One by one the towing-wire eyes were passed up and around the arms of the shackle. Falsen applied lift gently so that the metal U was dangling, its open jaw downward. Then, millimeter by millimeter, he reduced altitude until Carlin could maneuver the shackle into position over and around the towing lug. She was joined by one of her crew, carried by another of the mini-innies, herself carrying the shackle pin. She inserted this. It was a snug fit and there was more delay until the heavy hammer could be passed to her. She dealt the end of the pin a blow — and became living proof of Newton’s Third Law of Motion, swinging out and away from the point of impact. After this there was a transferring of positions, with the junior engineer holding the shackle steady while Carlin drove in the pin with a series of decisive taps. When the job was finished she inserted the forelock into its slot at the protruding end and used a light hammer to knock it into its securing position.
She looked up to the hovering Falsen and shouted, her voice barely audible above the clatter of the drive, “Take her away, Falsen, as soon as we’re clear!”
In less than five minutes the Doralans and their machines were away from the spaceship’s bows and standing by the heavy power cable.
The Lady Mother’s voice came from the transceiver, “Are you ready, Mr. Falsen?”
“All ready,” he replied.
The cacophony of the drive increased in intensity. The tow wires tautened. The measurements had been accurate, Falsen noted with satisfaction. All six parts were bearing an equal strain, and there was clearance, very little but enough, between them and the edges of his platform. They should hold if the Safe Working Load Certificate were to be believed. After all, they would never have to support the full weight of the ship; at all times her tonnage would be supported by the surface of the planet. Once he had her up to an angle greater than forty-five degrees it would be a piece of cake.
Slowly, slowly, he built up the lift. The wires were thrumming, a disquietening sound that was audible even above the increasingly noisy hammering of the inertial drive. He looked down. The ship had not budged. It was not only her weight that was holding her down; it was the suction of the mud in which she was resting. He thought briefly of reducing thrust, allowing the wires to slacken, then piling on maximum vertical thrust. He decided against it. That would be too much even for these cables.
But lateral thrust might be the answer. He applied it, first one way and then the other. He repeated the maneuver, and again.
“She is moving!” came Pansir’s high voice from the transceiver.
So … Vertical thrust again … A slow buildup of thrust … The wires resumed their ominous singing.
And would the wires, the eyes, hold? Would the cut ends pull clear of the ferrules? He looked down. There were no indications that this was about to happen. He looked up but, from his almost central position on the platform, could not see how the eyes shackled to the towing lugs on the drive casing were holding.
“She is lifting!”
He could not tell if the voice from the transceiver was Pansir’s or the Lady Mother’s, but the information was all that mattered.
She was coming up, slowly at first and then faster and faster as the angle made by her long axis with the ground increased, as her weight was being borne more by the surface than by the tow wires.
“About forty-five degrees … ” the Lady Mother was saying. “Fifty … ”
“Lady Pansir, how do things look to you?” Falsen asked.
“Very good, Mr. Falsen. The weight is coming onto the repaired vane. From up here I can see no signs of buckling.”
“The vane is taking the weight,” came Carlin’s voice. She added smugly, “It is stronger than it was before.”
He maintained vertical thrust while increasing the lateral component. He was pulling the stem of the ship horizontally now as much as he was lifting it. And the wires were holding.
Looking down through the transparent deck, he could see for himself. He was hovering noisily above a great leaning tower of metal — a leaning tower that still would topple if his support were to be removed. It would not be long now before the great feet of the other two vanes made contact with the ground. But then the third one would have been lifted clear, would be hanging, unsupported, above the trench.
“Contact!” cried the Lady Mother jubilantly.
The tower was no longer leaning, was upright — but it would have to be tilted again before full stability could be achieved.
Falsen used lateral thrust again, pulling the ship away from the vertical until her weight was borne only by one of the undamaged vanes. Now was the time to use the torque control, turning the drive unit about its vertical axis, hoping that the ship would follow. But she resisted, the foot of the vane gripped firmly in the mud. The towlines began to twist.
