Complete short fiction, p.215
Complete Short Fiction, page 215
“You know that human beings breathe oxygen much as you do hydrogen, though being so much larger we need a more complicated pumping system to get it through our bodies. Because of the details of that system, we suffocate if deprived of gaseous, free oxygen within a certain rather narrow range of pressures.
“About three quarters of Earth is covered by water. We cannot breathe under water without artificial equipment, but the use of such equipment is a common human sport. It consists essentially of a tank of compressed air and a valve system which releases the air to our breathing system as needed—simple and obvious.
“Six of our years ago, when Benj was eleven years old, he made such a device, designing it himself with my assistance. He made the pressure tank and regulator, using ordinary fabricating equipment such as may be found in most home workshops, just as he had made more complex things such as small gas turbines. He tested the parts with my help; they worked perfectly. He calculated how long the air in the tank would last him, and then tested the whole assembly under water. I went along as a matter of common-sense safety, using a commercial diving device.
“I am sure you know the principles of hydrostatics and the gas laws—at least, Easy has given me words for them in your language. You can see that at a certain depth, a lungful of air would have only half its volume at the surface. Benj knew this, too, but reasoned that it would still be a lungful as far as oxygen content was concerned, so that a one-hour tank would be a one-hour tank regardless of depth, as long as tank pressure was above that of the water.
“To make a long story short, it didn’t. He ran out of air in less than a third of the calculated time, and I had to make an emergency rescue. Because of the quick pressure change and some human peculiarities which you don’t seem to share, he was very nearly killed. The trouble turned out to be that the human breathing action is controlled, not by oxygen supply in our blood, but by that of carbon dioxide—one of the waste products. To maintain a normal equilibrium of that, we have to run normal volumes of air through our lungs, regardless of oxygen content or total pressure; hence, an hour’s air supply at normal pressure is only half an hour thirty-three feet under water, a third of an hour at sixty-six, and so on.
“I don’t want to insult anyone’s intelligence by asking if he understands my point, but I’d like some comment from you on that story.”
The answers were interesting, both in nature and arrival time. Barlennan’s popped from the speaker with very little more than light-travel delay; Dondragmer’s was much, much later, and did not overlap with his commander’s.
“It is obvious that incomplete knowledge can lead to mistakes,” said Barlennan, “but I don’t see why that is especially applicable to the present case. We know that our knowledge can’t be complete, and that our work here is dangerous for that reason. We have always known it. Why emphasize the point now? I’d much rather hear your report on the cruiser you say is in trouble. You make me suspect that you are leading up gently to the information that I have lost another cruiser because of something its designing engineers didn’t know. Don’t worry—I won’t blame you for that. None of us could foresee everything.”
Ib smiled at the revelation of another human characteristic.
“That’s not just what I had in mind, Commander, though there are valid aspects to what you have just said. I’d like to wait for Dondragmer’s answer before I say any more, though.”
It was another full minute—a slightly strained one—before the voice of the Kwembly‘s captain arrived.
“The face value of your account is plain enough so that you would probably have been briefer had that been all you meant. I suspect that your key point is not so much that your son got into trouble through ignorance, but that he did so even under your adult, experienced supervision. I would take the implication to be that even though you aliens do not claim omniscience or omnipotence, and that we are in a certain amount of danger here no matter how closely you supervise and assist us, we are adding unnecessarily to our danger any time we act on our own—like the student chemist who experiments on his own.” Dondragmer had spent much more time at the College than had his commander.
“Just what I meant,” said Ib. “Just a moment,” interrupted Easy. “Hadn’t you better relay Don’s remark to Barlennan first?”
“Right.” Her husband gave a one-sentence summary of the captain’s speech, and went on:
“Something has occurred to me; it may help—forestall, let’s say—some trouble for you. I know one thing you badly need is a more rapid method of transportation on Dhrawn, and I know you have used a balloon on Mesklin. It might occur to you to try using a balloon, plus an energy pack to drive it, for transport on Dhrawn—a device of the sort humans once used on Earth, called a dirigible. It’s a rather natural development of the balloon.
“Many of them were built on Earth—and they almost invariably came to a disastrous end. A structure light enough to float in air cannot be sturdy enough to resist the powerful forces of storm winds—even in Earth’s mild climate. A free balloon does not resist the wind, and can survive by running as the winds will.
“In Dhrawn’s complex ammonia-water-oxygen-whatnot atmosphere, meteorologists say that storm fronts of immense violence, and extreme sharpness, can arise in a matter of a fraction of a minute.
“Desirable as air-borne transportation would appear to be—on Dhrawn I would suggest you’d better not try it. An atmosphere capable of the sudden violence Dhrawn can manifest, with 40 gravities to drive it, is not suitable for lighter-than-air craft. The helicopters, because they are small, and have high strength-to-area ratios, with fusion powered engines and are stressed for 250 gravity loadings, can survive with a Mesklinite pilot.
