Noise

by Hal Clement

  Had anyone described the job earlier to Mike he would have called it impossible. The small sail was maneuvered mainly to raise or lower very slightly the peak of the larger one; all three of its control lines needed very practiced handling. The other two were used to manipulate the slant of the larger triangle, so as to control its depth more coarsely.

  Since even the child was able to do all this fairly well, Mike had no excuse to use the i-word; and to forestall any possible other risk of his suffering boredom, Wanaka had decided that ’Ao’s physical strength was not up to handling all five lines. The passenger was therefore gradually earning crew status as well as learning Finger.

  He made frequent errors. The child was more than ready to provide advice, but occasionally this was wrong and even more often the man failed to get her message promptly and correctly. The other two adults, when available, often had to do incomprehensible and complex things to correct the errors. The captain was quite tolerant about all this, the child considerably less so. She was young enough still to be more conscious of what she already knew than of what she didn’t.

  There was no such thing as really heaving to, though that was the theoretical aim. Malolo was either being borne more or less poleward by surface current—not precisely south; Coriolis force is ordinary inertia, and not confined to Earth—or dragged the other way by the submerged sail. The idea was to match the two effects as closely as possible to maintain latitude. Wind neither helped nor hindered significantly; it had only a little grip even on the cabin.

  Besides latitude maintenance some actual maneuvering was necessary. Chance could be counted on to lead them into storms and hail, which were necessary for water, but manipulation was needed to keep them out of waterspouts that could be and had been both chemically and mechanically troublesome even when the ship was whole.

  Continuous duty for everyone was not, of course, possible, and at times they had to accept inadequate control of the sea anchor while people slept, or merely rested, or attended to other necessary jobs. These times would obviously be fewer when Mike could handle an unsupervised watch, and he felt guilty at how long it was taking him to interpret reflexively the almost imperceptible shifts of the control lines.

  The general asymmetry of the present craft didn’t help, either; one hull paralleling a floating cabin was not the same thing as two essentially identical hulls. Hoani had almost, at one point, asked why the cabin wasn’t set to lead, or trail behind, the remaining hull, or even to balance on top of it, but hesitated long enough to be saved from looking ignorant by another of Kainui’s phenomena.

  Early on the second day after the hull-seed had been fertilized and set afloat on its tow line, everyone’s attention had been caught by an explosive sound abeam. Mike had watched with a crawling sensation along his spine as a jet of water far more massive and coherent than the usual waterspouts had climbed skyward a few hundred meters away. A wave spread outward from its base as it rose and another as it slowly collapsed. These did not travel rapidly in Kainui’s gravity but were quite high enough when they reached the “ship” to lift first one side and then the other well over a meter. If the phenomenon had occurred much closer, or if the system had lacked catamaran stability, even Mike could see that the rest of their trip would have been performed swimming. He suddenly realized that a waterspout would have had the same effect and was thankful for his earlier silence.

  This was unfortunate in a way; anything that discourages a student from asking questions can interfere with education.

  He rather suspected that if Malolo were more completely wrecked the natives would, after appropriate preparation, start to swim, doubtless towing what they needed; but he decided not to ask. Aside from the possibility that the question would be deemed silly, he was a little afraid of the answer.

  He did raise his eyebrows at Keo, who was closest. The man had no trouble understanding the implied question.

  “Very rare,” he remarked. “Only the second one I’ve ever seen. Strictly a matter of chance. A really broad sound front somewhere below gets focused just right by salinity or temperature lensing, and puts maybe a hundred atmospheres of pressure on one or two square meters just under the surface. That’s one reason we make the cities in separate, flexibly linked units, and why some of us feel safer out on sorties. Actually I’ve never heard of anything as small as a ship’s being hit directly by one.”

  “Who’d have heard?” Wanaka, ’Ao, and ’Oloa spoke together. Keo simply shrugged. He might, of course, have been merely trying to keep Hoani from panicking; if so, he didn’t bother to justify himself, but simply went on. “Cities get hit every now and then, of course. That’s why we keep kinai aki on duty.”

