Hal Clement - Iceworld

“I’ve never met him, have I?”

“No — he died long ago. He was pretty old when we hit this place. I inherited the ship and got into this trading business.”

“When did Feth join you?”

“A year or two after I got started — he’s the oldest in the crew in point of service. He can tell you all about the engineering troubles, you see, and I certainly can’t. You’d better see him, if he feels like talking.” Without explaining this last remark, Drai disappeared down the corridor. Ken did not wonder at the words — he had already come to regard Feth as a taciturn personality.

The mechanic did not appear to be busy. He was still draped in the rack in front of the torpedo controls, and seemed to be thinking. He rose as Ken entered the room, but said nothing, merely giving the equivalent of a nod of greeting. Not noticing anything unusual in his manner, Ken began immediately to spill forth his ideas. He was allowed to finish without interruption.

“Your points all sound good,” the mechanic admitted when he had heard them, “and I certainly can’t bring any theory against them. I can merely point out that the tubes do break. If you want to send down a suit of armor full of thermometers and pressure gauges, that’s all right with me, but I trust you’ll pardon a pessimistic attitude. I used up a lot of good TV equipment in that atmosphere.”

“Well, I admit your superior practical knowledge,” replied Ken, “but I do think it’s worth trying.”

“If the instruments read all right, who goes down in the armor the next time? The thought makes my knee-joints stiff. I’m scared of the idea, and don’t mind admitting it.”

“So am I.” Ken remembered the uncontrollable emotion that had swept his being the first time he had seen Planet Three. “It’s a ghastly place, beyond doubt; but I still like to find things out, and I’m willing to take a chance on my health to do it.”

“Health — huh! You’d be a ready-made memorial statue five seconds after the first pinhole appeared in your suit,” retorted the mechanic. “I almost feel it’s a dirty trick to send good instruments down into that, even when I know they can take it. Well, I’ll break out a suit of armor, if you really want to try it. There are plenty of torpedoes.”

“How can you carry it by torpedo? You can’t possibly get it inside, surely.”

“No; there are rings on the outer hull, and we can clamp the suit to those. We’ll just have to be careful and go through the atmosphere more slowly, this time.” He glided down the length of the shop to a set of lockers at the far end, and from one of these wrestled a suit of the much-discussed armor into view.

Even under Mercurian gravity it was difficult to handle. Owing to the peculiarities of the Sarrian physique, a greatly superior leverage could be obtained from inside the garment; but even knowing this, Ken began to wonder just what he was going to do if he succeeded in reaching the surface of the massive Planet Three in that metal monstrosity, under nearly four times his present gravity. That thought led to a question.

“Feth, what sort of body chemistry do you suppose these natives have? They move around — presumably— under a whopping gravity in a temperature that should freeze any organic material. Ever thought about it?” The mechanic was silent for some time, as though considering his reply.

“Yes,” he said at last, “I’ll admit I’ve thought about it. I’m not sure I want to talk about it, though.”

“Why not? The place can’t be that repulsive.”

“It’s not that. You remember what Drai said he’d do if anyone gave you information about the stuff we got from the planet?”

“Yes, vaguely; but what does that have to do with it?”

“Maybe nothing, maybe not. He was pretty sore about my telling you the name of the stuff. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d stopped to think. The situation just seemed to call for a quick answer, so I gave it.”

“But your ideas on the native chemistry could hardly tell — or I suppose perhaps they could. Still, Drai knows perfectly well I’ve never worked for another trading company and I’m not a trader myself — why should I be treated like a commercial spy? I don’t care particularly what your stuff is — I’m interested in the planet.”

“I don’t doubt it. Just the same, if I ever make any more slips like that, please keep whatever you learn to yourself. I thought there’d be a nuclear explosion when Drai walked in with you yelling ‘Tofacco!’ into the mike.”

“He couldn’t really do much, though.” This was a ranging question; Ken had started to think again.

“Well—” Feth was cautious about his answer—”he’s the boss, and this isn’t such a bad job. Just do the favor, if you don’t mind.” He turned back to the armor, with an expression on his face which indicated he was through talking for the time being. Ken found himself unable to get anything definite from the mechanic’s answer.

He didn’t think about it very hard anyway, for the other problem proved too interesting. Feth was certainly a good mechanic; as good as some rated engineers Ken had known. He had opened the armor completely and removed all the service plates, and started the job by giving it a full overhaul inspection. That completed, he refilled the zinc circulating system and replaced and safe-tied the plates he had removed, but left the armor itself open. One eye rolled questioningly at the watcher, and he spoke for the first time in two hours.

“Have you any ideas about instrument arrangement? You know best what you want to find out.”

“Well, all we really need to know is whether the suit can maintain temperature and pressure. I suppose a single pressure gauge anywhere inside, and thermometers at the extremities, would tell enough. Can you use telemetering instruments, or will we have to wait until this torpedo gets back, too?”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait. The instruments themselves would be easy enough to install, but the voice transmitter in the armor couldn’t handle their messages. I can put a multiple recorder in the body, connect the instruments to that, and arrange so you can turn it on and off by remote control — I’ll simply tie it in to one of the suit controls. I suppose you’ll want to be able to manipulate the suit heaters, as well?”

“Yes. If it takes anywhere near full power to maintain liveable temperature, we ought to know it. I suppose extra heaters could be installed, if necessary?”

“I expect so.” For the first time, Feth wore an expression approximating a grin. “I could probably mount blast furnaces on the feet. I’m not so sure you could walk around with them.”

“Even if I can’t I can at least see.”

“If you don’t have the same trouble with your visor that I did with TV tubes. Even quartz has its limitations.”

“I still think it can take it. Anyway, it won’t cost us anything to find out. Let’s go ahead and mount those instruments — I’m rather curious to see which of us is right. Is this recorder all right?” He took from a cabinet a minute machine whose most prominent feature was the double reel of sensitized tape, and held it up as he spoke. Feth glanced at it.

“Only one record. Get an L-7. You can recognize it by the reel — its tape is about five times as wide. I’m using the single barometer you suggested, and thermometers in head, trunk, one foot, and one sleeve as far out as I can mount it. That leaves a free band on the tape that you can use for anything you want.” The mechanic was working as he spoke, clamping tiny instruments from a well-stocked supply cabinet into the places he had mentioned. For a moment Ken wondered whether the existence of this more than adequate instrument stock did not invalidate his argument about the lack of scientific facilities; then he recognized that all the devices were perfectly standard engineering instruments, and represented nothing but a respectable financial outlay. Anyone could buy and almost anyone could use them.