by Hal Clement
“How was I to know that the ship’s hull would set off a chain reaction in the local vegetation? I should think if anything could do it, it would have happened long ago from some other cause.”
“I seem to recall telling you of the danger myself. And it may have happened before; the natives seemed to have fairly well organized means of dealing with it.”
“Then the fire is out?”
“Not quite. It will probably react for some hours yet. What I dislike is your habit of assuming that I am either a liar or a fool. I told you what happened to the piece of vegetation I picked up; I told you what I was doing with the native in the matter of learning his language. You were listening to me most if not all of the time. What possessed you to come down the way you did?”
“Because I doubted what you told me.” Drai made the statement without circumlocution; he apparently felt he was on secure ground. “You said that there had been no talk between you and the native on the subject of tofacco; you even said that you doubted that this was the same native we’ve been trading with.”
“I said I wasn’t sure he was the same. That’s minor, though—go ahead.”
“The first day, while you were down talking to him, the signal came from the fixed transmitter, indicating that they were ready to trade.”
“I should think that would support my veracity. I was not near the transmitter. Ask Feth—he landed me.”
“That’s what I thought, for a while. But today, which was the usual interval after a signal, I sent down another torpedo while you were having your ‘language lesson’—and nothing happened! There was no one there.”
“You mean no one gave you any tofacco.”
“No one took the metal, either. I’d be willing to believe they were trying to cheat me, if it had gone without anything in return; but that doesn’t fit. I decided you had let something slip while I wasn’t listening, and came down to see what you were up to.”
“Skipping for the moment the question of how I could possibly tell whether or not you were listening, I’m not sure whether to be glad you think me stupid rather than dishonest. I agree that my native may be your trader, in that case; he might have decided to go to the transmitter later in the day, after he had talked to me. He knew I couldn’t stay long. In that case, you have only yourself to thank that he didn’t go later—he was too busy. Also, a couple of the young ones were nearly killed by the chain reaction; he may not be too pleased with you now, if he’s connected the ship and the trading business. After all, remember he knows we come from Planet One on these trips.”
“That I don’t believe. He couldn’t possibly know it. That’s another reason I decided you were trying to cover up your own indiscretion. How do you know that two of the natives were endangered by the fire?”
“I saw them. As a matter of fact, I rescued them—rode them out of the way on the torpedo. I spent quite a while investigating the whole thing, since once you’d started it there was nothing else for me to do. I can prove that— I got some specimens of vegetation residue that may give some more information about the planet.”
Drai eyed him silently for some moments.
“I’m not convinced yet, and you’d better convince me before your next drug-hunger comes due. If they’re going to stop trading, I’m going to stop distributing free samples.”
Feth, in the background, emitted an Uncontrolled sound that was the equivalent of a gasp of dismay; Ken permitted an anxious expression to reach his face for a moment. He had had one brief experience of tofacco-hunger now, and did not want a prolonged one.
Drai nodded as he saw the expression. “Yes. The stock is not very high, and if it’s to be the last, I’m going to get value for it. I have been given an idea from what you just told me. If this tale of having rescued two natives from death by overheating is true, you can just go back down and play on their gratitude. You can make out that you want to trade for tofacco. Surely they will gratify the hero who pulled them from terrible death. Particularly if he makes it clear that he’s in for a very uncomfortable time if they don’t. You go right back down—your armor’s warmed up by this time. We haven’t pulled in the other torpedo yet; as soon as you go on local control down there, we’ll send it over to you with the metal, and you can haggle to your heart’s content.” He ceased, still wearing a definite sneer.
“That fact that my knowledge of the language is still fragmentary does not bother you?”
“No. I think you know more than you say.”
“How about the fact that there are, at the moment, many other natives at the scene of the fire? I kept among the trees when they arrived so as not to be seen, but I can’t do that and trade at the same time. Do you want me to work out in the open? They’ll all be fire-fighting for a while, but I suppose they’ll want metal afterward.” He paused. “I don’t see how they can all be the one you’ve been trading with. But I suppose you don’t mind opening new bargains with the others— Laj Drai interrupted.
