by Noel Keyes
Britt’s party was just climbing out of “Jenny” at the head of the valley when the signaller in the Hannibal put through title second message. Sergeant Davys tore the strip from the machine and handed it to the Captain. He read it through twice, passed it to Mike and Bob, and sat down with a growl of exasperated fury.
“Isn’t that like those blasted Interplan oafs?” he demanded. “Only one remedy for any trouble—bring up the heavy heaters and show who’s the boss! Well, we’re going down into that valley, and if we haven’t finished our ‘botanical researches’ they can damn’ well wait for us before they begin their blasting. Why can’t they keep their interfering noses out? This is a Planetary affair.”
“But the Sector Fleet won’t act only on Japp’s hunches, will they?” asked Bob innocently.
“If we haven’t located the Persephone they will—if only to back up Japp against a Planetary ‘ground-hog.’ You don’t know those braid-happy boys.” He stood up impatiently and led the way to the ravine.
They were now at the uppermost limit of the vegetation, on the edge of the escarpment at the head of the valley, with the huge, dark-blue bowl of it extended beneath them. The yellow lake glinted and splashed in the foreground, little lemon-coloured wavelets winked and bubbled among the blue tangle at the shore, vertically beneath them. Beyond was the red lake—in harsh contrast with its ubiquitous blue border. Smaller in the distance were the green lake, the blue one, and just visible in front of the bright blue of the sea was a slash of vivid purple—the fifth and last.
“I’ll never get used to it,” declared Bob Crofton, “gives me a headache every time I look at it. You’ve got plenty of photographs Mike? If Japp and his gang bum this out of existence I want some evidence to prove this ain’t no pipe-dream.”
“Quit gossiping there and come see this,” called Britt. At this point, the little stream, tumbling from the barren hills beyond, had gouged a cutting through the cliff edge, and flung itself hissing and boiling, down a steep natural chute into the yellow lake. The blue vegetation had sent its advance guard up the ravine: long blue tendrils, devoid of leaves, probed the full length of the vee-cut slope, seeking a purchase wherever a crack or crevice could be found.
“Have you ever seen a valley this shape in a geological area as old as this one?” asked Britt. Mike looked up and down the length of the steep-sided cut before replying. “No,” he said at length, “it looks almost as though it had been cut out, but it’s a bit ragged for that. Besides, who could have cut it out? D’you suppose Japp is right, after all?”
“I don’t know,” said Britt, “but I’m beginning to think that this is not quite a ‘natural’ formation, at least.”
He climbed down the slope into the ravine itself, hampered by his protective suit and its domed helmet, but finding foot and hand-holds amongst the rocks and the tough blue vines.
He bent to hack off a portion of vine—a tendril tip—and paused suddenly in lifting a tangle of the thicker growth from the rock. There was a vein of ore beneath the plant, blue-black stuff that glinted metallically. He took a few pieces which had been loosened by the probing tendrils and climbed back out of the cleft. He showed the specimens to the others and instructed them to search the rest of the ravine to determine the general extent of the ore bed. The two lieutenants looked at each other and shrugged mentally. Bill Britthouse had a reputation for finding significance in the most unlikely facts, but this seemed to be going a little too far.
While they were engaged in the arduous task he seated himself on the edge, doing nothing more than sitting and watching. By the time his disgruntled juniors had finished their search he had seen what he wanted—several portions of rock and a miniature landside of rock and ore slid down the side of the cutting and were swept down the current into the lake.
“Well?” he said, when they returned.
“Covers most of the sides of the ravine,” reported Bob, “it’s a fairly thick seam, and the angle of the stratum is practically parallel to the bed of the stream.”
“Good,” said Britt, “take these samples of ore back to the Hannibal and do a flash spectro of them. I want the main metallic constituents, no more. Hurry.” Bob departed in a state of complete mystification.
“You come with me Mike,” the Captain said, “and we’ll take samples of the water in each of these darned lakes, together with the vegetation. I think we’re getting some place at last.”