  Mike was a little startled at the use to which the term “fireman” had been adapted, but reflected that after all Kainui’s atmosphere didn’t support combustion even if the air in the floating cities did.

  “Do cities get really damaged by these things?” he asked.

  “Bad air leaks usually, float damage fairly often. I’ve never heard of a city’s actually sinking—or being missed,” he added hastily. “People have died from suffocation or poisoning, of course, when too much air got in.”

  “I guess I’m glad I didn’t know about them before. At least we don’t have to watch out for such things.”

  “Why not?” snapped ’Ao. “Just because one happened here doesn’t mean another won’t. The laws of chance don’t have any memory!”

  It was Mike’s first chance to correct a native. He wished, though, that ’Ao had been an adult. “I know they don’t, tama-iti,” he answered. He regretted the word the instant he uttered it, but felt more need to justify himself than to apologize. “But we haven’t been watching for them so far, and I don’t see how we’d spot them coming anyway. Is there something you know about that that I don’t?”

  “No. You’re right. I’m sorry. I thought—” ’Ao’s voice trailed off.

  “You thought you’d caught a grown-up making a mistake, didn’t you? I don’t blame you for speaking without thinking.”

  “I do,” Wanaka cut in, “but as long as it was just words, complete with apology, we’ll write it off as a lesson.”

  The child’s relief showed around her mask, but she said no more just then. Instead, she flipped on her helmet and went to examine the seedling towing aft—southward, away from the sea-anchor system—of the cabin. She checked her safety line very pointedly first; the surface current being opposed by the sails was fairly strong. Mike wasn’t sure whether she was more concerned with being swept away—after all, rescue would have been fairly easy—or losing more points.

  The growing ship looked like a small but oddly shaped torpedo, and was already over half a meter long. The oddness sprang from what looked like a pair of short wings sprouting from each side. These, even the visitor could see, were actually keels; there were two hulls growing, deck to deck, just barely afloat. He had not yet asked why this was, or what would be done with the spare one; he was hoping to figure at least the first question out for himself as a matter of self-respect. Like ’Ao, he was feeling a need to be right.

  He could not, of course, keep his eyes on the child; control lines were his business of the moment. He had never in any language heard the phrase “The buck stops here,” but was very familiar with its underlying concept.

  As it happened, although he was in charge of the sea anchor when things did go wrong some days later, it was not Mike’s fault. At least, no one blamed him aloud, and he could see plenty of excuse for himself. It happened during one of the most violent storms of the journey so far, and his eyes simply couldn’t follow the lines he was holding all the way to the deck. He didn’t know that anything had gone wrong until the foggily visible deck itself suddenly went out of sight under water.

  Everyone was helmeted at the moment. Mike flipped his own back when he did realize what had occurred, but no one could hear him—they might not have in the storm even if their own helmets had been off—and
it was a minute or more before Keo saw him bareheaded and realized something must be wrong. By that time the cords were dipping deeply even at the cabin and hull ends, and the wake had vanished. Malolo had clearly ceased to buck the surface current.

  Keo was at Mike’s side, helmet also flipped back, in a few seconds, and seemed to understand the situation. He selected the line connected to the upper corner of the smaller sail, removed it from Hoani’s grasp, and pulled on it hard. There was no obvious result; certainly the slope of the remaining lines did not improve. After perhaps half a minute Keo relinquished his hold on the cord and casually dropped it into the sea. Then he took one of the lower-spar ones and, yelling that Mike should follow his example with the one left to him, began hauling it in. By then it was fairly evident even to the passenger that the whole system had dipped too low, bitten too much into the deep current, and would have to be pulled up and realigned. He wondered whether anything had actually torn loose, but saw no sign of cordage, booms, or sails on the surface.

