Hal Clement - Mission of Gravity

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MISSION OF GRAVITY

A PYRAMID BOOK

Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc.

U.S.A. and Great Britain Reprinted from Astounding Science Fiction

means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the Publisher,

except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Doubleday edition published January, 1954

Science Fiction Book Club edition published June, 1954

Pyramid edition published October, 1962 Third printing October, 1974

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

ISBN 0-515-03479-7 Printed in Canada

Pyramid Books are published by Pyramid Communications, Inc. Its trademarks, consisting of the word

"Pyramid" and the portrayal of a pyramid, are registered in the United States Patent Office.

Pyramid Communications, Inc.,

919 Third Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022

CONDITIONS OF SALE

"Any sale, lease, transfer or circulation of this book by way of trade or in quantities of more than one copy, without the original cover

bound thereon, will be construed by the Publisher as evidence that the parties to such transaction have illegal possession of the book,

and will subject them to claim by the Publisher and prosecution under the law."

CONTENTS

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 Chapter Page 
I  WINTER STORM 7 
II  THE FLYER 15 
III  OFF THE GROUND 24 
IV  BREAKDOWN 31 
V  MAPPING JOB 40 
VI  THE SLED 48 
VII  STONE DEFENSE 57 
VIII  CURE FOR ACROPHOBIA 66 
IX  OVER THE EDGE 77 
X  HOLLOW BOATS 87 
XI  EYE OF THE STORM 99 
XII  WIND RIDERS 107 
XIII  SLIP OF THE TONGUE 115 
XIV< THE TROUBLE WITH HOLLOW BOATS 125 
XV  HIGH GROUND 134 
XVI  VALLEY OF THE WIND 142 
XVII  ELEVATOR 150 
XVIII  MOUND BUILDERS 158 
XIX  NEW BARGAIN 167 
XX  FLIGHT OF THE "BREE" 171 
I: WINTER STORM
The wind came across the bay like something living. It tore the surface so thoroughly to shreds that it was hard to tell 
where liquid ended and atmosphere began; it tried to raise waves that would have swamped the Bree like a chip, and blew 
them into impalpable spray before they had risen a foot.
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The spray alone reached Barlennan, crouched high on the Bree's poop raft. His ship had long since been hauled safely

ashore. That had been done the moment he had been sure that he would stay here for the winter; but he could not help

feeling a little uneasy even so. Those waves were many times as high as any he had faced at sea, and somehow it was not

completely reassuring to reflect that the lack of weight which permitted them to rise so high would also prevent their doing

real damage if they did roll this far up the beach.

Barlennan was not particularly superstitious, but this close to the Rim of the World there was really no telling what could

happen. Even his crew, an unimaginative lot by any reckoning, showed occasional signs of uneasiness. There was bad luck

here, they muttered—whatever dwelt beyond the Rim and sent the fearful winter gales blasting thousands of miles into the

world might resent being disturbed. At every accident the muttering broke out anew, and accidents were frequent. The fact

that anyone is apt to make a misstep when he weighs about two and a quarter pounds instead of the five hundred and fifty

or so to which he has been used all his We seemed obvious to the commander; but apparently an education, or at least the

habit of logical thought, was needed to appreciate that.

Even Dondragmer, who should have known better . . . Barlennan's long body tensed and he almost roared an order before

he really took in what was going on two rafts away.

The mate had picked this moment, apparently, to check the stays of one of the masts, and had taken advantage of near-

weightlessness to rear almost his full length upward from the deck. It was still a fantastic sight to see him towering,

balanced precariously on his six rearmost legs, though most of the Bree's crew had become fairly used to such tricks; but

that was not what impressed Barlennan. At two pounds' weight, one held onto something or else was blown away by the

first breeze; and no one could hold onto anything with six walking legs. When that gale struck—but already no order could

be heard, even if the commander were to shriek his loudest. He had actually started to creep across the first buffer space

separating him from the scene of action when he saw that the mate had fastened a set of lines to his harness and to the deck,

and was almost as securely tied down as the mast he was working on.

Barlennan relaxed once more. He knew why Don had done it—it was a simple act of defiance to whatever was driving this

particular storm, and he was deliberately impressing his attitude on the crew. Good fellow, thought Barlennan, and 'turned

his attention once more to the bay.

