Finally, came the electric words from Joe: "General announcement imminent!"
There was a brief pause, as Joe interrogated the personal imps to make sure everyone was listening, and then Shirley's voice, a little tense, warned: "This time around we're not going to fly by! Prepare for gees in fifteen minutes!"
"OK!" came Jinjur's voice. "Everybody who doesn't have a landing assignment get into your sleeping racks."
With alacrity, we moved to restore all the items drifting freely about the cabins, and to pack away the food trays. Arielle carefully wrapped a large sandwich in film and stuffed it into her pocket, no doubt to sustain her during the long moments of landing! I made sure the galley surfaces were clear, and followed her to the row of vertical sleeping racks. We strapped ourselves in snugly, and settled down for the long-awaited show on the viewscreens in the Sound-Bar doors. Through the imp, I can hear Shirley and Cinnamon, hanging in their stand-up harnesses, talking back and forth to each other as they prepare to land the ship. Jinjur and Carmen, strapped into their console seats, are talking quietly, surveying the weather map being transmitted down from Prometheus.
"There's a weather front approaching," says Carmen.
"That's nothing new on this planet," Shirley replies. "We're lucky we don't have to come down through cloud cover. Switch it through to the bottom left of my display, Cinnamon." I switched my viewscreen to the same map. The front is a large one, with nothing but thick clouds behind it stretching beyond the curve of the horizon. If we don't make a landing now, we won't be able to see the site again for many days.
"What time will that front get to the landing site, Joe?" says Shirley.
"About a half-hour after our scheduled landing," replies the computer.
"Good enough," says Shirley. "Down we go!"
The main engines are roaring into life, slowing the massive lander down, and letting it fall toward the approaching distant island. Someone groans as the unaccustomed tug of gravity begins.
"That was only a half gee," says Shirley. "We'll hit three gees before reentry. Got to get rid of those excess vees somehow."
As the heaviness pulls down on my body, I am grateful we won't have full Earth's gravity on this expedition! Although I know we will soon adjust to our increased weight, and indeed find it useful, the first reaction to it is always this dreary sensation of the slow drag one feels in dreams, when running becomes such an effort.
We are now approaching our chosen site on Zuni! As we come down closer and closer to the surface of the lagoon, we can see the waters begin to ripple outward from the force of our descending jets. Nels is trying to catch a glimpse of aquatic life, while I have my own viewscreen focussed on a view of the strange shoreline taken through one of the secondary monitor cameras outside the ship. Through the walls I can hear the flouwen crooning their pleasure at the sight on their viewscreen of the sliding seas beneath us. The variable and intense deceleration forces of landing have now been replaced with a constant and pleasant gravity force, and I readjust my body in its harness. As we hover here, balanced on our landing rockets, we can see the storm front we have been observing, moving slowly toward us. Shirley will now slide the Beagle sideways on its jets, over the water toward the beach, then onto the top of the . . .
My, what a peculiar noise!
We're falling!
I think I must still be in shock. I think we all are. I don't know how I look, but the faces around me are blank and empty as we slump here on the shore, heavy rain pelting down on us from thick gray clouds. In a split second, our lives have been totally changed—for we are vulnerable now—stranded—all those lost and frightening words—and, from being so careful to protect this world from us, and ourselves from this world, now we are exposed to it and must wrest survival from it, for as long as it takes.
Perhaps if I try to recall the events of the last—how long has it been? An hour? Two? It's unbelievable that I can't even determine that! Oh! It has just occurred to me, with a relief out of all proportion to its importance, that my recorder contains an accurate chronometer, and I see that it has been three hours and thirteen minutes since our disaster. I think it is vital that I keep as accurate and rational a record as I can. It may be helpful to us at some future time, and it will certainly help me to feel, in some small way, detached from my helplessness. And, in the course of an unpredictable future, my record may be important in establishing what actually caused the accident.
There had been a whistling roar, followed by a deafening explosion and the crash of the lander. All I remember is the intense noise, and the dizzy feeling of whirling and falling, helplessly, down and down, then a crushing blow from the wall of my bunk as the lander struck the water. When my vision cleared, the only thing lighting the close quarters of my bunk was an emergency light illuminating the latch for the door.
My viewscreen was dead, and so was my imp. It was still in its place, holding today's piece of lace around my collar, and its colorful lights were still shining, running on its internal batteries, but it was silent, as dead as the central computer, Joe. I stared at it for a second, sick with horror at my loss. I don't remember unbuckling my straps, but I suppose sheer instinct guided us all to free ourselves and make our frantic way down the corridor to the passway ladder that leads to the two docking ports.
