Space Lash

by Hal Clement

  “Let's just follow this bubble,” Bresnahan said fervently.

  At first, of course, the two merely drifted. There simply was no detectable buoyancy near the core. However, in a surprisingly short time the shimmering globule of gas began to show a tendency to drift away from them.

  The direction of drift was seldom the one which Bresnahan was thinking of as “up” at the moment, but the spaceman nodded approval and carefully followed their only guide. Bresnahan wished that his training had given him more confidence in instrument readings as opposed to his own senses, but followed Silbert hopefully.

  8

  The fourteen hours he spent drifting weightless in the dark made an experience Bresnahan was never to forget, and his friends were never to ignore. He always liked crowds afterward, and preferred to be in cities or at least buildings where straight, clearly outlined walls, windows, and doors marked an unequivocal up-and-down direction.

  Even Silbert was bothered. He was more used to weightlessness, but the darkness he was used to seeing around him at such times was normally pocked with stars which provided orientation. The depths of Rain-drop provided nothing. Both men were almost too far gone to believe their senses when they finally realized that the bubble they were still following could be seen by a glow not from their suits' lights.

  It was a faintly blue-green illumination, still impossible to define as to source, but unmistakably sunlight filtered through hundreds of feet of water. Only minutes later their helmets met the tough, elastic skin of the satellite.

  It took Silbert only a few moments to orient himself. The sun and the station were both visible — at least they had not come out on the opposite side of the satellite — and he knew the time. The first and last factors were merely checks; all that was really necessary to find the lock was to swim toward the point under the orbiting station.

  “I don't want to use the sonar locator unless I have to,” he pointed out. “There is sonar gear on the sphere. I should be able to get us close enough by sighting on the station so that the magnetic compass will work. Judging by where the station seems to be, we have four or five miles to swim. Let's get going.”

  “And let's follow the great circle course,” added Bresnahan. “Never mind cutting across inside just because it's shorter. I've had all I ever want of swimming in the dark.”

  “My feeling exactly. Come on.”

  The distance was considerably greater than Silbert had estimated, since he was not used to doing his sighting from under water and had not allowed for refraction; but finally the needle of the gimballed compass showed signs of making up its mind, and with nothing wrong that food and sleep would not repair the two men came at last in sight of the big lock cylinder.

  For a moment, Silbert wondered whether they should try to make their approach secretly. Then he decided that if the Weisanens were there waiting for them the effort would be impractical, and if they weren't it would be futile.

  He simply swam up to the small hatch followed by Bresnahan, and they entered the big chamber together. It proved to be full of water, but the sphere was nowhere in sight. With no words they headed for the outer personnel lock, entered it, pumped back the water, and emerged on Raindrop's surface. Silbert used his laser, and ten minutes later they were inside the station. Bresnahan's jump had been a little more skillful than before.

  “Now let's get on the radio!” snapped Silbert as he shed his space helmet.

  “Why? Whom would you call, and what would you tell them? Remember that our normal Earth-end contacts are part of the same group the Weisanens belong to, and you can't issue a general broadcast to the universe at large screaming about a plot against mankind in the hope that someone will take you seriously. Someone might.”

  “But…"

  “My turn, Bert. You've turned what I still think was just a potentially tragic mistake of Weisanen's into something almost funny, and incidentally saved both our lives. Now will you follow my lead? Things could still be serious if we don't follow up properly.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “You'll see. Take it from me, compromise is still possible. It will take a little time; Aino Weisanen will have to learn something I can't teach him myself. Tell me, is there any way to monitor what goes on in Raindrop? For example, can you tell from here when the lock down there is opened, so we would know when they come back?”

  “No.”

  “Then we'll just have to watch for them. I assume that if we see them, we can call them from here on regular radio.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then let's eat, sleep, and wait. They'll be back after a while, and when they come Aino will listen to reason, believe me. But we can sleep right now, I'm sure; it will be a while yet before they show up. They should still be looking for us — getting more worried by the minute.”

  “Why should they appear at all? They must have found out long ago that they can't get back to the station on their own. They obviously haven't found us, and won't. Maybe they've simply decided they're already fugitive murderers and have settled down to a permanent life in Raindrop.”

  “That's possible, I suppose. Well, if we don't see them in a couple of weeks, we can go back down and give them a call in some fashion. I'd rather they came to us, though, and not too soon.

  “But let's forget that; I'm starved. What's in your culture tanks besides liver?”

  9

  It did not take two weeks. Nine days and eight hours after the men had returned to the station, Silbert saw two spacesuited figures standing on the lock half a mile away, and called his companion's attention to them.

