by Hal Clement
“Right. I don’t see how we can manage that anyway until the current lets us go, but secure them just the same. The radio will be easy enough; it was made to be fastened to things. The tracker wasn’t, though. All of you try to think of a hitch or something to hold it fast.”
“Why did they make it ball-shaped?” Even Sherrer sounded more annoyed than afraid. “Didn’t they ever think of having to keep it from falling overboard?” Barlennan could think of no useful answer. He had a fairly clear idea of where the rocket had traveled, but no real notion of ballistics. “Salvage all the cordage you can find,” was all he said. “Coil it up and stow it around your bodies. Hars, stay with the tracker and hold onto it as well as you can until we solve the tie-down problem. Think of this as a doldrum situation. We do what we can to make use of wind, or current, or an animal we can harpoon to tow us, and hope that one or another of them will happen. Only this time we have a whole new list of things we need to be ready for, and don’t know anything on the list.”
“Shouldn’t we perhaps moor to something, Captain?” asked Sherrer. “The tracker says we’re getting farther from the river all the time. The farther we travel, the farther we’ll have to go to get back.”
“If you can find a way to moor us, I’ll agree. Personally I can’t see what we’re passing.”
“Of course we can’t see, but we can reach out to feel. Surely some of the broken cliff must be rough enough for a grip!”
“For a grip, maybe. For a rope? Well, reach out and learn what you can.” The sailor presumably obeyed, but made no report for a long time. Nothing particular happened during that time — whether a day or an hour none of them could tell. Cordage was found and secured. Hars contrived a spherical, close-meshed net of some of the finer lines, and enclosed the tracker in this. Without commenting to the captain, he secured it to his own body. Like the rest, he had a strong feeling that this device, if anything, was most likely to get them back to daylight. Again, Barlennan began wishing for Flyer theories and arguments. He found himself even thinking along Flyer lines. Why was there liquid so far under what had been a layer of solid rock hundreds of feet thick? The fact that the rock was no longer solid did not explain where the liquid filling the new space could be coming from. Why was there any place away from the original river for it to flow to? (Item not to think of: liquid flows downhill; where were they being carried?) Why had the finer material been washed, or carried somehow, away from the really large fragments of rock, even in here, apparently turning the whole fallen area into a random stack of slabs and columns long enough and wide enough, as it had seemed from their last glimpses outside, to enclose more empty space than rock? Where had the fine stuff gone? (Well, downstream, obviously.) Where had the medium-sized stuff gone? (No obvious answer.) Why did they all seem to be sane in a situation which should have driven any normal person out of his mind? (Or were they? No, Captain, keep away from that thought, too.) They were, after all, experienced and competent members of a dangerous profession, and knew that quite often a dangerous situation offered a good chance of getting something worth while out of it. (And of course a better one of not living to enjoy the profit.) That last thought had been banished from all their minds years before, of course. They were still alive; therefore they were lucky. Where had the underpinnings of the plateau gone, actually? That was a real Flyer question. And the Flyers were in no position to answer it. They would want to know the answer, though. And Barlennan and his people were the only ones likely ever to be able to provide one. That was a thought to bolster sanity. The Flyers always wanted information. Sherrer was having more trouble. His sounds, when he made any at all, were less and less understandable words and more and more short howls of terror. When words could be made out, they were ones that only magnified the fear. “The world is up there … it’s heavy … it can flatten us … what can keep it from falling? We’re …”
“Quiet!” snapped the captain. “Why should it fall? It hasn’t yet, and …” his voice trailed off. The stuff above, after all, hadn’t had that much time to finish the settling it seemed to have started. It could quite easily be getting ready to fall farther. And it was indeed heavy. There was no way of convincing themselves they were back near the equator, where a healthy person could lift rocks like that. No way, even if they couldn’t see. Stop catching Sherrer’s fears, Captain … Even if they couldn’t see … He jerked out another order; his own mind was recovering, it seemed. “Sherrer, bend a good line around yourself, at least twenty body lengths, and make sure its other end is secure to the basket — to some really strong part of the basket. Then go overboard carefully and try to find how deep it is, and whether there is anything we could moor to. Don’t leave too much slack; keep most of it coiled against you and stay close to us at first.”
