Hal Clement: Heavy Planet

“That depends somewhat on the type of wave, and where we were. On the open sea, we would ride over it without trouble; beached as the Bree now is, there would have been nothing left. I did not realize just how high waves could get this close to the Rim, of course — now that I think of it, maybe even the biggest would be relatively harmless, because of its lack of weight.”

“I’m afraid it’s not the weight that counts most; your first impression was probably right.”

“I had some such idea in mind when I sheltered behind that point for the winter, of course. I admit I did not have any idea of the actual size the waves could reach here at the Rim. It is not too surprising that explorers tend to disappear with some frequency in these latitudes.”

“This is by no means the worst, either. You have that second point, which is rather mountainous if I recall the photos correctly, protecting this whole screcch.”

“Second point? I did not know about that. Do you mean that what I can see beyond the peninsula there is merely another bay?”

“That’s right. I forgot you usually stayed in sight of land. You coasted along to this point from the west, then, didn’t you?”

“Yes. These seas are almost completely unknown. This particular shore line extends about three thousand miles in a generally westerly direction, as you probably know — I’m just beginning to appreciate what looking at things from above can do for you — and then gradually bends south. It’s not too regular; there’s one place where you go east again for a couple of thousand miles, but I suppose the actual straight-line distance that would bring you opposite my home port is about sixteen thousand miles to the south — a good deal farther coasting, of course. Then about twelve hundred miles across open sea to the west would bring me home. The waters about there are very well known, of course, and any sailor can cross them without more than the usual risks of the sea.” While they had been talking, the tank had crawled away from the sea, toward the monstrous hulk that lay stranded by the recent storm. Lackland, of course, wanted to examine it in detail, since he had so far seen practically none of Mesklin’s animal life; Barlennan, too, was willing. He had seen many of the monsters that thronged the seas he had traveled all his life, but he was not sure of this one. Its shape was not too surprising for either of them. It might have been an unusually streamlined whale or a remarkably stout sea snake; the Earthman was reminded of the Zeuglodon that had haunted the seas of his own world thirty million years before. However, nothing that had ever lived on Earth and left fossils for men to study had approached the size of this thing. For six hundred feet it lay along the still sandy soil; in life its body had apparently been cylindrical, and over eighty feet in diameter. Now, deprived of the support of the liquid in which it had lived, it bore some resemblance to a wax model that had been left too long in the hot sun. Though its flesh was presumably only about half as dense as that of Earthly life, its tonnage was still something to stagger Lackland when he tried to estimate it; and the three-times-Earth-normal gravity had done its share. “Just what do you do when you meet something like this at sea?” he asked Barlennan. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” the Mesklinite replied dryly. “I have seen things like this before, but only rarely. They usually stay in the deeper, permanent seas; I have seen one once only on the surface, and about four cast up as is this one. I do not know what they eat, but apparently they find it far below the surface. I have never heard of a ship’s being attacked by one.”

“You probably wouldn’t,” Lackland replied pointedly. “I find it hard to imagine any survivors in such a case. If this thing feeds like some of the whales on my own world, it would inhale one of your ships and probably fail to notice it. Let’s have a look at its mouth and find out.” He started the tank once more, and drove it along to what appeared to be the head end of the vast body. The thing had a mouth, and a skull of sorts, but the latter was badly crushed by its own weight. There was enough left, however, to permit the correction of Lackland’s guess concerning its eating habits; with those teeth, it could only be carnivorous. At first the man did not recognize them as teeth; only the fact that they were located in a peculiar place for ribs finally led him to the truth. “You’d be safe enough, Barl,” he said at last. “That thing wouldn’t dream of attacking you. One of your ships would not be worth the effort, as far as its appetite is concerned — I doubt that it would notice anything less than a hundred times the Bree ’s size.”

“There must be a lot of meat swimming around in the deeper seas,” replied the Mesklinite thoughtfully. “I don’t see that it’s doing anyone much good, though.”

“True enough. Say, what did you mean a little while ago by that remark about permanent seas? What other kind do you have?”

“I referred to the areas which are still ocean just before the winter storms begin,” was the reply. “The ocean level is at its highest in early spring, at the end of the storms, which have filled the ocean beds during the winter. All the rest of the year they shrink again. Here at the Rim, where shore lines are so steep, it doesn’t make much difference; but up where weight is decent the shore line may move anywhere from two hundred to two thousand miles between spring and fall.” Lackland emitted a low whistle. “In other words,” he said, half to himself, “your oceans evaporate steadily for over four of my years, precipitating frozen methane on the north polar cap, and then get it all back in the five months or so that the northern hemisphere spends going from its spring to autumn. If I was ever surprised at those storms, that ends it.” He returned to more immediate matters. “Barl, I’m going to get out of this tin box. I’ve been wanting samples of the tissue of Mesklin’s animal life ever since we found it existed, and I couldn’t very well take a paring from you. Will the flesh of this thing be very badly changed in the length of time it has probably been dead? I suppose you’d have some idea.”

“It should still be perfectly edible for us, though from what you have said you could never digest it. Meat usually becomes poisonous after a few hundred days unless it is dried or otherwise preserved, and during all that time its taste gradually changes. I’ll sample a bit of this, if you’d like.” Without waiting for an answer and without even a guilty glance around to make sure that none of his crew had wandered in this direction, Barlennan launched himself from the roof of the tank toward the vast bulk beside it. He misjudged badly, sailing entirely over the huge body, and for just an instant felt a twinge of normal panic; but he was in full control of himself before he landed on the farther side. He leaped back again, judging his distance better this time, and waited while Lackland opened the door of his vehicle and emerged. There was no air lock on the tank; the man was still wearing pressure armor, and had simply permitted Mesklin’s atmosphere to enter after closing his helmet. A faint swirl of white crystals followed him out — ice and carbon dioxide, frozen out of the Earth-type air inside as it cooled to Mesklin’s bitter temperature. Barlennan had no sense of smell, but he felt a burning sensation in his breathing pores as a faint whiff of oxygen reached him, and jumped hastily backward. Lackland guessed correctly at the cause of his action and apologized profusely for not giving proper warning. “It is nothing,” the captain replied. “I should have foreseen it — I got the same sensation once before when you left the Hill where you live, and you certainly told me often enough how the oxygen you breathe differs from our hydrogen — you remember, when I was learning your language.”