There was no longer clearance between them and the edge of the platform. The transparent deck began to buckle, to crack. “You’re breaking up!” came Pansir’s voice. “You’re breaking up!”
Pieces were coming away from the edge of the platform, falling like glittering dead leaves, those of them hitting the spaceship shattering into smaller fragments. Falsen cursed — and turned the torque control to its maximum setting.
Suddenly the ship began to swing, to turn, teetering on the single vane. As the tow wires straightened, untwisting, they pulled away more of the platform into which they had embedded themselves. The cracks extended to the very center of it and Falsen’s chair was left dangling over nothingness, held by only two of its legs. But the ship was still turning, had turned. Falsen was hanging on to the power cable with one hand, had both legs around it. With his right hand he pressed the control box to his chest and, straining, could just reach the torque-setting knob with his fingers. He turned it back, then looked down. The ship was resting on all three vanes, the repaired one now just clear of the impact crater.
“Can I help?” somebody was asking. “Can I help?”
It was Pansir. The blimp was hanging only ten meters from him, and the airship pilot was leaning out of an open window in her cab, megaphone raised to her mouth.
There was nothing that she could do, Falsen thought, although he appreciated the offer.
“Just keep handy!” he shouted.
He managed to get his fingers onto the vertical-thrust control, reduced lift until the two wires were barely taut. Then he lowered the box until it was dangling by its cable, let go of it. He hoped that the wires would be strong enough to support its weight; he would be needing it again. He managed, with one hand, to unbuckle the belt with the pistol-holster attached, brought it up to his mouth, got a strong grip on it with his teeth. Unsnapping the seat belt was next. He suddenly realized that he had been supporting the chair, not it him. It dropped away, narrowly missing the control box in its descent, bounced, fragmented and twisted, off the bows of the spaceship.
But he would need two hands to get the belt around him and the umbilical cable. He dare not let go of this, fearing that should he do so he would fall over backward, losing the grip that his legs had upon the thick insulated wire. Something hit him sharply on the shoulder. He looked around. The blimp was very close now and Pansir, still leaning out of her window, was pulling up, hand over hand, a light heaving line with a weight on the end of it. She threw again, skillfully. The weight missed him — then whipped around the umbilical, continuing to take a turn around his body. It would hold him — perhaps only briefly, but for long enough. With both hands free, he was able to secure himself with his belt and then pull the control box up to where he could handle it.
All the indicator lights on the panel were glowing; it was still in working order.
Falsen pulled the laser pistol from its holster. He took careful aim at one of the tow wires. There was a coruscation of blue incandescent sparks, but the wire was tough. It parted at last. Then the second wire was dealt with, and the third, and the fourth … . But by this time the charge in the pistol was almost depleted, could produce no more than a dul
l red glow from the surface upon which its beam impinged.
But Pansir had been watching.
Handling her clumsy aircraft with consummate skill, she brought it around to a position from which she would have a clear field of fire, could bring her own hand laser to bear upon the remaining towlines without hitting Falsen or cutting the vitally important power cable. Her aim was good — but the range was comparatively long. It seemed an eternity before the last of the wires, dripping gobbets of molten metal, parted.
“Thank you, Lady Pansir,” said Falsen inadequately.
She circled above him as he dropped slowly to the ground, to the waiting Doralans and to the solitary figure, in a sodden white uniform, that was Linda. With sudden bitterness he asked himself what she had done to help in raising the ship. The alien women — the Lady Mother, Carlin and Pansir especially — had proven their worth, while she had just been standing around, doing nothing.
But there was the ship, a great gleaming tower almost ready for her natural element again. One side of her was still covered with black, dripping mud but it didn’t matter. The rain would soon wash it off, and if it didn’t it still wouldn’t matter.
Below him, with her ground crew and the busy mini-innies, Carlin pulled the dangling umbilical clear of his line of descent.
CHAPTER 33
Falsen sat with the Lady Mother in her day cabin.