  “They must be desperate by this time,” remarked Bresnahan. “We'd better call them before they decide to risk the jump anyway.” He activated the transmitter which Silbert indicated, and spoke.

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Weisanen. Do you want us to send the cobweb down?”

  The voice that answered was female.

  “Thank God you're there! Yes, please. We'd like to come up for a while.” Silbert expected some qualifying remarks from her husband, but none were forthcoming. At Bresnahan's gesture, he activated the spring gun which launched the web toward the satellite.

  “Maybe you'd better suit up and go meet them,” suggested the computerman. “I don't suppose either of them is very good at folding the web, to say nothing of killing angular speed.”

  “I'm not sure I care whether they go off on their own orbit anyway,” growled the spaceman, rising with some reluctance to his feet.

  “Still bitter? And both of them?” queried Bresnahan.

  “Well — I suppose not. And it would take forever to repair the web if it hit the station unfolded. I'll be back.” Silbert vanished toward the hub, and the younger man turned back to watch his employers make the leap from Raindrop. He was not too surprised to see them hold hands as they did so, with the natural result that they spun madly on the way to the web and came close to missing it altogether.

  When his own stomach had stopped whirling in sympathy, he decided that maybe the incident was for the best. Anything which tended to cut down Weisanen's self-assurance should be helpful, even though there was good reason to suspect that the battle was already won. He wondered whether he should summon the pair to his and Silbert's quarters for the interview which was about to ensue, but decided that there was such a thing as going too far.

  He awaited the invitation to the Weisanens' rooms with eagerness.

  It came within minutes of the couple's arrival at the air lock. When Bresnahan arrived he found Silbert already in the room where they had first reported on their brief visit to Raindrop. All three were still in spacesuits; they had removed only the helmets.

  “We're going back down as soon as possible, Mr. Bresnahan,” Weisanen began without preliminary. “I have a rather lengthy set of messages here which I would like you and Mr. Silbert to transmit as soon as possible. You will note that they contain my urgent recommendation for a policy change. Your suggestion of
starting construction of smaller farms from Raindrop's outer layers is sound, and I think the Company will follow it. I am also advising that material be collected from the vicinity of the giant planets — Saturn's rings seem a likely source — for constructing additional satellites like Raindrop as private undertakings. Financing can be worked out. There should be enough profit from the farms, and that's the logical direction for some of it to flow.

  “Once other sources of farm material are available, Raindrop will not be used further for the purpose. It will serve as Company headquarters — it will be more convenient to have that in orbit anyway. The closest possible commercial relations are to be maintained with Earth.”

  “I'm glad you feel that way, sir,” replied Bresnahan. “We'll get the messages off as soon as possible. I take it that more of the Company's officials will be coming up here to live, then?”

  “Probably all of them, within the next two years or so. Brenda and I will go back and resume surveying now, as soon as we stock up with some food. I'll be back occasionally, but I'd rather she kept away from high weight for the next few months, as you know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bresnahan managed, by a heroic effort, to control his smile — almost. Weisanen saw the flicker of his lip, and froze for a moment. Then his own sober features loosened into a broad grin.

  “Maybe another hour won't hurt Brenda,” he remarked. “Let's have a meal together before we go back.”

  He paused, and added almost diffidently, “Sorry about what happened. We're human, you know.”

  “I know,” replied Bresnahan. “That's what I was counting on.”

  “And that,” remarked Silbert as he shed his helmet, “is that. They're aboard and bound for the core again, happy as clams. And speaking of clams, if you don't tell me why that stubborn Finn changed his mind, and why you were so sure he'd do it, there'll be mayhem around here. Don't try to make me believe that he got scared about what he'd nearly done to us. I know his wife was on our side, basically, but she wasn't about to wage open war for us. She was as worried about their kid as he was. Come on; make with the words, chum.”

  “Simple enough. Didn't you notice what he wanted before going back to Raindrop?”

  “Not particularly — oh; food. So what? He could live on the food down there — or couldn't he? Don't you believe what he said?”

  “Sure I believe him. He and his wife can digest cellulose, Heaven help them, and they can live off Raindrop's seaweed. As I remarked to him, though — you heard me, and he understood me — they're human. I can digest kale and cauliflower, too, and could probably live off them as well as that pair could live off the weeds. But did you ever stop to think what the stuff must taste like? Neither did they. I knew they'd be back with open mouths — and open minds. Let's eat — anything but liver!”

  The 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 wedge-shaped 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 his 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 instruments — 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, wailing 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.”