Orbit 4 - Anthology

by Edited by Damon Night

  “Wonderful!” said Tatja. She stood up. “Now I’m sure you’ll want to go ashore and get your stuff together. Ked will have a boat take you back.” The group left the room and walked toward the outer hull. About halfway there, Tounse and Guille left them for the typeset area. The walk gave Svir time for some heart-stopping second thoughts. He had a vivid imagination and it was working overtime now. Ancho responded uneasily to his fright, moving nervously on his neck.

  They reached the landing bay, and Maccioso went off to get a crew. Tatja turned to Svir. She grasped his hand gently and moved close. “Thank you, Svir. I want to save that collection very much. But I think I want to see you again even more. You’ll be back tomorrow, won’t you?”

  She slipped her arms around him. He felt her body against him, her lips against his. His fears and half-conscious plans to junk the whole project were erased. He would be back.

  * * * *

  It was well past midmorning, Hedrigs stood, with Ancho on his shoulder, at the edge of the false deck which reinforced the Barge’s bowform. Tatja had said she’d meet him here and take him on a tour.

  The Tarulle Barge was especially impressive by day. Over the centuries, it had grown helter-skelter. New barge platforms had been added and built upon—then built over again, until the mass resembled nothing so much as a man-made mountain of terraces, cupolas, and cranes. The top offices and printshops were of spun glass —the most modern construction material. The bottommost members of the Barge were moldering timbers three hundred years old. From the top of the mainmast to the bottom of the lowest hold was almost three hundred feet.

  Now the huge filmy sails were close-hauled as the Barge tacked in the thirty-mile Monsoonal Drag that blew steadily off The Continent.

  Hedrigs grabbed the terrace rail to steady himself in the wind. Just looking up at those masts was enough to make him dizzy. He turned his attention to the ocean and the whitecapped waves that stretched out to the horizon. In winds like this, the sailing hydrofoils were at top efficiency, getting up to almost fifty miles an hour. Two Company scouts cut through the farther waters as they sailed out to minor ports of the Chainpearl Archipelagate.

  And the Tarulle fleet was not alone on the main. Svir could pick out three cargo barges at various distances. The Chainpearls lay along one of the busiest trade routes in the world.

  For all their cultural importance, the publishing lines accounted for only a small fraction of total ocean tonnage. Most publishing enterprises were operated landside, and contracted with freighting companies to serve other islands. Relatively rare nowadays were the huge publishing barges, like Tarulle, which toured the entire world and printed a variety of books and magazines.

  “Hey, Svir!” Tatja’s voice came clearly over the wind. He turned to see her striding toward him. Her hair was caught in a soft reddish swirl tied with a clip to the front of her tunic. Even so the wind blew it back and forth to caress the side of her face. She seemed small and delicate even in her baggy work coveralls, but when she came near, her eyes were level with his. Her smile sent a long shiver down his spine.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t get together earlier in the morning,” she continued, “but things are really moving around here. This Chainpearl run is always the busiest of the circuit, and when we have Monsoon winds, every printer is running at the breaking-point.”

  “Uh, that’s all right—I’ve had plenty to see,” he replied. As a matter of fact, the wake period had been something of a bore so far. The crew was distinctly hostile toward nonessential personnel. Since lunch he had wandered about the decks. His ears still burned from insults received when he walked in a door marked TRIPULATION ONLY. The people weren’t really stranger-haters, though. They just didn’t want nonprofessionals messing up their work.

  Svir and Tatja started toward a nearby stairway. Grimm looked at the dorfox. “Say, I’m glad you brought Ancho. He looks fine. Can I carry him? We’ll have to be real careful: some of the areas I’ll show you could affect him. But I want to see how hardy he is.”

