The Great Hydration

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The inhabited part of Tenacity consisted of the bed of the dead ocean together with the former shoreline. The old Tlixix civilisation had centred on that shoreline. When the Tlixix created their helper races they confined them to the great empty space around which were ranged the new domes of survival. They had no wish to see those races spread to the highlands, which even before the great dehydration had consisted mostly of desert. They knew they would be unable to exercise control over so vaster an area, and that endangered their security.

Now, from the secret giant camp of the Artaxa, from the camps of the Toureen, from the camps of the Sawune and of those others who had thrown in their lot with the rebellion, which included the Limes and one of the two Jodobrock tribes, motorised war-hordes set out. Gaminte patrols they encountered were wiped out, any individuals who fled or escaped hunted down in the fastest available vehicles. It was essential the Tlixix should not know what was about to hit them.

Had O’Rourke in fact kept a watch to search for Northrop they might have received a warning—supposing anyone had remarked on the number of desert caravans heading for the Tlixix refuges. He had delegated a crew member to make a scan through the interferometric telescope initially, though without moving the Enterprise to get a better view. Almost as quickly, he had taken her off the duty to supervise the delivery of shock tubes to the eight sites in preparation.

The Artaxa meanwhile diverted from the main column a detachment to the only one of those sites known to them, and from which Northrop had been taken. They were disappointed to find it abandoned, the tents gone, only the litter of past human occupation remaining. They were not to know that a shock tube had already been put in place and the shaft over it filled in, or that the stiff wire jutting out of the yellow sand was the antenna for the detonation signal.

A hastily set up network of radiators enabled the Artaxa to launch their attacks simultaneously. Carrying flingers specially adapted for throwing spherical shells of eruptionite, the humming columns approached their targets.

When Karl Krabbe felt the first explosion rock the dome of the hydrorium he wondered if Castaneda had jumped the schedule, or worse, something had gone amiss. He got through to O’Rourke on the gogetter ship.

“O’Rourke, what the hell’s going on?”

The answering tone was puzzled. “Going on, sir?”

Krabbe formed a suspicion, making him momentarily furious.

“Say, you didn’t use any of that prehistoric junk, did you?”

During the early planning Engineering had proposed using an archaic technology—hydrogen fusion—for the shock tubes on grounds of economy. Both Castaneda and Northrop had vetoed that. Hydrogen fusion couldn’t be tuned fine enough for a controlled shifting of the tectonic plates without serious risk of widespread vulcanism. The tubes were to use helium fusion, a standard if old-fashioned technique.

“No sir, of course not.”

“Well, where’s Castaneda?”

“He’s here with me now, sir.”

Krabbe’s fury returned. “Castaneda, what the hell are you doing up there so soon? Why aren’t you down on site?”

“I’ve got lung cancer, sir,” Castaneda answered dolefully. “It’s all the radon gas I’ve been breathing, a breakdown product of radium. The atmosphere’s full of it. Radpaint can’t protect you against that.”

“For heaven’s sake don’t be such a sissy, Carlos,” Krabbe said irritably. “Medbay has a spare lung or two, I expect.”

While they spoke a barrage of explosions rattled the dome. They were coming nearer. Boris Bouche dashed into the apartment, his face feral with excitement and alarm.

“We’re under attack! A revolt against the lobsters! They’re using explosives!”

Through the open door Krabbe saw a scene of frenzy. Tlixix scuttled along the passage as fast as their short stick-like legs could take them, roaring ferociously. Black Gamintes also ran, metal accoutrements clinking and clashing.

Krabbe turned back to the communicator. “O’Rourke, we’ve got a situation down here. What’s the status of the project?”

“The last tube has just been put in place,” O’Rourke said. “Provisional detonation schedule is, er, right now plus one-seventeen minutes.”

“Okay, this is what I want you to do. Pull the team up and detonate immediately. Have you got that?”

“Pull up and detonate. Yes, sir. What about yourselves? Shall we come and get you?”

Krabbe hesitated, glancing at his partner. “No, we are still ‘honoured guests’, so to speak. We’re all right for the moment. Keep me informed.”

He signed off. “Do you think this attack is serious, Boris? Does it happen often?”

Bouche scowled. “We’d understood the lobsters have everything sewn up tight. And explosives are supposed to be unknown here.”

“This is the main hydrorium, for God’s sake!” Krabbe found time to smile. “Well, if this is a large-scale uprising the lobsters will have double reason to be grateful to us. Detonation is coming. That should put the dehydrates in their place!”

A loud crack and a roar drowned out his last words. There was no doubt that this time it came from inside the dome.

A Gaminte appeared in the doorway.

“Invaders have breached the sacred refuge. You are in danger. Follow me.”

Hastily gathering up their effects, the partners hurried after him, away from the fighting.