No witness could have told precisely where the shore line now lay. A blinding whirl of white spray and nearly white sand

hid everything more than a hundred yards from the Bree in every direction; and now even the ship was growing difficult to

see as hard-driven droplets of methane struck bulletlike and smeared themselves over his eye shells. At least the deck under

his many feet was still rock-steady; light as it now was, the vessel did not seem prepared to blow away. It shouldn't, the

commander thought grimly, as he recalled the scores of cables now holding to deep-struck anchors and to the low trees that

dotted the beach. It shouldn't—but this would not be the first ship to disappear while venturing this near the Run. Maybe

his crew's suspicion of the Flyer had some justice. After all, that strange being had persuaded hi™ to remain for the winter,

and had somehow done it without promising any protection to ship or crew. Still, if the Flyer wanted to destroy them, he

could certainly do so more easily and certainly than by arguing them into this trick. If that huge structure he rode should

get above the Bree even here where weight meant so little, there would be no more to be said. Barlennan turned his mind to

other matters; he had in full measure the normal Mesklinite horror of letting himself get even temporarily under anything

really solid.

The crew had long since taken shelter under the deck flaps—even the mate ceased work as the storm actually struck. They

were all present; Barlennan had counted the humps under the protecting fabric while he could still see the whole ship.

There were no hunters out, for no sailor had needed the Flyer's warning that a storm was approaching. None of them had

been more than five miles from the security of the ship for the last ten days, and five miles was no distance to travel in this

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weight.

They had plenty of supplies, of course; Barlennan was no fool himself, and did his best to employ none.

Still, fresh food was nice. He wondered how long this particular storm would keep them penned in; that was something the

signs did not tell, clearly as they heralded the approach of the disturbance. Perhaps the Flyer knew that. In any case, there

was nothing further to be done about the ship; he might as well talk to the strange creature. Barlennan still felt a faint thrill

of unbelief whenever he looked at the device the Flyer had given him, and never tired of assuring himself once more of its

powers.

It lay, under a small shelter flap of its own, on the poop raft beside him. It was an apparently solid block three inches long

and about half as high and wide. A transparent spot in the otherwise blank surface of one end looked like an eye, and

apparently functioned as one. The only other feature was a small, round hole in one of the long faces. The block was lying

with this face upward, and the "eye" end projecting slightly from under the shelter flap. The flap itself opened downwind,

of course, so that its fabric was now plastered tightly against the flat upper surface of the machine.

Barlennan worked an arm under the flap, groped around until he found the hole, and inserted his pincer. There was no

moving part, such as a switch or button, inside, but that did not bother him—he had never encountered such devices any

more than he had met thermal, photonic, or capacity-activated relays. He knew from experience that the fact of putting

anything opaque into that hole was somehow made known to the Flyer, and he knew that there was no point whatever in

his attempting to figure out how it was done. It would be, he sometimes reflected ruefully, something like teaching

navigation to a ten-day-old child. The intelligence might be there—it was comforting to think so, anyway—but some years

of background experience were lacking.

"Charles Lackland here." The machine spoke abruptly, cutting the train of thought. "That you, Barl?"

"This is Barlennan, Charles." The commander spoke the Flyer's language, in which he was gradually becoming proficient.

"Good to hear from you. Were we right about this little breeze?"

"It came at the time you predicted. Just a moment—yes, there is snow with it. I had not noticed. I see no dust as yet,

however."

"It will come. That volcano must have fed ten cubic miles of it into the air, and it's been spreading for days."

Barlennan made no direct reply to this. The volcano in question was still a point of contention between them, since it was

located in a part of Mesklin which, according to Barlennan's geographical background, did not exist.

"What I really wondered about, Charles, was how long this blow was going to last. I understand your people can see it

from above, and should know how big it is."

"Are you in trouble already? The winter's just starting— you have thousands of days before you can get out of here." "I

realize that. We have plenty of food, as far as quantity goes. However, we'd like something fresh occasionally, and it would

be nice to know in advance when we can send out a hunting party or two."

"I see. I'm afraid it will take some rather careful timing. I was not here last winter, but I understand that during that season

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the storms in this area are practically continuous. Have you ever been actually to the equator before?" "To the what?"

