Hal Clement - Iceworld

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Iceworld by Hal Clement

Scanned by BW-SciFi

A LANCER BOOK

ICEWORLD

ICEWORLD originally appeared In ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

as a three-part serial copyrighted by Street and Smith Publications,

Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

LANCER BOOKS, INC. • 1560 BROADWAY

NEW YORK, N.Y. 10036

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 imag-

ination 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 hap-

pened. 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, in-

hospitable, 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.

Roger Wing, for example, would probably have been slightly shocked at Ken's

attitude. He was strongly in favor of Earth, at least the rather small portion which he

knew. He had some justification, for the country around Lake Pend' Oreille is very

much worth knowing, particularly in spring and summer. The first glimpse of the lake

each June was something to look forward to; all the way up the highway from Hayden

Lake the children maintained shrill rivalry over who would be the first to sight the Ear

Drop. Even with only four of them this year, the noise was nearly as great as usual;

for the absent Donald had never contributed too much to the racket. Roger, left the

senior member by his older brother's absence, was determined to make the most of the

opportunity; the more so since it was to last only another forty miles or so. Don was

expected to fly to Sandpoint with a friend and meet the family there.

It was, all in all, a hilarious group; and the parents in the front seat had only

moderate success in maintaining order. However, the northbound highway from

Coeur d'Alene is a good one, and the disturbance in the rear was never really

dangerous. The principal interruption occurred when the right rear tire of the station

wagon went flat near Cocolalla. John Wing was a little slow in stopping the heavily

loaded vehicle, and Roger got the first whiff of the sulfurous odor of burning rubber.

He was to became much more familiar with sulfur during the course of the summer.

The children were a little quieter after that—the expression on their father's face

suggested that his patience might not have much farther to go; but the journey was

never really silent. The causeway across the tip of Pend' Oreille was greeted with

ringing cheers, which ceased only momentarily while Mr. Wing purchased a new tire

in Sandpoint. Then they proceeded to the small airport at the edge of the town, and the

noise increased again as the youngsters caught sight of their oldest brother standing

beside a Cub on the grass parking area.

He was tall, and rather slim, with dark hair and eyes and a narrow face like his

father's. Roger, who had grown considerably since the last September, discovered to

his chagrin that Donald still overtopped him by half a head; but he did not let the

annoyance lessen the exuberance of his greeting. Don shook hands with his father and

Roger, kissed his mother and sisters, and swung six-year-old Billy to his shoulder.

No, the flight from Missoula had not been eventful. Yes, his final grades had been

good, if not outstanding. No, he had no luggage except the little handbag beside

him—a Cub has sharp load limitations. They might as well continue their journey,

and he could answer questions on the way. He tossed the bag at Roger and moved

toward the station wagon, Billy still on his shoulder; and with the crowd settled more

or less comfortably, they rolled on.

North from Sandpoint; east fork to Kootenai; around the north end of the question-

mark-shaped lake to Hope, and on to Clark Fork. There the car was left, in a building

that partook of the characteristics of storehouse and garage.

Don and Roger disappeared, and returned with an imposing array of pack and

saddle horses. These were accoutered with a speed which suggested the maneuver

was not a new one to the family; and the Wings, waving farewell to their

acquaintances who had gathered to see them off, headed northward into the woods.

Donald grinned at his father as the town vanished behind them.

"How many campers do you suppose we'll have this year?"

"It's hard to say. Most of the folks who know us have come to mind their own

business pretty well, and I didn't notice any strangers in the town; but prospectors

seem to turn up when least expected. I don't mind honest prospecting—it lends

protective coloration. It's the ones who expect to benefit from our 'strike' that bother

me. You boys will have to scout as usual—though I may want Don with me this time.

If you've really gotten something out of freshman chemistry, Son, you may be able to

help solve a problem or two. If he does go with me, Roger, you'll have a bigger

responsibility than usual." The boy nodded, eyes shining.

He had only gradually come to realize the tremendous difference between the way

his family and those of his schoolmates spent their summers. At first, the tales of trips

to ranches, seashores, and mountains had aroused his envy; then he had begun to

boast of his own mountain trips. When he finally realized the atmosphere of secrecy

that surrounded certain aspects of those trips, his pride had exceeded his powers of

restraint—until he had realized that his schoolmates simply didn't believe that his

father had a "secret mine in the mountains." Pique had silenced his boasts for a while

and by the time he had developed a convincing argument he had realized that silence

might be better for all concerned.

That had been the spring when he was ten years old. His father had somehow heard

about the whole story, and seemed pleased for some reason; that summer he had

extended to Roger the responsibility which Don had been carrying alone, of scouting

the territory around their summer home before and during Mr. Wing's trips into the

mountains. The find, their father had told him, was his own secret; and for reasons he

would explain later it must be kept that way.

That summer and the two following he had continued to make his trips alone; now

it looked as though there might be a change. Don, Roger knew, had been told a little

just before leaving for college the preceding fall; his courses had been partly selected

on the basis of that information—chemistry, astronomy and mathematics. The first

seemed logical, but Roger failed to see the point of the others. Certainly astronomy

seemed of doubtful value in anything connected with mining.

