Alan E. Nourse

by Trouble on Titan

  Finally the Colonel turned to the tall colony leader. "You have accommodations for us at the colony, I presume?" he said coldly.

  Torm shrugged. "If you desire them. You and your son will have to stay in my quarters—there's no place for guests in the colony. But your crew will have to stay here."

  The Colonel snorted. "They will, all right." He turned sharply to the pilot who had just come in. "We're leaving for the colony," he said, his voice regaining some semblance of control. "We'll have a hand radio with us, of course, and I'd like a man here on the receiver all the time."

  The pilot nodded. "Any idea how long—?"

  "None in the least.Maybe a day, maybe six weeks. I couldn't even guess, at this point." He shot a venomous glance at Anson Torm.

  Tuck watched the men miserably. The conference had been a failure—obviously. He knew the Colonel had counted on establishing some sort of liaison on the first meeting, some grounds for understanding— and it appeared that he had failed utterly. And Torm had said that unless an understanding was reached, there wouldn't be any mines left to work! Tuck felt a chill run down his spine. What could he have meant? The colonists wouldn't dare to stop work, to close down the mines—and yet the colonists were violent —rebels and traitors. They might dare anything. Tuck's heart skipped a beat as he thought of David Torm's visit to the ship, and his message suddenly took on a horrible significance. If there had been some plan made, back at the colony, to start a violent outbreak if the conference was not successful—Tuck turned to Anson Torm in alarm. "Your son was here—"

  The colony leader lowered his hands from the suit slowly, staring at Tuck, his pale blue eyes widening. "David? You mean he came here to the ship?"

  Tuck nodded. "Half an hour ago. He wanted to see you, but we told him you'd left orders not to be disturbed."

  There was alarm on Anson Torm's face now, and he blinked at Tuck, and then shot a glance at the Colonel. "What did he want?"

  "He wouldn't tell me. Said there was trouble of some sort back at the colony—"

  "Cortell!" The word was like a curse.

  Tuck nodded excitedly. "That's right. He said Cortell was organizing his group, or something like that, and that you should get back as soon as possible."

  Anson Torm scowled, his fist clenching at his side. "Did he say anything else?"

  "Nothing else. He just left in a hurry."

  Torm half-turned to the Colonel, worried lines furrowing his broad forehead. "This is a horse of a different color," he said sharply. "I think you'd better let me go in alone—before you come."

  The Colonel's eyebrows lifted. "Not on your life," he growled. "Not after the story you've been telling me for the last two hours—"

  Anson Torm's eyes flashed. "Colonel, you've got to trust me. For the sake of the mines, and for the sake of your own neck. This is something I've got to handle alone—"

  "I'd say you've handled it rather badly alone." The Colonel's voice lashed angrily. "Who is this Cortell?"

  "I told you about John Cortell. He's a troublemaker, and he's dangerous."

  The Colonel regarded Torm for a long moment. Then he said coldly, "I thought you were supposed to be the leader of the colony people."

  Torm's mouth tightened. "I am."

  "Then why don't you keep your troublemakers in confinement where they belong?"

  "Colonel, you simply don't understand the situation at the colony—"

  "That's for dead sure!" The Colonel cut him off with a wave of the hand. "I don't understand a thing you've said all afternoon. And that is precisely why I'm not going to stay here now. All I've heard is double talk and threats. You want to keep the mines working, but you don't want to keep the mines working. You've gotten extra supplies, but you haven't gotten extra supplies. You're the colony leader, but you can't lead the colony! Bah!" The Colonel's face was red with anger. "I want to know what's going on out here, and I've had nothing but nonsense handed to me. Now I want the facts. If there's trouble in the colony that you can't control, we'll see what the trouble is, and we'll see if we can't control it."

  "You're determined to go in with me?"

  "I am indeed."

  Torm shrugged his shoulders, angrily. "Then you'd better hurry, because I'm going in as fast as I can get there." He turned back to the pressure suit, and Tuck was almost startled to see the whiteness of his face.