  Svir handed the dorfox over. Ordinarily the little animal didn’t enjoy being fondled by others, but he had taken a liking to Grimm. Ancho had recovered from his initial fear of sailing, though even now he clutched at Tatja’s shoulders tightly. Dorfoxes came from a single island far around the world. They were long-lived and relatively infertile. Most dorfoxes became mortally seasick when taken aboard a ship. Ancho was an exception. Betrog Hedrigs, the great Continental explorer and Svir’s grandfather, had brought the animal to Krirsarque forty years before. Ancho was probably the only dorfox in the Chainpearls. Perhaps it was just as well though, for if dorfoxes had been common, they would have turned society upside down. Their strange abilities would give criminals almost supernatural powers.

  Svir and Tatja descended two flights to the vat holds. It was a different world, a claustrophobe’s nightmare. The wind was no longer audible, but there was an ominous creaking from the hull of the barge platform. Dim orange light filtered from half-dead algae pots. Worst of all was the smell. Svir had been raised near the ocean, and so was virtually unaware of any special odor associated with the seas. But here, in these vats, the essence of those smells was being distilled.

  Some of the workers actually smiled at them: Tatja’s presence was safe conduct.

  Tatja pointed to where the ocean water came in through the bowform. “The whole paper-making operation runs at just the speed that water can flow through these hulls. We’re at the input now. If we walk to the stern, we’ll see every stage of the processing.”

  The seawater flowed through the underpart of the Barge like a subterranean river. Narrow catwalks hung inches above the dark water. Every forty feet, they had to climb a short flight of steps and then down again, as they moved from the hull of one barge platform to the next. They walked about two hundred feet through the gloom. Hedrigs admired the graceful way Tatja moved along the catwalk, and cursed his own fearful, halting pace. Below them the liquid had thickened and now flowed slowly past grinding wheels. Beyond this, it was divided into several streams, depending on which reagents were to be added to the conglomeration of sargasso, algae, and animalcules that composed the slimy mass. They followed the stream of sludge that was destined to become paper.

  All the way, Tatja gave a running account of what was going on. She also kept a close eye on Ancho for any signs of nausea or disorientation. But the dorfox seemed quite calm. It was a different story for Svir. The stench was beginning to get to him. Finally he asked, “How can the hull take these chemicals? I should think it would rot in a matter of months.”

  “That’s a good question,” the Science Editor responded. “The processing seems to have just the opposite effect. The carbonates and silicates in this sludge replace the wood fiber on a microscopic level. Over the years the hull has actually become stronger. And what we discharge beneath the hull is so concentrated, it kills any parasites that might otherwise nest there. Oops!”

  She slipped on the walk. Svir’s arm reached out and grabbed her waist as Ancho caught at his collar. The three of them teetered precariously for a moment. Then Tatja laughed nervously. “Thanks.”

  Svir felt obscurely proud. He might move more slowly than she, but when it came to a test, his caution paid off. He didn’t remove his arm from her waist

  At last they reached the stern. Here the remaining water was pressed from the bleached mass, and the paper was actually formed. The fine sheets hung for several days before they were wound on drums and taken up to Printing.

  They walked up to the next deck, where tons of newly printed magazines were stored. Here too the light was dim, but there was only a faint musty smell. Thank God the final product didn’t smell like seaweed, thought Svir.

  Tatja hung close on his arm and became more talkative. The Tarulle Company put out five different magazines every sixteen days. Fantasie and a couple of girlie magazines accounted for four hundred thousand copies per issue, and provided the bulk of the Tarulle income
. Since it was necessary to stock copies for as long as two years before they were sold, the Barge normally carried eight tons of magazines. Over the centuries it had been a race to keep up with world population increase. The Barge was now more than ten times as large as its first platform. All the latest machinery was employed. But even with increased landside printing and the prospect of writing machines to replace hand type-setting, they were still falling behind.

  It suddenly came to Hedrigs that he was being chased. It was subtle, but this girl was falling all over herself to please. She gave forth with a continuous stream of highly animated speech, and at the same time took every opportunity to draw him out. Hedrigs felt himself warm even more to the miracle at his side.

