“You have manpower — sorry, womanpower — don’t you?” said Falsen. “And the mini-innies.”
“They’re Carlin’s toys. She’ll never let me use them. I wanted to borrow one to shift some crates that were blocking access to the helicopter hangar. She told me that control-room ornaments are incapable of handling any sort of machinery.”
“She did, did she?” snapped the Lady Mother. “I could say that there are some people in this ship who are incapable of keeping machinery in running order. But this is an old vessel; she was old when we bought her. If we start blaming each other for our present predicament, we shall never extricate ourselves from it. Go back with Lady Prenta into the hull, Mr. Falsen. Find the Lady Carlin and tell her what you want. Tell her that I have delegated authority to you.”
“That will please her,” Prenta said.
And were the words ironic or not? Falsen wondered.
How much did Prenta know?
• • •
He followed Prenta along the ridge of upflung earth, the rim of the impact crater. The soil was soft, wet, and his feet sank into it to above his ankles. They came to the foot of the ladder. Prenta went up it nimbly enough, Falsen followed more slowly.
They went down into the hold, to the chaotic jumble of stores and equipment, made their way over and through the overturned crates and bales and drums, to an access door into the axial shaft. As they walked through the tunnel the acrid smell of burning metal became stronger and they could hear voices. Falsen recognized Carlin’s distinctive tones; she was giving orders, he thought.
They emerged from the shaft into a compartment, brightly lit but obscured by eddies of blue smoke. Laser torches were wielded by white-overalled figures, the beams almost invisible but metal flaring into incandescence where they impinged. A mini-innie, buzzing like an enraged wasp, held an oval piece of plating in its claws, was lifting it and carrying it toward a hole that had been cut overhead. Watching carefully was a junior engineer with a control box in her hands.
Carlin was directing operations.
She was converting a bulkhead into a sort of web frame, her people cutting out marked ovals of plating. To judge by the expression on her face, she was enjoying herself. Man, thought Falsen, has always derived pleasure from knocking down the things that he himself has built. Presumably, the Doralan psychology was similar. But this was a careful, controlled destruction. There would be little loss of strength in the bulkhead, although it would never be an airtight one again.
He waited until Carlin had stopped yapping orders, then attracted her attention.
“What do you want?” she demanded. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
“I’d like the loan of a couple of your mini-innies.”
“You can’t have them. I’ve already told Prenta. The helicopters can stay where they are until we’ve raised the ship.”
“It’s not to get the helicopters out, Lady Carlin.”
“Then what, Falsen?”
Falsen told her.
“All right. I’ll send Barli and Sula with you. I’ll want them and their mini-innies back as soon as you’ve got your tent rigged.” She turned to Prenta and said, “I can spare people and machines when it’s for a worthwhile purpose.”
Prenta snarled wordlessly.
• • •
Fortunately, the envelope fabric was in the storeroom that already had been opened. Unfortunately, it was now bottom stowage. But Falsen had already considered lightening the ship before attempting to raise her; now he was having to do just that to get to thé material he wanted. Like a master stevedore, he stood on the axial shaft, directing the work of hoisting stores out through the open hatch. Some of the crates were so heavy that both mini-innies working in tandem were required for one lift.
Prenta stood with him, translating his orders when necessary. She was resenting him, resenting his authority, but did not let this get in the way of the work. He found that he was respecting her for this — how would he have liked being bossed around by an alien aboard his ship? — but he still did not have to like her.
It was late in the afternoon when the hold was at last cleared, all its contents piled more or less neatly outside the ship, except for the fabric and the metal struts.
Falsen ordered some of the fabric be used to cover the small mountain of stores against the rain. He suggested to the Lady Mother that work continue in shifts throughout the night, with searchlights mounted and guards posted in case of attack by the indigenous predators.
“No,” she said. “We are all tired. Now we will get cleaned up as best as we may, and we will eat, then sleep. As you say on Earth, tomorrow is another day.”