  The Colonel turned to Tuck, his voice quieter. "Maybe you'd better stay, if there's likely to be trouble—"

  "If there's trouble, you'll need help," Tuck protested. "Anyway, they won't dare harm us—not with the crew as close as it is, and you with Security credentials—"

  The Colonel frowned for a moment, then nodded. "All right. But you'd better be quick about it—"

  A few moments later they were standing in the lock, waiting as atmosphere hissed out of the exhaust pumps until the outer door sprang open. The crane grated shrilly as they descended, and Tuck felt his blood stir as they approached the ground. Now, at last, he would be seeing this strange colony for himself. The people who lived in a bubble! He shook his head, still puzzled that people would choose to live in such a time-forgotten outpost. What could be driving them? And yet, he knew, they seldom came back to Earth, once they had worked on Titan. Occasionally they came back, looking for work, applying to the schools, or just vacationing, but almost invariably a Titan colonist who came back to Earth for any reason was back on the next ship out to Titan again. Of course, everyone knew that they were poor workmen, shifty and lazy and treacherous, and nobody on Earth wanted to hire a man who knew nothing but how to keep methane out of a mining tunnel, and there probably wasn't a person in the colony who could qualify for entrance requirements at an Earthside University—and with their long history of treachery and violence, who wanted them back on Earth anyway? They couldn't even run their own tiny colony without constant fighting and revolutionary outbreaks —what place could they find in the civilized society back on Earth?

  The three of them reached the floor of the crater, and stepped off the crane, clambering into the cockpit of the half-track. The motor started, and the vehicle gave a lurch, and rolled in a wide arc, crawling over the ragged terrain like a short, stubby worm, absorbing the bumps and declevities with the pillow tires and the caterpillar treads that gave the thing its driving power. Tuck caught a brief glimpse of the tall, slender ship, and then it disappeared as the halftrack made a complete circle and started up toward the first ridge of crags. Tuck felt a sudden pang of uneasiness pass through him. At least in the ship there had been a certain degree of safety. But beyond that ridge of rocks—who could say? It was no use fooling himself. They were leaving their safety behind.

  He heard his father's voice in the earphones, a startling sound, as though the Colonel were speaking directly into his ear. "Did the boy say what Cortell was trying to organize?"

  "Not a word. He clammed up the minute I asked. Maybe you should ask Mr. Torm. He seems to know what his son was talking about."

  Anson Torm threw a glance at Tuck, then met the Colonel's cold eyes. "I think you'll want to find out for yourself," he said coolly. "John Cortell is powerful—and he's getting more powerful every day. He has a lot of the colonists on his side, and he wants open revolt with Earth. I've been trying to tell you for the past two hours that the colonists have reached the end of their tether out here. They want some changes made, and they're going to have those changes. And if they find out that you've come here without any idea of making changes, I can't vouch for what will happen."

  The Colonel raised his eyebrows in exasperation. "And as I told you, Security can't consider making changes unless we know exactly what is going on in this colony. All the Earth asks is the colonists' cooperation—nothing more."

  Torm snorted. "Co-operation! The Earth doesn't want co-operation, the Earth wants slaves! We've cooperated to the limit, and we've been slapped in the face every time. We've dealt squarely with Earth, and they've cheated us and betrayed us and degraded us—"
>
  "And I suppose that these smuggled supplies are part of your policy of dealing squarely with Earth?"

  Torm's face was white. "You've been given the wrong information about our supplies. That's all I can say." He swung the wheel of the half-track sharply to avoid a huge rock, and the car shook as if every bolt were about to fall loose.

  The Colonel's eyes were dark. "I'm afraid that answer won't do this time, Torm. Security made the investigation this time, in duplicate—two separate groups working independently, checking shipping orders, receipts, invoices; checking rocket schedules and loading lists and everything else. They both came upwith the same results. Oh, the shipping was well concealed—changing suppliers every couple of years, filling duplicate orders—always above quota, extra supplies. No colony in the Universe would need the supplies this colony has been piling in for the last hundred years—"

  Tormlooked straight at Colonel Benedict, and his face was grave. "But I tell you in all truth that we've received nothing in this colony that we don't need— for survival."