One look down the passway to the engineering deck below showed there was no escape in that direction. Water was rushing in through the broken airlock windows and rising rapidly up the passway. The massive viewport in the nearby lounge was miraculously unbroken, but there was a line across the middle which indicated the division between water and air—and the line was rising rapidly up the window as air escaped and the lander continued to sink. We scrambled up the passway to the docking port on the top deck.
When I got there, I could see Shirley in the opened airlock, struggling with the latch to the outer door, while Cinnamon was still trying to get untangled from her copilot's harness. I knew instantly why Shirley was having problems with the airlock door. Having been designed for safety, it wouldn't open until the inner door was latched and secured. If we had to go through the complete airlock cycle each time, only a few people could make it out the exit before the lander sank. I went to the pilot's touchscreen. It was operating on emergency power and was obviously in an emergency backup mode, since the normal touchscreen display had been replaced by an archaic operating system prompt. Using the keyboard, I tried to raise Joe—there was no response. Dredging up seldom used commands from my own memory, I gained access to the airlock control subroutine, and programmed with frantic speed around the safety block. By now, most of the crew had made it to the top deck. The water was rising up the passway and was ankle deep on the sloping floor. I finished the changes, and hoping that I had not inserted a bug, restarted the program.
"I got it!" yelled Shirley. "It finally worked!" Although the door was now unlatched, she still had to struggle to force it open because of the water pressure outside.
The lights were now dimming as the salt water got to the emergency power supply—that was horrible, and I was becoming terrified! Richard moved forward into the airlock next to Shirley and I saw his shoulders bulge as he added his strength to hers, and the outer airlock door opened. Water came pouring in over the sill and we fell back, but Jinjur began shouting then. Even in my fear I could hear the anger she was putting into her commands, to make us move and obey. Richard and Shirley forced their way out through the hatch, and then clung to the outside, reaching arms back through to grab us in turn and tug us out into the water. Galvanized by Jinjur's furious yells, I stumbled forward with the others and was seized and pulled outward, somehow managing to move with a large bubble of air attempting to escape upward through the incoming water.
An awful sensation—the shock of being completely immersed! It has been forty years since I last swam—the water roared in my ears, and filled my mouth, and stung my eyes, and all I wanted to do was escape from it! I was not consciously swimming, but
was kicking frantically. It must have been only seconds before we were all bobbing on the surface, staring around at each other. The air smelled peculiar, and the water tasted odd—everything was as strange as if we'd just been born. I filled my lungs with the atmosphere, desperately thankful that it did not hurt to do so. I could hear Jinjur counting aloud, and her gasp of relief as she breathed, "Ten!"
Then Richard swore, and dove straight down into that alien water. Shirley said, "The flouwen!" and dove after him. I followed instantly—I was a strong swimmer when young, and the urgency of freeing the flouwen sped me down into the dark fluid. But then I could go no further, and I gave up, exhausted, to float to the surface again. Richard and Shirley were already there, gasping in the strange air, obviously filling their lungs preparatory to diving again. Jinjur started to bark an order, but cut it short. I think it was then that we began to realize something of the enormity of what had happened to us, and that if the air or water is deadly to us there is nothing we can do about it. I felt suddenly very small and alone, as I realized my imp was useless, and all communication with James had stopped. I grabbed at my pocket then, and realized with a surge of relief that my precious recorder was intact, firmly buttoned in, and waterproof.
"It's sinking! It just keeps going slowly down . . ." gasped Shirley. Grimly, Richard continued to pull air into his lungs.
Jinjur commande:; "No! I forbid you to go down again, Richard!" I'm sure we all felt the same sudden dismay. Richard is the strongest among us—if he couldn't get to the flouwen, who could? I saw in Jinjur's face that realization also, and aloud we began to think, to some purpose.
"All they need is an opening . . ."
"But the valve to the transfer tube is electronically controlled!"
"Break the porthole glass?"
Shirley pulled her Swiss Army Mech-All knife from its pouch on her belt, made an adjustment to it, and holding up the now pointed end with a sparkling tip, spoke fiercely. "A diamond scribe. Now if I can get down there!"
Silently, Richard put out his hand. With a sound like a sob, Shirley smacked her precious tool into his palm. "Scribe a big triangle, then punch one corner with the point." We watched in hope and dread as he sucked one last breath, tucked the scribe into a belt pouch and dove, deep and strong, out of sight.
The next minutes were awful. Shirley dove again and came back up exhausted. Arielle was splashing awkwardly, and Carmen was sobbing. I know I was holding my own breath, and trying to see beneath the surface, and diving down to see further, and babbling silent pleas, for what seemed like hours. Suddenly I saw a dark shape below me, rising rapidly and surrounded by blobs of color.