“Yes, sir.” Barlennan listened anxiously; giving the fellow something to occupy his mind was one thing, putting him where he wouldn’t expect to see upward might be even better. The information would be useful, of course, but the action might keep the fellow from complete panic. The liquid was quiet; they were moving with it, not through it, and the sound as it slid around the rocks which must be there was hardly audible. The other three could hear as Sherrer measured his line, secured it at both ends, and slipped overboard. Without order, Hars gripped the inboard end of the cord with a holding nipper. “He’s pulling away a bit, Captain; I don’t suppose he can see to keep near us. I’ll give him a tug or two to let him know.” Barlennan didn’t bother to answer. “There’s some slack, now. What pull there is is smooth; he can’t have met anything solid.” Sherrer’s voice abruptly sounded, muffled by the methane-air interface but quite audible. The Mesklinite vocal apparatus, a modified part of their ancestors’ swimming siphons, worked impressively well in both media. “We’re going a little better than walking speed, Captain. I’m on the bottom. It seems to be that slush rather than rock most of the time, though I hit something solid every little while. Shall I try to slow the basket, if I can get a good grip on anything?” The sailor seemed perfectly calm now. “Try, but not too hard; if you get pulled free by the basket, don’t fight it,” replied Barlennan. “Yes, sir. The liquid’s getting shallower, I think.” There was no more after that to be said; the sailor had been right about decreasing depth. Moments later, everyone still in the basket recognized the sensation as their craft ran aground on an oozy surface. Instantly the captain snapped further orders. “You two — lines on yourselves and go overside. Get away from here in different directions. Use voice softly to keep yourselves apart — no echoes if you can help it. Find out everything there is around here, out as far as your lines will allow. If there is anything we can moor to, report at once and then start doing it.” He was obeyed promptly, and submerged hoots and howls began to echo around the basket. There were, it turned out, plenty of rocks projecting from the ammonia-smelling ooze; some of them barely broke the surface of the methane, many extended upward farther than the sailors could reach. In less than half a day, as well as anyone could guess, they were moored solidly to five different bases, two of them too high to flip a noose over. At least they shouldn’t get any farther from the outside. Getting back to it might be rather different. All three of the sailors who had been overboard sounded easier in their minds. The captain wasn’t sure whether this could be attributed to lack of upward vision, or just to being occupied; but there was a way to test. He groped his way to the now cold fire box — cold only in comparison to its working state; the surroundings still felt like the inside of the balloon bag in flight — and felt for the control baffles which had directed the lifting air. These were made of the same fabric as the bag itself, stretched on light wooden frames. Carefully he nipped out a section of the material and deliberately spread it over his head and eyes. The only obvious difference was that he could no longer see the tracker’s characters. He felt no easier about what lay overhead. But then, that hadn’t bothered him, the captain, as much before as he thought it should have. A better subject was neede
d, though Barlennan had never heard of guinea pigs. “Sherrer! Come aboard.”
“Yes, Captain.” If the sailor were uneasy, his voice failed to betray the fact. He came over the side in a few seconds, presumably coiling his safety line as he came. “Here, sir.”
“Can you think of any way back?”
“No, sir. We’re — we’re underneath—” The voice trembled. “Don’t be ashamed of being scared. It would probably mean something worse if you weren’t. Did you feel better while you were working just now?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Feel the piece of sail cloth I’m holding here.”
“I have it, sir.”
