The Early Asimov. Volume 1

by Isaac Asimov

  George spoke very softly, “Y’r not thinking o’ taking a punch at me, are y’?”

  “No. I couldn’t fight a mirror image of myself, but if your face were only a little different, I would enjoy splashing it about the premises a bit.”

  “Think y’ could do it-an Airthman like you? Here, sit down. We’re both getting a bit too excited, I rackon. Nothing’!! be settled this way.”

  He sat down once more, puffed vainly at his dead cigar, and tossed it into the incinerator chute in disgust.

  “Where’s y’r water?” he grunted.

  Allen grinned with sudden delight, “Would you object to having a machine supply it?”

  “Machine? What d’ y’ mean?” The Ganymedan gazed about him suspiciously.

  “Watch! I had this installed a week ago.” He touched a button on his desk and a low click sounded below. There was the sound of pouring water for a second or so and then a circular metal disk beside the Earthman’s right hand slid aside and a cup of water lifted up from below.

  “Take it,” said Allen.

  George lifted it gingerly and drank it down. He tossed the empty cup down the incinerator shaft, then stared long and thoughtfully at his brother, “May I see this water feeder o* y’rs?”

  “Surely. It’s just under the desk. Here, I’ll make room for you.”

  The Ganymedan crawled underneath while Allen watched uncertainly. A brawny hand was thrust out suddenly and a muffled voice said, “Hand me a screwdriver.”

  “Here! What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. Nothing ‘t all. Just want t’ investigate this contraption.”

  The screw-driver was handed down and for a few minutes there was no other sound than an occasional soft scraping of metal on metal. Finally, George withdrew a flushed face and adjusted his wrinkled collar with satisfaction.

  “Which button do I press for the water?”

  Allen gestured and the button was pressed. The gurgling of water sounded. The Earthman stared in mystification from his desk to his brother and back again. And then he became aware of a moistness about his feet.

  He jumped, looked downwards, and squawked in dismay, “Why, damn you, what have you done?” A snaky stream of water wriggled blindly out from under the desk and the pouring sound of water still continued.

  George made leisurely for the door, “Just short-caircuited it. Here’s y’r screw-driver; fix ‘t up again.” And just before he slammed the door, “So much f’r y’r pracious machines. They go wrong at the wrong times.”

  The sounder was buzzily insistent and Allen Carter opened one eye peevishly. It was still dark.

  With a sigh, he lifted one arm to the head of his bed and put the Audiomitter into commission.

  The treble voice of Amos Wells of the night shift squawked excitedly at him. Allen’s eyes snapped open and he sat up.

  “You’re crazy!” But he was plunging into his breeches even as he spoke. In ten seconds, he was careening up the steps three at a time. He shot into the main office just behind the charging figure of his twin brother.

  The place was crowded;-its occupants in a jitter.

  Allen brushed his long hair out of his eyes, “Turn on the turret searchlight!”

  “It’s on,” said someone helplessly.

  The Earthman rushed to the window and looked out. The yellow beam reached dimly out a few feet and ended in a muddy murkiness. He pulled at the window and it lifted upwards grittily a few inches. There was a whistle of wind and a tornado of coughing from within the room. Allen slammed it down again and his hands went at once to his tear-filled eyes.

  George spoke between sneezes, “We’re not located in the sandstorm zone. This can’t be one.”

  “It is,” asserted Wells in a squeak. “It’s the worst I’ve ever seen. Started full blast from scratch just like that. It caught me flat-footed. By the time I closed off all exits to above, it was too late.”

  “Too late!” Allen withdrew his attention from his sand-filled eyes and snapped out the words, “Too late for what?”

  “Too late for our rolling stock. Our rockets got it worst of all. There isn’t one that hasn’t its propulsives clogged with sand. And that goes for our irrigation pumps and the ventilating system. The generators below are safe but everything else will have to be taken apart and put together again. We’re stalled for a week at least. Maybe more.”

  There was a short, pregnant silence, and then Allen said, “Take charge. Wells. Put the men on double shift and tackle the irrigation pumps first. They’ve got to be in working order inside of twenty-four hours, or half the crop will dry up and die on us. Here-wait, I’ll go with you.”

