Iceworld

1

Sallman Ken had never been really sure of the wisdom he had shown in acceding to Rade’s request. He was no policeman and knew it. He had no particular liking for physical danger. He had always believed, of course, that he could stand his share of discomfort, but the view he was now getting through the Karella’s port was making him doubt even that.

Rade had been fair enough, he had to admit. The narcotics chief had told him, apparently, everything he himself knew; enough so that Ken, had he used his imagination sufficiently, might even have foreseen something like this.

“There has never been much of it,” Rade had said. “We don’t even know what the peddlers call it — it’s just a ‘sniff’ to them. It’s been around for quite a few years now; we got interested when it first appeared, and then took most of our attention from it when it never seemed to amount to much.”

“But what’s so dangerous about it, then?” Ken had asked.

“Well, of course any habit-forming drug is dangerous — you could hardly be a teacher of science without knowing that. The special menace of this stuff seems to lie in the fact that it is a gas, and can therefore be administered easily without the victim’s consent; and it seems to be so potent that a single dose will insure addiction. You can see what a public danger that could be.” Ken had seen, clearly.

“I should say so. I’m surprised we haven’t all been overcome already. A generator in a building’s ventilation system — on board a ship — anything like that could make hundreds of customers for whoever has the stuff to sell. Why hasn’t it spread?” Rade had smiled for the first time.

“There seems to be two reasons for that, also. There are production difficulties, if the very vague stories we hear have anything in them; and the stuff doesn’t keep at normal temperature. It has to be held under extreme refrigeration; when exposed to normal conditions it breaks down in a few seconds. I believe that the active principle is actually one of the breakdown products, but no one had obtained a sample to prove it.”

“But where do I come in? If you don’t have any of it I can’t analyze it for you. I probably couldn’t anyway — I’m a school teacher, not a professional chemist. What else can I do?”

“It’s because you’re a teacher — a sort of jack-of-all-trades in scientific matters, without being an expert at any of them — that we think you can help us. I mentioned that there seemed to be production troubles with the drug.

“Certainly the producers would like to increase volume. They would like, of course, to get a first-rate production engineer. You know as well as I that they could never do it; no such person could be involved secretly in such a matter. Every competent engineer is well employed since Velio was discovered, and it would be too easy for us to trace one who was approached for such a purpose.

“You, however, are a comparatively inconspicuous person; you are on vacation, and will be for another year; no one will miss you — we expect these people to think. That’s why we took such extreme precautions in arranging this interview.”

“But you’ll have to publicize me some way, or they would never know I existed, either,” Ken pointed out.

“That can be done — in fact, has already started. I trust you’ll forgive us for that; but the job is important. The whisper has already started in criminal circles that you are the manufacturer of the bomb that wrecked the Storm plant. We can give you quite a reputation—”

“Which will prevent my ever getting an honest job again.”

“Which will never be heard of by your present employers, or by any respectable person not associated with the police.”

Ken was not yet sure why he had accepted. Maybe the occupation of policeman still carried a little subconscious glamour, though certainly it was now mostly laboratory work. This looked like an exception — or did it? He had as Rade expected been hired by an extremely short-spoken individual, who claimed to represent a trading concern. The understanding had been that his knowledge was to be placed at the disposal of his employers. Perhaps they would simply stick him in a lab with the outline or a production problem, and tell him to solve it. In that case, he would be out of a job very quickly, and if he were lucky might be able to offer his apologies to Rade.

For he certainly had learned nothing so far. Even the narcotics man had admitted that his people knew no one at all certainly connected with the ring, and it was very possible that he might be hired by comparatively respectable people — compared, of course, to drug-runners. For all Ken could tell at the moment, that might have happened. He had been shepherded aboard the Karella at the North Island spaceport, and for twenty-two days had seen nothing at all.

He knew, of course, that the drug came from off the planet. Rade had become sufficiently specific to admit that the original rush had been checked by examining incoming refrigeration apparatus. He did not know, however, that it came from outside the Sarrian planetary system. Twenty-two days was a long journey — if it had been made in a straight line.

Certainly the world that hung now beyond the port did not look as though it could produce anything. Only a thin crescent of it was visible, for it lay nearly between the ship and a remarkably feeble sun. The dark remainder of the sphere blotted out the Milky Way in a fashion that showed the planet to be airless. It was mountainous, inhospitable, and cold. Ken knew that last fact because of the appearance of the sun. It was dim enough to view directly without protection to the eyes; to Ken’s color sense, reddish in shade and shrunken in aspect. No world this far from such a star could be anything but cold.

Of course, Rade’s drug needed low temperature — well, if it were made here, Ken was going to resign, regardless. Merely looking at the planet made him shiver.