Still, he would find that out in due course; perhaps sooner than Don had, since their

father seemed to be letting down the bars. His problem for the moment was to figure

out a way by which one boy could keep himself informed about every person who

came within a mile of the summer house in any direction—and farther than that in

some directions. Roger, of course, knew the topography of the neighborhood quite

well; but he began right then planning a series of exploration jaunts to make more

certain of some points. He was a young man who took things seriously, if they were

presented to him in that light.

Like anyone else of his own age, however, he tended even more strongly to fly off

on the interests of the moment; and he was easily aroused from his reverie when Edie

caught him in the face with a fir cone slyly tossed over her shoulder. She burst into

laughter as he looked around fruitlessly for a means of retaliation—there seemed to be

no more cones within reach, and the trail at this point was too narrow for the horses to

travel side by side. The pack horse the girl was leading formed, for the time being, an

impassable barrier.

"Why don't you wake up and join the party?" Edith finally gurgled out between

spasms of laughter. "You looked as though you'd just remembered leaving your

favorite fishpole in Spokane!" Roger assumed a mantle of superiority.

"Of course, you girls have nothing to do between now and September," he said.

"There's a certain amount of men's work to be done, though, and I was deciding how

to go about it."

"Men's work?" The girl raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. "I know Dad will be

busy, but what's that to you?" She knew perfectly well what Roger's summer duties

were, but had reasons of her own for speaking as she did. "Does it take a man to stroll

around the house on sentry-go a couple of times a day?" Roger stiffened.

"It takes more than a girl to do a good job of it," he retorted. The words were

hardly out when he regretted them; but he had no time to think of a way out of the

corner into which he had talked himself.

"Evidence!" Edith responded quietly, and Roger mentally kicked himself. She had

been playing for just that. Family rules required that any statement made by a member

of the family be backed up with evidence if another member required it—a rule the

elder Wing had instituted, with considerable foresight. He was seldom caught by it

himself, being a thoughtful man by nature.

"You'll have to let me try, now," Edith remarked, "and you'll have to give me a fair

amount of teaching. To be really fair, you'll have to let Margie try, too—" The last

was an afterthought, uttered principally for its explosive effect. Roger almost left his

saddle, but before he succeeded in expressing himself a thought struck him. After all,

why couldn't the girls help? He could show them what he and Don had done in the

past, and they might very well have ideas of their own. Roger's masculine pride did

not blind him to the fact that girls in general, and his sisters in particular, did have

brains. Edie and Marge could both ride, neither was afraid of the woods, and all things

considered would probably make extremely useful assistants. Edith was so near to his

own age that he could not dismiss her as too young for the work, and even the eight-

year-old had at least sense enough to keep quiet when silence was needed and obey

orders when argument would be injudicious.

"All right. You can both try it." Roger brought his cogitation to an end. "Dad won't

mind, I guess, and Mother won't care if the work gets done. We'll have a conference

tonight."

The conversation shifted to other matters, and the caravan wound on up the river.

Two or three hours out of Clark Fork they crossed the stream and headed eastward

toward the Montana border; and there were still several hours of daylight remaining

when they reached the "summer cottage."

It was hardly a cottage. Built well up on a steep hillside, though still below the

timber line, it boasted enough rooms to house the Wing family without any fear what-

ever of crowding. It possessed a gasoline-powered electric plant, a more or less

limited supply of running water piped from a spring farther up the hill, and in general

bore witness to Mr. Wing's luck or skill in the prospecting which was supposed to be

the source of his income.

A short distance downhill from the dwelling was another building which combined

the functions of storehouse and stable. Both structures were solidly built, and had

never suffered serious damage from the Northwest winters. The foundation of the

house was part of the bedrock core of the mountain, and its walls were well insulated.

The family could easily have lived there the year round, and the parents had vague

plans of doing so once the children had all finished school.

The first floor consisted of a big room which did duty as dining room and parlor,

with a kitchen at one end and bedroom at the other. An open stair well by the kitchen

door went down to a basement, containing work benches cluttered with woodworking

and radio paraphernalia as well as the wherewithal for various games. The stair to the

second floor was at the other end; this was divided into six much smaller rooms, one

serving as bedroom for each of the children and the remaining one filled with the

various odd articles of furniture and bric-a-brac which are apt to find their way into a

spare room over a period of years.

The Wings dismounted by the porch which ran along the front of the dwelling, and

promptly dispersed to their various duties. Mrs. Wing and the girls unlocked the front

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IceworldbyHalClementScannedbyBW-SciFiALANCERBOOKICEWORLDCopyright©1953byHalClementICEWORLDoriginallyappearedInASTOUNDINGSCIENCEFICTIONasathree-partserialcopyrightedbyStreetandSmithPublications,Inc.AllrightsreservedPrintedintheU.S.A.LANCERBOOKS,INC.•1560BROADWAYNEWYORK,N.Y.100361SallmanKenhadneverbee...

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