  He turned to leave, but his first footstep froze in midair at the sight of Michael Anders, communications officer, rushing up the stairs.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Anders spoke between gasps, “The damned planet’s gone crazy. There’s been the biggest quake in history with its center not ten miles from Aresopolis.”

  There was a chorus of “What?” and a ragged follow-up of blistering imprecations. Men crowded in anxiously;-many had relatives and wives in the Martian metropolis.

  Anders went on breathlessly, “It came all of a sudden. Aresopolis is in ruins and fires have started. There aren’t any details but the transmitter at our Aresopolis labs went dead five minutes ago.”

  There was a babel of comment The news spread out into the furthest recesses of Central, and excitement waxed to dangerously panicky proportions. Allen raised his voice to a shout.

  “Quiet, everyone. There’s nothing we can do about Aresopolis. We’ve got our own troubles. This freak storm is connected with the quake some way-and that’s what we have to take care of. Everyone back to his work now-and work fast. They’ll be needing us at Aresopolis damned soon.” He turned to Anders, “You! Get back to that receiver and don’t knock off until you’ve gotten in touch with Aresopolis again. Coming with me, George?”

  “No, rackon not,” was the response. “Y’ tend t’ y’r machines. I’ll go down with Anders.”

  Dawn was breaking, a dusky, lightless dawn, when Allen Carter returned to Central. He was weary-weary in mind and body-and looked it. He entered the radio room.

  “Things are a mess. If-”

  There was a “Shhh” and George waved frantically. Allen fell silent. Anders bent over the receiver, turning tiny dials with nervous fingers.

  Anders looked up, “It’s no use, Mr. Carter. Can’t get them.”

  “All right. Stay here and keep y’r ears open. Let me know if anything turns up.”

  He walked out, hooking an arm underneath his brother’s and dragging the latter out.

  “When c’n we get out the next shipment, All’n?”

  “Not for at least a week. We haven’t a thing that’ll either roll or fly for days, and it will be even longer before we can start harvesting again.”

  “Have we any supplies on hand now?”

  “A few tons of assorted blooms-mainly the red-purples. The Earth shipment last Tuesday took off almost everything.”

  George fell into a reverie.

  His brother waited a moment and said sharply, “Well, what’s on your’ mind? What’s the news from Aresopolis?”

  “Domned bad! The quake’s leveled three-fourths o’ Aresopolis and the rest’s pretty much gutted with fire, I rackon. There ‘re fifty thousand that’ll have t’ camp out nights.-That’s no fun in Martian autumn weather with the Airth gravity system broken down.”

  Allen whistled, “Pneumonia!”

  “And common colds and influenza and any o’ half doz’n diseases t’ say nothing o’ people bairnt. -Old Vincent is raising cain.”

  “Wants blooms?”

  “He’s only got a two-day supply on hand. He’s got t’ have more.”

  Both, were speaking quietly, almost with indifference, with the vast understatement that is all that makes great crises bearable.

  There was a pause and then George spoke again
, “What’s the best we c’n do?”

  “Not under a week-not if we kill ourselves to do it. If they could send over a ship as soon as the storm dies down, we might be able to send what we have as a temporary supply until we can get over with the rest.”

  “Silly even t’ think o’ that. The Aresopolis port is just ruins. They haven’t a ship t’ their names.”

  Again silence. Then Allen spoke in a low, tense voice. “What are you waiting for? What’s that look on your face for?”

  “I’m waiting fr y’ t’ admit y’r domned machines have failed y’ in the fairest emairgency we’ve had t’ meet.”

  “Admitted,” snarled the Earthman.

  “Good! And now its up t’ me t’ show y’ what human ingenuity can do.” He handed a sheet of paper to his brother, “There’s a copy of the message I sent Vincent.”

  Allen looked long at his brother and slowly read the pencilled scribbling.

  “Will deliver all we have on hand in thirty-six hours. Hope it will keep you going the few days until we can get a real shipment out. Things are a little rough out here.”

  “How are you going to do it?” demanded Allen, upon finishing.