"To the—I guess it's what you mean when you talk of the Rim."

"No, I have never been this close, and don't see how anyone could get much closer. It seems to me that if we went much

farther out to sea we'd lose every last bit of our weight and go flying off into nowhere."

"If it's any comfort to you, you are wrong. If you kept going, your weight would start up again. You are on the equator

right now—the place where weight is least. That is why I am here. I begin to see why you don't want to believe there is

land very much farther north. I thought it might be language trouble when we talked of it before. Perhaps you have time

enough to describe to me now your ideas concerning the nature of the world. Or perhaps you have maps?"

"We have a Bowl here on the poop raft, of course. I'm afraid you wouldn't be able to see it now, since the sun has just set

and Esstes doesn't give light enough to help through these clouds. When the sun rises I'll show it to you. My flat maps

wouldn't be much good, since none of them covers enough territory to give a really good picture."

"Good enough. While we're waiting for sunrise could you give me some sort of verbal idea, though?"

"I'm not sure I know your language well enough yet, but I'll try.

"I was taught in school that Mesklin is a big, hollow bowl. The part where most people live is near the bottom, where there

is decent weight. The philosophers have an idea that weight is caused by the pull of a big, flat plate that Mesklin is sitting

on; the farther out we go toward the Rim, the less we weigh, since we're farther from the plate. What the plate is sitting on

no one knows; you hear a lot of queer beliefs on that subject from some of the less civilized races."

"I should think if your philosophers were right you'd be climbing uphill whenever you traveled away from the center, and

all the oceans would run to the lowest point," interjected Lackland. "Have you ever asked one of your philosophers that?"

"When I was a youngster I saw a picture of the whole thing. The teacher's diagram showed a lot of lines coming up from

the plate and bending in to meet right over the middle of Mesklin. They came through the bowl straight rather than

slantwise because of the curve; and the teacher said weight operated along the lines instead of straight down toward the

plate," returned the commander. "I didn't understand it fully, but it seemed to work. They said the theory was proved

because the surveyed distances on maps agreed with what they ought to be according to the theory. That I can understand,

and it seems a good point. If the shape weren't what they thought it was, the distances would certainly go haywire before

you got very far from your standard point."

"Quite right. I see your philosophers are quite well into geometry. What I don't see is why they haven't realized that there

are two shapes that would make the distances come out right. After all can't you see that the surface of Mesklin curves

downward? If your theory were true, the horizon would seem to be above you. How about that?"

"Oh, it is. That's why even the most primitive tribes know the world is bowl-shaped. It's just out here near the Rim that it

looks different. I expect it's something to do with the light After all, the sun rises and sets here even in summer, and it

wouldn't be surprising if things looked a little queer. Why, it even looks as though the—horizon, you called it?—was closer

to north and south than it is east and west. You can see a ship much farther away to the east or west. It's the light."

"Hmm. I find your point a little difficult to answer at the moment." Barlennan was not sufficiently familiar with the Flyer's

speech to detect such a thing as a note of amusement in his voice. "I have never been on the surface far from the—

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er—Rim—and never can be, personally. I didn't realize that things looked as you describe, and I can't see why they should,

at the moment. J hope to see it when you take that radio-vision set on our little errand."

"I shall be delighted to hear your explanation of why our philosophers are wrong," Barlennan answered politely. "When

you are prepared to give it, of course. In the meantime, I am still somewhat curious as to whether you might be able to tell

me when there will be a break in this storm."

"It will take a few minutes to get a report from the station on Toorey. Suppose I call you back about sunrise. I can give you

the weather forecast, and there'll be light enough for you to show me your Bowl. All right?"

"That will be excellent. I will wait." Barlennan crouched where he was beside the radio while the storm shrieked on around

him. The pellets of methane that splattered against his armored back failed to bother him—they hit a lot harder in the high

latitudes. Occasionally he stirred to push away the fine drift of ammonia that kept accumulating on the raft, but even that

was only a minor annoyance—at least, so far. Toward midwinter, in five or six thousand days, the stuff would be melting

in -full sunlight, and rather shortly thereafter would be freezing again. The main idea was to get the liquid away from the

vessel or vice versa before the second freeze, or Barlennan's crew would be chipping a couple of hundred rafts clear of the

beach. The Bree was no river boat, but a full-sized oceangoing ship.