“But they cannot be made large, or they, too, would be torn apart in a Dhrawn-type storm.
“The chances are, Bari, that a good number of problems in exploring Dhrawn and maintaining a settlement there, can be eased greatly by a complete and full exchange of information.
“That won’t eliminate all problems—but it can reduce fatalities.”
“I can’t force any policy on you, and would prefer not to even if I could. I don’t expect you to make a complete confession of everything that’s gone on Dhrawn since you first built the Settlement. In fact, I’d advise strongly against it; I have enough complications up here with the administration as it is. However, if Easy just happened to get an occasional talk with her old friends Destigmet and Kabremm, just as an example, I would have a better idea of what has gone on and be in a better position to keep things running smoothly at this end. I don’t expect a spot decision on any matter of major policy change, Commander, but please think it over.”
Barlennan, however, was a sea captain by training and trade, and accustomed to the need for quick decisions. Furthermore, circumstances had already been forcing thoughts along these same lines to circulate in his tiny head. Finally, his only really basic policy was closely connected with his own survival and that of his crew. He answered Ib promptly.
“Easy may get her talk with Destigmet, but not right away; the Esket is a long distance from here. I will also have to wait to tell you all that I’d like to, because I must first hear from you the details of the trouble you mentioned when you first called. You said that another of my cruisers was in trouble.
“Please tell me just what has happened, so I can plan what help to request from you.”
Ib and Easy Hoffman grinned in mingled relief and triumph.
But it was Benj who made the key remark. This was later on, in the aerology lab, when they were recounting to him and McDevitt all that had been said. The boy looked up at the huge globes of Dhrawn, and the tiny area where the lights indicated partial knowledge.
“I suppose you think he’s a lot safer now, down there.”
It was a sobering thought.
1972
Planetfall
I
A conservation service vessel is quite fast and maneuverable as craft of that general type go. But there was little likelihood that this one would catch up with its present target. Its pilot knew that. He had known it since the first flicker of current in his detectors had warned him of the poacher’s presence. But with the calm determination so characteristic of his race, he made the small course-correction which he hoped would bring him through the target area at action speed.
The correction had to be small. Had the disturbance been far from his present line of flight, he would never have detected it, for his instruments covered only a narrow cone of space ahead of him. Too many pilots in the old days, with full-sphere coverage, had been unable to resist the temptation of trying to loop back to investigate disturbances whose source-areas they had already passed.
At one-third the speed of light, such a reversal of course would have wasted both energy and time. No one could make a reversal in any reasonable period, and, certainly, no poacher or other law-breaker was going to wait for the maneuver to be completed.
Even as it was, this pilot’s principal hope lay in the possibility that the other vessel would be too preoccupied with its task of looting to detect and react to his approach in time. Detection was only possible if, like his own ship, the poacher carried but a single operator. Unfortunately, a freighter was quite likely to have at least two, even on a perfectly legal flight, and the Conservation pilot had known of cases where poaching machines had had crews as large as four.
Even the presence of two would render his approach almost certainly useless, since the loading and separating machinery would require only one manipulator, and the full attention of any others could be freed for lookout duty. Nevertheless, he bored on in, analyzing and planning as he traveled.
The poacher was big—as big as any he had ever viewed. It must have had a net load capacity of something like a half billion tons—enough to clean the concentrates off a fair-sized planet, particularly if it also boasted adequate stripping and refining apparatus. There was no way of making certain about this last factor, for no such equipment was drawing power as yet. And that, in a way, was peculiar, for the poacher must have been in his present position for some time.
Had the driving energies of the poacher been in use, the Conservation ship would have detected them long before, and would have experienced less difficulty in making the necessary course-change. With a scant five light-years in which to make the turn, the acceleration needed for the task was rather annoying. Not that it caused the pilot any actual physical discomfort. It was purely an emotional matter. His economy-conditioned mind was appalled by the waste of energy involved.
Four light-years lay behind him when the poacher reacted outrageously. For the barest instant the attacker dared to hope that he might still get within range. Then it became evident that the giant freighter had seen him long before, and had planned its maneuver with perfect knowledge of his limitations.
It began to accelerate almost toward him, at any angle which would bring it safely past. It would sweep past just out of extreme range if he kept on his present course—and probably well beyond trustworthy shooting distance, if he tried to intercept it. For an instant, the, agent was tempted. But before a single relay had clicked in his own small craft he remembered what the poacher must already have known—that the planet, which had perhaps already been robbed, came first.
It must be checked for damage, even though it was uninhabited as far as anyone knew. The mere fact that the poacher had stopped there meant that it must have something worth taking. It must, therefore, be tied as soon as possible into the production network whose completeness and perfection was the only barrier between the agent’s race and galaxy-wide starvation.