• • •
He found Linda in the little empty storeroom that they had used as a sleeping place the previous night.
“Where were you,” he asked, “while everybody else was working?”
“I am neither an engineer nor a stevedore,” she replied sulkily. “I would only have been in the way. Like Pondor, I had sense enough to keep from underfoot.”
“I suppose that you kept each other company,” he sneered.
“Not likely.”
“I haven’t seen him around,” he said thoughtfully. “Have you … ?”
“No,” she stated, “not yet.”
She grinned wolfishly.
CHAPTER 28
Work was resumed at dawn after all hands had made a sketchy toilet and gulped a hot but unsatisfactory meal from cans of emergency rations. Falsen had not been happy about leaving the stores and the envelope fabric unguarded outside the ship but was relieved to find that nothing had been disturbed.
It was raining still, as he had known that it would be, heavier than on the previous day, but still little more than a drizzle. The air was warmer and he gratefully discarded his borrowed cloak, and then his shirt. He retained his shorts, although he would have been happier working naked. He did not think that the Doralans would have approved.
The work that had been done on the trench under the stern would have to be done again; slimy mud had trickled from the impact-crater rim back into the excavation. He stood there with the twelve unhappy laborers, with their shovels and baskets, looking down into it. One of them, who had a little English, asked in a despondent voice, “Start again? Now?”
“Wait,” he told her.
The Lady Mother, Prenta following, came along the ridge. Both of them were carrying laser pistols, the captain holding one in each hand. She handed her spare weapon to Falsen. He looked at it, at the setting. It was already on wide beam.
“Shall we begin?” she asked.
“Yes,” Falsen said.
The three of them lifted their pistols, aimed down into the trench. Water exploded into evil-smelling steam. There were pops as unfortunate mud-dwellers, caught in the fire, burst. There were sparkles of ruddy incandescence glimpsed dimly through the billowing vapor. The sparkling became a continuous glow.
“Enough,” said Falsen.
A slight, a very slight breeze slowly dissipated the steam and the smoke. The shallow crater was dry now, a depression lined with gray ash and crusty slag. Prenta yelped an order and one of the women, carrying a shovel, started down. She screamed, withdrew hastily. She sat down on the wet ground beyond the rim, rubbing her feet with both hands.
“They had better go back to get boots,” Falsen said.
“You should have thought of that before,” muttered Prenta.
“You should have thought of that, Lady Prenta,” the captain told her. “Send them back into the ship to get dressed properly. And tell Klar to see the doctor. Meanwhile … ”
“And pass word to Carlin that we shall be requiring the mini-innies again,” said Falsen. “I told her last night, but she may have forgotten.”
Meanwhile, the Lady Mother was playing the beam of her laser along the crater rim. It made sense, Falsen thought. He added his fire to hers, baking the walls of the pit into brick. He walked aft with her, then around to the
other side. The two undamaged vanes, like great thick wide wings, towered over them, the pinions of some huge flying creature sprawled wounded on the ground, an enormous bird that could never fly again without the assistance of the tiny parasites that had infested its body.
They were almost finished when they heard the tinny clatter of the mini-innies emerging from the hatch in the ship’s side. The little inertial-drive units hovered over the hull until their operators came out, clambered down the ladder to the ground. A third woman came after them. It was Pansir, the airship pilot. The engineers and the pilot walked slowly aft, Carlin’s people with their control boxes in their hands. The mini-innies preceded them, flying about three meters above the ground, seeming to lead the way.
Falsen told Prenta, “I want them to spread out the largest sections of fabric. To lift them over the stern, over the vanes … . It may be necessary to join some sections … .”
“The Lady Pansir,” said Prenta, “is quite capable of dealing with anything involving envelope fabric. That is her job.”
