The Great Hydration

by Barrington J. Bayley

  The fog cleared a little as they neared the park. The source of the glow became visible, spreading to the edge of visibility. A broad front of hissing, smoking lava was advancing on the dome, already lapping around the parked vehicles.

  Castaneda had warned that there would be modest vulcanism in some areas, as increased pressure and temperature on the plate edges caused rock melt to percolate upwards to the surface. He had promised that it would cease once sufficient water had been vented.

  Evidently, this was one of the affected areas.

  “Karl,” Bouche said worriedly, “where’s the communicator?”

  “Back in the cell,” Krabbe said. “I dropped it. Don’t worry, O’Rourke will find us.”

  The Gaminte was heading straight for the lava. He stopped at an odd-looking craft which lacked wheels but stood on bent legs like some huge insect. Attached by struts above the passenger compartment was a large curved structure made of very thin metal. More than anything, it resembled a parachute.

  “This one,” the Gaminte gasped, still coughing. “Hurry. Mount.”

  Krabbe held back. “How the hell is that thing going to walk on lava?”

  “We’d better do as he says,” Boris muttered.

  The Gaminte was already clambering aboard. They followed his example, levering themselves over the side.

  The coal-black Gaminte, without waiting for them to make themselves comfortable, seated himself at the controls and pulled a lever.

  The result was startling. The vehicle leaped high into the air, taking the Earthmen by surprise and sending them tumbling to the floor of the car.

  The Gaminte knew what he was doing. He manipulated other levers which altered the angle of the parachute structure over their heads. The vehicle entered a controlled glide.

  Peering below them, Krabbe and Bouche could see no end to the lava field glowing through the drifting fog. It was, more correctly, a lava swamp. There were patches of solid ground here and there, the yellow sand seeming to be turning black.

  It was towards one of these that the Gaminte was taking them. The machine alighted with the grace of a gull. Its feet seemed to touch the sand for but a moment. The legs bent, bracing themselves, then sprang straight. The leaping parachute machine hurtled froglike back into the air.

  “I’ll be damned,” Krabbe murmured, his eyes dreamy. It was fascinating to see how expertly the dehydrate guided the seemingly clumsy contraption in such difficult circumstances. It was a surprisingly effective way of progressing, if one did not mind the discomfort.

  The Gaminte selected a second island in the creeping lava, landed and took off again. He was taking them further from the hydrorium.

  But by now he was suffering badly. His coughing increased to a paroxysm, and his hands fell from the controls.

  Briefly he seemed to go into convulsions. He fell from his seat. Then he was still.

  Krabbe let go an exclamation of shock. “He’s died of water poisoning! Boris! We’re going into the lava! Do something!”

  Cursing savagely, Bouche scrambled into the pilot’s seat.

  The machine was descending swiftly. He had watched how the Gaminte used the control levers. He experimented, and somehow managed to level out the glide. The machine jolted down. Two legs went into the bubbling melt and two on to sand which immediately crumbled. The vehicle tilted alarmingly.

  “Take us up, Boris! We’re sinking!”

  Bouche yanked on the trigger lever. Again the machine leaped into the air and began its delayed descent. Desperately looking for another landing place, Bouche worked the levers. He thought he was getting the hang of it now. He hit sand, went off again, and now could see the edge of the swamp.

  His last landing was most inexpert. The leaping parachute vehicle hit off-balance and toppled over on its side, only yards from the lava flow. They crawled out and looked about them.

  A warm wind had sprung up from the direction of the still-forming sea. For a brief spell it swept away the dense fog and they found themselves able to gaze down at the bay where the wrecked hydrorium slumped like a ship that had run aground. The Tlixix, maddened with joy, were trying to sail the boats they had dragged out of the dome.

  But they knew nothing about how to manage such craft, which lacked motors and were wind-driven, other than to run sails up the masts. Also, the swirling surface of the bay was unstable. The heat currents that ran through it produced unpredictable boiling areas. As Krabbe and Bouche watched, one of the boats turned over, tipping its crew into the scalding sea. The death hoots of the Tlixix reached the ears of the observing Earthmen.