It took the Flyer only the promised few minutes to get the required information, and his voice sounded once more from the

tiny speaker as the clouds over the bay lightened with the rising sun.

"I'm afraid I was right, Barl. There is no letup in sight. Practically the whole northern hemisphere—which doesn't mean a

'thing to you—is boiling off its icecap. I understand the storms in general last all winter. The fact that they come separately

in the higher southern latitudes is because they get broken up into very small cells by Coriolis deflection as they get away

from the equator."

"By what?"

"By the same force that makes any projectile you throw swerve so noticeably to the left—at least, while I've never seen it

under your conditions, it would practically have to on this planet."

"What is 'throw'?"

"My gosh, we haven't used that word, have we? Well, I've

seen you jump—no, by gosh, I haven't either!—when you were up visiting at my shelter. Do you remember that word?"

"No."

"Well, 'throw' is when you take some other object—pick it up—and push it hard away from you so that it travels some

distance before striking the ground!"

"We don't do that up in reasonable countries. There are lots of things we can do here which are either impossible or very

dangerous there. If I were to 'throw' something at home, it might very well land on someone—probably me."

"Come to think of it, that might be bad. Three G's here at the equator is bad enough; you have nearly seven hundred at the

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poles. Still, if you could find something small enough so 'that your muscles could throw it, why couldn't you catch it again,

or at least resist its impact?"

"I find the situation hard to picture, but I think I know the answer. There isn't time. If something is let go—thrown or

not—it hits the ground before anything can be done about it. Picking up and carrying is one thing; crawling is one thing;

throwing and—jumping?—are entirely different matters."

"I see—I guess. We sort of took for granted that you'd have a reaction time commensurate with your gravity, but I can see

that's just man-centered thinking. I guess I get it."

"What I could understand of your talk sounded reasonable. It is certainly evident that we are different; we will probably

never fully realize just how different. At least we are enough alike to talk together—and make what I hope will be a

mutually profitable agreement."

"I am sure it will be. Incidentally, in furtherance of it you will have to give me an idea of the places you want to go, and I

will have to point out on your maps the place where I want you to go. Could we look at that Bowl of yours now? There is

light enough for this vision set."

"Certainly. The Bowl is set in the deck and cannot be moved; I will have to move the machine so that you can see it. Wait a

moment."

Barlennan inched across the raft to a spot that was covered by a smaller flap, clinging to deck cleats as he went. He pulled

back and stowed the flap, exposing a clear spot on the deck; then he returned, made four lines fast about the radio, secured

them to strategically placed cleats, removed the radio's cover, and began to work it across the deck. It weighed more than

he did by quite a margin, though fts linear dimensions were smaller, but he was taking no chances of having it blown away.

The storm had not eased in the least, and the deck itself was quivering occasionally. With the eye -end of the set almost to

the Bowl, he propped the other

end up with spars so that the Flyer could look downward. Then he himself moved to the other side of the Bowl and began

his exposition.

Lackland had to admit that the map which the Bowl contained was logically constructed and, as far as it went, accurate. Its

curvature matched that of the planet quite closely, as he had expected—the major error being that it was concave, in

conformity with the natives' ideas about the shape of their world. It was about six inches across and roughly one and a

quarter deep-at the center. The whole map was protected by a transparent cover—probably of ice, Lackland guessed—set

flush with the deck. This interfered somewhat with Barlennan's attempts to point out details, but could not have been

removed without letting the Bowl fill with ammonia snow in moments. The stuff was piling up wherever it found shelter

from the wind. The beach was staying relatively clear, but both Lackland and Barlennan could imagine what was

happening on the other side of the hills that paralleled it on the south. The latter was secretly glad he was a sailor. Land

travel in this region would not be fun for some thousands of days.

"I have tried to keep my charts up to date," he said as he settled down opposite the Flyer's proxy. "I haven't attempted to

make any changes in the Bowl, though, because the new regions we mapped on the way up were not extensive enough to

show. There is actually little I can show you in detail, but you wanted a general idea of where I planned to go when we

could get out of here.