There was little evidence of the crash in this room; either no furniture had been broken or it had already been skillfully repaired. But the cups from which they were drinking the hot aniseed-flavored tea were of thick plastic, not thin porcelain, as were the plates on which were displayed the little, too-sweet cakes. There had been breakages.
They sat there, nibbling, while Pondor, at his mistress’s feet, glared balefully at the Earthman.
“You did very well, Mr. Falsen,” said the Doralan captain.
“So did your people, Gracious Lady,” he said. “Lady Carlin, Lady Pansir … If it hadn’t been for Pansir I’d have suffered a nasty fall … .”
She smiled and remarked, “That is an understatement.”
Falsen suppressed a smile of his own. Understatement it had not been. Losing his grip on the power cable would have meant a nasty fall, no more. But it was not necessary to tell the Lady Mother that.
She asked abruptly, “Have you considered how you and Miss Veerhausen are going to make your way back to Earth?”
The question took him aback, and he thought hard and fast before replying.
He said at last, “Well, Gracious Lady, I assumed that you would be giving us passage to Dorala in this ship. Then, of course, we should have to see the Terran ambassador to arrange a DTS passage home.”
“DTS?”
“Distressed Terran Spacepersons.”
“Of course.” She sipped from her cup. “But, Mr. Falsen, do you really wish to return to Earth?”
Again he was taken aback. How much did she suspect, or know?
He said, rather lamely, “I was born there.”
“But what will be waiting for you there, Mr. Falsen? You’re a spaceman, and a good one — as I have learned — but your career is finished.” (How much do you know? he demanded silently.) “You must know of Lloyd’s Black Book. In the event of any major disaster in space — and the loss of your ship, Epsilon Crucis, must be classed as such — the names of survivors, if any, are recorded. As yours will be. Even though you, as a control-room officer, cannot be held responsible for the breakdown of the ship’s Mannschenn Drive, you were there when it happened. Perhaps you are accident-prone. No … that’s not quite right. Perhaps, they reason, you are one of those beings around whom things ‘just happen.’ ”
“What your Lady Prenta would call a Jonah,” said Falsen.
She smiled at this, then went on, “I have no doubt that you would be cleared by a court of enquiry. Your certificate of competency would not be canceled, or suspended. But who would employ you? What shipping company would be prepared to pay higher insurance premiums on one of its vessels to which you have been appointed?”
“I’ve heard of Lloyd’s Black Book,” said Falsen.
“And you must be in it,” mewed Pondor suddenly.
“Quiet, cat!” snapped the Lady Mother. Then, to the man, “Do you want to return to Earth, Mr. Falsen?”
Earth wouldn’t have me, he thought.
He said, “The way you put it, Gracious Lady, my prospects don’t seem at all rosy.”
“They are not, Mr. Falsen. And it is a great pity that your talents should be allowed to go to waste. Some more tea?” She poured from the metal pot. “I’ll be frank with you. To begin with, I am very grateful to you. And I am a woman not without influence on my own world. My elder sister is High Mother of the Department of Interstellar Shipping — what in your parliamentary system would be called a minister. Among her many responsibilities is the establishment of our own Astronautical Academy. You are, of course, aware that ours is a matriarchal society. Even so, we look upon Earthmen, Earth men, as our mentors in astronautical matters. You must have noticed how, despite your sex, you have been accepted aboard this vessel. That is because you are a spaceman, a space man. If you’d been just a man, perhaps a passenger cast away as you were, you would have been regarded as … as … ” She struggled to find a telling simile, came out at last with, “Something that the cat brought in.”
“I wouldn’t touch him,” mewed Pondor.
“Quiet! I say.”
“Not everybody has accepted me,” said Falsen.
“The Lady Carlin respects your competence, as does the Lady Pansir.”
“Prenta still hates me.”
“That has nothing to do with your sex, Mr. Falsen. Officially, she is my second-in-command. Even before we found you she resented my putting the Lady Carl in in charge of extravehicular activities. And lately she has resented, even more strongly, your being in virtual full control of the raising operation. She is very jealous.”
