by Isaac Asimov
Gillbret stepped back hastily. “Now, take it easy. We’ve got an F-2 this time.”
It sank in. Gillbret drew a deep breath and relaxed. “Don’t ever wake me that way, Gillbret. An F-2, you say? I suppose you’re referring to the new star.”
“I surely am. It looks most amusing, I think.”
In a way, it did. Approximately 95 per cent of habitable planets in the Galaxy circled stars of spectral types F or G; diameter from 750 to 1500 thousand miles, surface temperature from five to ten thousand centigrade. Earth’s sun was G-0, Rhodia’s F-8, Lingane’s G-2, as was that of Nephelos. F-2 was a little warm, but not too warm.
The first three stars they had stopped at were of spectral type K, rather small and ruddy. Planets would probably not have been decent even if they had had any.
A good star is a good star! In the first day of photography, five planets were located, the nearest being one hundred and fifty million miles from the primary.
Tedor Rizzett brought the news personally. He visited the Remorseless as frequently as the Autarch, lighting the ship with his heartiness. He was whoofing and panting this time from the hand-over-hand exercises along the metal line.
He said, “I don’t know how the Autarch does it. He never seems to mind. Comes from being younger, I guess.” He added abruptly, “Five planets!”
Gillbret said, “For this star? You’re sure?”
“It’s definite. Four of them are J-type, though.”
“And the fifth?”
“The fifth may be all right. Oxygen in the atmosphere, anyway.”
Gillbret set up a thin sort of yell of triumph, but Biron said, “Four are J-type. Oh well, we only need one.”
He realized it was a reasonable distribution. The large majority of sizable planets in the Galaxy possessed hydrogenated atmospheres. After all, stars are mostly hydrogen, and they are the source material of planetary building blocks. J-type planets had atmospheres of methane or ammonia, with molecular hydrogen in addition sometimes, and also considerable helium. Such atmospheres were usually deep and extremely dense. The planets themselves were almost invariably thirty thousand miles in diameter and up, with a mean temperature of rarely more than fifty below zero, centigrade. They were quite uninhabitable.
Back on Earth they used to tell him that these planets were called J-type because the J stood for Jupiter, the planet in Earth’s solar system which was the best example of the type. Maybe they were right. Certainly, the other planet classification was the E-type and E did stand for Earth. E-types were usually small, comparatively, and their weaker gravity could not retain hydrogen or the hydrogen-containing gases, particularly since they were usually closer to the sun and warmer. Their atmospheres were thin and contained oxygen and nitrogen usually, with, occasionally, an admixture of chlorine, which would be bad.
“Any chorine?” asked Biron. “How well have they gone over the atmosphere?”
Rizzett shrugged. “We can only judge the upper reaches from out in space. If there were any chlorine, it would concentrate toward ground level. We’ll see.”
He clapped a hand on Biron’s large shoulder. “How about inviting me to a small drink in your room, boy?”
Gillbret looked after them uneasily. With the Autarch courting Artemisia, and his right-hand man becoming a drinking companion of Biron, the Remorseless was becoming more Linganian than not. He wondered if Biron knew what he was doing, then thought of the new planet and let the rest go.
Artemisia was in the pilot room when they penetrated the atmosphere. There was a little smile on her face and she seemed quite contented. Biron looked in her direction occasionally. He had said, “Good day, Artemisia,” when she came in (she hardly ever did come in; he had been caught by surprise), but she hadn’t answered.
She had merely said, “Uncle Oil,” very brightly; then, “Is it true we’re landing?”
And Oil had rubbed his hands. “It seems so, my dear. We may be getting out of the ship in a few hours, walking on solid surface. How’s that for an amusing thought?”
“I hope it’s the right planet. If it isn’t, it won’t be so amusing.”
“There’s still another star,” said Oil, but his brow furrowed and contracted as he said so.
And then Artemisia turned to Biron and said, coolly, “Did you speak, Mr. Farrill?”
Biron, caught by surprise again, started and said, “No, not really.”