Shirley and I plunged to them. We grabbed Richard, who was dreadfully limp, and hauled him to the surface. His eyes were closed and he was a ghastly color. Together, supporting him between us, we all swam hard for the shore. The instant Nels felt the shelving land beneath his long legs he grabbed Richard about the middle, hauled him onto solid land, and began the rough but efficient resuscitation treatment. We all straggled dripping up the beach and watched anxiously as John bent over Richard, pumping air into the half-drowned body. The desperate minutes dragged on, and Nels took over the rhythmic contractions, as John worked grimly on Richard's head. My fear mounted until I was ready to scream, and then, suddenly, I heard two wonderful sounds—air whistling into Richard's lungs as his ribs lifted of their own accord, and, out in the lagoon, a joyful singing. I slumped, exhausted, onto the sand.
We sat there for some time, each of us trying to come to a comprehension of our situation. As Richard's breathing eased, his color improved, and finally his eyes opened and he sat up.
"I kicked in the glass," he said hoarsely. "The scribe worked, but the glass wouldn't give to pounding. So I grabbed the passway rungs on each side and kicked as hard as I could before passing out."
Obviously, the flouwen, once free, and back in their own element, were able to rescue their rescuer. Richards eyes wandered down to his fist, still spasmodically clenched. He opened it, and we stared at Shirley's Mech-All lying in his palm. Silently, he held it out to her. Was that little tool and my recorder all the technology we had left to us? After all the years of James' silent caring for every need, usually before we even noticed it, were we any longer capable of living on our own?
Jinjur stood up then, slowly and carefully drawing herself fully erect, almost visibly taking charge of herself and reasserting her command. Her heels moved together, disregarding the shifting sand, and her voice snapped briskly. "We're all here, and we're going to survive, blast it!" she said, reasserting her command. "Were any of you injured?"
In some surprise, we hastily surveyed ourselves, and found no physical mishaps beyond a few rising bruises. "Right! Then the first thing we'd better find is fresh water—we're going to have to take a chance on it, I'm afraid, because the salt in that ocean . . ." She broke off, coughing. I realized suddenly that my own throat was raw and sorely burning, and instantly I was horribly thirsty. Without a word I scrambled to my feet and hurried up the beach, hunting for one of the springs our landers had indicated were numerous in this location. Behind me I could hear the others, spread out among the rocks and various likely-looking hollows. Even at the time it seemed so strange—not to have water always available, to have to search for it so desperately, knowing that when I found it, not only was I unable to verify its purity, I hadn't even a container from which to drink!
David's cracked voice suddenly rasped "Here!", and I made my way to him at an eager trot. Clear water bubbled generously out of a little cleft in the rocks here, and ran off into the sand below. We gathered to hold our cupped palms under the flow, and drank avidly. It tasted wonderful! I sincerely hoped it was clean enough, and drank again and again. When that first fiery thirst was assuaged, I helped the others arrange a series of rocks with natural declivities in them to form a small basin. It filled quickly, and certainly looked clear and wholesome. In fact, it looked beautiful, and I sat down abruptly to look at it, and rest. Gradually the others did the same, and we encircled the little pool, weary and quiet. The rocks were heavy, and irregularly shaped—my palms tingled with the first abrasions they had known in years, handling something that was not carefully shaped for their grip. Nor was my imp tending to the soreness with instant attention and the proper medication.
The shock began to wear off, I suppose, and I was left with a feeling of such loneliness and despair as I had never known. The people around me seemed like strangers, as helpless as I was to do anything about our bleak desolation. I looked down at my imp, still entangled in the bit of lace, now motionless and stiff, and lacking the colorful laser lights that normally glittered from its extremities. My robotic companion was dead. Now, without James and the imps, without supplies, without even any means of obtaining supplies, we were as shipwrecked as any mariner has ever been. We were even denied the sight of our possible salvation, for shortly after we had crashed, the storm front had come through and a drifting mist of rain had started. Prometheus, overhead, was now hidden behind a thick pall of dark gray storm clouds. I huddled into misery within myself. I had nothing—could do nothing—and was helpless and frightened and weak and alone.
Suddenly, I felt a hand—Cinnamon's strong brown hand had closed over mine. It was startling—the warmth of another life, not so different from my own—gripped me. Instinctively I tightened my grip on her hand, and reached out to Nels, next to me. I grasped the limp hand on his knee, and he turned, as startled as I had been, to stare at me. Then he grinned, and reached out his other hand, to Shirley. The warm handclasp spread.
Jinjur had not observed this sudden, silly linking—she was sitting slumped, with her head resting on her propped hands—and I saw with sudden compassion how small she really is. She looked up, astonished, at the touch of the hands on either side of her. Then she straightened, smiled, and put out her own hands. The whole foolish group of us was joined, embarrassed, but more alive and hopeful than we had yet been.
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Marooned on Eden Page 8