Eden (8 page)

"The reactor…" the Chemist began, but the Engineer grimaced.

"The reactor is another matter. We'll get to the reactor. First we need current. Without current we can do nothing. The leak in the cooling system can be fixed in five minutes, by spot-welding. But for that, too, I need current."

"You're going to work on the machinery … now?" asked the Physicist, hope in his voice.

"Yes. We'll decide on the sequence of repairs—I've already spoken to the Captain about that. First we need at least one working unit. Of course, we'll have to risk reactivating the unit without atomic energy. God knows how! With a capstan arrangement, perhaps… I have no idea how long the electronic controls were out, or what's going on in the pile."

"The neutron irises can function independently," said the Physicist. "The pile automatically went into idle. Of course, too high a temperature, if the cooling system went, may have…"

"Wonderful! The neutron irises are fine, but the pile may have melted!"

They argued, drawing diagrams in the sand with their fingers, until the Doctor stuck his head out of the tunnel entrance and called to them. They jumped to their feet.

"Well, what did you learn?"

"Not very much in one respect, but in another quite a lot," replied the Doctor, who looked peculiar, only his head showing above the ground as he spoke. "I'm still not sure whether it's one creature or two. In any case it's an animal. It possesses two circulatory systems, but they're not entirely separate. The big creature—the carrier—seems to have traveled by hopping or striding."

"There's a big difference," said the Engineer.

"True," the Doctor agreed. "As for the hump, it turned out to contain the digestive tract."

"A stomach on its back?"

"That wasn't its back. When the current hit it, it fell belly-up."

"Then the smaller creature was like a rider," the Engineer said.

"Yes, in a sense it rode the carrier piggyback. Or not piggyback," the Doctor corrected himself. "More likely, it sat inside the larger body—there's a pouchlike nest there. The only thing to which I can compare it is a kangaroo's pouch, but the similarity is very slight and nonfunctional."

"And you're assuming that this was an intelligent creature?" said the Physicist.

"It had to be intelligent to open and shut doors, not to mention starting the generator," said the Doctor, for some reason remaining in the tunnel. "The only problem is that it has no nervous system in our sense of the word."

"How's that?!" The Cyberneticist jumped up.

"There are organs there," the Doctor went on, "whose purpose I can't even begin to fathom. There's a spinal cord, but in the cranium—a tiny cranium—there's no brain. There
is
something there, but any anatomist would laugh at me if I told him it was a brain… A few glands, but they appear to be lymphatic—while near the lungs, and the creature has three lungs, I discovered the damnedest thing. Something I didn't like at all. I put it in alcohol—you can see it later.

"But now we have more urgent work. The engine room looks like a slaughterhouse. Everything will have to be taken out and buried, and since it's warm in the ship, haste is definitely advisable. You can cover your faces; the smell is not that bad, but with so much raw flesh…"

"You're joking?" the Physicist said.

"No."

Only now did the Doctor step out of the tunnel. His rubber apron and white smock were completely soaked in red.

"I'm sorry, the job might make you sick, but it has to be done. Come."

The gravedigging, as the Chemist referred to it, took them until the late afternoon. Working half naked to avoid staining their suits, they carried the dreadful stuff with whatever was at hand—buckets, litters—and buried the remains two hundred paces from the ship, at the top of the knoll; notwithstanding the Captain's plea to conserve water, they used five pails of it to wash themselves afterward. The creature's blood, before it coagulated, resembled that of humans, but then it turned orange and became powdery.

The weary crew stretched themselves out beside the ship in the setting sun. No one had an appetite, so they only drank a little coffee or water, then dozed off, one by one, without discussing how to begin the repair work. When they awoke, it was already dark. Again they had to go down to the storeroom for provisions, open cans, light a stove, cook, eat, and wash dishes. At midnight they decided, since everyone felt sufficiently rested, not to sleep but to begin tackling the repairs.