“I beg your pardon, then. I thought you had.”
She passed by him so closely that the plastic flair of her dress brushed his knee and her perfume momentarily surrounded him. His jaw muscles knotted.
Rizzett was still with them. One of the advantages of the trailer was that they could put up a guest overnight. He said, “They’re getting details on the atmosphere now. Lots of oxygen, almost 30 per cent, and nitrogen and inert gases. It’s quite normal. No chlorine.” Then he paused and said, “Hmm.”
Gillbret said, “What’s the matter?”
“No carbon dioxide. That’s not so good.”
“Why not?” demanded Artemisia from her vantage point near the visiplate, where she watched the distant surface of the planet blur past at two thousand miles an hour.
Biron said curtly, “No carbon dioxide–no plant life.”
“Oh?” She looked at him, and smiled warmly.
Biron, against his will, smiled back, and somehow, with scarcely a visible change in her countenance, she was smiling through him, past him, obviously unaware of his existence; and he was left there, caught in a foolish smile. He let it fade.
It was just as well he avoided her. Certainly, when he was with her, he couldn’t keep it up. When he could actually see her, the anesthetic of his will didn’t work. It began hurting.
Gillbret was doleful. They were coasting now. In the thick lower reaches of the atmosphere, the Remorseless, with its aerodynamically undesirable addition of a trailer, was difficult to handle. Biron fought the bucking controls stubbornly.
He said, “Cheer up, Gil!”
He felt not exactly jubilant himself. Radio signals had brought no response as yet, and if this were not the rebellion world, there would be no point in waiting longer. His line of action was set!
Gillbret said, “It doesn’t look like the rebellion world. It’s rocky and dead, and not much water, either.” He turned. “Did they try for carbon dioxide again, Rizzett?”
Rizzett’s ruddy face was long. “Yes. Just a trace. About a thousandth of a per cent or so.”
Biron said, “You can’t tell. They might pick a world like this, just because it would look so hopeless.”
“But I saw farms,” said Gillbret.
“All right. How much do you suppose we can see of a planet this size by circling it a few times? You know damn well, Oil, that whoever they are, they can’t have enough people to fill a whole planet. They may have picked themselves a valley somewhere where the carbon dioxide of the air has been built up, say, by volcanic action, and where there’s plenty of nearby water. We could whiz within twenty miles of them and never know it. Naturally, they wouldn’t be ready to answer radio calls without considerable investigation.”
“You can’t build up a concentration of carbon dioxide that easily,” muttered Gillbret. But he watched the visiplate intently.
Biron suddenly hoped that it was the wrong world. He decided that he could wait no longer. It would have to be settled, now!
It was a queer feeling.
The artificial lights had been turned off and sunlight was coming in unhindered at the ports. Actually, it was the less efficient method of lighting the ship, but there was a sudden desirable novelty to it. The ports were open, in fact, and a native atmosphere could be breathed.
Rizzett advised against it on the grounds that lack of carbon dioxide would upset the respiratory regulation of the body, but Biron thought it might be bearable for a short time.
Gillbret had come upon them, heads together. They looked up and leaned away from each other.
>
Gillbret laughed. Then he looked out of the open port, sighed, and said, “Rocks!”
Biron said mildly, “We’re going to set up a radio transmitter at the top of the high ground. We’ll get more range that way. At any rate, we ought to be able to contact all of this hemisphere. And if it’s negative, we can try the other side of the planet.”
“Is that what you and Rizzett were discussing?”
“Exactly. The Autarch and I will do the job. It’s his suggestion, which is fortunate; since otherwise I would have had to make the same suggestion myself.” He looked fleetingly at Rizzett as he spoke. Rizzett was expressionless.
Biron stood up. “I think it would be best if I unzipped my space-suit lining and wore that.”
Rizzett was in agreement. It was sunny on this planet; there was little water vapor in the air and no clouds, but it was briskly cold.