Twelve hours later he was not so sure. They had worked like demons, five hours for a lightning tour of the valley in “Jenny,” collecting samples, and seven hours of cramped and heated work analysing the samples in the tiny laboratory of the ship. Although the results made some sort of sense to Britthouse, the connection with the disappearance of the Persephone had not appeared. He sent his junior officers to bed and remained worrying over his problem. He, too, made a list to assist his thought processes, but it bore little resemblance to the notes Japp had used:—
1. Ore—Chromium.
2. Chlorophyll-equivalent—also Cr.
3. Lakes—Ct in sol’n. viz: Yellow—alkaline; Red—acid; Green—alkaline; Blue—oxidised; Purple—intermediary for Chlorophyll-eq.
4. Persephone—????
Eventually he gave it up, hoping that a night’s sleep would refresh his brain. Unfortunately, the following morning brought no inspiration, but only a stiff request from Japp that he vacate the “environs of the indicated area” within one hour, as the Sector Fleet was now arriving, and almost ready to begin operations.
“I’m damned if I will!” roared Britthouse, “Sergeant Davys, get ‘Jenny’ out. We’re going to cruise up and down that valley until Japp is black in the face! I’ll stay there till this is solved and he can blast me if he dares!”
Five minutes later the faithful Sergeant reported at the control-room with a very troubled face. “I’m sorry, Captain,” he said, “but I’m afraid the ‘Jen—’—the runabout is unserviceable.”
“Why?”
“Corrosion, sir. The tracks are heavily corroded and the bearings have developed so much slack that they won’t track properly.”
“But that metal is practically incorrodible.”
“I know sir, that’s why I wasn’t sure the first day. But the juice that got into them yesterday has made ’em much worse.”
“Juice? What juice?”
“The juice—the sap of those plants sir. The tracks have been running in it for two days. That is what has corroded them sir.”
“Holy Smoke!” cried Britt, “Of all the double-distilled fools!”
“I’m sorry sir,” said the Sergeant stiffly, “I didn’t think it—”
“Not you Sergeant,” cried Britt, “I’m the fool. O.K. Now we’ve got to move. We may just get them out before that dim-wit Japp starts up his heaters. Gimme that control-board Mike, this has to be quick.”
“You know where the Persephone is?” demanded the startled Navigator.
“Sure,” said Britt, grinning broadly, “at the bottom of the red lake.”
There was no further opportunity for speech, as he flung the ship up from its berth on the escarpment and sent it screaming down the valley in a semi-circular sweep which ended abruptly with a stomach-lurching dip just above the green lake, facing upstream into the waterfall below the red one. The gunners were loading two torpedoes into the tubes when the message from the Interplanetary Fleet arrived. This was signed by no less a person than the Admiral himself. It simply repeated Japp’s earlier demand, adding that noncompliance on his part would be reported to “the appropriate quarters.”
Britt delayed long enough to energise the overhead viewers, and they had a glimpse of the massed phalanxes of the Sector Fleet receding in perspective into the distant blue.
“Gosh but they look swell,” admitted Britt. “Sirius knows what kind of goons are in them, but they build pretty ships. Pity to spoil their fun. Ready gunners? Fire.” As the two delayed-action torpedoes plunged into the vulnerable end of the red
lake he lifted the Hannibal up and back in a breathless whoosh.
Fifteen seconds later the end of the lake erupted in a great geyser of water and smoke. The end was blasted clean out of the lake. The damming vegetation was cut in two, and the pressure of water behind it flung open the gap until the whole lake was pouring through it.
“This should be good,” said Britt, “watch where the two lots of water mix.”
He was right—it was more than good, it was spectacular. Where the red water mixed with the blue there were huge clouds of steam. Fountains of boiling liquid, of brown and green muds, were flung bubbling into the air. Sheets of coloured vegetation were tossed to the sides, a thick steaming fog began to accumulate over the lower strteches of the valley. At this moment the signaller agitatedly announced that the Sector Fleet Admiral himself was on the screen, and would Captain Britthouse please take the call?
