Lucky Starr And The Oceanf Of Venus ls-3

by Isaac Asimov

"Dump them," said Lucky succinctly.

  "What?"

  "You heard me. You might go under. Or I might. If we do, I don't want anything with which we can expect a repetition of what has just happened. Against the V-frogs, physical weapons are useless, anyway."

  One by one, two blasters, plus the electric whips from each sea suit, passed through the trash ejector. The ejector's hinged opening stood flush with the wall just next to the first-aid cupboard, and through it the weapons were puffed through one-way valves into the sea. "It makes me feel naked," muttered Bigman, staring out through the port as though to catch sight of the vanished weapons. A dim phosphorescent streak flashed across, marking the passing of an arrow fish. That was all.

  The water pressure needle dropped slowly. They had been twenty-eight hundred feet under to begin with. They were less than two thousand now.

  Bigman continued peering intently out the port. Lucky glanced at him. "What are you looking for?" "I thought," said Bigman, "it would get lighter as we got up toward the top."

  "I doubt it," said Lucky. "The seaweed blankets the surface tightly. It will stay black till we break through." "Think we might meet up with a trawler, Lucky?" "I hope not."

  They were fifteen hundred feet under now. Bigman said with an effort at lightness, a visible attempt to change the current of his own thoughts, "Say, Lucky, how come there's so much carbon dioxide in the air on Venus? I mean, with all these plants? Plants are supposed to turn carbon dioxide into oxygen, aren't they?"

  "On Earth they are. However, if I remember my course in xenobotany, Venusian plant life has a trick all its own. Earth plants liberate their oxygen into the air; Venusian plants store theirs as high-oxygen compounds in their tissues." He talked absently as though he himself was also using speech as a guard against too-deep thinking. "That's why no Venusian animal breathes. They get all the oxygen they need in their food."

  "What do you know?" said Bigman in astonishment.

  "In fact, their food probably has too much oxygen for them, or they wouldn't be so fond of low-oxygen food, like the axle grease you fed the V-frog. At least, that's my theory."

  They were only eight hundred feet from the surface now.

  Lucky said, "Good navigation, by the way. I mean the way you rammed the patch, Bigman."

  "It's nothing," said Bigman, but he flushed with pleasure at the approval in Lucky's words.

  He looked at the pressure dial. It was five hundred feet to the surface.

  Silence fell.

  And then there came a grating and scraping sound from overhead, a sudden interruption in their smooth climb, a laboring of their engines, and then a quick lightening of the view outside the porthole, together with an eye-blinking vision of cloudy sky and rolling water surface oozing up between shreds and fibers of weed. The water was pockmarked with tiny splashings.

  "It's raining," said Lucky. "And now, I'm afraid, we'll have to sit tight and wait till the V-frogs come for us."

  Bigman said blankly, "Well-well… Here they

  are!"

  For moving into view just outside the porthole, staring solemnly into the ship out of dark, liquid eyes, its long legs folded tightly down and its dexterous toes clasping a seaweed stem in a firm grip, was a V-frog!

  13. Minds Meet

  The Hilda rode high in the tossing waters of the Venusian ocean. The splatter of strong, steady rain drummed its sound upon the outer hull in what was almost an Earthlike rhythm. To Bigman, with his Martian background, rain and ocean were alien, but to Lucky it brought memories of home.

  Bigman said, "Look at the V-frog, Lucky. Look at it!"

  "I see it," said Lucky calmly.

  Bigman swept the glass with his sleeve and then found himself with his nose pressing against it for a better look.

  Suddenly he thought, Hey, I better not get too close.

  He sprang back, then deliberately put the little finger of each hand into the corners of his mouth and drew them apart. Sticking his tongue out, he crossed his eyes and wiggled his fingers.

  The V-frog stared at him solemnly. It had not budged a muscle since it had first been sighted. It merely swayed solemnly with the wind. It did not seem to mind, or even to be aware of, the water that splashed about it and upon it.