  "Youmean you need food enough to feed twice your population?" the Colonel snapped. "What are you doing to that food? Are you trying to tell me that just working these mines requires almost double the normal food supply?"

  "Irepeat—we have received nothing that we don't need—for survival." Itseemed to Tuck that the colony leader placed an emphasis on the last two words. "And you must remember that the men are working, they spend their days in physical labor, they need more food than the average Earthman. And you aren't dealing with the same conditions here as on Earth. We have atmosphere leaks to plague us, we have contamination problems. When food gets contaminated with some of the natural bacterial flora here, or when our hydroponics are thrown out of balance by natural fungi, we can't take any chances. We have to throw out all we have that may have been contaminated, or run the risk of a plague, or of no oxygen to breathe—"

  "AndI suppose your people eat metal, Mr.Torm? I suppose they eat tool steel? Or does the strange Titan atmosphere make your tools and machinery more prone to breakage?"

  The colony leader gripped the steering bar heavily, not even answering. The half-track reached the top of the grade, and for a brief moment they could see the colony, far ahead, a small, grayish, glasslike bubble, sitting down in a valley between two long lines of jagged peaks. Tuck stared, open-mouthed at the picture, until the half-track went over the ridge and started bumping and jogging down the other side, down a sharp ravine of jagged rock. Torm picked his way carefully, partly following the path that had been worn by generations of supply trains crossing the rocks to the colony, partly moving aside from the path to avoid boulders of black rock which had fallen onto the path from the vibrations. The whole landscape had a strange, uncertain appearance; the rocks did not look stable, they did not appear solid and timeless like the jutting slabs of rock Tuck had seen during his summer climbing adventures in the Rocky Mountains on Earth. These rocks looked sharp, precariously balanced; they jutted up stark and barren, leaning crazily, looking for all the world as if they had been dropped there, quite suddenly, by some celestial hand, and then stopped in motion before they had a chance to roll. The half-track struck one of the boulders near the path a glancing blow, and then Torm slammed on the brakes as the boulder went crashing down the slope before them, bouncing like a huge, crazy black ball until it struck the bottom, bringing down a shower of pebbles and debris after it. Without a word Torm started the machine again, lumbering carefully down the slope. About a mile ahead was a narrow cleft or gorge between two cliffs; the half-track rumbled toward it.

  Then, quite suddenly, the men heard an unearthly screech in their ears, and the little jet plane zoomed in close over them, turned a flip, and zoomed back, still closer. The Colonel stared at the plane as it skimmed over, not twenty feet above them, and then turned to Torm in alarm. "What was that?"

  Torm frowned, staring through the plexiglass panel at the little plane as it made a graceful arc in the sky, and raced down in front of them, zigzagging across their path. "That's odd," he said. "That's my son's ship. An old lifeboat he begged off one of the supply ships and rebuilt for an exploring scooter. But I don't know what he's trying to do—"

  The ship was indeed behaving most oddly. It swooped down swiftly, coming so close that the men in the half-track gripped their supports, half-expecting it to crash into their top; then it whizzed over and sped for a hundred yards or so down along the valley floor before them, zigzagging across their path as "before. The huge cleft between the cliffs ahead was closer now, and the half-track lumbered along the path, with the little jet doing its strange maneuverings ahead of them as they went.

  "What is he trying to do—signal us?" The Colonel was half out of his seat as the plane zoomed overhead again.

  Torm shook his head. "I—I don't think so. He'd drop a flare if he wanted us to stop—"

  "Well, he's going to kill us—look at that!"

  The plane almost struck the valley floor that time. Torm's breath hissed between his teeth, and his foot slammed down on the brake as the little jet plunged down to what appeared almost certain disaster; then, quite suddenly, it lifted itself again, and zipped up high through the gorge ahead. Torm muttered something under his breath, his face dark.