The Admiral’s face was a study in icy contempt, “I must warn you, Captain Britthouse,” he said, “that this childish attempt to anticipate my action will also be reported to your superiors. Would you please be good enough to remove your ship from my target area without any further delay?” Beneath the table, Britt had his fingers crossed—suppose he was wrong? He was watching his forward viewer intently, ignoring the image on the communications-screen. Then he saw what he was waiting for, and turned to the Admiral with a seraphic smile.
“Thank you for your valuable co-operation Sir,” he said, “I would like to request you to hold your fire for a few moments longer, until the object now becoming visible in the second lake is definitely identified.” Then he cut the connection and took the Hannibal down to the shrinking shore of the red lake. In the centre of the now diminishing sheet of water was a long mound. It was smothered in leaves and tendrils of dark brown growth, it was stained and blackened, buts its outlines were unmistakable—the Persephone!
Gradually the water receded until she was completely uncovered. She was festooned with the weed, her plates were corroded and pitted, in parts her outer hull was eaten completely away. “Oh God!” groaned Mike, “there’ll be nobody alive in her now.” But even as he spoke a crow-bar point broke through the paper-thin hull. Soon the men inside had battered and chiselled a hole in the corroded metal, and clad in their space-suits were stumbling and slipping through the pools and the muck and over the dripping tangle of rubbery growth to where Britthouse waited, standing beside the Hannibal. They waved as they staggered forward, waved impartially to the Planetary man and the serried ranks of the Interplan Fleet high above. Britt stayed long enough to greet the first man ashore, he shook his hand, clapped him on the back, and touched helmets for a few brief words. Then he waved him towards the Interplan flag-ship now settling her majestic bulk behind his own little craft, climbed into the Hannibal’s hatch, and in less than two minutes was a vanishing speck in the sky.
“Quite simple,” he was saying to his lieutenants, “in a way, old Japp was right you know, it was organised intelligence that moved the Persephone.”
“But how . . .?”
“But where . . .?”
“That plant,” he said, “first specimen of intelligent vegetation in the universe. Remarkable.” But his juniors were not going to let that pass unchallenged.
“Those plants—that plant intelligent?” they demanded. “How do you know? It doesn’t do anything.”
“And what sort of things would you expect an intelligent vegetable to do?” demanded Britt. “Wear a diploma? Or pull up its roots and walk about pretending to be an animal? An intelligent vegetable is still a vegetable, you cretins. It does all that any self-respecting vegetable needs to do—it eats. And vegetables eat minerals. This one ran short of chromium—which it needs for its own kind of chlorophyll—so it followed up a source of supply. Followed it upstream from the sea until it located the original ore-bed. Then it mined its chromium ore and turned the river into a chemical factory to process it into the form it needed. Those lakes were its wash-tanks and vats. It produced its acids and alkalies out of specialised cells.”
“But what about the Persephone?”
“That had me, for a while. Then we discovered the sap would corrode chrome steel. The Persephone must have crushed quite a lot of sap out when she landed on the plant, and it soon got wise to the fact that here was a colossal hunk of metal which contained a huge percentage of chromium. Furthermore, it was lying right beside its acid-vat. So what does it do but puts on a terrific effort of growth and rolls this gift from the gods straight into the tank to be dissolved.”
“Good job we drained the lake in time,” said Bob.
“They were in no danger from the plant,” replied Britt, “they would have reserve air and food for weeks. I suppose the hatches must have jammed so they couldn’t get out. Anyhow, all they had to do was to wait till the plant released ’em by dissolving away the hull, then float ashore in their spacesuits. Their danger was from that damned Greek, Japp. The Fleet’s heavy heaters would have boiled them alive in ten minutes.”
“Greek?” said Michelson, “is he Greek, then?”