Castaneda himself transmitted the signal that detonated all eight helium fusion devices at the same time. The small planet rang like a bell. The shock was felt everywhere on its surface. A juddering, then another juddering, and another, as seismic waves travelled through the lithosphere and rebounded on themselves, criss-crossing. The first earthquakes for thousands of years shook the desert, knocking down dunes and hills. The underground caves and tunnels of the lizard species crumbled and collapsed, as did most of the caverns of the camp of the Artaxa.

Tlixix engineering proved itself. The ancient cycloidal domes of the hydroriums, large as they were, mostly withstood the shock. Two, however, were weakened and breached by eruptionite. These cracked open like eggshells.

One of them was the largest hydrorium of all.

Such events were incidental and of little importance to those watching and recording aboard the Enterprise. They watched with satisfaction as sensors buried in the crust sent back data on tectonic plate movement.

Expectantly, they waited for signs of water.

It was not long in coming. Within the hour damp patches appeared on the surface of the sand. Spectrography detected water vapour in the atmosphere.

Then there came muddy stirrings, followed by gushers, scalding waterspouts leaping high in the air. And then blowers—blasts of steam hissing out of the sand, accompanied by sudden uprisings of the desert floor as vast mounds of hot water forced their way through. An ocean was being squirted up from the planetary aquifer, bringing steamy heat with it. Fog and cloud formed. Soon, it would start to rain.

Already the climate was reverting.

And already the dehydrate tribes were in panic, fleeing the deadly liquid in frantic columns, racing for the high ground beyond the ancient ocean bed. Hrityu, rejoicing in victory over the Crome, watched in disbelief as a surging sand slurry came ripping and flapping at running pace towards the ruins of the Analane camp, before those who could do so piled aboard all available vehicles and departed.

The aftershocks continued for several hours. Castaneda gave the partners reports every fifteen minutes. Underneath what Krabbe regarded as his cowardly hypochondria, he sounded quietly pleased. The planet was responding as calculated, the rehydration of Tenacity proceeding according to plan.

Occasionally O’Rourke broke in, asking if the partners needed extracting from the ruined dome. Krabbe declined. He and Bouche wanted to see the ocean coming back first hand, and the Gamintes were now holding their own.

They had been moved to what soon would be the landward side of the dome. But then something even more dramatic happened. Undermined by the rising water table, an entire slab of land collapsed to re-create the wide bay that had existed in former times. It immediately began to fill with boiling, hissing liquid. The broken dome, its foundations undermined, tilted and slid with a grinding sound until partly submerged in the foaming tumult.

In the part that remained above water, fighting continued. With no participation by the Tlixix, however. They abandoned the dome altogether, leaving it to the dehydrates. A frenzy had ripped them. The sight of an emerging sea seized them with an uncontrollable instinct to respond to their evolved nature. Dragging out metal boats stored for millennia somewhere in the dome, they launched themselves on to the heaving, steaming, bubbling water.

The lurch as the dome tilted sent Karl Krabbe and Boris Bouche tumbling against the wall of the cell they now occupied. Luckily, it was in the half of the dome that stayed above water.

Bouche squealed in alarm and pointed upward. The ceiling was bending and collapsing. The cell was being crushed as the dome deformed. The two scrambled on hands and knees from the contracting space and into the corridor. Here, the ceiling was holding. Their Gaminte guard, having regained his feet on the now-sloping floor, was chopping to pieces two green Artaxa, wielding the great curved axe which the Gamintes used for close fighting.

Finishing the work, he gestured to them. “Come, we must escape.”

Gladly they followed him through the wreckage of the dome, avoiding the sounds of fighting and the squealings and bangs as the ancient metal structure came apart. Eventually he found a rent where the external skin had ruptured.

They emerged on to what was now a headland. A warm fog was everywhere, a phenomenon which must have seemed utterly strange to the Gaminte. He started coughing continuously and seemed to find it difficult to move. Krabbe wondered what his understanding of the situation was, as he loyally followed orders to protect his charges. Probably he thought the rebel attackers were to blame for everything.

A short distance away lay a large vehicle park, a sort of terminus for traffic to and from the hydrorium. Beckoning to them, the Gaminte went limping towards it.

From not much further off, a red glow could be seen.

The fog cleared a little as they neared the park. The source of the glow became visible, spreading to the edge of visibility. A broad front of hissing, smoking lava was advancing on the dome, already lapping around the parked vehicles.

Castaneda had warned that there would be modest vulcanism in some areas, as increased pressure and temperature on the plate edges caused rock melt to percolate upwards to the surface. He had promised that it would cease once sufficient water had been vented.

Evidently, this was one of the affected areas.

“Karl,” Bouche said worriedly, “where’s the communicator?”

“Back in the cell,” Krabbe said. “I dropped it. Don’t worry, O’Rourke will find us.”

