Hal Clement - Space Lash

Of course, this may not be a significant fact, either.

“And just who was that?” The query came in the growl which seems to be a distinguishing property of sergeants, whether their linear dimensions be two meters or two hundred astronomical units. It received no immediate answer. “Well? Who was it? It came from just about where you should be, VA741. Was it you?”

“I–I guess so.”

“You guess so? A soldier lets out a yelp that can be heard halfway across the spiral, and he only guesses that he did it?”

“I did it, I–I…"

“You did. Never mind the guessing. Why did you do it? You know why we're here?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“You know what we're doing here?”

“ Yes, Sergeant.”

“In fact, up to now you've been helping to do it.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“And you know why we've been sweeping this stuff together.”

“Yes, Sergeant. To clear a path for…"

“Shut up. How much use will the path be if the Flickers find it before our boys have a chance to come through?”

“Not much, I suppose, Sergeant.”

“You suppose. Well, I suppose I should be glad it even occurred to you. Now that you've squealed like a stuck baby, how long do you suppose it will be before Flicker scouts are poking around this cloud?”

“I don't know, Sergeant.”

“I don't know either, but I'll be very surprised if we drift a hundredth of the way around the spiral. If it were possible to travel faster than radiation, they'd be spearing you before you cleared another cubic parsec.”

“They may show up anyway; we can't tell yet.”

“That, soldier — I use the term loosely — is the only reason you're not under formal charges right now. If we're spotted in the next little while — say, before the cloud you're sweeping up right now starts to radiate — I'll assume it wasn't your fault. But if we're found after that, when that squeal of yours has spread out a few hundred parsecs, you're in for it. What I ever did to be saddled with a…"

“But, Sergeant, I couldn't help it. Something bit me.”

“So something bit you. Let it bite! Since when…"

“But I really couldn't help it. It did something to my muscles, and I twitched so I thought someone might spot me anyway; but I relaxed and even damped out the spot with dope. I know how important it is not to make a disturbance. The sensation quit for a moment, but then it came back stronger than before, and before I could take another tranquilizer I cramped up tight all over. I couldn't help giving a little yelp…"

“Little? It was loud enough to — never mind. I hope you can produce whatever bit you; it may help in court. After all, I suppose anything which can interfere with even a sloppy soldier's self-control might be usable as a weapon. If we could breed more of 'em — that's an idea. See if you can catch it, without making too much noise.”

“I'm afraid I didn't think of that in time, Same. We'll never catch that one. The whole business was just reflex, and I'm very sorry, but I swatted it without thinking.”

In addition to their voice qualities, sergeants are sometimes known for a certain gift of rhetoric. This one, DA-6641, of the 44th Company, 6261st Field Engineering Battalion, Army of the Republic of Whilth, was no exception.

If he had not been careful to use only short radiation in his remarks, they would have been audible back in Whilth, in the spiral arm of the Milky Way next outward from Sol's. Even with the short waves, he might possibly have made an impression on the Holiad's instruments; but of course the Holiad was no longer there.

Long before he had really made himself clear about just what sort of poor excuse for a soldier the unfortunate VA741 was, both Elvin Toner and Dick Ledermann were dead of old age.

“It's not very comfortable footing, but at least you can't fall off.”

Even through the helmet phones, Silbert's voice carried an edge that Bresnahan felt sure was amused contempt. The younger man saw no point in trying to hide his fear; he was no veteran of space and knew that it would be silly to pretend otherwise.

“My mind admits that, but my stomach isn't so sure,” he replied. “It can't decide whether things will be better when I can't see so far, or whether I should just give up and take a running dive back there.”

His metal-clad arm gestured toward the station and its comfortable spin hanging half a mile away. Technically the wheel-shaped structure in its synchronous orbit was above the two men, but it took careful observing to decide which way was really “up.”

“You wouldn't make it,” Silbert replied. “If you had solid footing for a jump you might get that far, since twenty feet a second would take you away from here permanently. But speed and velocity are two different animals. I wouldn't trust even myself to make such a jump in the right direction — and I know the vectors better than you do by a long shot. Which way would you jump? Right at the station? Or ahead of it, or behind it? And which is ahead and which is behind? Do you know?”

“I know which is ahead, since I can see it move against the star back-ground, but I wouldn't know which way to jump. I think it should be ahead, since the rotation of this overgrown raindrop gives us less linear speed than the station's orbit; but I wouldn't know how far ahead,” Silbert said.

“Good for you.” Bresnahan noted what he hoped was approval in the spaceman's tone as well as in his words. “You're right as far as you committed yourself, and I wouldn't dare go any farther myself. In any case, jumping off this stuff is a losing game.”

“I can believe that. Just walking on it makes me feel as though I were usurping a Biblical prerogative.”

The computerman's arm waved again, this time at the surface underfoot, and he tried to stamp on it at the same moment. The latter gesture produced odd results. The material, which looked a little like clear jelly, gave under the boot but bulged upward all around it. The bulge moved outward very slowly in all directions, the star patterns reflected in the surface writhing as it passed. As the bulge's radius increased its height lessened, as with a ripple spreading on a pond. It might have been an ultra-slow motion picture of such a ripple, except that it did not travel far enough. It died out less than two yards from Bresnahan's foot, though it took well over a minute to get that far.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Walking on water was kind of a divine gift, wasn't it? Well, you can always remember we're not right on the water. There's the pressure film, even if you can't see it.”

“That's so. Well, let's get on to the lock. Being inside this thing can't be much worse than walking around on its surface, and I have a report to make up.” Silbert started walking again at this request, though the jelly-like response of the water to his footfalls made the resulting gait rather odd. He kept talking as he led the way.

“How come that friend of yours can't come down from the station and look things over for himself? Why should you have to give the dope to him secondhand? Can't he take weightlessness?”

“Better than I can, I suspect,” replied Bresnahan, “but he's not my friend. He's my boss, and pays the bills. Mine not to reason why, mine but to act or fry. He already knows as much as most people do about Raindrop, here. What more he expects to get from me I'm not sure. I just hope that what I can find to tell him makes him happy. I take it this is the lock.”

They had reached a disk of metal some thirty feet in diameter, projecting about two feet from the surface of the satellite. It continued below the surface for a distance which refraction made hard to estimate.