not fifteen yards from the crane. Almost immediately the cockpit swung open, and a space-suited figure clambered out, started swiftly for the crane of the Earth ship. Tuck turned and started back for the ship in alarm, moving as fast as his clumsy suit would allow. The plane was a curious-looking thing, hardly twenty feet long from air-scoop to jet, and was shaped short and squat, for all the world like a rocket lifeboat which had been clumsily rebuilt by an inexpert hand. Tuck stared at it in amazement. The exhaust had been so fragile and pencil-thin that he had hardly believed his eyes when it had slid into a landing-Tuck was thoroughly acquainted with small jets back home, and he'd never seen an exhaust cone like that! He longed to stop and inspect this ship more closely, but the stranger was already at the outer lock of the ship. Quickly Tuck moved to the crane, started up, and then waited for the lock to empty and open again, a hard core of fear in his mind. Finally the door swung open; in a moment he stepped into the corridor of the ship, and then stopped short in surprise.

  The stranger was not a man, but a youth, hardly older than himself, a stout, muscular fellow who seemed to be attempting to take the ship by storm, in the face of two very angry crewmen. As the lock closed, Tuck saw one of them motion toward the lock, gun in hand, saying, "I told you they're in conference, and they left orders that they weren't to be disturbed under any circumstances. Now will you get out, or do we have to throw you out?"

  "But I've got to see him," the boy cried. "Look—it wouldn't hurt you to bang on the door and tell him David is here—he won't eat you—"

  "We've got our orders—"

  "Orders! Bah! What good are orders? You may be dead in five minutes!" The fellow's excitement was expansive, his voice filling the corridor. "Look, I'm David Torm—the man in there is my father. My father, can't you hear that? I've got to see him—" Swiftly the boy's voice became wheedling. "What will it hurt to let me see him for just ten seconds? What can they do to you for that? Hang you by your toes? Or aren't they doing that on Earth any more? Let me see him, and your commander will be forever grateful. You'll be the apple of his eye! Just one moment to see my father, I beg of you—"

  The man, who was growing redder by the minute, nearly exploded at this outburst. "You move an inch further into this ship, sonny, and you'll be dead."

  The boy's eyes flashed angrily, and he shook his fist in the guard's face. "Hah! You'd not have the nerve to shoot me, you chicken! I'll see my father if I have to slice your ears off, clod! May your suit spring a leak, may your airline clog—don't lay a hand on me, or you'll regret it—" The boy's voice rose shrilly, and he ducked nimbly back when the guard took an angry swipe at his head. Swiftly he turned to Tuck, his eyes bright. "You! Explain to this dolt, in simple terms, that I've got to see my father before it's too late!" He stared in utter contempt at the crewman, whose face had gone purple, then turned his entire attention to Tuck, as if the man had ceased to exist. "It's urgent," he said quite seriously. "I must see him."

  "Why?" Tuck eyed the youth coldly, fighting down an impulse to laugh aloud at the crewman's discomfort. "They're busy. Why can't you wait?"

  David Torm groaned in exasperation, brushing thick blond hair out of his eyes. His face had the same healthy, weathered look as his father's, and the eyes were the same startling blue—but this lad's eyes were quicker, with a twinkle of exuberant mischief in them, not in the least clouded by his excitement. "I've been trying to explain to this toad over here for fifteen minutes. There's trouble at the colony. My father must get back as soon as possible."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  The blue eyes flashed in disgust. "You too? Questions, always questions! A clordelkus is attacking. He's chewing up the bubble. In half an hour the colony will be frozen to death. Can't you see it's urgent?" David didn't even crack a smile.

  Tuck just looked at him. "So let it chew," he said dryly. "Then maybe my father and I can go home."

  David Torm's face lighted up. "So it's your father he's talking to! Then tell my father I'm here."

  Tuck looked him straight in the eye. "If I thought you'd been telling a word of truth since you got here, I'd do so gladly. Tell me what the trouble is, and I'll tell him."

  David threw his hands up in despair. "You Earth people! You're all alike! Stubborn, like mules." He stared at Tuck for a moment, then started to bolt on his helmet again. "If it wouldn't kill you," he said sarcastically, "perhaps you'd tell my father to get back to the colony without losing a minute, as soon as he's through talking. I can't wait, I've got to get back." He started for the lock. "Tell him that Cortell is organizing his group—can you tell him that?" Without waiting for an answer, he clamped down the faceplate of the helmet, still muttering under his breath. Tuck stood watching as the lock door clanged shut, thoroughly confused. Maybe the boy had been serious! There had been something about those pale blue eyes that had demanded trust. But then, he was a colonist, and nothing he said could be trusted. Tuck turned angrily away from the lock. Probably he had come aboard simply to look around—or maybe he had his pockets stuffed with Murexide plates. There was no way of telling. And certainly, it wasn't worth taking a chance.

  Impatiently Tuck paced the corridor outside the room where the men were conferring. They had been talking almost two hours now, and as the minutes passed, Tuck became more and more uneasy. Perhaps he should have trus
ted the boy, accepted his word. Who was Cortell? And what sort of a group was he organizing? Probably Anson Torm would know the significance of that. But surely the conference was more important than anything else. If the mines were to shut down, there would be real trouble, and soon.

  Tuck's mind drifted back to the blond-haired youth. So Anson Torm was his father. That meant he must have been born and grown up in the colony. For an instant a thousand questions flooded Tuck's mind, questions he would like to ask. And the jet plane—could David possibly have rebuilt it himself? It would be wonderful to have such a ship, to come and go with as he pleased, just big enough to use for exploratory jaunts—and especially if he lived on such a place as Titan, with so much of the surface still a barren, uncharted jungle of rocks and gorges and black-faced cliffs. But he jerked his thoughts away from such channels; probably he would never even talk to the fellow again, and certainly he'd have no chance to try out his plane. There were more important things to do—

  And then the door to the room flew open, and Colonel Benedict stalked out, his face white and drawn with anger. He was followed by the tall colony leader. Anson Torm's face looked very tired, and his jaw was set in a grim line. Tuck stared at the two men, and his heart sank.

  The first conference was over.

  Chapter 5Amu,*

  N THE COURSE of his eighteen years Tuck Benedict had seen the Colonel in many moods, but he had never before seen such a combination of anger and distrust on his father's face. The Colonel stalked into the room, barely nodding to Tuck, and slapped a sheaf of papers down on the desk furiously. Then he snatched up the intercom speaker, his hand trembling barely within the limits of control/'Better get up here, Jim," he snapped to the pilot. "We're going to the colony."

  Tuck stared at his father, and then at the tall colony leader, his heart sinking. What could have happened? His father was furious, and Torm was controlling himself with difficulty, his face white, lips in a tight, grim line. Neither man spoke; Torm was struggling into his pressure suit again, the tired wrinkles deeper around his eyes, an expression of bitterness and disappointment on his face.