Hal Clement - Iceworld

“We seem to be down, though I can’t guarantee it’s ground as we know it. It seems to be as low as we can get, though. There’s the door switch, in case you didn’t know. You’re on your own, unless you don’t mind my hanging around to watch. I suppose the boss will be here soon, too; he should have his machine in an orbit by this time.”

“Sure — stick around. I’ll be glad to have you. Maybe we’ll have to move the thing around, for all I can tell at the moment.” He had opened the door as he spoke, and watched with interest as the pressure gauge snapped up to a value about two thirds of Sarr normal. At the same instant, the temperature dial of the still hot titanium furnace began to rise spontaneously — apparently the greater atmospheric density was more than able to offset the slight amount of cooling that had taken place; the metal was actually burning. Ken hastily shut the door.

The temperature continued to rise a short distance, while the light intensity in the cargo compartment of the torpedo held at a value that would have been intense even to eyes accustomed to Sarr’s fervent sun. The most interesting information, however, came from the pressure gauge; and it was on this that Ken kept his attention glued.

For perhaps twenty seconds the reaction continued unabated; then it began to die out, and in ten more the temperature began once more to drop. The reason was evident; pressure had dropped to less than two percent of its former value. There was literally nothing left to carry on the reaction.

Ken emitted the booming drone from his sound-diaphragm that was the Sarrian equivalent of a whistle of surprise.

“I knew molten titanium would react to completion in our atmosphere, but I didn’t think it would possibly do it here. I guess I was wrong — I was rather expecting a mixture of compounds, whose heats of formation would prevent any such reaction. Still, I suppose at this planet’s temperature, they wouldn’t have to be very stable from our point of view. .” his voice trailed off.

“Means nothing to me, but it certainly burned,” Feth

Allmer remarked. “How about your other samples? Are you going to run them off right away, or wait for things to cool down again to planet-normal?” Another dial caught Ken’s eye before he could answer.

“Hey — who lit the sodium?” he asked, heedless of Allmer’s query. “It’s cooling now, but it must have been burning, too, for a while when there was air.”

“Let more in and see.” The toggle snapped over, and there was a distinct popping sound as air rushed into the rear-vacuum. The sodium continued to cool.

“Maybe a spark from the titanium pot lighted it up.” Without answering, Ken closed the door once more and began to warm up the sodium container. Apparently Feth’s suggestion was not too far from the mark; very little additional heat was needed to ignite the metal. This time the reaction stopped after pressure had dropped about a sixth. Then the door was opened again, and another touch of artificial head caused the reaction to resume. This time it continued, presumably, until the sodium was consumed.

“I want enough material to work on when we get it back,” Ken explained. “I’m not the Galaxy’s best analytical chemist.”

The crucible of carbon dust gave decidedly peculiar results. Something certainly happened, for the material not only maintained but even increased its temperature for some time after the heating current was cut off; but there was no evidence either of consumption or production of gas in the closed chamber. Both Ken and Feth were slightly startled. The former, in response to the mechanic’s quizzical expression, admitted the fact was probably significant but could offer no explanation.

Samples of iron, tin, lead, and gold followed in due course. None of these seemed greatly affected by the peculiar atmosphere at any temperature, with the possible exception of the iron; there the pressure drop was too small to be certain, since in each of these cases the heating had caused an increase in pressure which had to be allowed for. Magnesium behaved remarkably like sodium, except that it burned even more brightly than the titanium.

Here again Ken decided to finish off the metal by relighting it with the door open; and here the testing program received a sudden interruption.

Both Sarrians were perfectly aware that with the door open a beam of light must be stabbing out into the darkness. Both had ceased to worry about the fact; it had been equally true, though perhaps the radiance was fainter, with the blazing sodium and almost as much so when the sheer heat of the samples of iron and gold had been exposed. They had completely ceased to worry about being seen; a full hour had already passed since they had landed the torpedo, owing to the cooling periods necessary between tests, and there had been no sign that any attention had been attracted. Ken should have remembered the difficulty that had been encountered in reaching the ground.

The possibility was brought back to their attention with the relighting of the magnesium sample. As the photocell reported the reestablishment of combustion, a shrill sound erupted from the speaker above the control board and echoed through the ship. Neither had to be told what it was; both had heard the recordings of the voice of the Third Planet native who had found the original torpedo.

For an instant both remained frozen on their racks, exploring mentally the possibilities of the situation. Feth made a tentative gesture toward the power switches, only to be checked by an imperious snap of Ken’s tentacles.

“Wait! Is our speaker on?” The words were whispered.

“Yes.” Feth pulled a microphone down to chest level and retreated a step. He wanted no part in what Ken seemed about to do. Sallman himself, however, had once more become completely absorbed in the mystery of the World of Ice, to the exclusion of all other matters; he saw no reason for leaving the site where his activities had been discovered. It did not even occur to him not to answer the native who appeared to have made the discovery. With his speaking diaphragm close to the microphone, he emulated the “boss” of so many years before, and tried to imitate the sounds coming from the speaker.

The result was utter silence.

At first neither listener worried; the native would naturally be surprised. Gradually, however, an expression of mild anxiety began to appear on Ken’s features, while an “I-told-you-so” air became manifest about Feth.

“You’ve scared him away,” the latter finally said. “If his tribe stampedes with him, Drai won’t be very happy about it.”

A faint crackling which had preceded the alien’s call, and which his concentration of chemical problems had prevented reaching Ken’s conscious mind, suddenly ballooned into recollection, and he snatched at the straw.

“But we heard him coming — the same sort of noise the torpedo made landing — and we haven’t heard him leave. He must still be waiting.”

“Heard him coming? Oh — that? How do you know that’s what it was? Neither of us was paying any attention.”

“What else could it have been?” This was a decidedly unfair question, to which Feth attempted no direct answer. He simply countered with another.

“What’s he waiting for, then?” Fate was unkind to him; Ken was spared the necessity of answering. The human voice came again, less shrill this time; history seemed to be repeating itself. Ken listened intently; Feth seemed to have forgotten his intention of dissociating himself from the proceedings and was crowded as close as the detective to the speaker. The voice went on, in short bursts which required little imagination to interpret as questions. Not a word was understandable, though both thought they recognized the human “no” on several occasions. Certainly the creature did not utter any of the names that the Sarrians had come to associate with trade items — Feth, who knew them all, was writing them on a scrap of paper. Ken finally grew impatient, took the list from the mechanic, and began to pronounce them as well as he could, pausing after each.