The Autarch was at the main lock of the Remorseless. His overcoat was of thin foamite that weighed a fraction of an ounce, yet did a nearly perfect job of insulation. A small carbon-dioxide cylinder was strapped to his chest, adjusted to a slow leak that would maintain a perceptible CO2 vapor tension in his immediate vicinity.
He said, “Would you care to search me, Farrill?” He raised his hands and waited, his lean face quietly amused.
“No,” said Biron. “Do you want to check me for weapons?”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
The courtesies were as frigid as the weather.
Biron stepped out into the hard sunlight and tugged at the handle of the two-handled suitcase in which the radio equipment was stowed. The Autarch caught the other.
“Not too heavy,” said Biron. He turned, and Artemisia was standing just within the ship, silent.
Her dress was a smooth, unfigured white which folded in a smooth drape that fled before the wind. The semitransparent sleeves whipped back against her arms, turning them to silver.
For a moment Biron melted dangerously. He wanted to return quickly; to run, leap into the ship, grasp her so that his fingers would leave bruises on her shoulders, feel his lips meet hers–
But he nodded briefly instead, and her returning smile, the light flutter of her fingers was for the Autarch.
Five minutes later he turned and there was still that glimmer of white at the open door, and then the rise in the ground cut off the view of the ship. The horizon was free of everything but broken and bare rock now.
Biron thought of what lay ahead, and wondered if he would ever see Artemisia again–and if she would care if he never returned.
Eighteen: Out of the Jaws of Defeat!
ARTEMESIA WATCHED THEM as they became tiny figures, trudging up the bare granite, then dipping below and out of sight. For a moment, just before they disappeared, one of them had turned. She couldn’t be sure which one, and, for a moment, her heart hardened.
He had not said a word on parting. Not one word. She turned away from the sun and rock toward the confined metal interior of the ship. She felt alone, terribly alone; she had never felt so alone in her life.
It was that, perhaps, that made her shiver, but it would have been an intolerable confession of weakness to admit that it wasn’t simply the cold.
She said peevishly, “Uncle Gil! Why don’t you close the ports? It’s enough to freeze a person to death.” The thermometer dial read plus seven centigrade with the ship’s heaters on high.
“My dear Arta,” said Gillbret mildly, “if you will persist in your ridiculous habit of wearing nothing but a little fog here and there, you must expect to be cold.” But he closed certain contacts, and, with little clicks, the air lock slid shut, the ports sunk inward and molded themselves into the smooth, gleaming hull. As they did so, the thick glass polarized and became nontransparent. The lights of the ship went on and the shadows disappeared.
Artemisia sat down in the heavily padded pilot’s seat and fingered the arms aimlessly. His hands had often rested there, and the slight warmth that flooded her as she thought that (she told herself) was only the result of the heaters making themselves felt decently, now that the outer winds were excluded.
The long minutes passed, and it became impossible to sit quietly. She might have gone with him! She corrected the rebellious thought instantly as it passed through her mind, and changed the singular “him” to the plural “them.”
She said, “Why do they have to set up a radio transmitter anyway, Uncle Gil?”
He looked up from the visiplate, the controls of which he was fingering delicately, and said, “Eh?”
“We’ve been trying to contact them from out in space,” she said, “and we haven’t reached anyone. What special good would a transmitter on the planet’s surface do?”
Gillbret was troubled. “Why, we must keep trying, my dear. We must find the rebellion world.” And, between his teeth, he added to himself, “We must!”
A moment passed, and he said, “I can’t find them.”
“Find whom?”
“Biron and the Autarch. The ridge cuts me off no matter how I arrange the external mirrors. See?”
She saw nothing but the sunny rock flashing past.
Then Gillbret brought the little gears to rest and said, “Anyway, that’s the Autarch’s ship.”
Artemisia accorded it the briefest of glances. It lay deeper in the valley, perhaps a mile away. It glistened unbearably in the sun. It seemed to her, at the moment, to be the real enemy. It was, not the Tyranni. She wished suddenly, sharply, and very strongly that they had never gone to Lingane; that they had remained in space, the three of them only. Those had been funny days, so uncomfortable and yet so warm, somehow. And now she could only try to hurt him. Something made her hurt him, though she would have liked–
Gillbret said, “Now what doe she want?”