Their hearts beat faster as they removed the plastic and metal debris from the generator cover, using crowbars when necessary. They spent hours digging through rubble in search of missing parts, until finally the auxiliary generator was put in working order; they replaced the shattered socket with a new one, and the Engineer fixed the air compressor, resorting to a trick as simple as it was primitive: since there were not enough spare blades, he simply removed every other blade. The motor would operate with reduced efficiency, but it would operate. At three in the morning the Captain told them to stop.

"We'll have to go on more expeditions," he said, "to replenish our water supply, and for other reasons as well. So we should maintain our normal sleeping pattern. Let's sleep until dawn and then get to work again."

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. In the morning nobody expressed any desire to go up outside; everyone was anxious to get on with the repairs. The Engineer had by now put together a basic tool set, so there was no need to go running off to all the cabins in search of a wrench.

First they checked the distributor, which was so full of short circuits that they practically had to rebuild it from scratch, cannibalizing other broken units for parts. Then they set about getting the generator to start properly. The plan that the Engineer had decided on was risky: to turn the dynamos using as a turbine an air compressor driven by an oxygen cylinder. Under normal conditions the emergency unit would have been activated by high-pressure water vapor from the reactor, since the reactor, as the heart of the ship, was the most protected part. But that, with the total destruction of the circuits, was now entirely out of the question. So they would have to use their reserve oxygen. But this was not the desperate measure it might seem to be, because they were counting on being able to fill the tanks with atmospheric oxygen once the engine room was working. There was no other way: to activate the atomic pile without electricity would have been madness. But the Engineer, though he mentioned it to no one, was prepared to take even this step, if the oxygen plan failed—because it was possible that the compressed gas would run out before the pile was activated.

The Doctor, standing in a tiny gallery directly beneath the engine-room platform, called out the falling pressure readings on the oxygen manometers, while the other five men worked above him feverishly. The Physicist was stationed at a control board so makeshift that any Earth-based technician would have gasped in horror. The Engineer hung upside down beneath the generator ring, black with grease, fastening the contact brushes. And the Captain and the Cyberneticist watched the dial of the neutron counter, while the Chemist rushed back and forth like a messenger boy, delivering tools.

The oxygen hissed, and the air compressor made angry noises, rattling, because the rotor the Engineer had jury-rigged was poorly balanced. The RPM of the generator increased, and its wail went up in pitch. The lights suspended by cables from the ceiling now emitted a powerful white glare.

"Two hundred and eighteen, two hundred and two, one hundred and ninety-five," came the muffled voice of the invisible Doctor.

The Engineer crawled out from under the dynamo, wiping the grease and sweat from his unshaven face. "Ready," he panted. His hands trembled from exertion.

"I'm switching on the first one," the Physicist said.

"One hundred and seventy, one hundred and sixty-three, one hundred and sixty," the Doctor continued, raising his voice to be heard over the whine. The dynamo was now producing current for the reactor and with each second required more oxygen to maintain its RPM.

"Full load!" groaned the Engineer, watching the dials.

"All right!" said the Physicist in a strangled voice, and, crouching as if in anticipation of a blow, he pressed the black handles with both hands.

The Captain was gripping his arm harder, without realizing it. They stared as all the pointers rapidly rose toward the vertical: the one indicating neutron flux, the one indicating isotope contamination, and the thermopile. The dynamo howled, sparks flew from under the rings, but inside the pile, behind the thick walls of steel, there was silence. Those indicators did not move. Suddenly the Physicist saw them blur. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them saw that they were in working position.

"We did it!" he shouted, and began to sob, still clutching both handles. Suddenly he felt very weak. He had been expecting an explosion the whole time.

"The indicators must have jammed," the Captain said calmly, apparently unaware of the Physicist's emotion. But he spoke with difficulty—his jaws were still tightly clenched.

"Ninety, eighty-one, seventy-two…" the Doctor intoned.

"Now!" cried the Engineer, and with a gloved hand pulled the main switch. The generator groaned, slowed. The Engineer rushed to the air compressor and closed both intake valves.

"Forty-six, forty-six, forty-six," the Doctor repeated.