  Meter after meter of tow line came in. Mike’s stronger arms brought his side along more rapidly, and his corner of the big sail brought up against the deck and was stopped by its guide ring before Keo had finished with his. The native didn’t seem bothered by this. When his own line was in he handed it also to Mike, and bellowed as loudly as he could over the thunder and hail, “Hold ’em both. When I wave hard, up and down, start letting them out together. And I mean together.” Without waiting for an answer, he flipped on his helmet and dived toward the deck half a dozen meters away.

  The captain and the child had by this time realized what was happening, but continued with their own duties. Mike realized that there was now no relative current to sweep a swimmer away, and wondered whether Keo had thought about that problem when the sea anchor would be back in place. He would probably not have dared say anything even had it been possible, but couldn’t keep the thought entirely out of his mind, since even the most professional of professionals sometimes slips up. There seemed nothing to do, however, but keep tight hold of both lines as he had been ordered, and a close eye on the swimmer.

  The latter soon ceased to be possible; Keo dived before he reached the deck, and was gone for several minutes. Mike could feel occasional tugs, first on one of his lines and then on the other, so he didn’t worry as badly as he might have; but when the mate appeared well over a hundred meters beyond the deck—the blinding hail had almost ceased for the moment—the relief at seeing him at all greatly outweighed any anxiety over his distance. The latter feeling disappeared completely when it became obvious that the swimmer was still in contact. At least, he was clearly holding on to a cord, and gradually a sail itself became visible between him and the deck. It must be the small one; its backup float line could just be seen at its far corner, and Mike now realized that the two sinkers at the ends of the larger sail’s boom were also against the edge of the deck where the control lines he was still holding entered the sea.

  Keo now began pulling himself closer hand over hand. He reached the appropriate sail corner quickly enough and seemed to be examining something for a moment; then he let go of everything and began to swim toward where Mike crouched at the rear of the cabin. The two lines Hoani was holding were too far apart at the deck to be reached by one person at the same time, and he appreciated Keokolo’s thoughtfulness. His climbing along one of them would have made it very hard to keep the pair paid out equally as his order had implied.

  Of course, Keo might merely have distrusted Mike’s ability to manage both. The latter decided, of course, not to ask about this when the swimmer clambered up beside him.

  “A float got popped by something,” Keo reported as his helmet flipped back. He added a short phrase composed entirely of words unfamiliar to the other. “Nothing we can blame on you, Mike. We’ll have to make another as soon as possible. Belay your lines where they are. You might as well go inside and charge up your breather while I get something from the cargo line. I wonder if Wanaka will be able to bring herself to dump a unit of iron.”

  The implication here was obvious enough; the float from one of the cargo units would have to be put to a new use. Mike said nothing as Keo reentered the sea.

  Neither did Wanaka, now close enough to have heard the mate and with her helmet off. Her attenion was otherwise occupied. She gestured ’Ao to approach, and issued some instructions in Finger. She pointed first, which helped the man tell that the orders concerned the floating seedling, but his increasing grasp of the gesture language was not yet up to getting all the details. Apparently she was supposed to take care of it somehow, but Mike had no idea of what danger it might be in.

  The child entered the water and flippered toward the little torpedo shape while pulling the now slack line that had been towing it. Reaching her goal, she submerged with it, and Hoani lost track of both in the once more rising storm. He returned his attention to the mate while the latter freed an iron unit from the cargo line and brought it back to the cabin. He received, rather to his surprise, a nod of appreciation from the other; he had expected his watchfulness to be taken for granted. The nod was not accompanied by words as thunder still discouraged speech even out of water, but a few gestures got across; Mike obediently belayed both the cords he had been holding, appreciating Keo’s failure to check his knots, and accompanied the latter to the air lock.

  Keo insisted by a few Finger symbols and some less formal gestures that Mike use it first, but they were both inside the cabin in moments. The captain stayed outside for obvious reasons. ’Ao had not yet reappeared. Keo kept silent, busy detaching the float from the unit he had brought in. This seemed not to be a very demanding task, and Mike ventured to ask what ’Ao had been told to do.