  They came to one of the loading ports. The sound of the wind came strong, and beyond that huge hole in the hull was a panorama of sky and sea. Less than twenty feet away floated one of the fifty-ton hydrofoils that did most of the delivery work for the Barge. Its sails were reefed and its boom masts were in the vertical position, permitting it to move close to the larger vessel. A fifteen-ton load of magazines was being hoisted onto the hydrofoil by one of the Barge’s cranes.

  They watched the scene for several minutes. Finally the operation was complete, and the boat pushed away from the Barge. Its booms were lowered and the sails— like sheets on a clothesline—were hung out. As it moved out of the Barge’s wind shadow, it gathered speed, and the outermost studding sails tilted queerly into the wind. The whole affair lifted up on the slender stilts of its foils, and the boat moved away at nearly forty miles an hour. Then the Barge’s crewmen closed the loading port and everything was dim again.

  Tatja frowned. “You know, I’ve always wondered why they tilt the studding sails like that.”

  Hedrigs grinned broadly and gave her an explanation of Dertham’s pressure theories, complete with an analogy to tacking. Grimm’s eyes showed scarcely concealed admiration. “You know, Svir, that’s the first clear explanation I’ve ever heard of that. You ought to try writing it up. I could use some decent articles.”

  Hedrigs’ collar shrank about three sizes.

  Then he noticed Ancho. “He’s glazing over,” he said, indicating the animal’s eyes.

  Tatja agreed, “So I see. We’d better cut things short. It’s almost suppertime anyway. We’ll just take a short look at the print deck, and leave the typeset and editorial offices for another time.”

  They went up another stair and entered a low room filled with whirling gears. Hedrigs wondered if all vessels were this crowded. It destroyed the romantic air he had always associated with sailing. He noticed that Tatja kept a close hold on the dorfox and petted him comfortingly. This was no place for Ancho to run about unprotected.

  There were two machines in the room, but only one of them was in operation. At one end of the printer, a yard-wide roll of sea-paper unwound. The paper slid between two rotating drums. The upper one was inked and with every swift revolution it pressed at least twelve feet of print on the flowing paper. Beyond this first pair of drums, a second pair did the same for the underside of the sheet. The paper finally moved under a whirling glass flywheel that cut it into neat, yard-square sheets that landed in a small dolly, ready to be taken to the cutting and binding section. The machine was driven by a spinning shaft connected to the windmills on the main deck.

  One of the print men looked up angrily and started toward them. Then he recognized Tatja Grimm, and his manner changed. Up close, Hedrigs saw that the ink-stained face belonged to Brailly Tounse. “Day, ma’am,” Tounse shouted over the din. “Anything we can do for you?”

  “Well, if you have a couple minutes, could you describe your operation, Brailly?”

  Tounse seemed momentarily surprised, but agreed. He took them down the print line and traced the progress of the paper through the machine. “Right now we’re doing almost five thousand impressions an hour—that’s about one hundred thousand pages after cutting. Sometimes we go for months with hardly a breeze, but when we move into the Drag we have to make up for it. I’m pushing these machines at their physical limit right now. If you could get us just twenty ounces of steel, Miss Grimm, we could make some decent bearings, and run these things as fast as the wind can blow—about twelve thousand impressions an hour.” He looked at Tatja expectantly.

  Grimm smiled, and shouted back. “Brailly, I’ll bet there isn’t fifty ounces of steel in the whole Barge.”

  Hedrigs was confused. Since when does a Chief Proofreader ask a Science Editor for mechanical help—and for something as ridiculous as steel! Perhaps the fellow was just teasing, though he certainly looked serious enough.

  Tounse grimaced, wiped his greasy hand over his bald head, leaving a broad black streak. The man was obviously exhausted. “Well,” he said, “you might as well stick around and see them install a new print board on the other machine.” He indicated the idle printer.

  Several crewmen brought in four yard-square sheets of rubbery printboard. The elastic base made it possible for them to stretch the type across the drum and fasten down the edges. The ironwood-sap type-pieces gleamed dully in the light. In a few moments they would be black with ink. When the first four sheets were properly tied down, the workers moved down the line and tacked four more on the underside printer. Then they handfed twenty feet of roll paper through the machine.

