by Hal Clement
It was quite a sneeze, and the fact that Toner heard it clearly through the medium communicator did not operate to lessen its effects. The pilot’s head had been resting in the padded support which formed part of his seat—the support in which it was supposed to remain through the experiment. The muscular convulsion of the sneeze snapped that head some twenty centimeters forward and down.
The Anfforddus had, roughly, a million times the mass of Hoey’s head, so its center of mass moved only about a millionth as far. This amounted to about a fifth of a micron. The fact that this was within the set tolerances for the experiment did not at once dawn on Toner—for one thing, it would have taken him a moment to figure it out under any circumstances, and for another his reaction was reflexive rather than rational. He was like a confirmed anti-vivisectionist reacting to an account of a mechanical heart’s being tested on a dog; he exploded. He jumped—much farther than Hoey, though fortunately it didn’t matter how much the Holiad moved. He also began to talk, though just what he said is uncertain—Ledermann charitably wiped that part of the monitor tape, later. It took the younger man some thirty seconds to calm his superior down enough to listen to reason, and perhaps fifteen more to supply the reason. Another five seconds passed while Toner actually recovered control of himself, and started to apologize to Hoey.
But Hoey did not hear the apology—we think.
In the fifty seconds or so since his sneeze, radiation from his ship travelled some fifteen million kilometers. This is easy to compute; it is pretty certainly a fact. It may possibly be a useful one, though no one so far has put it to any real use.
The trouble is, of course, that there is no way to be sure whether the sneeze put any significant alteration into the radiation pattern which the Anfforddus was broadcasting. This, equally of course, is because no one can be sure just how big a change must be in order to be significant.
Toner had just started to talk in a normal tone when Ledermann gave an astonished yelp; and the director, whose attention had shifted entirely to the screen of the medium communicator, looked back at his console.
Its lights were out. It was blank. So, when he turned back to it, was the medium screen. And so was Ledermann’s console.
One hundred seconds later, after repeated calls to the tenders had proven futile, the Holiad‘s captain snapped her into irrelevance drive. Between four and five seconds later still, a hundredth of a parsec from where she had been lying, the research vessel halted again. Presumably she was within a few tens of thousands of kilometers of Hoey’s tender, but no sign of the little ship could be detected by eye or instrument.
Calls continued to go unanswered. Searchers went out with detection and rescue equipment; the former gave no response, the latter went unused. Not a particle of solid matter could be found within light-minutes of either tender’s former position; and it was not until much later, when the routine sample-bottles were being checked back on Rhyddid, that the slightly high count of aluminum atoms in that particular volume of space was noticed.
Of course, this may not be a significant fact, either.
“And just who was that?” The query came in the growl which seems to be a distinguishing property of sergeants, whether their linear dimensions be two meters or two hundred astronomical units. It received no immediate answer. “Well? Who was it? It came from just about where you should be, VA741. Was it you?”
“I—I guess so.”
“You guess so? A soldier lets out a yelp that can be heard half way across the spiral, and he only guesses that he did it?”
“I did it, I—I—”
“You did. Never mind the guessing. Why did you do it? You know why we’re here?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“You know what we’re doing here?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“In fact, up to now you’ve been helping to do it.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“And you know why we’ve been sweeping this stuff together.”
“Yes, Sergeant. To clear a path for—”
“Shut up. How much use will the path be if the Flickers find it before our boys have a chance to come through?”
“Not much, I suppose, Sergeant.”
“You suppose. Well, I suppose I should be glad it even occurred to you. Now that you’ve squealed like a stuck baby, how long do you suppose it will be before Flicker scouts are poking around this cloud?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant.”
“I don’t know either, but I’ll be very surprised if we drift a hundredth of the way around the spiral. If it were possible to travel faster than radiation, they’d be spearing you before you cleared another cubic parsec.”
“They may show up anyway; we can’t tell yet.”
“That, soldier—I use the term loosely—is the only reason you’re not under formal charges right now. If we’re spotted in the next little while—say, before the cloud you’re sweeping up right now starts to radiate—I’ll assume it wasn’t your fault. But if we’re found after that, when that squeal of yours has spread out a few hundred parsecs, you’re in for it. What I ever did to be saddled with a—”
“But Sergeant, I couldn’t help it. Something bit me.”
“So something bit you. Let it bite! Since when—”
“But I really couldn’t help it. It did something to my muscles, and I twitched so I thought someone might spot me anyway; but I relaxed and even damped out the spot with dope. I know how important it is not to make a disturbance. The sensation quit for a moment, but then it came back stronger than before, and before I could take another tranquilizer I cramped up tight all over. I couldn’t help giving a little yelp—”
“Little? It was loud enough to—never mind. I hope you can produce whatever bit you; it may help in court. After all, I suppose anything which can interfere with even a sloppy soldier’s self-control might be usable as a weapon. If we could breed more of ’em—that’s an idea. See if you can catch it, without making too much noise.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t think of that in time, Sarge. We’ll never catch that one. The whole business was just reflex, and I’m very sorry, but I swatted it without thinking.”