  “Sweet Krishna!” breathed Bouche, unconsciously revealing the religion practised by the orphanage where he had been raised. “Just look at it! Boiled lobster!”

  Then the fog cut the view off. Krabbe was wondering what to do next when he noticed a shadowy shape moving above the swamp in the murk, heading for the slumped dome. He yelled and waved his arms about over his head. It was a lighter from the Enterprise.

  Alarmed at the break in communications, O’Rourke had sent a rescue party.

  Northrop, not having eaten for five days—though he had been given plenty of water—had gone beyond the stage of hunger. But he was feeling weak, and was barely able to stand.

  So when the quakes came, he was not at his best. There were countless casualties when the caverns fell in. He had tried to warn the Artaxa that their revolt had come too late.

  The shock tubes had been set off. The Great Hydration was beginning.

  Perhaps it was his enfeebled state, which the Artaxa were unable to understand, that caused them to ignore his advice. They had been rejoicing when the disaster struck, performing a mass tribal dance. Radio messages had brought thrilling news of the assaults on the hydroriums. Northrop was not taken seriously until those same radio reports began telling of water appearing on the desert floor.

  Even then his urgings to evacuate were not heeded. It was when the caves began filling with scalding, steaming water, not his weak voice, that prompted the exodus. Still he was able to explain that they should leave the bed of the old ocean and make for what had been the continental part of Tenacity. He had no idea whether they could survive there, but there was nothing else they could do.

  “May all Tlixix die!” Karvass had exclaimed. “No matter if we are to perish as long as we take them with us!”

  An understandable sentiment, but Northrop did not see how it could be accomplished.

  He was rewarded by being placed in one of the sandboats, whereas thousands of Artaxa and Sawune would have to seek salvation on foot. A lengthy convoy set off for the southern fringe of the old sea bed.

  It did not get there. First there came fog, then rain. Finally there appeared an advancing line of sandy sludge.

  The convoy could have outrun it for the time being, but by now the dehydrates were dying. The rain was like acid on their naked skin. The fog was like mustard gas in their lungs. The column ground to a halt. The dehydrates, humanoid and lizard, went into convulsions and expired.

  Northrop heaved the bodies out of his own vehicle, retrieved a radio rig from another, and continued. But it was not long before the craft bogged down in increasingly damp sand, and would move no further. He would have to walk.

  Soon this whole area would be under water. Northrop was making for a clump of hills which would take longer to be submerged, and they were now no more than a kilometer or two away. It was late evening. The usually blazing Tenacity sun created colourful displays on newly formed clouds—which must have been dazzling to any natives still in a mood to behold anything. Cursing the universal tendency for primitive technology always to be too big and too heavy, Northrop dragged the radiator behind him in the sand, now changed from a brilliant sulfur colour to a drab ochre. A canteen of water dangled from his neck. He did not know how he had found the strength to put one foot in front of another, let alone drag the Analane radio too, but the will to survive could work wonders. Not that his prospect of su
rvival was very good.

  The sun was still visible when he forced himself up the first hill he came to and set up the radiator. It was simple to operate. He had only to close the switch that completed the circuit to the antenna, and speak into the microphone consisting of a flat plate built into the cabinet.

  “Northrop calling the Enterprise. Northrop calling the Enterprise. I’m in the southern reach of the sea bed. Can you get a fix on me?”

  The radiator’s ground level range was limited. He was banking on the signal reaching the gogetter ship, no matter how attenuated. Project monitoring included an all-frequency watch—it was one way of detecting what was happening geologically. By now it would be realized that the long-wave, amplitude-modulated analogue signals coming from several sources were artificial. Log procedure would be demodulating and translating those signals.

  But would anyone bother to listen to the translations? They had nothing to do with the project. The person on log watch was probably some young girl, the latest recruit to the staff. Would she hear his voice?

  It would take a minor miracle.