  Tounse nodded to the man at the clutch. The gearing engaged. Perhaps the fellow released the clutch too fast. Or perhaps the gearing was fatigued. Svir never knew the exact cause, but the machine was transformed into a juggernaut. Gears splintered and paper billowed wildly about him. The first print-drum precessed madly and then flew off its spindle, knocking all three of them against the first machine. The glass blade at the far end of the room shattered and slivers flew about the room. Even though declutched, the machinery took seconds to slow and stop.

  Hedrigs picked himself up carefully. Tounse was all right, though he seemed on the verge of breaking down himself—printing machines just weren’t supposed to behave like this! Svir dragged Tatja from beneath the drums. She sat up and looked at him, dazed.

  “Svir, are you all—where’s Ancho!”

  The dorfox was gone. Tatja swore in a most unladylike manner. She picked herself up and declutched the first machine. “Tounse! Forget your damn machines. We’ve got to find that animal.” Soon Tounse and his whole work gang were searching the print rooms for Ancho. Hedrigs wondered briefly if the dorfox could be deceiving them all with an I’m-not-here signal. Ancho hadn’t pulled a trick like that in five years. If he had not been killed in the mangle, he was probably scared witless. His panic combined with his general fear of the sea, had probably driven him outside and to some higher deck.

  Svir left the others and ran outside. He glanced quickly about and ran up to the next level. Soon he had reached the mast deck. He stopped, gasping for breath. The wind was much stronger here. From the sails and rigging above him came a continuous, singing hum. He was alone except for a single sailor in a short semi-skirt She was climbing a rope ladder that stretched down from the mainmast. Svir wondered what she was doing—the rigging was adjustable from down in the navigation section. Besides, it was too windy to climb safely. Then he looked up past the girl. Almost forty feet above her, he saw Ancho’s furry form. Hedrigs ran across the deck, toward the mainmast. The dorfox moved awkwardly up the rope. Dorfoxes are, at best, only fair climbers. He was trying to retreat from all the things that frightened him, and going up was the only direction left. Svir debated whether he should follow the sailor, then saw that it would just upset her precarious balance. The wind blew the ladder into a clean catenary form. As the sailor rose higher, she was forced to climb with her back to the ground and the rope above her. Ancho was radiating helpless distress—even down on the deck it made Hedrigs faint with fear. Its effect on the sailor must have been nearly intolerable. For a heart-stopping instant it looked as if she were going to fall. Her feet slipped from the rope and she hung by her hands from th
e ladder. Then she hooked her leg around the ladder and inched forward. She was no longer climbing. One hundred fifty feet above the deck, the ladder was blown nearly horizontal.

  Finally she reached Ancho. She seemed to coax him. The dorfox clutched at her neck, or the top of her shirt. The two came slowly down the long, curving ladder.

  The girl collapsed at the base of the mast. Ancho released his tight hold on her and scuttled over to Svir. Hedrigs held the whimpering animal and helped the sailor to her feet. She was a bit taller than average, with black hair cut in short bangs. At the moment her face was very pale. “That was a brave thing you did,” said Svir. Without doubt, she had saved the animal’s life. “You really know how to handle those ropes.”

  The girl laughed weakly. “Not me. I’m an apprentice proofreader.” She spoke in brief, anguished spurts. Her mind knew she was safe now, but her body did not. “That’s the first time I ever climbed them. Oh God! Every time I looked down, I wanted to throw up. Everything looked so far away and hard.”

  She sat back down on the deck. She was shaking as much as Ancho. Svir put his hand on her shoulder.

  “I like to come up here on my lunch time,” she said. “Your pet came running across the deck like his tail was on fire. He just grabbed that ladder and started up. I could tell he didn’t like climbing, but he was terrified of whatever was chasing him. Every few rungs, he’d stop and try to come down. I—I just had to do something.”