The Gaminte was heading straight for the lava. He stopped at an odd-looking craft which lacked wheels but stood on bent legs like some huge insect. Attached by struts above the passenger compartment was a large curved structure made of very thin metal. More than anything, it resembled a parachute.

“This one,” the Gaminte gasped, still coughing. “Hurry. Mount.”

Krabbe held back. “How the hell is that thing going to walk on lava?”

“We’d better do as he says,” Boris muttered.

The Gaminte was already clambering aboard. They followed his example, levering themselves over the side.

The coal-black Gaminte, without waiting for them to make themselves comfortable, seated himself at the controls and pulled a lever.

The result was startling. The vehicle leaped high into the air, taking the Earthmen by surprise and sending them tumbling to the floor of the car.

The Gaminte knew what he was doing. He manipulated other levers which altered the angle of the parachute structure over their heads. The vehicle entered a controlled glide.

Peering below them, Krabbe and Bouche could see no end to the lava field glowing through the drifting fog. It was, more correctly, a lava swamp. There were patches of solid ground here and there, the yellow sand seeming to be turning black.

It was towards one of these that the Gaminte was taking them. The machine alighted with the grace of a gull. Its feet seemed to touch the sand for but a moment. The legs bent, bracing themselves, then sprang straight. The leaping parachute machine hurtled froglike back into the air.

“I’ll be damned,” Krabbe murmured, his eyes dreamy. It was fascinating to see how expertly the dehydrate guided the seemingly clumsy contraption in such difficult circumstances. It was a surprisingly effective way of progressing, if one did not mind the discomfort.

The Gaminte selected a second island in the creeping lava, landed and took off again. He was taking them further from the hydrorium.

But by now he was suffering badly. His coughing increased to a paroxysm, and his hands fell from the controls.

Briefly he seemed to go into convulsions. He fell from his seat. Then he was still.

Krabbe let go an exclamation of shock. “He’s died of water poisoning! Boris! We’re going into the lava! Do something!”

Cursing savagely, Bouche scrambled into the pilot’s seat.

The machine was descending swiftly. He had watched how the Gaminte used the control levers. He experimented, and somehow managed to level out the glide. The machine jolted down. Two legs went into the bubbling melt and two on to sand which immediately crumbled. The vehicle tilted alarmingly.

“Take us up, Boris! We’re sinking!”

Bouche yanked on the trigger lever. Again the machine leaped into the air and began its delayed descent. Desperately looking for another landing place, Bouche worked the levers. He thought he was getting the hang of it now. He hit sand, went off again, and now could see the edge of the swamp.

His last landing was most inexpert. The leaping parachute vehicle hit off-balance and toppled over on its side, only yards from the lava flow. They crawled out and looked about them.

A warm wind had sprung up from the direction of the still-forming sea. For a brief spell it swept away the dense fog and they found themselves able to gaze down at the bay where the wrecked hydrorium slumped like a ship that had run aground. The Tlixix, maddened with joy, were trying to sail the boats they had dragged out of the dome.

But they knew nothing about how to manage such craft, which lacked motors and were wind-driven, other than to run sails up the masts. Also, the swirling surface of the bay was unstable. The heat currents that ran through it produced unpredictable boiling areas. As Krabbe and Bouche watched, one of the boats turned over, tipping its crew into the scalding sea. The death hoots of the Tlixix reached the ears of the observing Earthmen.

“Sweet Krishna!” breathed Bouche, unconsciously revealing the religion practised by the orphanage where he had been raised. “Just look at it! Boiled lobster!”

Then the fog cut the view off. Krabbe was wondering what to do next when he noticed a shadowy shape moving above the swamp in the murk, heading for the slumped dome. He yelled and waved his arms about over his head. It was a lighter from the Enterprise.

Alarmed at the break in communications, O’Rourke had sent a rescue party.

Northrop, not having eaten for five days—though he had been given plenty of water—had gone beyond the stage of hunger. But he was feeling weak, and was barely able to stand.

So when the quakes came, he was not at his best. There were countless casualties when the caverns fell in. He had tried to warn the Artaxa that their revolt had come too late.

The shock tubes had been set off. The Great Hydration was beginning.

Perhaps it was his enfeebled state, which the Artaxa were unable to understand, that caused them to ignore his advice. They had been rejoicing when the disaster struck, performing a mass tribal dance. Radio messages had brought thrilling news of the assaults on the hydroriums. Northrop was not taken seriously until those same radio reports began telling of water appearing on the desert floor.

Even then his urgings to evacuate were not heeded. It was when the caves began filling with scalding, steaming water, not his weak voice, that prompted the exodus. Still he was able to explain that they should leave the bed of the old ocean and make for what had been the continental part of Tenacity. He had no idea whether they could survive there, but there was nothing else they could do.