  Bigman contorted his face even more horribly and went "A-a-gh" at the creature.

  Lucky's voice sounded over his shoulder. "What are you doing, Bigman?"

  Bigman jumped, took his hands away, and let his face spring back into its own pixy-ish appearance. He said, grinning, "I was just showing that V-frog what I thought of it."

  "And it was just showing you what it thought of you!"

  Bigman's heart skipped a beat. He heard the clear disapproval in Lucky's voice. In such a crisis, at a time of such danger, he, Bigman, was making faces like a fool. Shame came over him.

  He quavered, "I don't know what got into me, Lucky."

  "They did," said Lucky, harshly. "Understand that. The V-frogs are feeling you out for weak points. However they can do it, they'll crawl into your mind, and once there they may remain past your ability to force them to leave. So don't follow any impulse until you've thought it out."

  "Yes, Lucky," muttered Bigman.

  "Now, what next?" Lucky looked about the ship. Evans was sleeping, tossing fitfully and breathing with difficulty. Lucky's eyes rested on him for a bare moment, then turned away.

  Bigman said almost timidly, "Lucky?"

  "Well."

  "Aren't you going to call the space station?"

  For a moment Lucky stared at his little partner without comprehension. Then slowly the lines between his eyes smoothed away and he whispered, "Great Galaxy! I'd forgotten. Bigman, I'd forgotten! I never once thought of it."

  Bigman cocked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the port into which the V-frog was still owlishly gazing. "You mean, it-?"

  "I mean they. Space, there may be thousands of them out there!"

  Half in shame Bigman admitted to himself the nature of his own feelings; he was almost glad that Lucty had been trapped by the creatures as well as he. It relieved him of some of the blame that might otherwise attach to him. In fact, Lucky had no right…

  Bigman stopped his thoughts, appalled. He was working himself into a resentment against Lucky. That wasn't he. That was they!

  Savagely he orced all thought from his mind and concentrated on Luqky, whose fingers were now on the transmitter, working them into the careful adjustment required to reach finely out into space.

  And then Bigman's head snapped back at a sudden new and strange sound.

  It was a voice, flat, without intonation. It said, "Do. not tamper with your machine of far-reaching sound. We do not wish it."

  Bigman turned. His mouth fell open and, for a moment, stayed so. He said, "Who said that? Where is it?"

  Lucky said, "Easy, Bigman. It was inside your head."

  "Not the V-frog!" said Bigman despairingly.

  "Great Galaxy, what else can it be?"

  And Bigman turned to stare out the port again, at the clouds, the rain, and the swaying V-frog.

  Once before in his life Lucky had felt the minds of alien creatures impressing "their thoughts upon him. That had been on the day he had met the immaterial-energy beings that dwelt within the hollow depths of Mars. There his mind had been laid open, but the entry of thought had been painless, even pleasant. He had known his own helplessness, yet he had also been deprived of all fear.

  Now he faced something different. The mental fingers inside his skull had forced their way in and he felt them with pain, loathing, and resentment.

  Lucky's hand had alien away from the transmitter, and he felt no urge to return to it. He had forgotten it again.

  The voice sounded a second time. "Make air vibrations with your mouth."

  Lucky said, "You mean, speak? Can you hear our thoughts when we do not speak?"

  "Only very dimly and vaguely. It is very difficult unless we have studied your mind well. When y
ou speak, your thoughts are sharper and we can hear."

  "We hear you without trouble," said Lucky.

  "Yes. We can send our thoughts powerfully and with strength. You cannot."

  "Have you heard all I've said so far?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you wish of me?"

  "In your thoughts we have detected an organization of your fellow beings far off, beyond the end, on the other side of the sky. You call it the Council. We wish to know more about it."

  Inwardly Lucky felt a small spark of satisfaction. One question, at least, was answered. As long as he represented only himself, as an individual, the enemy was content to kill him. But in recent hours the enemy had discovered he had penetrated too much of the truth, and they were concerned about it.