He wished someone would tell him what was going on. There was a speaker over the door of his room, but so far the only times it had been used was to tell him that there was food outside his room and the door was unlocked for the moment.

For he had not been allowed to leave his room. That suggested illegal proceedings of some sort; unfortunately it did not limit them to the sort he was seeking. With the trading regulations what they were, a mercantile explorer who found an inhabited system more often than not kept the find strictly for his own exploitation. The precaution of concealing its whereabouts from a new employee was natural.

At a venture, he spoke aloud. After all, the fact that they were hanging so long beside this world must mean something.

“Is this where I’m expected to work? You’ll pardon my saying that it looks extremely unpleasant.” A little to his surprise there was an answer, in a voice different from the one that had announced his meals.

“I agree. I have never landed there myself, but it certainly looks bad. As far as we know at present, your job will not require you to visit that world.”

“Just what is my job? Or don’t you want to tell me yet?”

“There is no harm in telling you more, anyway, since we have arrived at the proper planetary system.” Ken cast an uneasy eye at the feeble sun as he heard these words, but continued to listen without comment.

“You will find the door unlocked. Turn to your right in the corridor outside, and proceed for about forty yards — as far as you can. That will take you to the control room, where I am. It will be more comfortable to talk face to face.” The speaker’s rumble ceased, and Ken did as he was told. The Karella seemed to be a fairly common type of interstellar flyer, somewhere between one hundred fifty and two hundred feet in length, and about one third that diameter. It would be shaped like a cylinder with slightly rounded ends. Plenty of bulk — usable for passengers, cargo, or anything else her owner cared.

The control room contained nothing worthy of comment, except its occupants. One of these was obviously the pilot; he was strapped to his rack in front of the main control panel. The other was floating free in the middle of the room, obviously awaiting Ken’s arrival since he had both eyes on the door. He spoke at once, in a voice recognizable as the one which had invited the scientist forward.

“I was a little hesitant about letting you see any of us personally before having your final acceptance of our offer; but I don’t see that it can do much harm, after all. I scarcely ever visit Sarr nowadays, and the chance of your encountering me if we fail to reach a final agreement is small.”

“Then you are engaged in something illegal?” Ken felt that there could be little harm in mentioning a fact the other’s speech had made so obvious. After all, they would not expect him to be stupid.

“Illegal, yes, if the law be interpreted — strictly. I feel, however, and many agree with me, that if someone finds an inhabited planet, investigates it at his own expense, and opens relations with the inhabitants, that he has a moral right to profit from the fact. That, bluntly, is our situation.”

Ken’s heart sank. It began to look as though he had stumbled on the very sort of petty violation he had feared, and was not going to be very useful to Rade.

“There is certainly some justice in that viewpoint,” he said cautiously. “If that is the case, what can I do for you? I’m certainly no linguist, and know next to nothing of economic theory, if you’re hitting trading difficulties.”

“We are having difficulties, but not in that way. They stem from the fact that the planet in question is so different from Sarr that personal visits are impossible. We have had the greatest difficulty in establishing contact of a sort with even one group of natives — or perhaps a single individual; we can’t tell.”

“Can’t tell? Can’t you send a torpedo down with television apparatus, at least?”

“You’ll see.” The still nameless individual gave a rather unpleasant smile. “At any rate, we have managed to do a little trading with this native or natives, and found that they have something we can use. We get it, as you can well imagine, in trickles and driblets. Basically, your problem is — how do we get more of it? You can try to figure out some way of landing in person if you like, but I know you’re not an engineer. What I thought you could do was get a good enough analysis of the planet’s conditions — atmosphere, temperature, light, and so on — so that we could reproduce them in a more convenient location and grow our own product. That way, we wouldn’t be forced to pay the price the native asks, too.”

“That sounds simple enough. I notice you don’t seem to want me to know what the product is — except that it seems to be of vegetable nature — but that doesn’t bother me. I had a friend in the perfume business once, and the way he tried to keep secrets in elementary chemistry was a scandal. I’m certainly willing to try — but I warn you I’m not the Galaxy’s best chemist by a long shot, and I’ve brought no apparatus with me, since I didn’t know what you wanted me to do. Have you anything here in the ship?”

“Not in the ship. We discovered this place around twenty years ago, and have built a fairly comfortable base on the innermost planet of this system. It keeps the same hemisphere facing the sun all the time, and we’ve been able to concentrate enough sunlight in a small valley to make the temperature quite bearable. There’s a fairly respectable laboratory and shop there, with a very good mechanic named Feth Allmer; and if you find yourself in need of something we don’t have, we can probably afford to get it for you. How does that sound?”

