Stanislaw Lem - The Invincible

Horpach fell silent. He was in a bad mood, which usually made him quite talkative and liable to become almost confidential. This was fraught with danger, though, for he might cut short such brief periods of intimacy with some nasty remark.

“Let’s come to the point. We must act; we can’t wait. All right then. Place several photographic probes into orbit around the equator. Make sure the orbit will be circular and not too far out. Let’s say about forty miles.”

“But that would still be inside the ionosphere,” objected Rohan. “They’d burn up after a few times around the globe.”

“So what? Let them burn up! As long as they get in a lot of photos. I’d even suggest not going beyond thirty-five miles. They’ll probably burn up after the tenth orbit. But we can’t send them any higher than that and still get usuable shots. Do you have any idea what a rocket looks like seen from sixty miles altitude, even with the best tele-lens? The head of a pin would be as big as a huge mountain next to it. Start right away… Rohan!”

The navigator was halfway out of the door when he turned to see Horpach throw a paper on the table. It was the report with the results of the routine stereotype analysis.

“What is that supposed to mean? What kind of lunacy is that? Who made out that report?”

“The automatic analyzer. What’s the matter?” asked Rohan making an effort to suppress the anger that was slowly rising in him. Now he’s got to get on my back, he thought walking forward with deliberate slowness. “Read that! Here, you see!”

“Methane: four per cent,” Rohan read out loud. “Four per cent!” he exclaimed in a startled voice.

“Four per cent methane, that’s what it says here. And sixteen per cent oxygen. Do you realize what that means? An explosive mixture. Can you explain why the whole atmosphere didn’t explode when we landed with diborane as a propellant?”

“Incredible — I can’t understand it,” stammered Rohan. He hurried over to the control panel, pushed the button of the suction tube which would deliver a sample of the outside atmosphere. While Horpach paced the floor impatiently in ominous silence, Rohan intently observed the analyzers.

“Well, any change?”

“No, the same analysis as before: methane four per cent, oxygen sixteen per cent,” replied Rohan. Although he failed to understand this result, he experienced a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that the astrogator could not put the blame on him.

“Let me see that, will you,” urged Horpach. “Methane: four per cent. Damn it, you’re right. All right, then. Put the probes into orbit and then come over to the small lab. What do we have our experts for? Let them rack their brains a bit.”

Rohan took the elevator down, called two rocket experts to join him in the small briefing area, where he gave them the astrogator’s orders. Then he returned to the second storey. Here were the laboratories and cabins of the experts. He passed several narrow doors, each marked by a name plate bearing nothing but initials: Ch. I, Ch. Ph., Ch. T., Ch. B. The door of the small lab stood wide open. He could hear the monotonous voices of the experts. Now and then they were interrupted by the astrogator’s deep bass. Rohan stopped at the threshold. All the “chiefs” were assembled in this room: the engineers, biologists, physicists, physicians, and the technologists from the engine room. The astrogator sat at the farthest end next to the portable computer. Moderon, holding his swarthy hands folded in front of him, was speaking. “I’m no gas expert. In any event, we are not dealing here with ordinary methane. The energy of the chemical bonds is different, even if it is only a difference of one-hundredth. It will react with oxygen only in the presence of some catalytic agent, and then only with great difficulty.”

“Where does this methane come from?” inquired Horpach, twiddling his thumbs.

“Its carbon is of organic origin, of course. There is not much of it, but beyond any doubt — ”

“Are there any isotopes? How old are they? How old is this methane?”

“Anywhere from 2 to 15 million years.”

“You certainly left yourself a nice amount of leeway!”

“We only had half an hour. I can’t tell you any more than that.”

“Quastler! What’s the origin of this methane, what do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

Horpach’s glance made the round of his experts. He looked close to losing his temper; but suddenly he smiled.

“Gentlemen! After all, you are the experts. We have been working together for quite some time now. Let me have your opinion now, please. What do you suggest we should do, where shall we begin?”

No one was willing to answer, except for the biologist Joppe, one of the few who were not afraid of the astrogator. He gazed calmly at the commander: “This is not an ordinary planet of the class Subdelta 92. Otherwise the Condor would never have vanished. Since they also had experts on board, neither any better nor any worse than we have here, we can safely assume that their knowledge was insufficient to prevent the catastrophe. This leaves us with the only possible solution: We must continue to proceed with the third step routine and examine the mainland and the oceans of Regis III. To begin with, I’d suggest collecting some core samples for geological analysis. At the same time we should obtain various water specimens from the ocean. Anything else would be speculation, a luxury we cannot permit ourselves in our present situation.”

“Very well.” Horpach pressed his lips together into a thin line. “No problem getting core samples of the ground within the energy field. Dr. Norwik can take care of that task.” The chief geologist nodded his consent. “As far as the ocean is concerned — what’s the distance from here to the shore, Rohan?”

“About 120 miles,” answered the navigator. He was not in the least surprised that the commander was aware of his presence, although he could not possibly see him.

“That’s a bit too far. But anyhow, take as many people along as you think you’ll need. Fitzpatrick, one of the oceanographers, a few marine biologists, and six energo-robots from the reserve stock. Drive to the shore. Work only inside the protective energy screen. No joy rides on the ocean, no diving attempts. Be careful with the energo-robots, we don’t have any to spare. Got it? Well, you can go ahead then. Wait, one more thing: is the atmosphere suitable for breathing?”

The physicians consulted each other in a barely audible whisper.

“Essentially, yes,” Stormont answered finally. His voice did not sound very convincing.

“What do you mean, ‘essentially’? Is the air breathable or not?”

“The high percentage of methane will eventually have some effect on the men. As soon as their blood reaches saturation point, we can expect certain disturbances in the brain. They’ll become unconscious within one hour of exposure, or perhaps it’ll take several hours.”

“How about using a methane absorber?”

“Not practical. We would need too many — you’d have to change them constantly. Besides, the oxygen content of the air is too low. I’m in favor of taking along oxygen tanks.”

“How about you others? Do you agree?”

Witte and Eldjarn nodded their consent.

Horpach rose from his chair. “That’s it, then. Let’s get started. Rohan! What’s the matter with the probes?”

“They are ready for takeoff. May I put them into orbit before we leave on our expedition?”

“Yes.”

Rohan turned away and soon left the noise of the laboratory behind him. The sun was setting as he reached the control center. The serrated contours of a crater stood out starkly against the horizon, its peaks unnaturally clear against the red-rimmed violet and purple of the sun. The sky was more densely star-studded and seemed to loom more vastly in this part of the galaxy than elsewhere. The major constellations began to sink lower and lower toward the planet’s surface, soon merging with the dark shadows of the desert