  Would other members of the Council learn as easily? What was the nature of this Council?

  Lucky could understand the curiosity of the enemy, the new caution, the sudden desire to learn a little more from Lucky before killing him. No wonder the enemy had forborne forcing Evans to kill him even when the blaster was pointed and Lucky was helpless, forborne just an instant too long.

  But Lucky buried further thought on the subject. They might, as they said, be unable to clearly hear unspoken thoughts. Then again, they might be lying.

  He said abruptly, "What do you have against my people?"

  The flat, emotionless voice said, "We cannot say what is not so."

  Lucky's jaw hardened at that. Had they picked up his last thought concerning their lying? He would have to be careful, very careful.

  The voice continued. "We do not think well of your people. They end life. They eat meat. It is bad to be intelligent and to eat meat. One who eats meat must end life to live, and an intelligent meat eater does more harm than a mindless one since he can think of more ways to end life. You have little tubes that can end the lives of many at one time."

  "But we do not kill V-frogs."

  "You would if we let you. You even kill each other in large groups and small."

  Lucky avoided comment on the last remark. He said, instead, "What is it you want of my people, then?"

  "You grow numerous on Venus," said the voice. "You spread and take up room."

  "We can take only so much," reasoned Lucky. "We can build cities only in the shallow waters. The deeps will always remain yours, and they form nine parts of the ocean's ten. Besides that, we can help you. If you have the knowledge of mind, we have the knowledge of matter. You have seen our cities and the machines of shining metal that go through air and water to worlds on the other side of the sky. With this power of ours, think how we can help you."

  "There is nothing we need. We live and we think. We are not afraid and we do lot hate. What nore can we need? What should we do with your cities and your metal and your ships? How can it make life better for us?"

  "Well, then, do you intend to kill us all?"

  "We do not desire to end life. It is enough for us if we hold your minds so that we will know you will do no harm."

  Lucky had a quick vision (his own? implanted?) of a race of men on Venus living and moving under the direction of the dominant natives, gradually being cut off from all connection with Earth, the generations growing more and more into complacent mental slaves.

  He said, in words whose confidence he did not entirely fel, "Men cannot allow themselves to be controlled mentally."

  "It is the only way, and you must help us."

  "We will not."

  "You have no choice. You must tell us of these lands beyond the sky, of the organization of your people, of what they will do against us, and how we may guard ourselves."

  "There is no way you can make me do that"

  "Is there not?" asked the voice. "Consider, then. If you will not speak the information we require, we will then ask vou to descend back into the ocean in your machine of shining metal, and there at the bottom you will open your machine to the waters."

  "And die?" said Lucky grimly.

  "The end of your lives would be necessary. With your knowledge it would not be safe to allow you to mingle with your fellows. You might speak to them and cause them to attempt reprisals. That would not be good."

  "Then I have nothing to lose by not telling you."

  "You have much to lose. Should you refuse what we ask, we would have to delve into your mind by force. That is not efficient. We might miss much of value. To diminish that danger, we would have to take your mind apart bit by bit, and that would be unpleasant for you. It would be much better for us and for you if you were to help us freely."

  "No." Lucky shook his head.

  A pause. The voice began again: "Although your people are given to ending life, they fear having their own lives end. We will spare you that fear if you help us. When you descend into the ocean to your life's end, we will remove fear from your mind. If, however, you do not choose to help us, we will force you into life's end anyhow, but we will not remove fear. We will intensify it."

  "No," said Lucky, more loudly.

  Another pause, a longer one. Then the voice said, "We do not ask your knowledge out of fear for our own safety, but to make it unnecessary for ourselves to take measures of an unpleasant nature. If we are left with but uncertain knowledge as to how to guard ourselves against your people from the other side of the sky, then we will be forced to put an end to the threat by ending life for all your people on this world. We will let the ocean into their cities as we have already almost done to one of them. Life will end for your people like the quenching of a flame. It will be snuffed out, and life will burn no more."