In addition to their voice qualities, sergeants are sometimes known for a certain gift of rhetoric. This one, DA6641, of the 44th Company, 6261st Field Engineering Battalion, Army of the Republic of Whilth, was no exception.
If he had not been careful to use only short radiation in his remarks, they would have been audible back in Whilth, in the spiral arm of the Milky Way next outward from Sol’s. Even with the short waves, he might possibly have made an impression on the Holiad’s instruments; but of course the Holiad was no longer there.
Long before he had really made himself clear about just what sort of poor excuse for a soldier the unfortunate VA741 was, both Elvin Toner and Dick Ledermann were dead of old age.
END
THE MECHANIC
It started out a simple job of repairing some diseased zeowhales—but from there it got worse, winding up with something beyond the abilities of even the best DNA-tinkering genetic mechanic.
Drifting idly, the Shark tended to look more like a manta ray than her name suggested; but at high cruise, as she was now, she bore more resemblance to a flying fish. She was entirely out of the water except for the four struts that carried her hydroplanes; the air propellers which drove her were high enough above the surface to raise very little spray. An orbiting monitor satellite could have seen the vessel herself from a hundred miles up, since her upper hull was painted in a vividly fluorescent pattern of red and yellow; but there was not enough wake to suggest to such a watcher that the wedgeshaped machine was traveling at nearly sixty-five knots.
Chester V. Winkle—everyone knew what the middle initial stood for, but no one mentioned it in his presence—sat behind the left bow port of his command with his fingers resting lightly on the pressure controls. He was looking ahead, but knew better than to trust his eyes alone. Most of hi
s attention was devoted to the voice of the smaller man seated four feet to his right, behind the other “eye” of the manta. Yoshii Ishihara was not looking outside at all; his eyes were directed steadily at the sonar display screen which was all that stood between the Shark and disaster at her present speed among the ice floes and zeowhales of the Labrador Sea.
“Twenty-two targets in the sweep; about fourteen thousand meters to the middle of the group,” he said softly.
“Heading?” Winkle knew the question was superfluous; had a change been in order, the sonarman would have given it.
“As we go, for thirty-two hundred meters. Then twenty-two mils starboard. There’s ice in the way.”
“Good. Any data on target condition yet?”
“No. It will be easier to read them when we stop, and will cost little time to wait. Four of the twenty-two are drifting, but the sea is rich here and they might be digesting. Stand by for change of heading.”
“Ready on your call.” There was silence for about a minute.
“Starboard ten.”
“Starboard ten.” The hydroplanes submerged near the ends of the Shark’s bow struts banked in response to the pressure of Winkle’s fingers, though the hull remained nearly level. The compass needle on the panel between the view ports moved smoothly through ten divisions. As it reached the tenth Ishihara, without looking up from his screen, called, “Steady.”
“Steady she is,” replied the commander.
“Stand by for twelve more to starboard—now.” The Shark swung again and steadied on the new heading.
“That leaves us a clear path in,” said the sonarman. “Time to engine cut is four minutes.”
In spite of his assurance that the way was clear, Ishihara kept his eyes on his instrument—his standards of professional competence would permit nothing less while the Shark had way on her. Winkle, in spite of the sleepy appearance which combined with his name to produce a constant spate of bad jokes, was equally alert for visible obstructions ahead. Several ice floes could be seen; but none were directly in the vessel’s path, and Winkle’s fingers remained idle until his second officer gave the expected signal.
Then the whine of turbines began to drop in pitch, and the Shark’s broad form eased toward the swell below as the hydrofoils lost their lift. The hull extensions well out on her “wings” which gave the vessel catamaran-type stability when drifting kissed the surface gently, their added drag slowing the machine more abruptly; and twenty feet aft of the conning ports the four remaining members of the crew tensed for action.
“Slow enough for readings?” asked Winkle.
“Yes, sir. The homing signal is going out now. I’ll have counts in the next thirty seconds.” Ishihara paused. “One of the four drifters is underway and turning toward us. No visible response from the others.”
“Which is the nearest of the dead ones?”
“Fifteen hundred meters, eight hundred forty mils port.” Winkle’s fingers moved again. The turbines that drove the big, counter-rotating air propellers remained idle, but water jets playing from ducts on the hydrofoil struts swung the ship in the indicated direction and set her traveling slowly toward the drifter. Winkle called an order over his shoulder.
“Winches and divers ready. The trap is unsafetied. Contact in five minutes.”
“Winch ready,” Dandridge’s deep voice reported as he swept his chessboard to one side and closed a master switch. Mancini, who had been facing him across the board, slipped farther aft to the laboratory which occupied over half of the Shark’s habitable part. He said nothing, since no order had been directed at him, and made no move to uncage any of his apparatus while the vessel was still in motion.
