Classic Fiction

by Hal Clement

  Well, a standard suit of engineer’s armor would let a Sarrian work in a lake of molten aluminium for quite a while. There, of course, the temperature difference was less than it would be on the Planet of Ice; but the conductivity of the metal must be greater than that of the planet’s atmosphere, and might make up the difference. Even if it did not, the armor could be given extra heating coils or insulation or both. Why had this never been tried? He would have to ask Feth or Laj Drai.

  Then, granting for the moment that a landing could not be made even this way, why was television impossible? Ken refused to believe that the thin glass of a television tube could not be cooled down sufficiently to match the world’s conditions without shattering, even if the electrical parts had to be kept hot. Surely the difference could be no greater than in the ancient incandescent bulbs!

  He would have to put both these points up to Feth. He was heading purposefully back toward the shop with this plan in mind, when he encountered Drai, who greeted him as though there had been no suspicious thoughts in his own brain that day.

  “Feth has cut you in to the main beam, and no piloting will be needed for nearly three days,” he said. “You looked as though you were going back to your controls.”

  “I wanted to talk to Feth again. I’ve been thinking over the matter of armor and apparatus withstanding Planet Three’s conditions, and it seems to me something could be done.” He went on to give a censored version of his recent thoughts to his employer.

  “I don’t know,” the latter said when he had finished. “You’ll have to talk to Feth, as you planned. We’ve tried it, since he joined us, and the failures occurred just as he said in the matter of television. He was not with us on the original expedition, which did no investigating except as I originally told you—it was strictly a pleasure cruise, and the only reason there were so many torpedoes available was that the owner of the ship preferred to do his sightseeing in comfort—he’d send out a dozen at once, when we entered a planetary system, and keep the Karella in space until he found something he wanted to see or do personally.”

  “I’ve never met him, have I?”

  “No—he died long ago. He was pretty old when we hit this place. I inherited the ship and got into this trading business.”

  “When did Feth join you?”

  “A year or two after I got started—he’s the oldest in the crew in point of service. He can tell you all about the engineering troubles, you see, and I certainly can’t. You’d better see him, if he feels like talking.” Without explaining this last remark, Drai disappeared down the corridor. Ken did not wonder at the words—he had already come to regard Feth as a taciturn personality.

  The mechanic did not appear to be busy. He was still draped in the rack in front of the torpedo controls, and seemed to be thinking. He rose as Ken entered the room, but said nothing, merely giving the equivalent of a nod of greeting. Not noticing anything unusual in his manner, Ken began immediately to spill forth his ideas. He was allowed to finish without interruption.

  “Your points all sound good,” the mechanic admitted when he had heard them, “and I certainly can’t bring any theory against them. I can merely point out that the tubes do break. If you want to send down a suit of armor full of thermometers and pressure gauges, that’s all right with me, but I trust you’ll pardon a pessimistic attitude. I used up a lot of good TV equipment in that atmosphere.”

  “Well, I admit your superior practical knowledge,” replied Ken, “but I do think it’s worth trying.”

  “If the instruments read all right, who goes down in the armor the next time? The thought makes my knee-joints stiff. I’m scared of the idea, and don’t mind admitting it.”

  “So am I.” Ken remembered the uncontrollable emotion that had swept his being the first time he had seen Planet Three. “It’s a ghastly place, beyond doubt; but I still like to find things out, and I’m willing to take a chance on my health to do it.”

  “Health—huh! You’d be a ready-made memorial statue five seconds after the first pinhole appeared in your suit,” retorted the mechanic. “I almost feel it’s a dirty trick to send good instruments down into that, even when I know they can take it. Well, I’ll break out a suit of armor, if you really want to try it. There are plenty of torpedoes.”

  “How can you carry it by torpedo? You can’t possibly get it inside, surely.”

  “No; there are rings on the outer hull, and we can clamp the suit to those. We’ll just have to be careful and go through the atmosphere more slowly, this time.” He glided down the length of the shop to a set of lockers at the far end, and from one of these wrestled a suit of the much-discussed armor into view.

  Even under Mercurian gravity it was difficult to handle. Owing to the peculiarities of the Sarrian physique, a greatly superior leverage could be obtained from inside the garment; but even knowing this, Ken began to wonder just what he was going to do if he succeeded in reaching the surface of the massive Planet Three in that metal monstrosity, under nearly four times his present gravity. That thought led to a question.

  “Feth, what sort of body chemistry do you suppose these natives have? They move around—presumably— under a whopping gravity in a temperature that should freeze any organic material. Ever thought about it?” The mechanic was silent for some time, as though considering his reply.

  “Yes,” he said at last, “I’ll admit I’ve thought about it. I’m not sure I want to talk about it, though.”

  “Why not? The place can’t be that repulsive.”

  “It’s not that. You remember what Drai said he’d do if anyone gave you information about the stuff we got from the planet?”

  “Yes, vaguely; but what does that have to do with it?”

  “Maybe nothing, maybe not. He was pretty sore about my telling you the name of the stuff. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d stopped to think. The situation just seemed to call for a quick answer, so I gave it.”

