by Hal Clement
“Please,” said Rekchellet, to the interest of Hugh and Janice. They had not been sure his language contained an equivalent for the word; they could not remember his using it in their hearing in the Common Year they had known him. The other Crotonites said nothing, but their heads turned sharply toward him as the word was uttered. The beaked faces remained expressionless as far as the Erthumoi were concerned, but once again Hugh hoped he might get information later from S’Nash.
“I did not mean to imply that only a Crotonite was on board. I had not completed my remarks, you will remember. The nature of the food remnants indicate a Flier of that kind, but the control station is configured for Erthumoi hands, body shape and size, and senses, though Locrians could operate it easily. However, such a being must have been wearing recycling armor, as no food or wastes of that species can be seen. There is also the frozen body of a native Habranhan.”
Hugh’s job responsibilities took over. He knew none of the natives present by name except Ted and possibly Switch, who might be one of the others, but two were carrying translator units and would presumably understand his questions.
“Can your people survive being frozen, with or without advanced medical treatment?” he asked, with the recent Naxian incident in mind.
“No,” came the definite answer. “If Counter-of-Supplies is correct, there is nothing to be done. I take it,” the words were now clearly addressed to the Locrian, “that you were speaking literally, and did not merely mean ‘extremely cold.’ “
“The body is embedded in a block of ice, and the body fluids also seem solid, I fear. I am not familiar enough with your anatomy and physiology to say what other damage, if any, there may be, and it would take a very long time to make a detailed comparison of the body with one or more of you. It would be more practical to have an examination made by one of your own medical specialists, even if his or her own senses are stopped at the surface. You presumably have techniques for dealing with that problem.”
Hugh, the sense of urgency gone, let his mind go back to what seemed to be the central problem.
“Counter-of-Supplies, does the truck’s fuel cartridge provide any information?” he asked.
“Not to me. It’s depleted enough to have made many trips between here and the ocean since last being charged, and still holds enough for many more. The truck could have spent much time, and gone anywhere on this hemisphere, since its last servicing.”
“Thanks. Is there evidence of any other people having been on board?”
“Nothing direct. The food evidence indicates a Crotonite, the sleeping equipment at least two Erthumoi. It seems likely that the latter were using recycling armor, and there is nothing to show whether or not there were more than two, or whether or not still other species, also in self-contained suits, were present. It seems unlikely from the size of the cabin that there were many, unless a large number of Samians were for some reason riding close-packed, without artificial bodies.”
“But you have seen no evidence of that.”
“None.”
Neither Hugh nor his wife had a clear idea of the Locrian sense’s limitations, nor how it worked. Unlike the Naxians, the beings were deliberately secretive about its nature. Janice, like many others, had asked one of them the reason for this and been answered frankly enough.
“If you Erthumoi learn how we do it, you will be moved to develop means of blocking our sight. Most of you value what you call ‘privacy’ on occasions. We don’t want it blocked, any more than you would like to be blindfolded without warning.”
Janice was not alone in having her scientific curiosity turned on by the situation, and had done much thinking. Her husband, however, was more concerned with clarifying the present situation.
“Then, to keep things simple, we’re missing a Crotonite who was riding instead of flying, and two Erthumoi.”
Hugh had a strong interest, quite aside from the clumsiness of code, in keeping the summation terse. There was one well known reason why a Crotonite might not be flying. Some nations, some whole planetary cultures, of the species had the grisly practice of amputating the wings of those assigned to deal diplomatically with “slugs” — the various nonflying species, held in contempt by conservative Crotonites. The custom was far from universal, and neither Hugh nor his wife wanted to mention it, since to many Crotonites it seemed as repellent and uncivilized as it did to Erthumoi. Rekchellet, they knew, was one of these; they didn’t know about the others.
“Check the port for what they know of Carrier ABBI-THTHIN-11,” Hugh keyed the sentry group.
knowing that microphones scattered through the town could be counted upon to relay his code. The Guild symbols were visible, not too clearly, under the coating of ice. “If its recent route can be determined, equip fliers, with good lights if necessary, to cover it — aircraft, Crotonites, Habras, anyone not busy at Level B or higher work. Send me whatever new information comes in. Coordinate as usual.”‘
“I thought Erthumoi dropped everything when life, especially Erthumoi life, was at stake,” remarked one of the previously silent Locrians.
“We have that tendency,” Hugh admitted, “but I don’t yet know that this isn’t simply a group who sent the carrier here unmanned for their own purposes and are in no trouble at all.”
“Why is it carrying the body of a native?”
“I don’t know. My first thought was to check the port to find out about the truck itself, which is already being done; my second is to ask Habras il there is any objection to our lab’s trying to date the body. If the problem doesn’t resolve quickly, I’ll either appoint a loss for it or get rid of this diving juice and do my own bossing. Let’s open up this truck and see if there’s anything inside that Counter missed.”