  “She’s under the cabin, keeping the new ship from the hail and making certain nothing happens to its tow line. The danger isn’t really very great, but that’s the only ship seed we have. If we lose it, we have a long swim in a direction we’d have to guess.”

  “I suppose the captain is watching the kid, then.”

  “Probably not. ’Ao knows what’s going on. She’s no more immune to mistakes than either of us, but Wanaka has a lot of other things to do. So have we. Could you check our life support while I’m at this? I’ll have to go outside again to install this float as soon as it’s ready, because right now there’s no way to maneuver if a spout crowds us. I won’t be able to watch you, but I know the little one has shown you about some of it, at least.”

  Hoani nodded and complied. The psuedoliving intake stage oxidized carbon monoxide with sodium peroxide from the “leaf,” getting enough energy from the process to feed its own intake pump. This kept the inside pressure slightly above Kainui normal even after the carbon dioxide had also been precipitated. There was no reliable way to keep even self-healing machinery completely leakproof, and it was much more than merely desirable that all leakage be outward. Given the length of a typical human generation, it would be a long, long time before the Kainuian human subspecies’ tolerance for CO increased usefully.

  Keo had left long before Mike finished his assignment.

  When he emerged from the cabin at last, the storm was still visible to the west, blocking any view of both Kaihapa and the suns, but was no longer dropping hail on the vessel. Background thunder was still louder than usual, but now caused Mike less trouble because of his improving skill with Finger. ’Ao had returned to the hull leaving the seedling in the water, but the latter’s tow line was still slack. Keo, out of sight and presumably under water, had evidently not yet reestablished the sea-anchor system. Wanaka had three control lines in her right hand and two in her left, and seemed to be giving them her full attention. Mike glanced around, noted the usual number of waterspouts within sight, but was pretty sure that none was a menace at the moment. Experience had taught him that Keo’s present job would probably take only a few minutes.

  He was right. The mate suddenly appeared beside the deck and gestured rather casually, and the captain pro
mptly signaled to Hoani to take over the lines. ’Ao started to take up her usual position beside him, but was gestured back to the hull and set to another task—Mike, his attention focused on the lines, couldn’t see just what. He wasn’t sure just how happy the sudden increase in trust made him feel. He had flown sailplanes on Earth, and would always vividly remember his first solo landing. However, the watch ended with no further troubles.

  The seedling continued to grow, sometimes several centimeters in a single day, more often slowly enough to need careful measurement. The two little hulls were now separated slightly as a developing deck appeared between them and grew. After a few days, Mike risked a question.

  “I don’t see any sign of a new cabin. We make do with this one, I take it?”

  Wanaka nodded. “That would be a whole set of separate seeds. Cabin and air lock unit, air equipment, sails, furnishings. Much more expensive ones, too. And much more trouble getting them to stop growth just at the right stage in each case to let them fit together properly.”

  “We have them, I suppose.”

  “Many of them. The most important. The first three I mentioned, plus the kumu’rau. We’ll have to deploy that pretty soon, by the way, at the rate we’ve been using oxygen. It’ll complicate handling the sea anchor, and probably cost us some latitude one way or the other, and we’ll be really vulnerable to waterspouts while it’s out, but that’s not a choice.”

  Hoani nodded. He had seen many times, before the journey had become so exciting, the strip of pseudolife that didn’t look particularly like either a tree or a leaf but would at least have been green with chlorophyll if either of the suns had produced much green light. It was nearly ten meters wide and more than a hundred and fifty long, and trailed behind Malolo during times when the suns were highest and Wanaka had forced herself to admit that oxygen was as important as new cargo and hence to accept the very low sailing speed demanded by its production. Just now it was reeled up out of the sea at the aft end of the cabin. Mike had been wondering how long they could do without it, but had been reluctant to ask. He knew they had left Muamoku with a very large supply of oxygen cartridges, presumably fully charged, but didn’t know what “very large” meant in terms of person-hours of breathing.