“Oh, don’t you know?” chuckled Britt, “Listen. There was once a party of Greek thinkers—this was around the time of Aristotle—who sat up all night having a furious argument about the number of teeth in a horse’s mouth. Unable to agree, they went out and collared a passer-by—an Arab, it happened to be—and persuaded him to arbitrate. He listened attentively to all their arguments, and then without saying a word he walked away. He returned in a few moments, however, and told them the correct answer. ‘How did you decide?’ they cried. ‘Whose was the better argument, the sounder logic?’ ‘Logic be damned,’ he says, “I’ve just been round the back to the stable and counted ’em.’ ”
Limiting Factor
by CLIFFORD D. SIMAK
FIRST, there were two planets looted of their ores, mined and gutted and left there naked for the crows of space to pick.
Then there was a planet with a faery city, a place that made one think of cobwebs with the dew still on them, a place of glass and plastic so full of wondrous beauty that it hurt one’s throat to look.
But there was just one city. There was no other sign of habitation on the entire planet. And the city was deserted. Perfect in its beauty, but hollow as a laugh.
Finally there was a metal planet, third outward from the sun. Not a lump of metallic ore, but a planet with a surface—or a roof—of fabricated metal, burnished to the polish of a bright steel mirror. And it shone, by reflected light, like another sun.
“I can’t get over the conviction,” said Duncan Griffith, “that this place is no more than a camp.”
“I think you’re crazy,” Paul Lawrence told him sharply. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
“It may not look like a camp,” said Griffith, doggedly, “but it meets the definition.”
It looks like a city to me, Lawrence told himself. It always has, from the first moment that I saw it, and it always will. Big and vital, despite its faery touch—a place to live and dream and find the strength and courage to put the dreams to work. Great dreams, he told himself. Dreams to match the city—such a city as it would take Man a thousand years to build.
“What I can’t understand,” he said aloud, “is why it is deserted. There is no sign of violence. No sign of death at all.”
“They voluntarily left it,” Griffith told him. “They up and went away. And they did it because it wasn’t really home to them. It was just a camp and it held no traditions and no legends. As a camp, it had no emotional value for the ones who built it.”
“A camp,” said Lawrence stubbornly, “is just a stopping place. A temporary habitation that you sling together and make as comfortable as you can with the things at hand.”
“So?” asked Griffith.
“These folks did more than stop here,” Lawrence said. “That city wasn’t slapped together. It was planned with foresight and built with loving care.”
“On a human basis, yes,” sa
id Griffith. “You’re dealing here with non-human values and an alien viewpoint.”
Lawrence squatted and plucked at a grass stem, stuck it between his teeth and chewed on it thoughtfully. He squinted across the brilliant blaze of noon-day sun at the silent, empty city.
Griffith hunkered down beside him.
“Don’t you see, Paul,” he said, “that it has to be a temporary habitation. There is no sign of any previous culture on the planet. No artifact. King and his gang went over it and there wasn’t anything. Nothing but the city. Think of it—an absolutely virgin planet with a city that it would take a race a million years of living just to dream. First there’d be a tree to huddle under when it rained. Then a cave to huddle in when night came down. After that there’d be a tent or a wigwam or a hut. Then three huts and you had a village.”
“I know,” Lawrence said. “I know.”
“A million years of living,” Griffith said, relentlessly. “Ten thousand centuries before a race could build a fairy land of glass and plastics. And that million years of living wasn’t done on this planet. A million years of living leaves scars upon a planet. And there aren’t any scars. This planet is brand new.”
“You’re convinced they came from somewhere else, Dune?” Griffith nodded. “They must have.”
“From Planet Three, perhaps.”
“We can’t know that. Not yet”
“Maybe never,” Lawrence said.
He spat out the blade of grass.
“This system,” he said, “is like a pulp whodunit. Everywhere you turn you stumble on a clue and every clue is haywire. Too many mysteries, Dune. This city here, the metal planet, the looted planets—it’s just too much to swallow. It would be our luck to stumble on a place like this.”
“I have a feeling there’s a tie between it all,” said Griffith. Lawrence grunted.
“It’s a sense of history,” Griffith said. “A feeling for the fitness of things. Given time, all historians acquire it.”