Dave Duncan - Wildcatter

That almost happened but didn’t. He started breathing again when Niagara came to rest at a Tower of Pisa slant. Even that could be a fatal problem. The ground might be rocky and uneven, but soft goo was far more likely in a flat area with high rainfall. Mud had been known to trap shuttles permanently. Blackadder’s Law: Every world is different, except they’re all out to get you. Which way was the wind blowing? Even a middling gust from the wrong direction would tip him over. Move!

He unbuckled his harness. “ Niagara has landed—a little off vertical, but it seems to be stable. I see the wind is clocked at a bracing twenty-five klicks, probably the closest to dead calm we ever get around here. Temperature is forty-one Celsius, humidity ninety-two. My EVA suit will keep me comfortable. I am now starting down the shaft we call the Gut. You will see how Control closes the bulkhead hatches above me as I pass each one. That’s to prevent contamination of the ship when I open the outer hatch. I am really conscious of the high gravity. At my weight it makes me tote an extra sixty kilos or so and I notice it just holding the rungs of the ladder.

“Now I’m at the door, but Control will not open it until the outer skin is cool enough to touch. I expect to find smoke outside there. The landing jets will have fired the vegetation, but my suit is fireproof and my helmet filters the air I breathe. Even the two packs at my feet are fireproof. Ah!”

The clock in his helmet display tipped over to Day 413 .

The door fell open.

Outside he saw the triangular shadow of the shuttle, like a giant arrow pointing the way to fortune for Seth Broderick. The nearby vegetation was charred, but it must be too wet to burn well. White smoke was streaming away in the wind, staying close to the ground. He kicked out his packs, noting how they fell as if shot out of a cannon; then he turned and gingerly clambered down the ladder on the inside of the door. Because of the shuttle’s tilt, the last rung was about a meter above the ground. Normally he would have jumped, but the packs made the landing tricky and a twisted ankle could kill him now. He lowered himself by his arms, which was not the easiest thing he had ever done.

Golden Hind opened the circuit just long enough for him to hear them all cheering, but he was too busy looking around at the world to respond.

He had expected something like grassland—not a putting green, of course, but a tussocky meadow. He should have known better. What Cacafuego had laid out as a welcome mat was a boulder field, giant shingle on a chaotic scale, with everything from gravel up to rocks as big as bathtubs. For three meters out from the shuttle the rocks had been blackened by the landing jets, but beyond that the ground was hidden under a dense mat of ropy roots or vines, from which sprouted ferny green stuff about waist high.

Of the shuttle’s five legs, one was contracted as far as it would go, two were fully extended, and one of those did not even reach the ground. The result looked highly unstable. If the wind veered about thirty degrees to the east, Control would very likely slam the door shut and lift off. It lacked enough fuel to hunt for a better site nearby. His EVA suit was fireproof but it could not save him from being boiled alive. He didn’t mention all that to his plog. It could be dubbed in later, if there was a later.

He hoisted one of the packs and carried it out of range, then came back for the other. They were heavy but the footing was horrible, even when he could see where he was stepping. He tore off a couple of fronds, wound them into a wad, and rolled them in a sample wipe—which looked like an ordinary sheet of sandwich wrap, but at once sealed itself and evacuated the air. Loamy soil and scummy water were the two best sites to find potentially pharmaceutical materials, but neither was handy. He tried tearing up one of the creeper vines, but could not budge it.

Then his eye was caught by a tiny movement. He was being watched. In shape it was most like a terrestrial lizard, about as long as his hand. In color it was trying to match the half-blackened rock on which it sat, but not succeeding very well. Fire would be rare on this rain-sodden island. Seth slowly drew his stun gun, set it to low, and froze the little critter. He picked it up.

“Sorry, wee fellow. Hey, you’ve got six legs! Aren’t you lucky?”

And so was he. Plants were just sunlight-eaters, sugar-makers, and much less diverse than fauna. There could be no argument with a new animal species. Chemists would drool over this evidence. He wrapped it in a wipe and dropped it in his collecting pocket.

“Captain to Master. Your fifteen minute planned stay is almost up. Our view of your location is through a probe, not direct. We don’t see any major storms lurking, but don’t rely on that too much.”

Especially when the shuttle was balanced on a hair.

“Copied and out.” Seth trudged back to the open door and threw the two samples inside. “Control, close door.”

Then he had to retrace his steps to the packs and squat to take out the flag. His knees were weary already. The flagpole was telescopic, but where could he plant it? It would be very unimpressive peeking over the shrubbery. He tried a patch of finer gravel, but the shaft went in only a few centimeters, not enough. He jammed it between two of the burned boulders, then turned to face Niagara .

“Can you see me clearly?”

“You’re beautiful!” That was JC, excited. “Wave for all your teeny plog fans. Now get farther back and send Niagara home.”

Easier said than done. The vegetation completely hid the ground, and kept writhing in the wind. While the boulders underneath seemed fairly stable, being locked in place by the creeper, he had to feel for every foothold. If he tangled a foot and tripped, he would very likely twist or break something. After about ten meters he turned.

“Control, return to mother ship for refueling.”

—Crewmember still ashore. Confirm instructions.

Does it think he was not aware of that? “Departure confirmed.”

White flames and smoke burst out around the shuttle’s undercarriage. Niagara soared up on pillars of fire and turned to the east. No birds flew up in alarm. The sky was a clear blue, but uncluttered by circling vultures. Evolution did not favor wings on high-gee worlds.

A stray buffet of wind blew the flag over.

Seth Broderick had a planet all to himself. He was as alone as a guy ever could be. Frustratingly, all he could see of his world was groundcover and a charred area like the scar of a large campfire. Control had avoided ridges when choosing a stable landing ground, so he was standing in a very slight hollow. He plodded up the gentle slope, arms spread to keep his balance, placing every step with care. Top speed was half a klick an hour now. He chattered to his plog.

“If you’ve watched many plogs, then I’m sure you’ve heard other prospectors say this, but I really wonder what this world smells like. The filter on my suit cuts out all the odors and dust…” He paused to catch his breath. “Another strange thing here is the silence. This is a very silent place. No birds singing, no dogs or traffic… Just the wind swishing this groundcover.”

At the top of the slope he found the chaotic rocks and pebbles more exposed, as if this were a later dump from some great fleet of trucks. Here the vegetation had not been burned, but he found dead remains of the ropy vines under some of the boulders, and collected a few fragments.