“Divers standing by.” Farrell spoke for himself and his assistant after a brief check of masks and valves—both were already dressed for Arctic water. They took their places at either side of the red-checkered deck area, just forward of the lab section, which marked the main hatch. Dandridge, glancing up to make sure that no one was standing on it, opened the trap from his control console. Its halves slid smoothly apart, revealing the chill green liquid slipping between the hulls. At the Shark’s present speed she was floating at displacement depth, so that the water averaged about four meters down from the hatch; but this distance was varied by a swell of a meter or so. Farrell stood looking down at it, waiting patiently for the vessel to stop; his younger assistant dropped prone by the edge of the opening and craned his neck through it in an effort to see forward.
Ishihara’s voice was barely audible over the wind now that the hatch was open, but occasional words drifted back to the divers. “Six hundred . . . as you go . . . four . . . three . . .”
“I see it,” Winkle cut in. “I’ll take her.” He called over his shoulder again, “Farrell . . . Stubbs . . . we’re coming up on one. You’ll spot it in a minute. I’ll tell you when I lose it under the bow.”
“Yes, sir,” acknowledged Farrell. “See it yet, Rick?”
“Not yet,” was the response. “Nothing but jellyfish.”
“Fifty meters,” called the captain. “Now thirty.” He cut the water jets to a point where steerage way would have been lost if such a term had meant anything to the Shark, and continued to inch forward. “Twenty.”
“I see it,” called Stubbs.
“All right,” answered the captain. “Ten meters. Five. It’s right under me; I’ve lost it. Con me, diver.”
“About five meters, sir. It’s dead center . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . all right, it’s right under the hatch. Magnets ready, Gil?”
The magnetic grapple was at the forward end of its rail, directly over the hatch, so Dandridge was ready; but Winkle was not.
“Hold up . . . don’t latch on yet. Stubbs, watch the fish; are we drifting?”
“A little, sir. It’s going forward and a little to port . . . now you’re stopping it . . . there.”
“Quite a bit of wind,” remarked the captain as his fingers lifted from the hydrojet controls. “All right. Pick it up.”
“Think the magnets will be all right, Marco?” asked Dandridge. “That whale looks funny to me.” The mechanic joined the winchman and divers at the hatch and looked down at their floating problem.
At first glance the “whale” was ordinary enough. It was about two meters long, and perfectly cigar-shaped except where the intake ring broke the curve some forty centimeters back of the nose. The exhaust ports, about equally far from the tail end, were less visible since they were merely openings in the dark gray skin. Integument and openings alike were hard to see in detail, however; the entire organism was overgrown with a brownish, slimy-looking mass of filaments reminiscent both of mold and of sealskin.
“It’s picked up something, all right,” Mancini conceded. “I don’t see why your magnets shouldn’t work, though . . . unless you’d rather they didn’t get dirty.”
“All right. Get down the ladder and steer ’em, Rick.” Dandridge caused a light alloy ladder to extend from the bow edge of the hatch as he spoke; then he fingered another switch which sent the grapples themselves slowly downward. Stubbs easily beat them to the foot of the ladder, hooked one leg through a rung, reached out with both arms and tried to steady the descending mass of metal. The Shark was pitching somewhat in the swell, and the eighty pounds of electromagnet and associated wiring was slightly rebellious. The youngest of the crew and the only nonspecialist among its members—he was still working off the two-year labor draft requirement which preceded higher education—Rick Stubbs got at least his share of the dirty work. He was not so young as to complain about it.
“Slower . . . slower . . . twenty c’s to go . . . ten . . . hold it now . . . just a touch lower . . . all right, juice!” Dandridge followed the instructions, fed current to the magnets, and started to lift.
“Wait!” the boy on the ladder called almost instantly. “It’s not holding!”
The mechanic reacted almost as fast.
“Bring it up anyway!” he cal
led. “The infection is sticking to the magnets. Let me get a sample!” Stubbs shrank back against the ladder as the slimy mass rose past him in response to Mancini’s command. Dandridge grimaced with distaste as it came above deck level and into his view.
“You can have it!” he remarked, not very originally. Mancini gave no answer, and showed no sign of any emotion but interest. He had slipped back into his lab as the material was ascending, and now returned with a two-liter flask and the biggest funnel he possessed.
“Run it aft a little,” he said briefly. “That’s enough . . . I’ll miss some, and it might as well fall into the water as onto the deck.” The grapple, which had crawled a few inches toward him on its overhead rail, stopped just short of the after edge of the hatch. Mancini, standing unconcernedly at the edge of the opening with the wind ruffling his clothes, held funnel and flask under the magnets.
“All right, Gil, drop it,” he ordered. Dandridge obeyed. Most of the mess fell obediently away from the grapple. Some landed in the funnel and proceeded to ooze down into the flask; some hit Mancini’s extended arm without appearing to bother him; a little dropped onto the deck, to the winchman’s visible disgust. Most fell past Stubbs back into the sea.
The mechanic took up some of the material from his arm and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. “Gritty,” he remarked. “And the magnets held this stuff, but not the whale’s skeleton. That means that most of the skeleton must be gone, and I bet this grit is magnetite. I’ll risk a dollar that this infection comes from that old 775-Fe-DE6 culture that got loose a few years ago from Passamaquoddy. I’ll give it the works to make sure, though. You divers will have to use slings to get the fish aboard, I’m afraid.”