We Have Fed Our Sea Read online

  "I've got the data pretty well computed," said Maclaren.

  Ryerson and Nakamura waited. There had been curiously little exultation when the planet finally revealed itself. I, thought Ryerson, have become a plodder. Nothing is quite real out here—there is only a succession of motions, in my body and my brain—but I can celebrate no victory, because there is none, until the final and sole victory: Tamara.

  But I wonder why Terangi and Seiichi didn't cheer?

  Maclaren ruffled through his papers. "It has a smaller mass and radius than Earth," he said, "but a considerably higher density suggesting it's mostly nickel-iron. No satellite, of course. And, even though the surface gravity is a bit more than Earth's, no atmosphere. Seems to be bare rock down there or metal, I imagine. Solid, anyhow."

  "How large was it once?" murmured Nakamura.

  Maclaren shrugged. "That would be pure guesswork," he said. "I don't know which planet of the original system this is. One or two of the survivors may have crashed on the primary by now, you see. My personal guess, though, is that it was the 61 Cygni C type—more massive than Jupiter, though of less bulk because of core degeneracy. It had an extremely big orbit. Even so, the supernova boiled away all its hydrogen and prob­ably some of the heavier elements, too. But that took time, and the planet still had this much mass left when the star decayed into a white dwarf. Of course, with the pressure of the outer layers removed, the core reverted to normal density, which must have been a pretty spectacular catastrophe in itself. Since then, the residual stellar gases have been making the planet spiral slowly inward, for hundreds of megayears. And now—"

  "Now we found it," said Ryerson. "With three weeks' food supply to spare."

  "And the germanium still to get," said Maclaren.

  Nakamura drew a breath. His eyes went to the deck "be­neath" his feet. Far aft was a storage compartment which had been left open to the bitterness of space; and a dead man, lashed to a stanchion.

  "Had there been four of us," he said, "we would have con­sumed our supplies already and be starving. I am most hum­bly grateful to Engineer Sverdlov."

  Maclaren's tone was dry. "He didn't die for that reason."

  "No. But has he given us less merely because it was an accident?"

  THEY floated a while in stillness. Then Maclaren shook himself and said: "We're wasting time. This ship was never intended to land on a planet. Since I've already informed you any world we found might very likely use vacuum for sky, and you didn't object, I assume the aircraft can make a land­ing."

  Nakamura crossed his legs and rested impassively, hands

  folded on his lap. "How familiar are you with the standard exploratory technique?" he inquired.

  "Not very," confessed Maclaren. "I gather that aircraft are preferred for reasons of mass economy."

  "And even more for maneuverability. A nuclear-powered vessel, using wings and turbojets, can rise high into an atmo­sphere, above the worst air resistance, without having to ex­pend the reaction mass of a rocket. Likewise it can land more easily and safely in the first place. The aircraft which we carry, dismantled, are intended to leave their orbiting mother ship with a short rocket burst, slip into the atmosphere of a new planet, and descend. The return is more difficult, of course, but they get into the stratosphere before applying the non-ionic rocket drive. This in turn takes them into space proper, where their ion accelerators will work. Naturally, the cabins being sealed, any kind of atmosphere will serve them.

  "Now, this is for exploration purposes. But these auxiliary craft are also capable of landing on rockets alone. When the time has come to establish a beam-relay station, some airless lifeless satellite is chosen, to avoid the necessity of quarantine. The craft shuttle back and forth, carrying the ship's disman­tled transceiver. This is reassembled on the surface. Thereby the satellite's own mass becomes available to the matterbank, and any amount of material can be reconstructed according to the signals from the home station. The first things sent through are usually the parts for a much larger transceiver station, which can handle many tons of mass at a time."

  "Well, good," said Maclaren. "That was more or less what I thought. Let's land and—oh, oh."

  Ryerson felt a smile tugging his lips, though it was not a happy one. "You see?" he murmured.

  Maclaren regarded him closely. "You don't seem too discour­aged," he said. "There must be an answer."

  Ryerson nodded. "I've already spoken with Seiichi about it, while you were busy determining the exact characteristics of the planet. It's not going to be fun, but—Well, let him tell you."