“You can wait.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t take very many torpedo loads of metal to satisfy them all, I’m sure.”
“I said you could wait.” Drai must have seen the satisfied expression that flickered for an instant on the scientist’s face, for he added, “I have another idea. The Karella will go down with you, and both watch and listen. Possibly if the native becomes recalcitrant, we can suggest lighting another fire.”
“Now you want the natives to get a good look at a full-sized space ship. You don’t care much about the law, do you?”
“You ought to know. Besides, they’ve seen it already. However, we’ll wait—for a while. I rather think we’ll land at a little distance from the scene of the fire, and drop in when it’s out. That way,” both eyes fixed themselves on Ken, “we’ll be sure who talks, and for how long.” He turned, pushed off from a convenient wall, and glided out of sight along the corridor.
Feth followed him with one troubled eye.
“Ken, you shouldn’t use that tone of voice to him. I know you don’t like him—no one could—but remember what he can do. I thought, after you’d had a taste of that, you’d calm down a bit. Now he’s likely to hold out on you just for the fun of it.”
“I know—I’m sorry if I’ve gotten you in trouble too,” replied the scientist. “I just think he’s safer when angry. While he’s gone, now, we’ll have to talk fast. There’s work to be done. First of all, was he telling the truth about the short supply of tofacco? Does he keep it all in that refrigerated safe that he hands out our doses from?”
“Yes. And he’s probably telling the truth; most of the stuff goes back to the Sarrian system at the end of the season, and he doesn’t keep much on hand.”
“How much constitutes a dose? I didn’t get a really good look at what was inside the brick of frozen air, either time.”
“A little cylinder about so big.” Feth illustrated. “It comes that way, only in longer sticks—he cuts them into ten sections, and freezes each one up for a separate dose.”
“All right—that’s what I wanted to make sure of. Now, how good are the little refrigerators on those vivaria of mine? Will they freeze air?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You’ll see. Right now, I imagine I have another acting job to do; I don’t suppose anything would stop Drai from going down to the surface of Three, as he said.” Without explaining anything more, Ken headed toward the control room of the interstellar flyer.
He was quite right; the impatient drug-runner had already ordered the pilot down once more. Lee was making no objection this time, though his expression was not actually one of delight. The descent was uneventful, practically a repetition of the earlier one, except that they were homing on the fixed transmitter and consequently were some eight miles east of their former point of landing. They stopped at a height of two miles above the nearest peaks, and looked around for the smoke cloud. Rather to Drai’s disappointment, they saw it; even their eyes could distinguish it from the regular clouds with
out much difficulty.
“It still seems to be burning,” Ken remarked innocently. “Are we going to drift here in full sight until they put it out?”
“No. We’ll go down and hide.”
“Among the plants? That doesn’t seem to work so well, as a method of concealing this ship.”
Drai eyed the scientist for some time, obviously near the limit of exasperation. “I’m looking after the matter, thank you. The vegetation does not grow everywhere, as even you should be able to see. There, for example.” He pointed to the south. A triangular patch which gave a metallic reflection of the sky light lay in that direction. It was one of those Ken had noticed on his first descent. “We’ll look that over. It seems to be lower than the surrounding territory, and would make a very good hiding place, if it’s really like the sort of ground the flatlanders live on, these other natives may very well avoid it. How about that, scientist?”
“You seem to have some logic on your side,” Ken replied equably.
Drai made no answer to this; he simply gestured to Lee, and the pilot obediently slanted their line of descent toward the shiny patch.
With radio altimeter registering five hundred feet, Ken began a careful examination of the area. It was larger than he had guessed from a distance, and he found himself unable to decide on its nature. The planet had some queer minerals, of course; the brief look he had had of the specimens he had just brought in showed that. Directly below he could make out no details at all; but over near the edge of the area, the trees that rimmed it were reflected—
“Lee! Hold up!” The pilot obeyed without thought, stung by the urgency of his tone.