The turbine was no longer taking oxygen from the tank. The lights dimmed; it grew darker in the room.

"Forty-six, forty-six…" the Doctor intoned from under the platform. Suddenly the lights blazed. The dynamo now barely turned, but there was current; all the dials showed current.

"Forty-six … forty six…" repeated the Doctor, who, in the steel well of the gallery, knew nothing of what was going on. The Physicist sat down on the floor and covered his face with his hands. There was now almost total silence. The generator rumbled slightly as it ground slowly to a halt; that was all.

"The leakage?" asked the Captain.

"Normal," replied the Cyberneticist. "The robot must have managed to seal the pile before it shorted." He spoke dryly, but everyone knew how proud he was of the robot. He clasped his hands to keep them from trembling.

"Forty-six…" intoned the Doctor.

"Enough!" the Captain shouted into the steel well. "It's no longer necessary. The pile is producing current!"

After a moment the Doctor's pale face and dark beard appeared below them. "Really?" he asked, then broke into a noiseless laugh. As the men stared at the dials, he clambered up from the gallery and sat down next to the Physicist. Like the others, he watched the pointers all in working position. "Do you know what?" he said finally, in a youthful voice. Everybody looked at him, as if waking up. "I've never been so happy," he whispered and turned away.

Just before nightfall the Captain went out on top with the Engineer to get a breath of fresh air. They sat down on a bank of upturned earth and fixed their eyes on the last visible sliver of the ruby-red solar disk.

"I wouldn't have believed it," murmured the Engineer.

"Nor I."

"That pile—they built it well."

"Solid Earth workmanship."

They said nothing for a while.

"It's a good start," said the Captain.

"Yes, but we've only done about a hundredth of what has to be done in order for the…"

"I know," the Captain replied calmly.

"And we still don't know if…"

"Yes, the steering nozzles, the whole lower deck."

"But we'll do it."

"Yes."

The Engineer's eyes stopped on a long mound at the top of the knoll: the place where they had buried the creature. "I completely forgot…" he said in amazement. "It's as if it happened a year ago."

"I haven't. I've been thinking about it—about the creature—the whole time. Because of what the Doctor found in its lungs."

"What did he find?"

"A needle."

"A needle?!"

"Or not a needle—you can see for yourself. It's in a jar in the library. A piece of thin tubing, broken, with a sharp end, almost like something used to give injections."

The Engineer stood up. "It's curious, but somehow I don't find that interesting. I feel now like someone at a foreign airport, at a stopover of a few minutes, who mixes with the local crowd and sees strange, incomprehensible things but knows that he doesn't belong to the place and that soon he will be flying away. So to him it's all distant, indifferent."

"It won't be that soon…"

"I know, but that's how I feel."

"Let's go back. We have to replace the stopgaps before we turn in. And install proper fuses. Then the pile can be put on idle."

"All right, let's go."

They spent the night in the ship, leaving the small lights on. Every so often one of the men would wake up, check with sleepy eyes to see if the bulbs were glowing, and fall asleep again, reassured.

In the morning, the first piece of equipment to be mobilized was the cleaning robot. Every quarter of an hour or so, it became helplessly stuck in the wreckage that obstructed everything. The Cyberneticist, armed with tools, would run after it, extricate it from the rubbish, removing pieces that had proved too large for the neck of the grasper, then start the thing up again. The robot shuffled forward, took on the next heap of wreckage, and soon got stuck again. After breakfast the Doctor tried out his shaver. The result was a man in a bronze mask: the forehead and skin around the eyes were tanned, but the lower part of the face was white. Everyone followed his example.

"We should feed ourselves better," concluded the Chemist, surprised by his gaunt reflection in the mirror.

"What do you say to fresh game?" proposed the Cyberneticist.

The Chemist shuddered.

"No, thank you. Don't even mention it. I had nightmares about that … that…"

"That animal?"

"Animal or…"

"What else could it have been?"

"Can an animal start a generator?"

Everyone was listening to the conversation.