  Maclaren said slowly: "I had hoped, it was at least possible, that any planet we found would have a surviving satellite, small enough to land the whole ship on, or lay alongside, if you want to consider it that way. It would have been the best thing for us. But I'm sure now that this lump has no companion of any kind. So we'll have to get our germanium down there."

  "Which we could also have done, had we been fortunate enough to locate the planet sooner," Nakamura told him. "We can take aircraft down to the surface even now. But we would have to transship all the mining and separating equipment, establish a working space and an airdome—It is too much work for three men to do before our three weeks of supplies are eaten up, and then the actual mining would still remain."

  Maclaren nodded. "I should have thought of this myself," he said. "I wonder how sane and sensible we are—how can we measure rationality, when we are all the human race we know for tens of light-years? Well. So I didn't think and you didn't talk. Nevertheless, I gather there's a way out of our dilemma."

  "Yes," said the pilot. "A riskful way, but any other is certain death. We can take the ship down, and use her for our ready-made workshop and airdome."

  "The Cross? But . . . well, of course the gravitation here is no problem to her, nor the magnetism now that the drive is shielded—but we can't make a tail landing. We'd crumple the web, and . . . hell's clanging bells, she can't land at all! She's not designed for it! Not maneuverable enough, why, it takes half an hour just to swing her clear around on gyros."

  Nakamura said calmly, "I have made calculations for some time now, preparing for this eventuality. There was nothing we could do before knowing what we would actually find, but I do have some plans drawn up. We have six knocked-down auxiliary craft. Yes? It will not take long to assemble their non-ionic rocket drives, which are very simple devices, clamp these to the outside hull, and run their control systems through the ship's console. I think if we all work hard we can have it assembled, tested, and functioning in two or three days. Each pair of rockets should be so mounted as to form a couple which will rotate the ship around one of the three orthogonal space axes. No? Thus the spaceship will become most highly respon­sive to piloting. Furthermore, we shall cut up the aircraft hulls, as well as whatever else we may need and can spare for this purpose, such as interior fittings. From this, we shall construct a tripod enclosing and protecting the stern assem­bly. It will be clumsy and unbalanced, of course—but I trust my poor maneuverings can compensate for that—and it will be comparatively weak—but with the help of radar and our pow­erful ion-blast, the ship can be landed very gently."

  "Hm-m-m." Maclaren rubbed his chin. His eyes flickered between the other two faces. "It shouldn't be hard to fix those rocket motors in place, as you say. But a tripod more than a hundred meters long, for a thing as massive as this ship—I don't know. If nothing else, how about the servos for it?"

  "Please." Nakamura waved his words aside. "I realize we have not time to do this properly. My plan does not envision anything with self-adjusting legs. A simple, rigid structure must suffice. We can use the radar to select a nearly level landing place."

  "All places are, down there," said Maclaren. "That iron was boiling once, and nothing has weathered it since. Of course, there are doubtless minor irregularities, which would topple us on our tripod—with a thousand tons of mass to hit the ground!"

  Nakamura's eyes drooped. "
It will be necessary for me to react quickly," he said. "That is the risk we take."

  WHEN the ship was prepared, they met once on the obser­vation deck, to put on their spacesuits. The hull might be cracked in landing. Maclaren and Ryerson would be down at the engine controls, Nakamura in the pilot's turret, strapped into acceleration harness with only their hands left free.

  Nakamura's gaze sought Maclaren's. "We may not meet again," he said.

  "Possible," said Maclaren.

  The small, compact body held steady, but Nakamura's face thawed. He had suddenly, after all the time which was gone, taken on an expression; and it was gentle.

  "Since this may be my last chance," he said, "I would like to thank you."

  "Whatever for?"

  "I am not afraid any more."

  "Don't thank me," said Maclaren, embarrassed. "Something like that, a chap does for himself, y' know."

  "You earned me the time for it, at least." Nakamura made a weightless bow. "Sensei, give me your blessing."