  “I’m trying to show y’,” answered George, and Allen realized for the first time that they had left Central and were out in the caverns.

  George led the way for five minutes and stopped before an object bulking blackly in the dimness. He turned on the section lights and said, “Sand truck!”

  The sand truck was not an imposing object. With the low driving car in front and the three squat, open-topped freightcars behind, it presented a picture of obsolete decrepitude. Fifteen years ago, it had been relegated to the dust-heap by the sand-sleds and rocket-freights.

  The Ganymedan was speaking, “Checked it an hour ago, m’self, and ‘tis still in wairking order. It has shielded bearings, air conditioning unit f’r the driving car, and an intairnal combustion engine.”

  The other looked up sharply. There was an expression of distaste on his face. “You mean it burns chemical fuel.”

  “Yup! Gas’line. That’s why I like it. Reminds me o’ Ganymede. On Gannie, I had a gas engine that-”

  “But wait a while. We haven’t any of that gasoline.”

  “No, rackon not. But we got lots o’ liquid hydrocarbons round the place. How about Solvent D? That’s mostly octane. We’ve got tanks o’ it.”

  Allen said, “That’s so;-but the truck holds only two.”

  “I know it. I’m one.”

  “And I’m the other.”

  George grunted, “I rackond y’d say that-but this isn’t going t’ be a push-button machine job. Rackon y’r up t’ it,- Airthman?”

  “I reckon I am-Gannie.”

  The sun had been up some two hours before the sandtruck’s engine whirred into life, but outside, the murk had become, if anything, thicker.

  The main driveway within the caverns was ahum with activity. Grotesque figures with eyes peering through the thick glass of improvised air-helmets stepped back as the truck’s broad, sand-adapted wheels began their slow turn. The three cars behind had been piled high with purple blooms, canvas covers had been thrown over them and bound down tightly,- and now the signal was given to open the doors.

  The lever was jerked downwards and the double doors separated with sand-clogged protests. Through a gray whirl of inblown sand, the truck made its way outwards, and behind it sand-coated figures brushed at their air-helmets and closed the doors again.

  George Carter, inured by long Ganymedan custom, met the sudden gravity change as they left the protective Gravitor fields of the caverns, with a single long-drawn breath. His hands held steady upon the wheels. His Terrestrial brother, however, was in far different condition. The hard nauseating knot into which his stomach tied itself loosened only very gradually, and it was a long time before his irregular stertorous breathing approached anything like normality again.

  And throughout, the Earthman was conscious of the other’s side-long glance and of just a trace of a smile about the other’s lips.

  It was enough to keep the slightest moan from issuing forth, though his abdominal muscles cramped and icy perspiration bathed his face.

  The miles clicked off slowly, but the illusion of motionlessness was almost as complete as that in space. The surroundings were gray-uniform, monotonous and unvarying. The noise of the engine was a harsh purr and the clicking of the air-purifier behind like a drowsy tick. Occasionally, there was an especially strong gust of wind, and a patter of sand dashed against the window with a million tiny, separate pings.

  George kept his eye strictly upon the compass before him. The silence was almost oppressive.

  And then the Ganymedan swivelled his head, and growled, “What’s wrong with the domned vent’lator?”

  Allen squeezed upward, head against the low top, and then turned back, pale-faced, “It’s stopped.”

  “It’ll be hours ‘fore the storm’s over. Ye’ve got t’ have air till then. Craw] in back there and start it again.” His voice was flat and final.

  “Here,” he said, as the other crawled over his shoulder into the back of the car. “Here’s the tool-kit. Y’v got ‘bout twenty minutes ‘fore the air gets too foul t’ breathe. ‘Tis pretty bad now.”

  The clouds of sand hemmed in closer and the dim yellow light above George’s head dispelled only partially the darkness within.

  There was the sound of scrambling from behind him and then Allen’s voice, “Damn this rope. What’s it doing here?” There was a hammering and then a disgusted curse.

  “This thing is choked with rust.”

  “Anything else wrong?” called out the Ganymedan.