  “But your ideas on the native chemistry could hardly tell—or I suppose perhaps they could. Still, Drai knows perfectly well I’ve never worked for another trading company and I’m not a trader myself—why should I be treated like a commercial spy? I don’t care particularly what your stuff is—I’m interested in the planet.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Just the same, if I ever make any more slips like that, please keep whatever you learn to yourself. I thought there’d be a nuclear explosion when Drai walked in with you yelling ‘Tofacco!’ into the mike.”

  “He couldn’t really do much, though.” This was a ranging question; Ken had started to think again.

  “Well—” Feth was cautious about his answer—”he’s the boss, and this isn’t such a bad job. Just do the favor, if you don’t mind.” He turned back to the armor, with an expression on his face which indicated he was through talking for the time being. Ken found himself unable to get anything definite from the mechanic’s answer.

  He didn’t think about it very hard anyway, for the other problem proved too interesting. Feth was certainly a good mechanic; as good as some rated engineers Ken had known. He had opened the armor completely and removed all the service plates, and started the job by giving it a full overhaul inspection. That completed, he refilled the zinc circulating system and replaced and safe-tied the plates he had removed, but left the armor itself open. One eye rolled questioningly at the watcher, and he spoke for the first time in two hours.

  “Have you any ideas about instrument arrangement? You know best what you want to find out.”

  “Well, all we really need to know is whether the suit can maintain temperature and pressure. I suppose a single pressure gauge anywhere inside, and thermometers at the extremities, would tell enough. Can you use telemetering instruments, or will we have to wait until this torpedo gets back, too?”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait. The instruments themselves would be easy enough to install, but the voice transmitter in the armor couldn’t handle their messages. I can put a multiple recorder in the
body, connect the instruments to that, and arrange so you can turn it on and off by remote control—I’ll simply tie it in to one of the suit controls. I suppose you’ll want to be able to manipulate the suit heaters, as well?”

  “Yes. If it takes anywhere near full power to maintain liveable temperature, we ought to know it. I suppose extra heaters could be installed, if necessary?”

  “I expect so.” For the first time, Feth wore an expression approximating a grin. “I could probably mount blast furnaces on the feet. I’m not so sure you could walk around with them.”

  “Even if I can’t I can at least see.”

  “If you don’t have the same trouble with your visor that I did with TV tubes. Even quartz has its limitations.”

  “I still think it can take it. Anyway, it won’t cost us anything to find out. Let’s go ahead and mount those instruments—I’m rather curious to see which of us is right. Is this recorder all right?” He took from a cabinet a minute machine whose most prominent feature was the double reel of sensitized tape, and held it up as he spoke. Feth glanced at it.

  “Only one record. Get an L-7. You can recognize it by the reel—its tape is about five times as wide. I’m using the single barometer you suggested, and thermometers in head, trunk, one foot, and one sleeve as far out as I can mount it. That leaves a free band on the tape that you can use for anything you want.” The mechanic was working as he spoke, clamping tiny instruments from a well-stocked supply cabinet into the places he had mentioned. For a moment Ken wondered whether the existence of this more than adequate instrument stock did not invalidate his argument about the lack of scientific facilities; then he recognized that all the devices were perfectly standard engineering instruments, and represented nothing but a respectable financial outlay. Anyone could buy and almost anyone could use them.

  In spite of Feth’s evident skill, the job was a long one. They did not sleep, being Sarrians, but even they had to rest occasionally. It was during one of these rests that Ken happened to notice the time.

  “Say,” he remarked to his companion, “it must be daylight on that part of the planet by now. I wonder if Drai has made his landing yet?”

  “Very probably,” Feth replied, one eye following Ken’s gaze toward the clock. “He is more than likely to be back in space again—he doesn’t waste much time as a rule.”

  “In that case, would I be likely to be skinned for dropping in to the observatory?” Feth gazed at him narrowly for long enough to let Ken regret the question.

  “I probably would be if Drai found out I’d encouraged you,” was the answer. “I think it would be better if you stayed here. There’s plenty for us to do.” He rose and returned to his labors, although the rest period had scarcely started. Ken, realizing he did not intend to say any more, joined him.

  The work turned out to be timed rather nicely. By the time the armor had survived a one-hour leakage and radiation-loss test in the vacuum of the shadowed airlock, had been clamped to the load rings of another torpedo, and launched into the void on automatic control, the other projectile was on the point of landing. The automatic control, in fact, was necessary—the second missile could not be handled by radio until the first had been docked, since the other controlling station was still being used by Drai to bring his own load back.

  A single rest period fitted nicely between the launching of the suit and the landing of the mobile laboratory; and Ken was awaiting the latter with eagerness when it finally drifted through the air lock under Feth’s expert control. He would have pounced on it at once, but was restrained by a warning cry from the mechanic.

  “Hold on! It’s not as cold as it was out on Planet Three, but you’ll still freeze to it. Look!” A tentacle waved toward the gleaming hull, on which drops of liquid sulfur were condensing, running together and trickling to the floor, where they promptly boiled away again. “Let that stop, first.”