One of the mini-innies was carrying, in its dangling claws, a large basket. It descended slowly, deposited its burden on the muddy ground, lifted again and hovered, muttering irritably, a stubby, meter-length spindle sprouting articulated appendages. Falsen tried to ignore it, looked into the open container. There were four fat squeeze-tubes, the labels of which he could not, of course, read. There were two pairs of shears, four pairs of gloves fashioned from a slippery-looking plastic.
The two engineers and Pansir talked briefly with Prenta, who seemed to be handing authority over to the pilot. Then the mini-innies flew noisily to the nearest roll of envelope fabric, while the hands of their operators played busily over the control boxes. Working in concert, they spread a square of the tough, silvery cloth over the wet ground. It was obviously too small. Another square was spread, and another, and another.
The crew women were back, booted now, all twelve of them; Falsen wondered if the one who had burned her feet was in the party. With a few exceptions — the Lady Mother, Prenta, Carlin (of course), Pansir and one or two others — all the Doralans looked the same to him. Prenta yelped orders, amplified in a calmer voice by Pansir. Four of the crewwomen took gloves from the basket, put them on. The pilot pulled her own pair from her belt, drew them over her hands. Two of the women picked up the fat tubes, the other two the shears. Led by Pansir, they walked to the outspread squares of envelope fabric.
“Pansir knows what she is doing, Mr. Falsen,” said the Lady Mother. “She knows how to use that … glue. It will bond almost anything to anything — cloth to cloth, cloth to metal, both to skin. But it will not stick to the gloves.”
Falsen, who had already guessed as much, asked, “And will it work in these conditions? The wet ground, the rain getting heavier … ”
“Of course. It is in bad weather that a dirigible’s fabric gets torn.”
Pansir’s party was working fast and efficiently, squeezing adhesive from the tubes, spreading a thin layer along the edge of the material with gloved fingers, pressing edge to edge with only a narrow overlap. The pilot fluttered about them like an anxious mother hen. Now and again she would use a pair of shears, trimming and fairing. Once she had to snip away the hem of a tunic that had come into contact, permanent contact, with a gummy surface. Falsen wondered what she would have done had it been the pale skin of the wearer’s thigh rather than the fabric that was covering it.
The mini-innies spread two more squares of fabric, one of which had to be cut to the proper shape. After they had been secured to the others, Pansir walked around the rectangle of silvery cloth, looking at it. She walked over it, examining the seams. Satisfied, she went to talk with the engineers, then came to report to the Lady Mother.
“All is ready, Gracious Lady.”
“Very well, Lady Pansir. You may spread the … ‘tent’?”
“As good a word as any,” said Falsen.
There should have been four mini-innies, he thought, but two would have to do. The pair of them positioned themselves over one end of the rectangle, at opposite corners. They took a firm hold with their claws, then lifted high enough but not too high, so that the free end of the fabric remained on the ground. They just cleared the first of the vanes, dragging their billowing train behind them. The cloth fouled briefly but did not rip, pulled clear. They cleared the second vane and then made their descent. All that remained for the crewwomen was to spread the ends as far as possible, to secure the edges to the ground with stakes fashioned from the metal spars of the wrecked dirigible. It was not a tidy job and looked, Falsen thought, like a towel flung carelessly over the end of a long rock on some beach. But it would do, as long as no wind blew up. It would keep the rain off.
• • •
The digging was going faster now, although water still oozed up from the soggy soil, and every now and again the laser pistols had to be used to dry things out. More and more of the crumpled vane was being exposed. Looking at it, Falsen doubted that it would be possible to repair the great shock absorbers with materials available. In that case, those in the other two vanes would have to be frozen, and any future landing would have to be made with extreme care. He thought that he would be able to cope when the time came.
He said to the Lady Mother, “Would you mind, Gracious Lady, if I went back inside the ship to see how things are going?”
“Of course not, Mr. Falsen. The Lady Prenta has things well in hand. I will accompany you.”
They left the shelter of the tent, walked forward through the rain.
She said, “You have been a tower of strength, Mr. Falsen.”