  “Don’t know. Wait till I clear it out.” More hammering and an almost continuous harsh, scraping sound followed.

  Allen backed into his seat once more. His face dripped rusty perspiration and a swab with the back of an equally damp, rust-covered hand did it no good.

  “The pump is leaking like a punctured kettle, now that the rust’s been knocked loose. I’ve got it going at top speed, but the only thing between it and a total breakdown is a prayer.”

  “Start praying,” said George, bruskly. “Pray for a button to push.”

  The Earthman frowned, and stared ahead in sullen silence.

  At four in the afternoon, the Ganymedan drawled, “Air’s beginning t’ thin out, looks like.”

  Allen snapped to alertness. The air was foul and humid within. The ventilator behind swished sibilantly between each click and the clicks were spacing themselves further apart. It wouldn’t hold out much longer now.

  “How much ground have we covered?”

  “‘Bout a thaird o’ the distance,” was the reply. “How ‘r y* holding out?”

  “Well enough,” Allen snapped back. He retired once more into his shelL

  Night came and the first brilliant stars of a Martian night peeped out when with a last futile and long-sustained swi-i-i-s-s-sh, the ventilator died.

  “Domn!” said George. “I can’t breathe this soup any longer, anyway. Open the windows.”

  The keenly cold Martian wind swept in and with it the last traces of sand. George coughed as he pulled his woolen cap over his ears and turned on the heaters.

  “Y’ can still taste the grit.”

  Allen looked wistfully up into the skies, “There’s Earth- with the moon hanging right onto her tail.”

  “Airth?” repeated George with fine contempt. His finger pointed horizonwards, “There’s good old Jupe for y’.”

  And throwing back his head, he sang in a full throated baritone:

  “When the golden orb o’ Jove

  Shines down from the skies above,

  Then my spirit longs to go

  To that happy land I know, Back t’ good, old Ganyme-e-e-e-ede .”

  The last note quavered and broke, and quavered and broke again and still again in an ever increasing rapidity of tempo until its vibrating ululation pierced
the air about ear-shatteringly.

  Allen stared at his brother wide-eyed, “How did you do that?”

  George grinned, “That’s the Gannie quaver. Didn’t y’ ever hear it before?”

  The Earthman shook his head, “I’ve head of it, but that’s all.”

  The other became a bit more cordial, “Well, o’ course y’ can only do it in a thin atmosphere. Y’ should hear me on Gannie. I c’d shake y’ right off y’r chair when I’m going good. Here! Wait till I gulp down some coffee, and then I’ll sing y’ vairse twenty-four o’ the ‘Ballad o’ Ganymede.’ “

  He took a deep breath:

  “There’s a fair-haired maid I love

  Standing in the light o’ Jove

  And she’s waiting there for me-e-e-e-e.

  Then-”

  Allen grasped him by the arm and shook him. The Ganymedan choked into silence.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked sharply.

  “There was a thumping sound on the roof just a second ago. There’s something up there.”

  George stared upwards, “Grab the wheel. I’ll go up.”

  Allen shook his head, “I’m going myself. I wouldn’t trust myself running this primitive contraption.”

  He was out on the running board the next instant.

  “Keep her going,” he shouted, and threw one foot up onto the roof.

  He froze in that position when he became aware of two yellow slits of eyes staring hard into his. It took not more than a second for him to realize that he was face to face with a keazel , a situation which for discomfort is about on a par with the discovery of a rattlesnake in one’s bed back on Earth.

  There was little time for mental comparisons of his position with Earth predicaments, however, for the keazel lunged forward, its poisonous fangs agleam in the starlight.

  Allen ducked desperately and lost his grip. He hit the sand with a slow-motion thud and the cold, scaly body of the Martian reptile was upon him.

  The Earthman’s reaction was almost instinctive. His hand shot out and clamped down hard upon the creature’s narrow muzzle.

  In that position, beast and man stiffened into breathless statuary. The man was trembling and within him his heart pounded away with hard rapidity. He scarcely dared move. In the unaccustomed Martian gravity, he found he could not judge movements of his limbs. Muscles knotted almost of their own accord and legs swung when they ought not to.