“Very good indeed. I’ll take your job, and do what I can.” Ken was a little happier at this point, partly because the job seemed interesting in itself and partly because of some of the other’s statements. If this product was a plant, as seemed to be the case, there was at least a slight possibility that he was not on a blind run after all. The matter of the need for refrigeration, of course, had not come up specifically — for all that had been said so far, the planet was as likely to be too hot as too cold for comfort; but what he had seen of this system’s sun made that seem doubtful. Then there was the reference to warming the innermost planet — no, the place was cold. Definitely, Chances improved again. He switched his attention from these thoughts, as he realized that his employer — if this were really the head of the concern — was speaking again.

“I was sure you would. You can give orders for anything you need, starting now. You may use this ship as you please, subject only to Ordon Lee’s veto if he considers the vessel in danger.” The pilot was indicated by the wave of a supple tentacle as the name was pronounced. “Incidentally, I am Laj Drai. You are working for me, and I am sure we will both be more comfortable if that fact is borne in mind. What do you think should be done first?”

Ken decided to ignore Drai’s subtle implication of superiority, and answered the question with another.

“Do you have any samples of the atmosphere or soil of this planet?” -

“Of the first, no. We have never been able to keep a sample; probably we did not collect it properly. One cylinder that was collected leaked and burned in our air, for what that may be worth. We do have bits of soil, but they were all exposed to our own air at one time or another, and may have been changed by that. You will have to decide that for yourself. All that I really know is that their atmosphere has a pressure around two thirds of Sarr-normal, and at its base the temperature is low enough to freeze most of the regular gases out of our own air — I believe it would even freeze potassium. Our mechanic claimed that was what happened to one device that failed to work.”

“How about size?”

“Bigger than Sarr — the figures are all at the base on Planet One; it would be easier to look them over there. I don’t pretend to remember any of them at all precisely — as a matter of fact, we don’t have any of them too precisely. You’re the scientist, as far as we are concerned; my people are just eyes and tentacles for you.

“We do have remote-controlled torpedoes, as you suggested. It might be well to tell me before you use them; we lost nineteen of the first twenty to reach the planet’s surface. We planted a permanent transmitter at the point where the twentieth landed, and we always home down on it now. Just what happened to the others we don’t exactly know, though we have a pretty good guess. I’ll tell you the whole story at the same time that you look over the other material. Is there anything you’d care to do before we leave the vicinity of the planet and go over to One?”

“Leave the vicinity? I thought you said that world was not the one in question.” Ken waved a tentacle at the cratered crescent.

“That one isn’t — that’s a satellite of Three, the one we’re interested in.”

A chill came back to Ken’s skin. The satellite had been frightening; the planet itself could be little if any warmer since it must be about the same distance from the sun. An atmosphere would help a little, of course; but still — cold enough to freeze potassium, and lead, and tin! He had not given real thought to that. His imagination was good— perhaps a little too good; and it began conjuring up out of nothing in particular an image of a world chilled to the core. It was rough, and an icy blizzard played over it, and nothing moved in the dim reddish light — a planet of death.

But that couldn’t be right; there were natives. Ken tried to imagine the sort of life that could exist under such hideous conditions, and failed completely. Maybe Laj Drai was wrong about the temperature; after all, he hadn’t been sure. It was just a mechanic’s opinion.

“Let’s see this place, since we’re so close to it. I might as well learn the worst,” he said at this point in his imagining. Laj Drai gestured to the pilot, and the hull of the Karella rotated slowly. The airless satellite slid out of sight, and stars followed it across the field of view. The ship must have spun a full hundred and eighty degrees before Planet Three itself hung in the apparent center of the port. They must be floating directly between planet and satellite, Ken thought. Not wise if the inhabitants had telescopes.

Since the sun was now behind them, the disc of the great world was fully illuminated. Unlike the bare moon, a fuzziness of outline showed that it possessed an extensive atmosphere, though Ken could not imagine what gases might be present. In spite of the definitely reddish sunlight, most of the surface had a decided blue tint. Details were impossible to make out; the atmosphere was extremely hazy. There were definite patches of white, and green, and brown, but there was no way of telling what any of them represented.

And yet, foggy as it was, there was something about the sight of the world which caused the shiver to caress the scientist’s skin once more. Perhaps it was the things he had been told, and the things he had deduced from the appearance of the sun; perhaps it was nothing objective at all. Whatever it was, the very sight of the world made him shudder, and he turned away abruptly.

“Let’s go to One, and look over that data,” he said, striving to control his voice diaphragm. The pilot obeyed without comment.

Earth, really, is not as bad as all that. Some people are even quite fond of it. Ken, of course, was prejudiced, as anyone is likely to be against a world where water is a liquid — when he has grown up breathing gaseous sulfur and, at rare intervals, drinking molten copper chloride.