Kate Wilhelm - The Killer Thing

But the conference would take years, decades even before that happened. The WG government knew how to prolong conferences that went badly. Trace measured out the water and touched it to his lips and tongue, and then with shaking hands tilted the plastic cup and finished it. He had to have more; his tongue was thick, his lips cracking deeper and deeper. The anti-fever capsules were helping, but he was dehydrating anyway. He took another measure of the water and sat down on the floor with it, this time deliberating over it, making each mouthful last a long time before he swallowed it. He should eat, and knew he couldn’t, not yet. He had never ached so much in his life as he did then, each muscle on fire, his skin sore, flayed by sand, raw; his eyes burned and felt gritty and his whole body was crusted over with grime, sweat, and sand.

He had to get up and go out, he had to find the dinghy, had to fortify the valley. He could not move then. He finished the water and licked the drops from the inside of the plastic. He would rest a little while and then go out. He had to rest first. Painfully he leaned back against the storage unit, the metal feeling cool to his hot face, and he let his eyes close again.

Later the shrieks of the wind caused him to stir, but there was no comprehension on his face, no awareness in his eyes and he simply hauled himself to the seat-bed and collapsed. Still later, when all was quiet again, he got up and drank, sparingly, remembering that he had to conserve the water, not questioning why. He slept through the morning wind storm.

He awakened hungry. For a long moment the thought of the wasted day nagged him, but he shrugged it away. He had needed the rest more than anything else. His body was still sore, but without the intensity of the day before, and he could use his arm now. A spreading discoloration covered his entire shoulder, but the scrape was healing over, as were the various cuts and scratches that seemed to be all over him. He was a healthy animal; his body had needed time and had taken it, and now he was nearly as well as ever. There was no more fever that morning. Exertion probably would bring it back again; it would be even worse the next time, but he had a day or several days of grace before then, several days in which to do the things he had to do.

He ate a tube of fruit mixture, and after it a high-protein compound that was labelled ‘Meat’. It tasted mellow, and had a tendency to line his tongue and mouth, but it left him feeling stronger, ready to start the day’s work. It was too hot to go out yet; it didn’t matter, there were things to do inside the dinghy ― his suit to be repaired, a map to be made so he wouldn’t get lost again and have to run the gauntlet of flying debris. He had to set up his warning system, just in case the robot managed to get to him before he expected it. He felt a start of surprise that two of his six days were already gone. He could expect three more full days, and company on the fourth. He had less than two quarts of water left.

He could leave as soon as the wind died down the next morning, find a piece of shade somewhere for the three hours of midday, and resume his search when the shadows started to form. He considered the plan and accepted it reluctantly.

He didn’t like travelling far from the dinghy… What if the fever returned? What if the robot arrived while he was gone? He knew he was groping for excuses, and he forced himself to stop. He would walk for three hours, rest in the shade for three more, search again and return to the valley before the evening winds made it impossible. That decided, he knew he would not go beyond the valley until the next morning; he would keep this afternoon free to explore it, examine the various entrances to it, and see if plugging them would be possible. If they were all as well concealed as the chimney the dinghy was in, he had nothing to worry about; the robot would not be able to get to him directly, but would have to burn down the walls of the cliffs themselves.

Suddenly he cursed himself for a fool. He could take the dinghy out for the search, cover the entire area in one day, using the radiation detector. Excitement buoyed him. He would find the other dinghy tomorrow. He couldn’t miss it in so limited an area. Once he had the trail of radiation to follow, it would lead him directly to the place where the shield concealed the other lifeboat. Then he would have water, fuel, oxygen.

He would refuel his own dinghy, take the water and oxygen, destroy the other dinghy. He laughed in relief at the simplicity of his plan and its infallibility. A map first, then he would go out, start the hunt that afternoon, perhaps even complete the search before evening.

The automatic camera had been on when he hovered over the valley looking for the area where he first had seen the robot; he took the photographs out and spread them flat, joining them to each other to make a composite picture of an area of twenty-five square miles. If only he had mapped it on landing. There had seemed to be no need then; he had known the relief ship would map the entire planet as a matter of routine. He studied the area he had to cover, put the copier on it and awaited for the composite photograph to emerge. If only he had brought weapons…

Analysis shows no water, no life of any type…

Okay, dump the armaments and take extra water from the other dinghies, might as well be comfortable down there.

Sure, Trace… This one’s hit, no water… Three extra bags, that’s about it…

The ship shuddered violently as more of the controls went out, and Trace pulled the final switch, cutting off the engines completely. Only the lights from the dinghy were there; the patrol ship was ghostly in the pale light coming from the little craft.

Let’s get out.

Aye, aye, Trace. About time…

Look, Dunc! There it goes! The robot’s dinghy.

A shooting star, a fire trail, streaking downward out of control towards the planet…

Good thing. We’ll have plenty of time to hunt for the slag. Let’s go.

Trace shook himself free of the voices and the vivid recall. The photograph was finished. He marked his position in the centre of it, and began drawing lines, his search pattern. When he was done, he grunted with satisfaction: he would cover the entire area in two trips, one this afternoon, one in the morning. By noon the following day he would have the other dinghy, or at least be able to go directly to it. There would be the problem of the shield, but he would think about that after he located it.

He thought about his figures; the fuel ratio for travelling close to the surface of the planet compared to returning to orbit was on the order of one to three, which meant that the fuel that would have taken him back the two hundred and fifty miles to the orbiting ship, would on the planet take him seven hundred and fifty miles; of that distance he had already gone four hundred and thirty-six miles, actually slightly more than that. He had enough fuel left to fly no more than three hundred miles. The rings he had drawn around his camp site were one and a half miles apart. There was a total of two hundred and fifty miles to be covered. With luck he could hope to come across the radiation trail early before reaching the outer rings, but he might not. After finding the trail there would be the fuel used in backtracking it to the landing area of the other dinghy, another ten miles more or less…

He eased the dinghy out of the chimney; the sun was still high and there were few shadows on the ground as yet ― only a darkening on one side of the rocks with bases that looked slightly out of proportion to the rising masses. He climbed to only twenty feet over the topmost peak of the surrounding cliffs, and he went due north to start his first lap, one and a half miles from his hideaway. The slower his speed, the less efficient his motors were, but that couldn’t be helped; he had to travel slowly enough to study the land below him.