“Put it over your head and eyes, like this.” Barlennan helped. “Find some thin line and tie it there. Then go back overboard, and check the bottom all around us for small rocks. I think we can use some — as many as you can find.” Sherrer was neither stupid nor unimaginative, but was not the sort to ask anything like?How?? to an order. He simply obeyed. Barlennan was satisfied. He didn?t want rocks, he wanted information, and would have had a hard time in answering a?how? or a?why? just then. The Flyers had not taught him any psychology, but his profession had; and he had grasped certain principles of research?not as well as his mate, but better than vaguely. Sherrer obviously shouldn?t know in advance what was expected?or rather, hoped. Let him look for rocks for half a day or so, and then come aboard with them, and give him something else to do with the hood still over his eyes. Something not too demanding of his attention— But how about Barlennan’s own attention? Captain or not, there were moments when the tonnage above seemed to fill his mind. There was nothing else to think of. Nothing else in the world. Maybe he’d better make another hood for himself. No. He was the captain, and he knew what was up there. If anyone could ignore it without special help, he should be the one. Of course, it would be nice if something else were to get his attention away from the World Above. It was, indeed, a relief when something did. Jeanette had spent several minutes calling Barlennan after his communicator had gone silent and dark. She had his verbal reports up to that time, and wasn’t very hopeful after it; the fadeout hadn’t been quite instantaneous. The drifters hadn’t hit anything hard and suddenly, up to the time sound and picture had faded. The waves the communicators used were long enough to reach their goal by diffraction even when Toorey was on the far side of the cliff from the Bree’s crew, so the basket must have been pretty well surrounded by some obstacle within a second or two after that. Barlennan had reported that the methane was flowing into openings in the rockfall; she had seen this, as well. And Jeanette had as clear an idea as any human being possibly could of what being inside a cave or a tunnel at “normal” gravity must mean to a Mesklinite. She switched to Dondragmer’s set at once. He also had heard his captain’s messages, delayed barely a second by the round trip to Toorey, and had as clear an idea as the Flyer of what had happened. Some of his sailors had already been ordered downstream to investigate the end of the rockfall; after a moment’s thought, he let them go on. He split the remainder into two groups, sending one up toward the point where the eddy had presumably caused all the trouble and keeping the rest with him to get as close as possible as quickly as possible to where he was now pretty sure the original Bree was stranded. The stream had started to widen now as the captain had reported earlier from his upstream position, but the methane at the edge away from the plateau was not uncomfortably warm. Maybe they could reach the ship, or what they hoped was the ship, without getting scalded. The mate told the Flyers what he was doing, and led the way. The river was widening, its edge coming to meet them. The radio remained behind; swimming with it was not an option, and walking on the bottom with it seemed inadvisable. Whoever carried it would be able to talk to the others and report to Toorey, but its viewing equipment would be useless unless it could be held above the surface. It seemed better to learn what could be found out, and then come back for the communicator. No one on the moon was pleased, but no one argued. The bottom was ordinary ground at first. It had been dry land since long before the Bree’s arrival, presumably; the liquid methane was spreading wider and wider past its former bank, and there had been little change in the volume of flow in the thousands of days since their first arrival. There was presumably little change now; the overflow represented liquid displaced from its former bed by rock. The crew waded for a while, then had to swim, watching where they were headed part of the time but checking below the surface frequently. They were something like half way to where the ship seemed to be when the bottom began to show lighter in color, and closer examination showed that it was now the same ammonia slush reported earlier by the captain’s quartet. It was being washed downstream, they could see at first; then it covered the bottom with a uniform sheet of white, and its motion couldn’t be seen. Physical contact indicated that it was still moving. The methane was getting deeper, and Dondragmer kept a close eye on what he was now almost certain was the Bree. It had been hauled well ashore, but was now out in the stream — or rather, the stream had spread well past it. It would have to be floating soon. Perhaps it was floating now, the mate realized; they were all swimming, and would be carried downstream at the same rate, and the slope across the river was completely hidden by fog, so it was not easy to tell who or what was moving. It was the ship. It was afloat. It was easy to reach, fortunately; but it was not merely drifting along with the swimmers. The wind was toward the rock fall here, too, and the Bree was being carried very slowly toward the slope as the balloon basket had done. For just a moment the mate thought of making sail; then he realized that the wind was toward the rocks and the depth too shallow to lower centerboards and sail effectively across it. With only ten men aboard, rowing would be futile. Almost futile. Maybe they could keep her away from the rocks long enough to get the radio back aboard — no, they were already leaving that equipment upstream. Dondragmer ordered four of his crew back overboard. “Get the radio, and start taking it downstream. We’re not very far from the end of the rock fall, now; maybe when we get there the heat will ease off and the wind change. If it doesn’t, well, the ship’s a lot bigger than the balloon basket, and we may be able to paddle it so the rafts catch in a space too narrow to let us through.” The crewmen obeyed. One of those remaining behind raised another point. “Will the rafts hold together if we catch her across a passage that way?”