  Maclaren said, with a degree of bewilderment: "Look here, everybody else has had more skill, contributed more, than I. I've told you a few things about the star and the planet, but you—Dave, at least—could have figured it out with slightly more difficulty. I'd never have known how to reconstruct a drive or a web, though; and I'd never be able to land this ship."

  "I was not speaking of material survival," said Nakamura. A smile played over his mouth. "Still, do you remember how disorganized and noisy we were at first, and how we have grown so quiet since and work together so well? It is your doing. The highest interhuman art is to make it possible for others to use their arts." Then, seriously: "The next stage of achievement, though, lies within a man. You have taught me. Knowingly or not, Terangi-san, you have taught me. I would give much to be sure you will . . . have the chance . . . to teach yourself."

  Ryerson appeared from the lockers. "Here they are," he said. "Tin suits all around."

  Maclaren donned his armor and went aft. I wonder how much Seiichi knows. Does he know that I've stopped making a fuss about things, that I didn't exult when we found this planet, not from stoicism but merely because I have been afraid to hope?

  I wouldn't even know what to hope for. All this struggle, just to get back to Earth and resume having fun? No, that's too grotesque.

  "We should have issued the day's chow before going down," said Ryerson. "Might not be in any shape to eat it at the other end."

  "Who's got an appetite under present circumstances?" said Maclaren. "So postponing dinner is one way of stretching out the rations a few more hours."

  "Seventeen days' worth, now."

  "We can keep going, foodless, for a while longer."

  "We'll have to," said Ryerson. He wet his lips. "We won't mine our metal, and gasify it, and separate out the fractional per cent of germanium, and make those transistors, and tune the circuits, in any seventeen days."

  Maclaren grimaced. "Starvation, or the canned willy we've been afflicted with. Frankly, I don't think there's much differ­ence."

  Hastily, he grinned at Ryerson, so the boy would know it for a jest. Grumbling was not allowed any more; they didn't dare. And the positive side of conversation, the dreaming aloud of "when we get home," had long since worn thin. Dinner-table conversation had been a ritual they needed for a while, but in a sense they had outgrown it. Now a man was driven into his own soul. And that's what Seiichi meant, thought Maclaren. Only, I haven't found anything in myself Or, no. I have. But I don't know what. It's too dark to see.

  He strapped himself in and began checking instruments.

  "Pilot to engine room. Read off!"

  "Engine room to pilot. Plus voltage clear. Minus voltage clear. Mercury flow standard—"

  The ship came to life.

  And she moved down. Her blast slowed her in orbit, she spiraled, a featureless planet of black steel called her to itself. The path was cautious. There must be allowance for rotation; there must not be too quick a change of velocity, lest the pon­derous sphere go wobbling out of control. Again and again the auxiliary motors blasted, spinning her, guiding her. The ion-drive was not loud, but the rockets roared on the hull like hammers.

  And down. And down.

  Only afterward, reconstructing confused memories, did Maclaren know what had happened; and he was never alto­gether sure. The Cross backed onto an iron plain. Her tripod touched, on one foot, on two. The surface was not quite level. She began to topple. Nakamura lifted her with a skill that blended main drive and auxiliaries into one smooth surge— such skill as only an utterly relaxed man could achieve, re­sponding to the immense shifting forces as a part thereof. He rose a few hundred meters, changed position relative to the ground, and tried again. The tripod struck on two points once more. The ship toppled again. The third leg went off a small bluff, no more than a congealed ripple in the iron. It hit ground hard enough to buckle.

  Nakamura raised ship barely in time. For an instant he poised in the sky on a single leg of flame, keeping his balance with snorts of rocket thrust. The bottom of the Cross' stern assembly was not many meters above ground.

  Suddenly he killed the ion drive. Even as the ship fell, he spun her clear around on the rotator jets. The Cross struck nose first. The pilot's turret smashed, the bow caved in, auto­matic bulkheads slammed shut to save the air that whistled out. That was a great mass, and it struck hard. The sphere was crushed flat for meters aft of the bow. With her drive and her unharmed transceiver web aimed at the sky, the ship rested like Columbus' egg.

  And the stars glittered down upon her.