“I guessed that, Gracious Lady.”
“At our Academy you would have to cope with similar jealousies as well as sexual antagonism — but I am sure that, once the story of what you did for this ship has been widely publicized, you would be accepted by the majority.”
Falsen sipped his tea thoughtfully. The idea was not unattractive. Dorala was not Earth — but to Earth he could never return. Could he adapt to an utterly alien culture? Why not? Others before him had done so. He recalled how, during one of his leaves on Earth, he had visited Japan and had been taken to the tomb of the Anjin Sama, still after many centuries venerated almost as a shrine. This Anjin Sama had been Will Adams, the first Englishman in Japan, by the standards of his time an extremely competent navigator, by the standards of any time an outstanding seaman. He had never returned to England. He had become a daimyo, a Japanese nobleman and an admiral. In those long-ago days the Japanese culture had been as strange to a European as the Doralan culture would be now to a Terran. Stranger, perhaps …
A shore job, and a job that he would enjoy … that could be the answer to his problems, to Linda’s problems. Once they were away for a long period from the temporal-precession field of the Mannschenn Drive, surely they would no longer be subject to their own peculiar regression, even though at times they might will themselves (as they could now) to regress.
But why should they wish to do so?
“You look interested, Mr. Falsen,” said the Lady Mother. “Or should I call you Captain-Professor Falsen?”
“I haven’t got the job yet, Gracious Lady,” he said. “I haven’t said, even, that I want it.”
“I became quite expert in reading Terran expressions while I was on Earth, Mr. Falsen. You have your doubts — as who would not? — but you are tempted.”
“I am,” he said.
“Then, think about it. There is no hurry. There will be the remainder of our stay here and then the duration of the voyage back to Dorala. Talk it over with the Lady Linda.” She smiled knowingly. “You wi
ll need her with you. I know, from my own experience, that sexual release of tensions is not possible between members of our two species. And sex — as even we in our matriarchal society acknowledge — is essential for physical and mental health.”
I wonder who you tried it with on Earth, thought Falsen. Possibly it had been with some crudely masculine type who had been determined to demonstrate to this woman, from a world where women ruled, the God-given superiority of the male. And what would she think if she found out about him and Carlin?
“And now, Mr. Falsen, please excuse me. I must prepare a rough draft of my report on the raising of the ship and on the events prior to it.”
This, obviously, was dismissal.
Falsen finished his tea, got to his feet, thanked the Doralan captain and left.
He hoped that Linda would be as sympathetic to the Lady Mother’s proposal as he was.
CHAPTER 34
“You, a schoolmaster!” she sneered.
“Why not, Linda?” He tried to make a joke. “The Odd Gods of the Galaxy know that there are enough wolves on the tutorial staffs of colleges and universities.”
“There are wolves, and wolves. Listen to me, Nick. We’re almost there. Soon we will be able to get what we want. We. Us. And to hell with these bloody Doralan pussycats. A world of our own is what we must have, some planet out towards the Rim that the Federation hasn’t stumbled on yet, won’t stumble on until it has been populated by our descendants.”
“A dream. A good one, perhaps, but only a dream. Whatever else we might be, we’re a civilized man and woman. We could exist without the comforts to which we are used, the comforts deriving from modern technology, but it would be no more than an existence … .”
“It would be life!” she almost shouted. “Life as it should be lived!”
“Quiet, Linda! Somebody might hear.”
“There’s nobody out in the alleyway, not even that bloody Pondor. Nick, drop this crazy idea.”
“It’s not crazy. We would have a good life on Dorala. You’d have even less to worry about than I would — after all, you’re of the right sex to get along in a matriarchal society. Oh, we’d find it hard, at first, to restrain ourselves — but we’re used to doing that. And I’m sure that once we’re away from the Mannschenn Drive, from the temporal-precession field, we shall revert to … to normality.”
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