Artemisia looked up at him, seeing him through a watery mist, SO that she had to blink rapidly to put him into normal focus. “Who?”
“Rizzett. I think that’s Rizzett. But he’s certainly not coming this way.”
Artemisia was at the visiplate. “Make it larger,” she ordered.
“At this short distance?” objected Gillbret. “You won’t see anything. It will be impossible to keep it centered.”
“Larger, Uncle Gil.”
Muttering, he threw in the telescopic attachment and searched the bloated nubbles of rock that resulted. They jumped faster than the eye could follow at the lightest touch on the controls. For one moment, Rizzett, a large, hazy figure, flashed past, and in that moment his identity was unmistakable. Gillbret backtracked wildly, caught him again, hung on for a moment, and Artemisia said, “He’s armed. Did you see that?”
“No.”
“He’s got a long-range blasting rifle, I tell you!”
She was up, tearing away at the locker.
“Arta! What are you doing?”
She was unzipping the lining from another space suit. “I’m going out there. Rizzett’s following them. Don’t you understand? The Autarch hasn’t gone out to set up a radio. It’s a trap for Biron.” She was gasping as she forced herself into the thick, coarse lining.
“Stop it! You’re imagining things.”
But she was staring at Gillbret without seeing him, her face pinched and white. She should have seen it before, the way Rizzett had been coddling that fool. That emotional fool! Rizzett had praised his father, told him what a great man the Rancher of Widemos had been, and Biron had melted immediately. His every action was dictated by the thought of his father. How could a man let himself be so ruled by a monomania?
She said, “I don’t know what controls the air lock. Open it.”
“Arta, you’re not leaving the ship. You don’t know where they are.”
“I’ll find them. Open the air lock.”
Gillbret shook his head.
But the space suit she had stripped had borne a holster. She said, “Uncle Oil, I’ll use this. I swear I will.”
And Gillbret found himself staring at the wicked
muzzle of a neuronic whip. He forced a smile. “Don’t now!”
“Open the lock!” she gasped.
He did and she was out, running into the wind, slipping across the rocks and up the ridge. The blood pounded in her ears. She had been as bad as he, dangling the Autarch before him for no purpose other than her silly pride. It seemed silly now, and the Autarch’s personality sharpened in her mind, a man so studiedly cold as to be bloodless and tasteless. She quivered with repulsion.
She had topped the ridge, and there was nothing ahead of her. Stolidly she walked onward, holding the neuronic whip before her.
Biron and the Autarch had not exchanged a word during their walk, and now they came to a halt where the ground leveled off. The rock was fissured by the action of sun and wind through the millennia. Ahead of them there was an ancient fault, the farther lip of which had crumbled downward, leaving a sheer precipice of a hundred feet.
Biron approached cautiously and looked over it. It slanted outward past the drop, the ground riddled with craggy boulders which, with time and infrequent rains, had scattered out as far as he could see.
“It looks,” he said, “like a hopeless world, Jonti.”
The Autarch displayed none of Biron’s curiosity in his surroundings. He did not approach the drop. He said, “This is the place we found before landing. It’s ideal for our purposes.”
It’s ideal for your purposes, at least, thought Biron. He stepped away from the edge and sat down. He listened to the tiny hiss from his carbon-dioxide cylinder, and waited a moment.
Then he said, very quietly, “What will you tell them when you get back to your ship, Jonti? Or shall I guess?”
The Autarch paused in the act of opening the two-handed suitcase they had carried. He straightened and said, “What are you talking about?”
Biron felt the wind numb his face and rubbed his nose with his gloved hand. Yet he unbuttoned the foamite lining that wrapped him, so that it flapped wide as the gusts hit it.
He said, “I’m talking about your purpose in coming here.”
“I would like to set up the radio rather than waste my time discussing the matter, Farrill.”