The crust of rime ice which obscured — to the non-Locrians — the view through the control compartment windows also covered most of the upper body of the vehicle, and had to be scraped away from hatch rim and outside controls before ingress was possible. It was two or three minutes before the string of white warning lights which outlined the hatch began to blink and the bottom-hinged section swung slowly out and down, presenting a rampway ridged for traction and negotiable by feet, wheels, tracks, or bellies. This led into an air lock occupying almost the full five-meter width of the truck body, with inner doors in both fore and aft walls. There was ample room even for the Crotonites and Habras, and all swarmed up the ramp. Counter-of-Supplies made sure the entry was clear, closed the outer door, and, without asking Hugh, opened the forward inner one. The safety director and his wife led the way to the control section.
One of the other Locrians opened the other door and, accompanied by most of the rest of the group, went aft to the living and cargo sections.
Counter-of-Supplies had been quite right; there was no living being, and no robot more complex than the built-in automatic driver, on board. The body of the native was in the cargo space. It was rather smaller than any of the Habras present, about three and a half meters long and under thirty centimeters in diameter at its thickest. Its general structure was similar to that of a Terrestrial dragonfly, with distinct head, thorax, and long abdomen. The head had about the same volume as that of an Krthuma, and the four eyes mounted equally spaced around an imaginary circle a little forward of the midpoint of the skull could, given adequate backup nerve wiring, provide stereoscopic vision in all directions except directly behind. The three pairs of wings, only a little over half a meter long, were attached to the thorax and now folded back against it and the forward part of the abdomen. The body plates had the typical random patterning in shades of red, with wings a barely visible transparent yellow.
Still without checking with Hugh, the three Erthumoi supply workers began carrying crates to the air lock. Rekchellet stopped them.
“Wait. Do you know what’s in those crates?”
“They’re standard food containers, going by size, shape, and label,” answered the largest of the human beings, rather impatiently. Th
e Crotonite stared at the boxes for a moment. He was at least as imaginative as Hugh, and shared the Erthuma’s responsibility for general safety. Then he gestured with a wing tip to one of the Locrians who was standing silently by. He was casual about using the Locrian ability, though he understood it no more than Janice did.
“Look inside.” The being addressed had already uncovered her single eye for deep-penetration work, not because she knew that Rekchellet was Hugh’s deputy but because it was part of her routine supply-handling job.
“The labeling is correct. This,” she indicated one container, “is food for Samians. The other two now being transported are for Crotonites. One has been unsealed, and six of the unit packages originally inside are gone. The wrappings of two are…”
“Hugh!” Rekchellet did not wait for the rest of the report. The Erthuma acknowledged from forward, and he went on, “Crotonite food is missing from the cargo.”
“How much?” the coded response came at once. The Locrian answered before Rekchellet, who opened his beak and then realized that he didn’t know how much a unit package represented.
“Packages for six normal work-and rest cycles are gone from one of the crates. However, only two sets of wrappings are in the waste receptacles on the truck.”
“Suggesting that a Crotonite spent two days or so on the truck, going Reason knows where, and then left with food for four more.”
“A reasonable inference, I would say.”
“How about Erthumoi food?”
“The evidence is that any Erthumoi aboard were using recycling suits,” Counter-of-Supplies’ translated voice reminded him.
“True, but please check food anyway — and any other points you think might tell us anything. Even emergency supply food tastes a lot better than the stuff from a recycling suit, and it’s worth looking for signs of nibbling.’”
“There is another object of possible interest on board.”
“Who’s speaking?”
“Third-Supply-Watcher. The truck has a tech-specialized translator supplement containing four modules.”
“I’m coming. Open it up and we’ll see who can read their labels. Maybe we’ll have to put them in the main…”
“That won’t tell us, if no one here uses any of the languages,” pointed out Rekchellet.
“One move at a time,” tapped Hugh as he entered the compartment. “Do you have it open yet?”
The Locrian silently indicated the small, rectangular metal container, one of its sides now folded back on a hinged edge. The modules were hexagonal prisms about three centimeters in length which might have been cut from a lead pencil, though none of those present would have used that simile. They were shiny black, and could have been made of any of half a hundred of the common information storing materials. All could see the four mentioned by Third-Supply-Watcher, resting in holes in resilient packing material. There were two more holes of similar size and shape, empty. There was no way of guessing whether these had been occupied when the truck set out on its journey. Hugh dismissed the point as unworthy of worry.
Everyone silently examined the prisms as Third-Supply-Watcher removed them from their housing and handed them around. Janice and Rekchellet started to speak almost at once; being a practical person, the woman yielded the floor.
“This one holds a Crotonite language, but I don’t know which world or group. I don’t recognize the coding after the main set symbol.” Hugh nodded, which was much easier than acknowledging by code; Rekchellet was familiar with the Erthumoi gesture, the Naxian wouldn’t need it, and it didn’t matter for the moment whether the others grasped it or not. Waiting a moment to be sure her winged friend had no more to say, Janice keyed in her own point.
“Two of these have Erthumoi main set symbols, but hold different languages. One I can’t guess; the other is almost surely one from Earth itself — low code number; look, Hugh.” Her husband looked, and nodded.
“I learned a little Swahili in required Human History, never mind how long ago, but I don’t know its translator symbol. We could try it,” he keyed. “Do any of you others know any of the Mother Tongues?”