  "He's crazy!" the Colonel breathed.

  "He's up to something." Torm shook his head again as the half-track skidded down a bank toward the gorge. "He's a skillful flier, but he knows better than that."

  "But what—" The plane had circled around and made another run through the cleft, somewhat lower, and on less of an angle than the first.

  Tuck had been staring at the plane silently for several minutes. "Looks to me like he's scouting the path for us!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Didn't you see that? He's cutting in as low as he dares, and zigzagging along the floor—"

  "But that's ridiculous. There's nothing—"

  The Colonel leaned forward sharply. "Tuck's right," he said. "He is scouting—"

  The little jet had just made another run through the cleft, not a hundred yards ahead of them, and started down into the valley below. Then, almost as an afterthought, David brought the ship up high, and raced over behind the half-track. With a whine the ship skimmed along the ravine, quite low, and then zoomed down until it almost touched the ground; suddenly it swung directly into the half-track's path, and buzzed through the gorge ahead of them, not four feet off the ground—

  And on the tail of the jet there was a blinding, purple flash, and a huge roar, and the entire gorge went up in a fury of purple fire and gray-white smoke. In horrible slow-motion, the cliffs on either side of the gorge crumbled from the concussion, heaping tons of rock down into the pathway, in the exact spot where the half-track would have been just a few minutes later. The concussion wave caught the jet as it zipped through, and the little plane went into a series of sickening rolls, then panned out and slid into a crash landing somewhere behind the pillar of fire and smoke that was rising from the gorge—

  Torm slammed on his brakes, and shoved the halftrack into reverse, his face white as putty. Frantically he backed the machine away from the pillar of fury in the gorge and started it up a flanking path, up a sharp declivity that would take it around the gorge to the right. Tuck held on with both hands as the halftrack clambered up the unbroken path, engines roaring, bouncing all its occupants about the inside like dolls in a box, but Anson Torm wrestled the steering bar, gunning the machine as fast as he could make it go. At the top of the rock he slowed, spotted the scooter lying with a crumpled wing and a split-open jet, on the floor of the gorge below the place of the explosion. Torm turned the half-track in that direction, and it roared on down the hill. All three of them watched the wreck, but there was no sign of life from the little scooter. It seemed a lifetime as the half-track made its way down; as they came closer, Tuck felt his stomach muscles tighten. Somehow, David must have known that an ambush might be planned to destroy the half-track as it returned from the ship; when
he'd not been allowed to see his father, he had waited, then scouted the pathway for them as they made their way back to the colony. Tuck suddenly felt sick—David had been telling the truth, there on the ship! And Tuck had had to pick that time to be stuffy and suspicious. And he had thought himself very clever the way he had handled the flamboyant visitor! Quite suddenly and incredibly, as they moved down toward the wreckage of the jet plane, Tuck felt deeply ashamed. The blond-haired lad had had the courage to risk his own life to save them from a trap— and now he was down there in the smashed jet—

  They reached an outcropping above the jet scooter, and Torm was out of the half-track in an instant. The Colonel and Tuck followed, staring at the crumpled wing and smashed-in undercarriage of the little ship. And then, even as they approached, the cockpit flew open, and David appeared, moving feebly, dragging himself up out of the seat. Torm let out a cry, and helped him down to the ground, checking his helmet for leaks as the boy muttered incoherently. Then David's knees buckled under him, and they eased him down to the ground.

  "It's unbelievable," Torm said, his voice choking. "He's alive. And no bones broken—probably just a slight concussion." He motioned toward the half-track, and together they carried the youth, pressure suit and all, into the cab of the machine, made a place for him on the floor behind the seats where some oilcans had been stored. They were silent; as they moved the lad, the anger in Anson Torm's face grew like a gathering storm. "They did it this time," he muttered as he took his place behind the controls of the half-track. "They went a step too far this time. If it hadn't been for David they'd have gotten all of us—"