“What is it?” The eternal suspicion was lacking even from Drai’s, voice, this time.
“It’s a liquid—see how the reflection at the edge trembles in the air currents!”
“So what?”
“The only liquid I’ve encountered on this planet behaved an awful lot like that queer oxide we found on Four—the one that nearly froze my feet. I saw some before here, and dipped a handler in it; the stuff vaporized instantly, and it was minutes before I could put a tentacle in the sleeve again. I think its that heat-drinking stuff— hydrogen oxide.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” The suspicion was back in Drai’s tone.
“What chance have I had? Besides, I don’t care if you leave yourself a frozen memorial on this planet—it’s just that I’m with you at the moment. If you don’t want to believe me, at least put a torpedo down on it first. You must have plenty of those.”
Even Drai could find no fault with this suggestion, and he gestured to Feth. The mechanic, with a censorious glance at Ken, went to his control board and without comment launched another of the projectiles. The one Ken had used was available, but it was the only one fitted with manual control, and he did not want to waste it. He was already convinced of the correctness of Ken’s hypothesis.
The slim projectile appeared outside the control room port, and drifted gently down to the surface of the lake. It was still hot, having been stowed inside the ship; and contact with the liquid surface was heralded by a burst of steam. Feth hastily lifted it a short distance, and waited for it to cool somewhat.
“Hardly a fair test to cool it off that fast,” he said. “Something’s bound to give.”
Presently he lowered the machine again. This time only ripples marked the contact. Very cautiously Feth forced it still lower, while the others watched silently. Apparently the cold did not matter.
But something else did. Quite suddenly another cloud of steam arose, and a wave of considerable size spread from the place where the torpedo had been. Had been was the right expression; there was no response when the mechanic manipulated the controls to bring it up again. He glanced up, presently.
“It’s a pity that only the cargo compartments of those things are airtight. Apparently the liquid bothers electrical machinery. Maybe it dissolves insulation.” Laj Drai was looking as though he had seen a ghost. He made no direct answer to the mechanic’s remark.
“Ken!” he spoke suddenly, still looking preoccupied. “When you first described this patch of stuff, you said it’s appearance reminded you of the flat country. Right?”
Right.” Ken saw what the drug-runner had in mind.
“Would it—would it be possible for a planet to have so much liquid that three quarters of its surface would be covered?”
“I certainly can’t say it’s impossible. I admit it’s hard to imagine. Any liquid at all—and particularly something as rare as that stuff is with us. Still, this is a larger planet than Sarr, and would have a greater velocity of escape, and is colder, so the average speed of the gas molecules would be slower—let’s see—” His voice trailed off as he became involved in mental arithmetic. “Yes, this planet would hold the stuff easily enough; and hydrogen and oxygen are common elements in the universe. I’m afraid it’s very possible, Drai.” The other did not answer; everyone else knew what he was thinking. When he did speak, Ken felt smug—he had predicted the subject correctly.
“But the flatlanders—could they live in the stuff?—but maybe there aren’t any; the liquid must have destroyed the torpedoes—but their radar beams! We’ve detected those!” He looked at Ken suddenly, as though he had made a telling point in an argument. Ken had been following his thoughts well enough to answer.
“You have no evidence whatever that those beams were not generated by the same race with which you have been trading. I have already pointed out that they are competent astronomers. I think you have been developing a very interesting mythology for the last twenty years, though I admit the idea could do with a little more proof.”
Keeping one eye on the enigmatic liquid beyond the port, Drai rolled the other toward the pilot.
“Lee, go up about ten miles, and start travelling. It doesn’t matter which way, I guess.” He was obeyed in silence.