  He carried on speaking into the microphone until his voice was hoarse. Occasionally he switched the apparatus to receive, but all he heard was a faint and distant Artaxa voice bewailing its owners’ fate.

  The small sun’s last rays disappeared. Would it still be freezing cold at night? The cloud cover wasn’t thick yet.

  He took a last swig from his canteen, then lay down and fell into a stupor.

  Maybe dying of exposure wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.

  Stepping thankfully into the lighter’s cabin, the partners settled themselves into the passenger seats. The door closed. O’Rourke’s voice came from orbit.

  “Are you all right, Sirs?”

  “Yes, we’re all right,” Krabbe told him impatiently. “Good work, O’Rourke. Might as well bring us up. We’ll watch the rest of the show from the ship.”

  In a flat, casual voice O’Rourke spoke again. “There’s been radio traffic on the planet recently, sir. Analogue, amplitude modulated—very primitive stuff. It seems the dehydrate rebels are using it. A few minutes ago the log watch girl heard a voice she recognised. It’s Northrop.”

  He left the last words hanging, as if waiting.

  “Got his coordinates?” Krabbe enquired.

  “Yes, sir,” O’Rourke replied, with a resigned sigh.

  “Okay, we’ll pick him up on the way, if he hasn’t drowned.”

  He gestured to the pilot. “Move.”

  The lighter rose into the air. On the view screen, the fog-shrouded scene fell away below.

  A whistling noise awoke Northrop. Half-frozen, he opened his eyes. His heart leaped when he recognised the outline of the lighter against the stars, hanging over the hillside.

  A searchlight shone down. The pilot had spotted him. The lighter came nearer and swung itself level with the hilltop. The door opened to expose a lighted interior.

  A sour baritone voice emerged. “Step inside, Roncie.”

  It was Boris Bouche!

  To enter the lighter and find that he had been rescued by the partners themselves gave Roncie an unaccustomed feeling of gratitude—even an unwelcome one. But they ignored his effusive thanks. In fact, they pretty much ignored him altogether. He relaxed in the seat they offered him, enjoying the warmth, experiencing a renewed stirring of hunger, which he took as a healthy sign.

  The lighter soared into the blackness of space and sped towards the Enterprise. Then, on the approach, the pilot let out an explosive exclamation of startlement.

  They all leaned towards the viewscreen. An angular shape was jockeying into position ahead of them.

  The partners’ jaws dropped.

  A Stellar Commission pursuit ship was in the sky.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Investigations Room aboard the pursuit ship Invicta was a forbidding place. The walls were panelled in dark brown wainscoting that seemed to press in on the quite small enclosure.

  Across a teak table Commissioner Amundsen faced a bleary-eyed Karl Krabbe and Boris Bouche, the latter wearing his typical lopsided smirk. Ranged alongside the pair were planetologist John Spencer (Carlos Castaneda had been Krabbe’s first choice, but he was seriously ill and comatose), lawyer Harold Shelley, Joanita Serstos (though why the partners had included her in their team mystified Northrop), and Roncie Reaul Northrop himself, whose presence had been demanded by the Commission. Krabbe had raised his eyebrows on hearing this, but had made no comment. Northrop guessed, or rather hoped, that it had something to do with his attempted bond renunciation.

  He felt much better now that he had fed and rested. Two officials Amundsen had not bothered to introduce flanked the Commissioner on either side, each with a stack of files in front of him. Two armed guards stood against the wall. The Enterprise, too, lay under the Invicta’s guns. If the gogetter ship tried to depart it would be replaced to junk.

  Also, the Enterprise’s entire data files had been downloaded into the Stellar Commission ship. The Commission knew everything that had been going on.

  Commissioner Amundsen, a purse-lipped man with pale blue eyes, radiated a steely absence of sympathy. His face was like a parchment on which was recorded the worry-lines of a bureaucratic life: battle-scars for which, one suspected, he sought revenge on anyone who crossed his path.

  He cleared his throat and spoke dryly. “This is an investigation. It is not yet a trial. Facts will be established. Arguments may be presented. Wherever possible parties involved will be given the opportunity to present evidence.”