"Well, actually I don't care greatly. I can buy and sell anywhere, and at the moment I have little aboard but food. I won't

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have much of that by the time winter is over, either; so I had planned, since our talk, to cruise for a time around the low-

weight areas and pick up plant products which can be obtained here—materials that are valued by the people farther south

because of their effect on the taste of food."

"Spices?"

"If that is the word for such products, yes. I have carried them before, and rather like them—you can get good profit from a

single shipload, as with most commodities whose value depends less on their actual usefulness than on their rarity."

"I take it, then, that once you have loaded here you don't particularly care where you go?"

"That is right. I understand that your errand will carry us close to the Center, which is fine—the farther south we go, the

higher the prices I can get; and the extra length of the journey should not be much more dangerous, since you will be

helping us as you agreed."

"Right. That is excellent—though I wish we had been able to find something we could give you in actual payment, so that

you would not feel the need to take time in spice-gathering."

"Well, we have to eat. You say your bodies, and hence your foods, are made of very different substances from ours, so we

can't use your foodstuffs. Frankly, I can't think of any desirable raw metal or similar material that I couldn't get far more

easily in any quantity I wanted. My favorite idea is still that we get some of your machines, but you say that they would

have to be built anew to function under our conditions. It seems that the agreement we reached is the best that is possible,

under those circumstances."

"True enough. Even this radio was built specifically for this job, and you could not repair it—your people, unless I am

greatly mistaken, don't have the tools. However, during the journey we can talk of this again; perhaps the things we learn

of each other will open up other and better possibilities."

"I am sure 'they will," Barlennan answered politely.

He did not, of course, mention the possibility that his own plans might succeed. The Flyer would hardly have approved.

II: THE FLYER

The Flyer's forecast was sound; some four hundred days passed before the storm let up noticeably. Five times during that

period the Flyer spoke to Barlennan on the radio, always opening with a brief weather forecast and continuing a more

general conversation for a day or two each time. Barlennan had noticed earlier, when he had been learning the strange

creature's language and paying personal visits to its outpost in the "Hill" near the bay, that it seemed to have a strangely

regular life cycle; he found he could count on finding the Flyer sleeping or eating at quite predictable times, which

seemed to have a cycle of about eighty days. Barlennan was no philosopher—he had at least his share of the common

tendency to regard them as impractical dreamers—and he simply shrugged this fact off as something pertaining to a weird

but admittedly interesting creature. There was nothing in the Mesklinite background that would enable him to deduce the

existence of a world that took some eighty times as long as his own to rotate 0n its axis.

Lackland's fifth call was different from the others, and more welcome for several reasons. The difference was due partly to

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the fact that it was off schedule; its pleasant nature to the fact that at last there was a favorable weather forecast.

"Barl" The Flyer did not bother with preliminaries—he knew that the Mesklinite was always within sound of the radio.

"The station on Toorey called a few minutes ago. There is a relatively clear area moving toward us. He was not sure just

what the winds would be, but he can see the ground through it, so visibility ought to be fair. If your hunters want to go out I

should say that they wouldn't be blown away, provided they wait until the clouds have been gone for twenty or thirty days.

For a hundred days or so after that we should have very good weather indeed. They'll tell me in plenty of time to get your

people back to the ship."

"But how will they get your warning? If I send this radio with them I won't be able to talk to you about our regular

business, and if I don't, I don't see—"

"I've been thinking of that," interrupted Lackland. "I think you'd better come up here as soon as the wind drops sufficiently.

I can give you another set—perhaps it would be better if you had several. I gather that the journey you will be taking for us

will be dangerous, and I know for myself it will be long enough. Thirty-odd thousand miles as the crow flies, and I can't

yet guess how far by ship and overland."

Lackland's simile occasioned a delay; Barlennan wanted to know what a crow was, and also flying. The first was the easier

to get across. Flying for a living creature, under its own power, was harder for him to imagine than throwing—and the

thought was more terrifying. He had regarded Lack-land's proven ability to travel through the air as something so alien that

it did not really strike home to him. Lackland saw this, partly.

"There's another point I want to take up with you," he said. "As soon as it's clear enough to land safely, they're bringing

down a crawler. Maybe watching the rocket land will get you a little more used to the whole flying idea."

