by Anthology
“We can hook on a binder, too, later on. Do you notice those blooms it doesn’t touch? Those are unripe. Just wait till it comes to an over-ripe one and see what it does.”
He yelled in triumph a moment later when a bloom was torn out and dropped on the spot.
He stopped the machine, “You see? In a month, perhaps, we can actually start putting it to work in the fields.”
George Carter gazed sourly upon his twin, “Take more ’n a month, I rackon. It’ll take foraver, more likely.”
“What do you mean, forever. It just has to be sped up—”
“I don’t care if ’t just has t’ be painted pairple.’Tisn’t going t’ appear on my fields.”
‘Tour fields?”
“Yup, mine,” was the cool response. “I’ve got veto pow’r here same as you have. Y’ can’t do anything ’thout my say-so—and y won’t get it f’r this. In fact, I want y’ t’ clear that thing out o’ here, altogether. Got no use f’r ’t.”
Allen dismounted and faced his brother, “You agreed to let me have this plot to experiment on, veto-free, and I’m holding you to that agreement”
“All right, then. But keep y’r domned machine out o’ the rest o’ the fields.”
The Earthman approached the other slowly. There was a dangerous look in his eyes. “Look, George, I don’t like your attitude—and I don’t like the way you’re using your veto power. I don’t know what you’re used to running on Ganymede, but you’re in the big time now, and there are a lot of provincial notions you’ll have to get out of your head.”
“Not unless I want to. And if y want t’ have ’t out with me, we’d batter go t’ y’r office. Spatting before the men ’d be bad for discipline.”
The trip back to Central was made in ominous silence. George whistled softly to himself while Allen folded his arms and stared with ostentatious indifference at the narrow, twisting plotway ahead. The silence persisted as they entered the Earthman’s office. Allen gestured shortly towards a chair and the Ganymedan took it without a word. He brought out his ever-present green-leaf cigar and waited for the other to speak.
Allen hunched forward upon the edge of his seat and leaned both elbows on his desk. He began with a rush.
“There’s lots to this situation, George, that’s a mystery to me. I don’t know why they brought up you on Ganymede and me on Earth, and I don’t know why they never let us know of each other, or made us co-managers now with veto-power over one another—but I do know that the situation is rapidly growing intolerable.
“This corporation needs modernization, and you know that. Yet you’ve been wielding that veto-power over every trifling advance I’ve tried to initiate. I don’t know just what your viewpoint is, but I’ve a suspicion that you think you’re still living on Ganymede. If you’re still in the sticks,—I’m warning you—get out of them fast. I’m from Earth, and this corporation is going to be run with Earth effciency and Earth organization. Do you understand?”
George puffed odorous tobacco at the ceiling before answering, but when he did, his eyes came down sharply, and there was a cutting edge to his voice.
“Airth, is it? Airth efficiency, no less? Well, All’n, I like ye. I can’t help it. Y’r so much like me, that disliking y would be like disliking myself, I rackon. I hate t’ say this, but y’r upbringing’s all wrong.”
His voice became sternly accusatory, “Y’r an Airthman. Well, look at y’ An Airthman s but half a man at best, and naturally y’ lean on machines. But d’ y’ suppose I want the corporation to be run by machines—just machines? What’re the men t’ do?”
“The men run the machines,” came the clipped, angry response.
The Ganymedan rose, and a fist slammed down on the desk, “The machines run the men, and y know it. Fairst, y’ use them; then y’ depend on them; and finally y’r slaves t’ them. Over on y’r pracious Airth, it was machines, machines, machines—and as a result, what are y? I’ll tell y’ Half a man!”
He drew himself up, “I still like y’ I like y’ well enough t’ wish y’d lived on Gannie with me. By Jupe ’n’ domn, ’twould have made a man o’ y’ ”
“Finished?” said Allen.
“Rackon so!”
“Then I’ll tell you something. There’s nothing wrong with you that a life time on a decent planet wouldn’t have fixed. As it is, however, you belong on Ganymede. I’d advise you to go back there.”
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. Were both getting a bit too excited, I rackon. Nothing’ll 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 flatfooted. 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 brothers 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, “Whats 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 f’r 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 freight-cars 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 expresson of distaste on his face. “You mean it bums 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 gots lots 0’ 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 sand-truck’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 sterterous 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. We’ve got t’ have air till then. Crawl 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.