Hal Clement - Technical Error

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Technical Error

Seven spacesuited human beings stood motionless, at the edge of the little valley. Around them was a

bare, jagged plain of basalt, lit sharply by the distant sun and unwavering stars; a dozen miles behind,

hidden by the abrupt curvature of the asteroid’s surface, was a half-fused heap of metal that had brought

them here; and in front of them, almost at their feet, in the shallow groove scraped by a meteor ages

before, was an object which caused more than one of those men to doubt his sanity.

Before them lay the ship whose heat-ruined wreckage had been left behind them only minutes

ago—perfectly whole in every part. Seven pairs of eyes swept it from end to end, picking out and

recognizing each line. Driving and steering jet pits at each end; six bulging observation ports around its

middle; rows of smaller ports, their transparent panes gleaming, obviously intact, in the sun-light; the

silvery, prolate hull itself—all forced themselves on the minds that sought desperately to reject them as

impossibilities. The Giansar was gone—they had fled from the threat of its disordered atomic engines,

watched it glow and melt and finally cool again, a nearly formless heap of slag. So what was this?

None of them even thought of a sister ship. The Giansar had none. Spaceships are not mass

production articles; only a few hundred exist as yet, and each of those is a specialized, designed-to-order

machine. A spaceman of any standing can recognize at a glance, by shape alone, any ship built on

Earth—and no other intelligent race than man inhabits Sol's system.

Grant was the first to throw off the spell. He glanced up at the stars overhead, and figured; then he

shook his head.

"We haven't circled, I'll swear," he said after a moment. "We're a quarter of the way around this

world from where we left the ship, if I have allowed right for rotation. Besides, it wasn't in a valley."

The tension vanished as though someone had snapped a switch. "That's right," grunted Cray, the

stocky engine man. "The place was practically flat, except for a lot of spiky rocks. And anyway, no one

but a nut could think that was the Giansar, after leaving her the way we did. I wonder who left this buggy

here."

"Why do you assume it has been left?" The query came, in a quiet voice, from Jack Preble, the

youngest person present. "It appears uninjured. I see no reason to suppose that the crew is not waiting

for us to enter at this moment, if they have seen us."

Grant shook his head. "That ship might have been here for years—probably has, since none of us can

place it. The crew may be there, but, I fear, not alive. It seems unlikely that this craft has been registered

in the lifetime of any of us. I doubt that it would have remained here unless it were disabled; but you must

all have realized by now that it holds probably our only chance of life. Even if it won't fly, there may be a

transmitter in repair. We had better investigate."

The men followed the captain as he took a long, slow leap down the slope. Little enthusiasm showed

in the faces behind the helmet masks; even young Preble had accepted the fact that death was almost

inevitable. At another time, they might have been eager and curious, even in the face of a spectacle as

depressing as a derelict usually is; now they merely followed silently. Here, probably, a similar group of

men had, no one knew how long ago, faced a fate identical to theirs; and they were about to see what

had befallen those others. No one saw humor in the situation, but a wry smile was twisting more than one

face as the group stopped beneath the circular entrance port. More than one thought of the possible irony

of their being taken for a rescue crew.

Grant looked at the port, twenty-five feet above their heads. Any of them could easily have jumped

to it; but even that effort was not necessary, for a row of niches, eight inches square and two deep,

provided a ladder to the rim. It was possible to cling to them even on the lower curve of the hull, for they

were deeply grooved around the inside edges. The captain found that his gauntlets could grip easily, and

he made his way up the wall of metal, the others watching from below. Arriving at the port, he found that

the niches formed a circle around it, and other rows of them extended over the hull in different directions.

It was at the entrance, however, that he met the first of the many irregularities.

The others saw him reach the port, and stop as though looking around. Then he traveled entirely

around it, stopped again, and began feeling the mirrorlike metal with his gloved hands. Finally he called

out: "Cray, could you come up here, please? If anyone can find the opening mechanism, you should."

The engineer remained exactly where he was.

"Why should there be any?" he asked. "The only reason we use it on our ships is habit; if the door

opens inward, atmospheric pressure will hold it better than any lock. Try pushing; if the inner door is

sealed, you shouldn't have much trouble—the lock chamber will be exhausted, probably."

Grant got a grip near the edge of the door, and pushed.

There was no result. He moved part way around the rim and tried again, with the same lack of

success. After testing at several more points, he spoke again:

"No luck. I can't even tell which side the hinge is on, or even if there is a hinge. Cray, you and a

couple of others had better come up and give a hand at pushing; maybe there's a trace of air in the inner

chamber."

Cray grunted, "If there's anywhere near an atmos-phere's pressure, it'll take tons to budge the

door—it's twelve feet across." But this time he began to climb the bull. Royden, probably the most

powerful one present, and a chemist named Stevenson followed him. The four men grouped themselves

about the forward edge of the port, their feet braced on the door itself and hands firmly gripping the

climbing niches; and all four tensed their bodies and heaved. The door still refused to budge. They rested

a moment, and followed Grant to the opposite side of the metal disk.

This time their efforts produced results. The pressure on the other side of the valve must have been

only a few millimeters of mercury; enough to give four or five hundred pounds' resistance to an outside

thrust at the edge opposite the hinge. When the door opened a crack, that pressure vanished almost

instantly, and the four men shot feet first through the suddenly yawning opening. Grant and Stevenson

checked the plunge by catching the edge of the port frame; the other two disappeared into the inner

darkness, and an instant later the shock of their impact upon some hard surface was felt by those

touch-ing the hull.

The captain and the chemist dropped to the floor of the lock and entered; Preble leaped for the open

door, followed by Sorrell and McEachern. All three judged accurately, sailing through the opening,

checking their flight against the ceiling, and landing feet down on the floor, where they found the others

standing with belt lights in their hands. The sun was on the far side of the ship, and the chamber was

lighted dimly by reflection from the rocks outside; but the corridors of the vessel themselves must be

dark.

The inner valve of the air lock was open—and had apparently been so from the beginning. Cray and

Royden had shot through it, and been brought up against the far-ther wall of a corridor running parallel to

the ship's long axis. They were both visible, standing back to back, sweep-ing the corridor in both

directions with their lights. Grant took a step that carried him over to them, motioning the others to remain

where they were, and added his light to those already in action.

To the right, as one entered it, the corridor extended almost to the near end of the ship—the bow, as

the men thought of it for no good reason, in another direction, it ran about ten yards and opened into a

large chamber which, if this craft resembled the Giansar as closely within as it did without, was probably

the control room. At least, it was just about amidships. Smaller doors opened at intervals along the

hallway; some were open, the majority were closed. Nothing moved anywhere.

"Come on," said Grant finally. He walked toward the central room, and paused on the threshold, the

others at his heels. The floor they were walking on continued in the form of a catwalk; the chamber they

were entering occupied the full interior of the hull at this point. It was brightly lighted, for it was this

compartment that possess-ed the six great view ports, equally spaced around its walls, and the sun shone

brightly through these. The men extinguished their own lights. Cray looked about him, and shook his head

slowly.

"I still think I must be dreaming, and about to wake up on our own ship," he remarked. "This looks

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Hal Clement - Technical Error

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