Even though Lee did not take the shortest route to the ocean, the speed of the ship even within the atmosphere was such that only minutes passed before the fabulous “flatland” lay beneath them—the closest any of them had dared to approach it in twenty Sarrian years. Dumbly the commander gestured downward, and presently they hung a few hundred feet above the waves. Drai looked for a long time, then spoke three words to Ken: “Get a sample.”
The scientist thought for a moment; then he found the small bomb in which he had taken the frost sample on Mars, pumped out the air, and closed the valve. Redonning his armor, he clumped into the air lock after voicing dire warning to Lee about keeping the vessel level. He fastened a wire to the bomb itself and another to the valve handle; then, opening the outer door, he lowered away until the loss of weight told him the bomb was submerged. He pulled the other wire, waited a moment, pulled up the filled bomb, closed the valve again, and sealed the outer door of the air lock.
Naturally, the bomb exploded violently within a few seconds of the time that sulfur ceased condensing on its surface. Ken felt thankful that he had not yet removed the armor—parts of the bomb had actually scored the metal—and after some thought tried again. This time he let down a tiny glass wool sponge, hoping the liquid had a significant amount of natural capillary action. He placed the sponge in another bomb, and by the same method he had used with the Martina sample eventually determined the molecular weight of the substance. It came out higher then before, but eventually he found the deposit of salts on the sponge and allowed for their weight. The result this time left little doubt that the substance was indeed hydrogen oxide.
He looked down for a minute at the tossing blue expanse, wondering how deep it might be and whether it would have any real effect on the conditions of the Planet of Ice; then he turned, climbed out of the armor—he had stayed in it for the rest of his experiment, after the first blast—and went to report to Drai.
The drug-runner heard him in silence. He still seemed a little dazed by the overthrow of his former belief. It was many minutes before he spoke, and then he
simply said, “Take us back to One, Lee. I have to think.” Ken and Feth eyed each other, but kept all expression of glee from their faces.
XX.
“Well, you seem to have done it now.” Feth was still unhappy.
“In what way?” queried Ken. The two were ostensibly engaged in checking the mechanical adequacy of the refrigerated vivaria.
“I’ve been working for years to support this flatland myth—I realized it was never more than a theory, but Drai had to be shown the difference between that and fact—and I’ve been doing my level best to keep the production of tofacco down to a minimum.”
“Provided it was not cut off entirely,” Ken interjected rather unkindly.
“True. Now you blow up the story that kept him scared of really exploring the planet, and at the same time give him a tool for getting what he wants from the inhabitants by threats and force. If you had any ideas in mind at all, they seem to have flopped badly.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You saw the way Drai was feeling when he left the ship.”
“Oh, yes, he was regretting the wasted years and the money that went with them, I suppose. That won’t last much longer; he’s been mooning for days now. Then he’ll—” Ken had been thinking furiously as the mechanic delivered his gloomy discourse; now he interrupted abruptly.
“Then he’ll be too late to do anything. Feth, I want you to take me on trust for a while. I promise you won’t miss your sniff. I’m going to be very busy in the air lock for at least a couple of hours, I imagine. Lee is still aboard. I want you to find him, and keep him occupied in any way you see fit for at least that length of time. I don’t want him to see what I’m doing. You have known him longer than I, and can figure out something to interest him. Just don’t kill him; we’re going to need him later.”
Feth looked at the scientist for several seconds, obviously doubtful. Ken wisely said nothing more, letting him fight his own battle with a perfectly natural fear. He was pleased but not too surprised when the mechanic finally said, “All right,” and disappeared toward the control room. Ken waited a moment; then, reasonably sure of not being interrupted, he closed the inner door of the air lock, donned a regular space suit, and set briskly to work. He was rather regretful of the need for sacrificing some of his living specimens, but he consoled himself with the thought they could easily be replaced later. Then, too, the vivarium he had to use was the one containing only a few plants— the fire had interrupted before the human children had made much progress with it. That was foresight, not good fortune; he had had to decide which of them he was going to use, before he had left the planet.