  He touched a key on a small panel before him. On the wall to Northrop’s left, wainscoting slid aside.

  A large split screen was revealed. They were looking into two other rooms elsewhere aboard the Invicta. In one, suitably asperged, were two hoary Tlixix. In the other there squatted two Artaxa.

  “The specimens you see will represent the interests on the planet below,” the Commissioner went on. “We cannot, of course, arrange for all the species described as dehydrate to be present. The two individuals here were submitted by the tribe most opposed to the species claiming to be rulers of the planet.”

  Shelley coughed nervously, and spoke.

  “Before we proceed, my principals have a right to know how the Commission was apprised of the location of the Enterprise. Did this information come from anyone on the staff of Krabbe & Bouche, Partners? I cite Clause Fifteen of the statutes of Bonded Service. An act of disloyalty by a bondperson constitutes a felony. The Commission has a duty to disclose such felony if it has occurred.”

  Krabbe waved a hand. “Leave it, Shelley. I can’t believe any of our people would do that.”

  Joanita Serstos started in her seat and squealed. She was staring at Northrop.

  “So that’s what you were doing in the communications room!” she declared.

  Northrop’s heart fell. He looked back at her with feigned incomprehension.

  She turned to the partners. “It was just as the survey team was going down. I caught Northrop coming out of the communications shack, where he had no right to be. He could have been sending a message!”

  “That’s no proof of anything,” Krabbe protested mildly, a frown on his big face.

  In a stony voice the Commissioner replied to Shelley. “I can confirm that the Enterprise transmitted details of its location while in this system, by anonymous voice. Voice analysis keyed out to one Roncie Reaul Northrop, awarded a doctorate in nuclear engineering by the University of Chicago.”

  Amundsen paused, then added scathingly, “His subsequent career appears to have been undistinguished. Just the sort of drifter to end up with a gogetter firm.”

  Krabbe looked stunned.

  Joanita changed her tack. She looked piteously at Northrop. “Oh, Roncie, why didn’t you tell me?” she wailed. “We could have escaped from this dreadful life together!”

  She clasped her hands imploringly and appealed to the Commissio
ner. “Can I talk to you in private, sir? It’s Krabbe and Bouche who are the real villains!”

  Amundsen responded to the outburst with a patronising smile, his first sign of human feeling. He harrumphed and muttered an aside to one of his officials.

  “I’ll make a note of that.”

  Thanks a lot, Joanita, Roncie thought. He turned away from the glare of malice which Boris Bouche was directing at the two of them. The woman would obviously do anything to extract herself from an awkward situation, even if it meant betraying her sworn employers.

  Amundsen resumed.

  “Three indictments have been filed to date. First, the firm registered as Krabbe & Bouche, Partners, has engaged in commercial treaties with alien governments while subject to revocation of licence. Second, the firm registered as Krabbe & Bouche, Partners, has engaged in geological interference of the planet designated Tenacity, to the detriment of its inhabitants, in defiance of Clause Four of the Statute of Alien Treaties. Third, the firm registered as Krabbe & Bouche, Partners, has incurred costs to the state in respect of the state’s obligation to remedy such criminal acts.”

  He paused again to allow this statement to sink in.

  Shelley, battling bravely, once more spoke up.

  “Commissioner, the firm of Krabbe & Bouche, Partners, strenuously denies all these charges. In the first place, the firm of Krabbe & Bouche, Partners, immediately appealed against the revocation of its licence, and not having been informed of any outcome of such appeal, does not consider the revocation to be in force. Secondly—”

  Shelley was following the strategy that any argument is better than none, however flimsy. Amundsen was having none of it. He shot Shelley a threatening glance.

  “I have not yet finished.”

  “Sorry sir,” Shelley muttered.

  Amundsen went on, “Hereunder are appended the persons answerable for these charges.

  “Karl Henry Krabbe, resident upon the star vessel Enterprise.

  “Boris Oliver Bouche, resident upon the star vessel Enterprise.