One of the Erthumoi started to answer, but Rekchellet cut in abruptly.
“The research would be interesting, but it would be more straightforward to ask the people themselves when we find them. We now seem to be certain that one Crotonite, two Erthumoi, and one — what is the other module? Has anyone recognized it?” Two or three negatives punctuated a background of silence.
“Do you all know the set symbols for your own translator codes?” This time the affirmative answers came from the four star-faring species represented. “Then there could also be a Samian or a Cephallonian…”
“Surely not without other traces of its presence!” S’Nash spoke up for the first time in many minutes.
“Well, maybe just Samian — or pardon me: no doubt a Habra could have been present in recycling armor.” Hugh and Janice smiled to themselves. A Crotonite’s apologizing was a memorable event, though, of course, Habras were fliers and thus not subject to “ground slug” prejudice. “Anyway, this sort of guessing is pointless; what we know is that people are missing and need to be found. Even if they’re missing and in no trouble, and merely failed to tell where they were going, they need to be found — if they’re stupid enough not to file travel plans, they’re stupid enough to get themselves in trouble later.”
“And you don’t really have to be stupid to get in trouble,” added one of the Erthumoi. Rekchellet ignored her.
“When we find them, our questions will, no doubt, be answered easily.”
“Where to look?” keyed Hugh.
‘We start along the route of the truck, of course.”
“Ocean four hours away. Crotonite passenger consumes two days’ food before disappearing. What was the truck route?”
Rekchellet’s face could not show a smirk, and the translator failed to get one into his voice, but both Hugh and his wife read the body attitude.
“As Counter-of-Supplies mentioned, the mechanical driver of this vehicle is of Crotonite manufacture. It will have recorded the path taken — unless,” Rekchellet slowed uneasily for a moment, “unless it was specifically set not to. I’ll check. We should be able to trace its path, including such details as halts along the way.”
“And whether any hatches or cargo doors were opened?”
“Well, probably not. That would not be considered a navigation matter. However, there should be traces at any place people emerged.”
“In blowing snow?” keyed Janice. Rekchellet shrugged, his wing joints brushing the carrier’s ceiling.
“If we seek carefully enough, yes. Hugh, I can handle this; it’s far too much trouble for you to do everything in code. I’ll arrange the search after checking this driver and finding out from Pwanpwan and the Port whatever we can about this vehicle’s recent doings and who was using it and why. You and Jan are full of pressure juice and set up” to handle problems in the Pits, which are more likely to need quick answers anyway. You could hardly go hunting all over the Solid Ocean, even if Spreadsheet-Thinker could be argued into releasing an aircraft for you. We fliers can do the job much more safely and efficiently. What would they say in Pwanpwan if we lost a flying machine on a search job?”
“What would they say if we lost a person without searching?” countered Hugh.
“That would probably depend on the person. We’ve already lost some, it seems, but as far as we know now it was their own fault, not ours. I’ll do the checking. You can stick to the Pit work. If Pwanpwan is so worried about the missing people that they want machines to look for them, too — all right; if they care so little they don’t even want to risk people from the Project, well — it’s not all right, but I don’t know what we can do then. I’ll keep whistling to you.”
The Erthuma pondered. Objectively, Rekchellet was quite right on every point. Hugh sometimes had trouble being objective, but decided he could manage for now, at least until he
learned so much about the missing truck occupants that he couldn’t help thinking of them as people. Janice was probably already worried about them, but—
Rekchellet, who had been on his way to the control section for much of his recent speech, began talking again. “The route has been recorded inside the driver guide. I can have it print a trip table for you, but it will be quicker simply to set it to backtrack and start at once.”
“Who can go? We’ll have to check with Administration. Also, we don’t have information from the other end…”
“Supplies aren’t unloaded yet…”
“Wouldn’t it be better to examine the record and shortcut to places where the truck stopped?”
The remarks and questions almost drowned each other out. All were vocal; neither Hugh nor Janice attempted to say anything in code. Both were still thinking.
“The supplies don’t matter,” snapped the Crotonite. “They can be unloaded later. They may not even be ours. I am free for ten hours, and Kesserah here can take my next sentry call. That will give me another six. If the search takes longer than that, we can make more involved arrangements — oh, Lightning. The truck has no neutrino transmitter. Shortcutting won’t work…”
“Why not?”
“If they did this on purpose, there’s no way of telling at which stop they actually left; they could have set others into the control before they left. We’ll need to…”
“If they left on purpose, and are concealing themselves on purpose, why are we bothering to look for them?” asked the same being who had suggested the shortcut procedure. “It’s obvious that you want to find them and want to know why they did what they did, and I can understand that; but what good reason can you offer for risking your own safety and the Guild’s property, and possibly slowing Project work, to satisfy irrelevant personal curiosity’”
The Crotonite hesitated, and Janice cut in.
“Maybe not all of them are acting on their own, or in good judgment. They could need help. I agree that Rekchellet should go, and at least one other who can drive the truck or fly or both so that they can search near the track as well as along it.”