He held his course, therefore, and broadcast a general warning as he went. He gave the thief’s specifications, its course, as of the last possible observation, plus the fact that it seemed to be traveling empty. The absence of cargo was an encouraging sign. Perhaps no damage had been done to the world ahead. Unfortunately, it might also mean that the raider had a higher power-to-mass ratio than any freighter the agent had ever seen or heard of. He assumed that the ship was without cargo, and worded his warning accordingly.
His temper was not improved by an incident which occurred just before the giant vessel passed beyond detection range. A beam, quite evidently transmitted from the fleeing mass of metal, struck his antenna, and the phrase—“Now, don’t you just hope they’ll get us!”—came clearly along the instrument.
Again, relays almost closed on the Conservation flier, but the agent contented himself with repeating his warning broadcast and adding to it the data which had inevitably come along with the poacher’s taunt—data concerning the personal voice of the speaker. Then he turned his attention to the problem of the planet ahead.
He would need more energy, of course. The interstellar speed of his craft had to be reduced to the general velocity of the stars in this part of the galaxy, for he could not make the survey that would be needed, merely by viewing the planet as he flashed by. He could, of course, get a pretty good idea of the metals that were present through such flash-technique, but he needed information as to their distribution. If he were lucky—if the poacher had actually failed to load up—there would almost certainly be concentrates worth recording and reporting to Conservation.
The sun involved was obvious enough, since it was the only one within several light years. The agent thought fleetingly of the loneliness, even terror, which would descend upon the average ground-gripper in close proximity to the nearly empty space at the galaxy’s rim, and timed and directed his deceleration to bring him to rest some twenty-four diameters from the sun’s photosphere.
The poacher had begun to travel long before he drew close enough to detect individual planets, and he was faced with the problem of discovering just which planet or planetoid had been visited. There were certainly enough to choose among and he was reasonably sure he had detected them all as he approached.
The possibility that he had been moving directly toward one for the whole time, and had, as a result, failed to observe any apparent motion for it, was too remote to cause him concern, particularly since it turned out that he had been well away from the general orbital plane of the system. He had the planets, then. But which ones were important?
Since he would have to check them all anyway, he didn’t worry too much about selection. After using up the energy and time needed to stop in this forlorn speck of a planetary system, it would be senseless to leave anything unexamined. Why, he reasoned, should anyone else have to come back later to do what he had left undone? Still, he thought, it would be pleasant to determine quickly what the poacher had accomplished, if anything.
The innermost planet was definitely not the plundered victim. It had plenty of free iron, of course, and the agent noted with satisfaction that the metal was not concentrated at its core. If it ever became necessary to seek iron so far out in the galaxy, stripping it from so small a world would be relatively easy.
However, the important metals seemed to be dissolved and distributed with annoying uniformity through the tiny globe—a fact which was hardly surprising. The planet was too small, and its temperature was too high to permit either water or ammonia to exist in liquid form. The ordinary geological processes which produced ore deposits simply could not function here.
The second world was more hopeful—in fact, it seemed ideal on first survey. There was water, though not in abundance. Nevertheless, in the billions of years since the planet had formed a certain amount of hydrothermal activity had gone on in its crust, and a number of very good copper, silver, and lead concentrations appeared to exist. The agent decided to land and map these, after he had completed his preliminary survey of the system. If this were the world the poachers had been sweeping, they had evidently failed to get much. Venus might be the plundered planet.
It proved not to be, however. Earth’s water is not confined to its lithosphere—it covers three-quarters of the planetary surface. It washes mountains into the seas, freezes at the poles and, at high elevations, even at the equator. It finds its way down into the rocks and joins other water molecules which have been there since the crust solidified. It picks up ions, carries them a little way, and trades them for others.
In short, Earth contains enough water to produce geological phenomena. The agent saw this almost in his first glance. He wasted a brief look at the encircling dry satellite, then he turned all of his attention on the primary planet itself. He even began to ease his ship outward from the orbit it had taken up, twenty million miles from Sol.
This, he decided, must be the world of the poacher’s selection. Even without analysis, anyone with the rudiments of a geological education would know that there must be metal concentrations here—and a civilization that uses half a trillion tons of copper a year can be expected to have at least a few trained geologists.
The agent pointed the nose of his little cruiser at the tiny disc, shining brightly eighty million miles away. He drove straight toward it, combing its surface as he went with the highest-resolution equipment he could bring to bear. All over the surface, and for a mile below, those radiations probed and returned with their information. The agent swore luridly as the indicators told their tragic story.
There had been concentrations, all right. There were still a few. But someone had been scraping busily at the best of them, and had left little that was economically worth recovering. It was the old story. If good deposits and poor ones were worked at the same time, the profit was of course smaller. But at least the deposits lasted longer.
An eternity had passed since any legal operator of the agent’s race had worked the other way, stripping the cream for a quick profit and letting the others go. Such a practice would have crippled the industry of the agent’s home planet millions of years before, had it not been checked sternly by the formation of the Conservation Board.