  Lucky laughed wildly. "Make me!" he said.

  "Make you?"

  "Make me speak. Make me dive the ship. Make me do anything."

  "You think we cannot?"

  "I know you cannot."

  "Look about you, then, and see what we have already accomplished. Your fellow creature who is bound is in our hands. Your fellow creature who stood at your side is in our hands."

  Lucky whirled. In all this time, through all this conversation, he had not heard Bigman's voice once. It was as though he had completely forgotten Bigman's existence. And now he saw the little Martian lying twisted and crumpled at his feet.

  Lucky dropped to his knees, a vast and fearful dismay parching his throat. "You've killed him?"

  "No, he lives. He is not even badly hurt. But, you see, you are alone now. You have none to help you now. They could not withstand us, and neither can you."

  White-faced, Lucky said, "No. You will not make me do anything."

  "One last chance. Make your choice. Do you choose to help us, so that life may end peacefully and quietly for you? Or will you refuse to help us, so that it must end in pain and sorrow, to be followed, perhaps, by life's end for all your people in the cities below the ocean? Which is it to be? Come, your answer!"

  The words echoed and re-echoed within Lucky's mind as he prepared to stand, alone and unfriended, against the buffets of a mental power he did not know how to fight save by an unbending stubbornness of will.

  14. Minds Battle

  How does one set up A barrier against mental attack? Lucky had the desire to resist, but there were no muscles he could flex, no guard he could throw up, no way he could return violence. He must merely remain as he was, resisting all those impulses that flooded his mind which he could not surely tell to be his own.

  And how could he tell which were his own? What did he himself wish to do? What did he himself wish most to do?

  Nothing entered his mind. It was blank. Surely there had to be something. He had not come up here without a plan.

  Up here?

  Then he had come up. Originally, he had been down.

  Far down in the recesses of his mind, he thought, That's it.

  He was in a ship. It had come up from the sea bottom. It was on the surface of the water now. Good. What next?

  Why at the surface? Dimly he could remember it was safer underneath.

  He ben
t his head with great difficulty, closed his eyes and opened them again. His thoughts were very thick.

  He had to get word somewhere… somewhere… about something.

  He had to get word.

  Get word.

  And he broke through! It was as though somewhere miles inside of himself he had put a straining shoulder to a door and it had burst open. There was a clear flash of purpose, and he remembered something he had forgotten.

  Ship's radio and the space station, of course.

  He said, huskily, "You haven't got me. Do you hear that? I remember, and I'll keep on remembering."

  There was no answer.

  He shouted aloud, incoherently. His mind was faintly occupied with the analogy of a man fighting an overdose of a sleeping drug. Keep the muscles active, he thought. Keep walking. Keep walking.

  In his case, he had to keep his mind active, he had to keep the mental fibers working. Do something. Do something. Stop, and they'll get you.

  He continued shouting, and sound became words, "I'll do-it. I'll do it." Do what? He could feel it slipping from him again.

  Feverishly, he repeated to himself, "Radio to station… radio to station…" but the sounds were becoming meaningless.

  He was moving now. His body turned clumsily as though his joints were wood and nailed in place, but it was turning. He faced the radio. He saw it clearly for a moment, then it wavered and became foggy. He bent his mind to the task, and it was clear again. He could see the transmitter, see the range-setting toggle and the frequency condensers. He could recall and understand its workings.

  He took a dragging step toward it and a sensation as of red-hot spikes boring into his temples overwhelmed him.

  He staggered and fell to his knees, then, in agony, rose again.

  Through pain-hazed eyes, he could still make out the radio. First one of his legs moved, then another.

  The radio seemed a hundred yards away, hazy, surrounded by a bloody mist. The pounding in Lucky's head increased with each step.

  He fought to ignore the pain, to see only the radio, to think only of the radio. He forced his legs to move against a rubbery resistance that was entangling them and dragging him down.