"Perhaps," Barlennan answered hesitantly. "I'm not sure I want to see your rocket land. I did once before, you know,

and—well, I'd not want one of the crew to be there at the time."

"Why not? Do you think they'd be scared too much to be useful?"

"No." The Mesklinite answered quite frankly. "I don't want one of them to see me as scared as I'm likely to be."

"You surprise me, Commander." Lackland tried to give his words in a jocular tone. "However, I understand your feelings,

and I assure you that the rocket will not pass above you. If you will wait right next to .the wall of my dome I will direct its

pilot by radio to make sure of that."

"But how close to overhead will it come?"

"A good distance sideways, I promise. That's for my own safety as well as your comfort. To land on this world, even here

at the equator, it will be necessary for him to be using a pretty potent blast. I don't want it hitting my dome, I can assure

you."

"All right. I will come. As you say, it would be nice to have more radios. What is this 'crawler' of which you speak?"

"It is a machine which will carry me about on land as your ship does at sea. You will see in a few days, or in a few hours at

most."

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Barlennan let the new word pass without question, since the remark was clear enough anyway. "I will come, and will see,"

he agreed.

The Flyer's friends on Mesklin's inner moon had prophesied correctly. The commander, crouched on his poop, counted

only ten sunrises before a lightening of the murk and lessening of the wind gave their usual warning of the approaching eye

of the storm. From his own experience he was willing to believe, as the Flyer had said, that the calm period would last one

or two hundred days.

With a whistle that would have torn Lackland's eardrums had he been able to hear such a high frequency the commander

summoned the attention of his crew and began to issue orders.

"There will be two hunting parties made up at once. Don-dragmer will head one, Merkoos the other; each will take nine

men of his own choosing. I will remain on the ship to coordinate, for the Flyer is going to give us more of his talking

machines. I will go to the Flyer's Hill as soon as the sky is clear to get them; they, as well as other things he wants, are

being brought down from Above by his friends, therefore all crew members will remain near the ship until I return. Plan

for departure thirty days after I leave."

"Sir, is it wise for you to leave the ship so early? The wind will still be high." The mate was too good a friend for the

question to be impertinent, though some commanders would have resented any such reflection on their judgment.

Barlennan waved his pincers in a manner denoting a smile.

"You are quite right. However, I want to save the time, and the Flyer's Hall is only a mile away." "But-"

"Furthermore it is downwind. We have many miles of line in the lockers; I will have, two bent to my harness, and two of

the men—Terblannenland Hars, I think, under your supervision, Don—will pay those lines out through the bitts as I go. I

may—probably will—lose my footing, but if the wind were able to get such a grip on me as to break good sea cord, the

Bree would be miles inland by now."

"But even losing your footing—suppose you were to be lifted into the air—" Dondragmer was still deeply troubled, and the

thought he had uttered gave even his commander pause for an instant.

"Falling—yes—but remember that we are near the Edge— at it, the Flyer says, and I can believe him when I look north

from the top of his Hill. As some of you have found, a fall means nothing here."

"But you ordered that we should act as though we had normal weight, so that no habits might be formed that would be

dangerous when we returned to a livable land."

"Quite true. This will be no habit, since in any reasonable place no wind could pick me up. Anyway, that is what we do.

Let Terblannen and Hars check the lines—no, check them yourself. It will take long enough.

"That is all for the present. The watch under shelter may rest. The watch on deck will check anchors and lashings."

Dondragmer, who had the latter watch, took the order as a dismissal and proceeded to carry it out in his usual efficient

manner. He also set men to work cleaning snow from the spaces between rafts, having seen as clearly as his captain the

possible consequences of a thaw followed by a freeze. Barlennan himself relaxed, wondering sadly just which ancestor was

responsible for his habit of talking himself into situations that were both unpleasant to face and impossible to back out of

gracefully.

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MISSIONOFGRAVITYMISSIONOFGRAVITYAPYRAMIDBOOKPublishedbyarrangementwithDoubleday&Company,Inc.Copyright,1954,byDoubleday&Company,Inc.Copyright,1953,byStreet&SmithPublications,Inc.IntheU.S.A.andGreatBritainReprintedfromAstoundingScienceFictionAllrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproducedinanyform...

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Hal Clement - Mission of Gravity

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