“May all Tlixix die!” Karvass had exclaimed. “No matter if we are to perish as long as we take them with us!”

An understandable sentiment, but Northrop did not see how it could be accomplished.

He was rewarded by being placed in one of the sandboats, whereas thousands of Artaxa and Sawune would have to seek salvation on foot. A lengthy convoy set off for the southern fringe of the old sea bed.

It did not get there. First there came fog, then rain. Finally there appeared an advancing line of sandy sludge.

The convoy could have outrun it for the time being, but by now the dehydrates were dying. The rain was like acid on their naked skin. The fog was like mustard gas in their lungs. The column ground to a halt. The dehydrates, humanoid and lizard, went into convulsions and expired.

Northrop heaved the bodies out of his own vehicle, retrieved a radio rig from another, and continued. But it was not long before the craft bogged down in increasingly damp sand, and would move no further. He would have to walk.

Soon this whole area would be under water. Northrop was making for a clump of hills which would take longer to be submerged, and they were now no more than a kilometer or two away. It was late evening. The usually blazing Tenacity sun created colourful displays on newly formed clouds—which must have been dazzling to any natives still in a mood to behold anything. Cursing the universal tendency for primitive technology always to be too big and too heavy, Northrop dragged the radiator behind him in the sand, now changed from a brilliant sulfur colour to a drab ochre. A canteen of water dangled from his neck. He did not know how he had found the strength to put one foot in front of another, let alone drag the Analane radio too, but the will to survive could work wonders. Not that his prospect of survival was very good.

The sun was still visible when he forced himself up the first hill he came to and set up the radiator. It was simple to operate. He had only to close the switch that completed the circuit to the antenna, and speak into the microphone consisting of a flat plate built into the cabinet.

“Northrop calling the Enterprise. Northrop calling the Enterprise. I’m in the southern reach of the sea bed. Can you get a fix on me?”

The radiator’s ground level range was limited. He was banking on the signal reaching the gogetter ship, no matter how attenuated. Project monitoring included an all-frequency watch—it was one way of detecting what was happening geologically. By now it would be realized that the long-wave, amplitude-modulated analogue signals coming from several sources were artificial. Log procedure would be demodulating and translating those signals.

But would anyone bother to listen to the translations? They had nothing to do with the project. The person on log watch was probably some young girl, the latest recruit to the staff. Would she hear his voice?

It would take a minor miracle.

He carried on speaking into the microphone until his voice was hoarse. Occasionally he switched the apparatus to receive, but all he heard was a faint and distant Artaxa voice bewailing its owners’ fate.

The small sun’s last rays disappeared. Would it still be freezing cold at night? The cloud cover wasn’t thick yet.

He took a last swig from his canteen, then lay down and fell into a stupor.

Maybe dying of exposure wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.

Stepping thankfully into the lighter’s cabin, the partners settled themselves into the passenger seats. The door closed. O’Rourke’s voice came from orbit.

“Are you all right, Sirs?”

“Yes, we’re all right,” Krabbe told him impatiently. “Good work, O’Rourke. Might as well bring us up. We’ll watch the rest of the show from the ship.”

In a flat, casual voice O’Rourke spoke again. “There’s been radio traffic on the planet recently, sir. Analogue, amplitude modulated—very primitive stuff. It seems the dehydrate rebels are using it. A few minutes ago the log watch girl heard a voice she recognised. It’s Northrop.”

He left the last words hanging, as if waiting.

“Got his coordinates?” Krabbe enquired.

“Yes, sir,” O’Rourke replied, with a resigned sigh.

“Okay, we’ll pick him up on the way, if he hasn’t drowned.”

He gestured to the pilot. “Move.”

The lighter rose into the air. On the view screen, the fog-shrouded scene fell away below.

A whistling noise awoke Northrop. Half-frozen, he opened his eyes. His heart leaped when he recognised the outline of the lighter against the stars, hanging over the hillside.

A searchlight shone down. The pilot had spotted him. The lighter came nearer and swung itself level with the hilltop. The door opened to expose a lighted interior.

A sour baritone voice emerged. “Step inside, Roncie.”

It was Boris Bouche!

To enter the lighter and find that he had been rescued by the partners themselves gave Roncie an unaccustomed feeling of gratitude—even an unwelcome one. But they ignored his effusive thanks. In fact, they pretty much ignored him altogether. He relaxed in the seat they offered him, enjoying the warmth, experiencing a renewed stirring of hunger, which he took as a healthy sign.

The lighter soared into the blackness of space and sped towards the Enterprise. Then, on the approach, the pilot let out an explosive exclamation of startlement.

They all leaned towards the viewscreen. An angular shape was jockeying into position ahead of them.

The partners’ jaws dropped.

A Stellar Commission pursuit ship was in the sky.