  Ken stopped obediently, feeling the icy draft pour about his feet, and backed slowly away. The air that reached him was bearable, but the hull of the torpedo must be cold enough to freeze zinc, if it had reached radiative equilibrium for this distance from the sun.

  Long minutes passed before the metal was warmed through and the drip of liquid sulfur ceased. Only then did Feth open the cargo door, whereupon the process was repeated. This time the straw-colored liquid made a pool on the floor of the cargo compartment, flooding around the crucibles and making Ken wonder seriously about the purity of his samples. He turned on all the heaters at low strength to get rid of the stuff as fast as possible. Since there was a serious chance of further reaction with the air if a high temperature were attained, he opened the switches again the moment the hissing and bubbling of boiling air ceased; and at last he was free to examine his results.

  Some of the little pots were full; most of these appeared to be unchanged. Others, however, were not. The contents of most of these were easy to find, but Ken could see that they were going to be hard to identify.

  A white powder was literally over everything, as Roger had already seen. The yellow flecks of sodium peroxide were turning grayish as they decomposed in the heat. The gold crucible had been pulled from its base, but was otherwise unchanged; the iron had turned black; sodium, magnesium and titanium had disappeared, though the residue in each crucible gave promise that some of the scattered dust could be identified. There was still carbon in the container devoted to that substance, but much less of it than there had been.

  All these held Ken’s attention for only a moment, however. Two facts alone really reached his brain. Just inside the cargo door, clearly imprinted in the dust, was a mark utterly unlike anything he had ever seen; and lying a little distance from this—for Roger’s wrist watch had drifted from the spot where it had been dropped, during the torpedo’s flight—was an object whose implications almost made Ken dizzy.

  (To Be Continued)

  ICEWORLD

  Second of Three parts. Handling the problem of a deadly narcotic, a drug runner, and a fantastically alien environment was enough—but Ken suddenly had, also, the problem of an intelligent alien race to handle, too!

  SYNOPSIS

  Law enforcement agencies of the planet Sarr are becoming troubled over the appearance of a new, nameless drug. It has not been reaching the planet itself; it keeps only under extreme refrigeration, and the necessary apparatus is too bulky for easy smuggling. However, its use on spaceships within the system indicates that only a single dose is needed to produce addiction; it is therefore possible at any time for a customs group to be enslaved, opening the planet wide to invasion by the narcotic.

  Sallman Ken is asked to co-operate with the enforcement agency in locating the source of the drug. A non-scheduled space carrier line has come under suspicion; Ken’ answers their advertisement for a chemical engineer—he is scientist enough to carry such a role for a time at least—and is transported in a sealed room on one of their carriers for several days. When he is finally allowed to see out, the ship is in the vicinity of a dwarf sun. Ken is informed by his employer, Laj Drai, that his job is, to improve communication with the natives of one of this star’s planets. Apparently the world contains two races: One inhabiting the flat, blue-tinted areas that cover most of the world’s surface is hostile, since all remote-controlled torpedoes descending in these areas have been destroyed; the other, dwelling in the more rugged regions, is sufficiently friendly to have undertaken limited trade with the Sarrians. Drai’s people cannot descend to the planet themselves in any suit they have been able to devise—the low temperature is too much for their engineering; the planet’s temperature is actually well below the freezing point of the sulfur the Sarrians breathe. Ken accepts, with the hope that this world may prove the source of the drug. He sets to work with the aid of Feth Allmer, a mechanic in Drai’s employ.

  The cold planet is actually the earth. The man who has been trading secretly with the Sarrians is named Wing. He is in the habit of spending summers at his home in the Rockies northeas
t of Lake Pend ’Oreille, near the Montana-Idaho border; the homing transmitter of the Sarrians, to which they direct their remote-controlled torpedoes, is on a peak a few miles to the east. His wife has a good idea of the source of their income—the Sarrians pay in platinum and iridium nuggets—as has Iris oldest son Donald; but thirteen-year-old Roger Wing is determined to find out what lies behind the mysterious trips of his father into the forest. On one of his attempts he is caught in the woods by nightfall a short distance west of the Sarrian transmitter.

  Ken and Feth have loaded a torpedo with chemical equipment to test Earth’s atmosphere. The torpedo lands within earshot of the spot where Roger is sleeping; he watches with surprise as samples of various metals are heated to incandescence in the little vessel’s cargo compartment. The sodium, magnesium, and titanium burn; other metals oxide slightly or not at all. As the light of the magnesium fire dies out Roger voices his amazement, and the torpedo’s microphones carry his voice to Ken and Feth far above. In the attempted conversation that follows, Ken mentions the word “Gold” knowing that that is sometimes used in trade with the natives of Earth. Misunderstanding him, Roger uses his wrist watch in an attempt to illuminate the now nearly dark cargo compartment, sees the crucible containing the still nearly molten gold, attempts to seize it, and is burned. Dropping the watch, he jumps back from the torpedo, and Ken starts the machine back toward the base on Mercury. It arrives, is warmed to bearable temperature, and opened.

  PART 2