  Afterward Maclaren wondered: Nakamura might well have decided days beforehand that he would probably never be able to land any other way. Or he might have considered that his rations would last two men an extra week. Or perhaps, simply, he found his dark bride.

  THE planet spun quickly about its axis, once in less than ten hours. There went never a day across its iron plains, but hunger and the stars counted time. There was no wind, no rain, no sea, but a man's radio hissed with the thin dry talk of the stars.

  When he stood at the pit's edge and looked upward, Mac­laren saw the sky sharp and black and of an absolute cold. It had a somehow three-dimensional effect; theory said all those crowding suns, blue-white or frosty gold or pale heartless red, were alike at optical infinity, but the mind sensed remoteness beyond remoteness, and whimpered. Nor was the ground un­derfoot a comfort, for it was almost as dark, starlit vision reached a few meters and was gulped down. A chopped-off Milky Way and a rising constellation—the one Maclaren had privately named Risus, the Sneer—told him that a horizon existed, but his animal instincts did not believe it.

  He sighed, slapped a glare filter across his faceplate, and began cutting. The atomic hydrogen torch was lurid enough to look upon, but it jostled the stars out of his eyes. He cut rap­idly, ten-kilo slabs which he kicked down into the pit so they wouldn't fuse tight again. The hole itself had originally been

  blasted, but the Cross didn't carry enough explosive for him to mine all his ore that way.

  Ore, he reflected, was a joke. How would two men on foot prospect a sterilized world sealed into vacuum a hundred mil­lion years ago? And there would have been little point in it. This planet had boiled once, at least on the surface; and even the metallic core had been heated and churned, quite probably to melting, when crushed atoms expanded to normal dimen­sions. The entire globe must be nearly uniform, a one alloy lump. You took any piece, crushed it, gasified it, ionized it, put it through the electromagnetic isotope separator, and drew forth as much—or, rather, as minutely little—germanium as any other piece would have given you. From the known rate of extraction by such methods you could calculate when you would have four kilograms. The date lay weeks away.

  Maclaren finished cutting, shut off his torch and hung it on its generator, and climbed into the bucket of the crane at the pit's edge. His flash-beam threw puddles of light on its walls as he was lowered. At the bottom he
moved painfully about, loaded the bucket, and rode back to the surface. A small elec­tric truck waited, he spilled the bucket into its box. And then it was to do again, and still again, until he had a full load.

  Thank God and her dead designers, the Cross was well equipped for work on airless surfaces, she carried machines to dig and build and transport. But, of course, she had to. It was her main purpose, to establish a new transceiver station on a new moon; everything else could then come straight from the Solar System.

  It had been her purpose.

  It still was.

  Maclaren climbed wearily onto the truck seat. He and his spacesuit had a fourth again their Earth-weight here. His headlights picked out a line of paint leading toward the ship. It had been necessary to blast the pit some distance away, for fear of what ground vibrations might do to the web or the isotope separator. But then a trail had to be blazed, for nature had given no landmarks for guide, this ground was as bare as a skull.

  Existence was like lead in Maclaren's bones.

  After a while he made out the Cross, a flattened sphere crowned with a skeleton and the Orion nebula. It was no fun having everything upside down within her; a whole day had gone merely to reinstall the essential items. Well, Seiichi, you did what seemed best, and your broken body lies honored with Chang Sverdlov's, on the wide plains of iron.

  Floodlights glared under the ship. Ryerson was just finish­ing the previous load, reducing stone to pebbles and thence to dust. Good timing. Maclaren halted his truck and climbed down. Ryerson turned toward him. The undiffused glow reached through his faceplate and picked a sunken, bearded face out of night, little more than nose and cheekbone and bristling jaw. In his unhuman armor, beneath that cavernous sky, he might have been a troll. Or I might, thought Maclaren. Humanity is far from us. We have stopped bathing, shaving, dressing, cooking . . . pretending; we work till our brains go blank, and then work some more, and crawl up the ladder into the ship for a few hours' uneasy sleep, and are awakened by the clock, and fool our shriveled bellies with a liter of tea, and put a lump of food in our mouths and go out. For our time has grown thin.