If she knew, he thought, if she knew she wouldn’t be ladling out the praises … .
She went on, “I don’t know how we should have managed without your advice.”
He said, “You would have managed, Gracious Lady.”
“Would we, Mr. Falsen? After all, we are newcomers to space. You are the heir to many years of experience … .”
The heir to more than that, he thought, not without bitterness. If he had just been doing a job of spacemanship, helping this kindly, friendly woman to the best of his ability, he would have been happy. But, in the final analysis, it was not she whom he was helping. All that he was doing was for himself. And Linda. But Linda, especially since the wreck of the dirigible, had come to mean less to him than certain of the Doralans — the Lady Mother, Pansir, Carlin …
Carlin.
No. He did not like her, could never like her. She was as selfish as Linda. But he was stuck with Linda, whether he liked her or not. Fate had thrown them together and there was no choice but to stay together. They could never return to Earth or any Terran colony.
“You are very thoughtful, Mr. Falsen.” She laughed softly. “I can almost hear your brain ticking over while you consider ways and means … ”
He said, “Yes, there are problems.”
“There are indeed.”
They came to the ladder. She went up it. He followed her. They made their way over the slippery curve of hull plating to the open hatch. They paused when they heard the mechanical snarling of mini-innies, more than one of them, sounding louder and louder from the cargo port. The first of the machines emerged, two metal plates slung below it. There was a second one, a third and a fourth, all similarly loaded. The things hovered there until their operators, Carlin and three of her juniors, clambered up to the exterior of the hull.
The engineer said to the captain, “This is the first load, Gracious Lady. Then there will be more metal, then the welder and the power cells. How is the digging going?”
“Well enough now, Lady Carlin. You should be able to commence work shortly.”
“That is good. Perhaps you would care to inspect what has been done so far to and about the main inertial-drive unit?”
“You have not severed the axial shaft, Lady Carlin?”
“I have cut no more than is necessary, Gracious Lady. I had considered bringing the par
ts of the drive through the shaft to this hold, but the main rotor is too large to be safely handled. It would have to be dragged — and could be damaged. We shall have to cut through fore and aft bulkheads and the hull itself.” She grinned, a sudden lightening of her grease-smudged face. “Do not worry. I shall be able to make the damage good. I am as interested in getting the ship spaceworthy as anybody.”
“I should hope so, Lady Carl in,” said the Lady Mother stiffly.
She and Falsen waited until the engineers, with their airborne loads of material, were gone, and then descended into the ship, clambered down the ladder to the axial shaft. They had not far to go along this tunnel before they found themselves above the inertial-drive room. They looked down through the hole that had been cut through what was normally the side but which was now the floor of the shaft, to the cylindrical casing housed in its cylindrical compartment. Some of the thrust knees had already been disconnected, and a few of the casing plates had been removed, exposing camshafts and heavy rotors with off-center spindles.
“It looks like a lot of work still,” said the Lady Mother. “Perhaps it would have been better to sever the shaft entirely and cut big holes in the bulkheads and the shell plating, to bring the unit out in one piece, under its own power.”
“That would weaken the hull dangerously,” said Falsen. “We might raise the ship only to have her break in two under her own weight.”
“You are right,” she said at last. Then, “I shall be very happy when this is all over!”
CHAPTER 29
By nightfall much had been accomplished.
The vane had been repaired, straightened and patched. It was not a sightly job but it looked strong enough, would do its share in supporting the great weight of the ship. The next day would be occupied by the taking apart of the main inertial-drive unit, transferring the components to outside the vessel and reassembling them. The day after that would see the ship raised and, if all went well, made space worthy again.
After an unsatisfactory meal, straight from a self-heating container, Falsen went to Linda, finding her in the cubbyhole that they had made their own until such time as the ship would be raised. He was feeling the need to unwind to discharge accumulated tensions in the time-honored manner. He was not prepared for the way in which she received him.
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