Hal Clement - Close to Critical

The argument was still going on, to a certain extent, when the journey started. Nick was beginning to feel a certain sympathy for Swift by that tune; he had discovered that at times it was necessary for a group to have a leader, and that it was not always possible for the leader to reason his followers into the desired action. Nick had had to give his first arbitrary orders, and was troubled by the thought that half his friends must by now be comparing him with Swift. The fact that he had been obeyed should have clarified him on this point, but it didn’t.

The cart was perilously overloaded, and everyone except those actually herding had to pull with all his strength. When fighting was necessary, hauling had to be stopped while weapons were snatched up and used. Actually, of course, there wasn’t too much fighting; the average Tenebran carnivore wasn’t very brainy, but most of them steered clear of such a large group. The chief exception was formed by the floaters, which were more vegetable than animal anyway. These creatures could be downed fairly safely by anyone having a spear longer than their tentacles; but even after their gas bladders were punctured they were dangerous to anyone coming within reach of the poisonous appendages. Several animals of the herd were lost when one of the monsters fell almost into it, and two of the party were painfully poisoned on the same occasion. It was some hours before they could walk unaided.

Contrary to Nick’s pessimistic forecast, it proved possible to get the wagon all the way to the sea. Late in the second day of travel they reached it, after some hours of threading their way among ever larger pools of quiet, oily liquid.

They had seen such pools before, of course; they formed in hollows in their own valley toward the end of the day—hollows which were lakes of water at sunrise, but only tiny pools of oleum when the day reached its height. These were larger, filling a much bigger fraction of their beds.

The ground was different, too; vegetation was as thick as ever, but underfoot among the stems the ground was studded with quartz crystals. The cattle didn’t seem to mind, but the feet of their owners were not quite so tough, and progress became decidedly difficult. Such masses of crystals did occur elsewhere, but usually in isolated patches which could be avoided.

The search for a stopping place was therefore briefer, and perhaps less careful, than it might otherwise have been. They agreed very quickly on a peninsula whose main body was a hill thirty or forty feet above the sea, joined to the mainland by a crystal-studded tombolo a dozen yards in width. Nick was not the only one of the party who was still considering the problem of physical defense; and in addition to its advantages in this respect, the peninsula was roomy enough for the herd. They guided and trundled their belongings down the sea and up the hill, and immediately settled down to the standard business of hunting for firewood. This was plentiful enough, and by dark a very satisfactory supply had been laid in.

The watch fires were built, one of the herd animals slaughtered and eaten, and the group settled down for the night. It was not until the drops had appeared and the fires had been lighted that anyone thought to wonder what happened to the sea level during the nightly rain.

Aminadabarlee fell silent, his eyes fixed on the vision screen; and, nasty as the creature had been, Raeker felt sympathetic. He himself would have been at least as unsociable under similar circumstances. There was no time for pity, however, while there was still hope; too much had to be done.

“Wellenbach! What’s the combination of the bathyscaphe?” he snapped.

The communication watch officer reached over his shoulder. “I’ll get her for you, Doctor.”

Raeker pushed his hand aside. “Wait a minute. Is it a regular set at the other end? An ordinary phone, I mean, or something jury-rigged into the panels?”

“Perfectly ordinary. Why?”

“Because if it weren’t and you punched its combination, those kids might open their air lock or something like that in trying to answer. If it’s standard in design and appearance, the girl will be able to answer safely.”

“I see. She won’t have any trouble; I’ve seen her use the punch-combination sets here.”

“All right. Call them.” Raeker tried not to show the uncertainty he felt as the officer punched the buttons. It was not possible to tell yet just what had happened above Tenebra’s atmosphere; something had evidently breached the air lock of the tender, but that might or might not have affected the bathyscaphe. If it had, the children were probably dead—though their guide might have had them in space suits, of course. One could hope.

Behind him, Aminadabarlee might have been a giant statue of an otter, cast in oiled gray steel. Raeker spent no time wondering at his own fate if bad news came back through the set and that statue returned to life; all his attention was concentrated on the fate of the youngsters. A dozen different speculations chased themselves through his mind in the few seconds before the screen lighted up. Then it did, and the worst of them vanished.

A human face was looking at them out of it; thin, very pale, topped by a mop of hair which looked black on the screen but which Raeker knew was red; a face covered by an expression which suggested terror just barely held under control, but—a living face. That was the important fact.

At almost the same instant a figure came hurtling through the door of the communications room and skidded to a halt beside the motionless figure of the Drommian.

“Easy! Are you all right?” Raeker didn’t need the words to identify Councillor Rich. Neither did Aminadabarlee, and neither did the child in the screen. After the two-second pause for return contact, the terror vanished from the thin face, and she relaxed visibly…

“Yes, Dad. I was pretty scared for a minute, but it’s all right now. Are you coming?”

For a moment there was some confusion at the set as Rich, Raeker, and the Drommian all tried to speak at once; then Aminadabarlee’s physical superiority made itself felt, and he thrust his sleek head at the screen.

“Where is the other one—my son?” he shrilled.

She replied promptly, “He’s here; he’s all right.”

“Let me talk to him.” The girl left the pickup area for a moment, and they heard her voice but not her words as she addressed someone else. Then she reappeared, with her dark hair badly disheveled and a bleeding scratch on one cheek.

“He’s in a corner, and doesn’t want to come out. I’ll turn up the volume so you can talk to him there.” She made no reference to her injury, and, to Raeker’s surprise, neither did her father. Aminadabarlee seemed not to notice it. He shifted into his own shrill language, which seemed to make sense to no one else in the room but Rich, and held forth for several minutes, pausing now and then for answers.

At first he received none; then, as he grew more’persuasive, a feeble piping came back through the set. Hearing this restored the Drommian’s composure, and he talked more slowly; and after a minute or so of this Aminadorneldo’s head appeared beside Easy’s. Raeker wondered whether he looked ashamed of himself; Drom-mian facial expressions were a closed book to him. Apparently one of the family had a conscience, anyway, for after a few moments’ more talk from the elder one the child turned to Easy and shifted to English.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Miss Rich. I was afraid, and thought you’d made the noise, and were trying to make me come out of the corner. My father says you are older than I, and that I am to do whatever you say until I am with him again.”