Read Planet of Adventure Omnibus Online
Authors: Jack Vance
Planet of Adventure Omnibus (2 page)
End of the Planet of Adventure Omnibus
CHASCH
TO ONE SIDE of
the
Explorator IV
flared a dim and aging star, Carina 4269; to the other
hung a single planet, gray-brown under a heavy blanket of atmosphere. The star
was distinguished only by a curious amber cast to its light. The planet was
somewhat larger than Earth, attended by a pair of small moons with rapid
periods of orbit. An almost typical K2 star, an unremarkable planet, but for
the men aboard the
Explorator IV
the system was a source of wonder and
fascination.
In the
forward control pod stood Commander Marin, Chief Officer Deale, Second Officer
Walgrave: three men similarly trim, erect, brisk of movement, wearing the same
neat white uniforms, and so much in each other’s company that the wry, offhand
intonations in which they spoke, the half-sarcastic, half-facetious manner in
which they phrased their thoughts, were almost identical. With scanscopes--hand-held
binocular photomultiphers, capable of enormous magnification and
amplification-they looked across to the planet.
Walgrave
commented, “At casual observation, a habitable planet. Those clouds are surely
water-vapor.”
“If signals
emanate from a world,” said Chief Officer Deale, “we almost automatically
assume it to be inhabited. Habitability follows as a natural consequence of
habitation.”
Commander
Marin gave a dry chuckle. “Your logic, usually irrefutable, is at fault. We are
presently two hundred and twelve light-years from Earth. We received the
signals twelve light-years out; hence they were broadcast two hundred years
ago. If you recall, they halted abruptly. This world may be habitable; it may
be inhabited; it may be both. But not necessarily either.”
Deale gave
his head a doleful shake. “On this basis, we can’t even be sure that Earth is
inhabited. The tenuous evidence available to us-”
Beep beep
went the communicator. “Speak!” called Commander Marin.
The voice of
Dant, the communications engineer, came into the pod: “I’m picking up a
fluctuating field; I think it’s artificial but I can’t tune it in. It just
might be some sort of radar.”
Marin
frowned, rubbed his nose with his knuckle. “I’ll send down the scouts, then we’ll
back away, out of range.”
Marin spoke a
code-word, gave orders to the scouts Adam Reith and Paul Waunder. “Fast as
possible; we’re being detected. Rendezvous at System axis, up, Point D as in
Deneb.”
“Right, sir.
System axis, up, Point D as in Deneb. Give us three minutes.”
Commander
Marin went to the macroscope and began an anxious search of the planet’s
surface, clicking through a dozen wavelengths. “There’s a window at about 3000
angstroms, nothing good. The scouts will have to do all of it.”
“I’m glad I
never trained as a scout,” remarked Second Officer Walgrave. “Otherwise I also
might be sent down upon strange and quite possibly horrid planets.”
“A scout isn’t
trained,” Deale told him. “He exists: half acrobat, half mad scientist, half
cat burglar, half-”
“That’s
several halves too many.”
“Just barely
adequate. A scout is a man who likes a change.”
The scouts
aboard the
Explorator IV
were Adam Reith and Paul Waunder. Both were men
of resource and stamina; each was master of many skills; there the resemblance
ended. Reith was an inch or two over average height, dark-haired, with a broad
forehead, prominent cheekbones, rather gaunt cheeks where showed an occasional
twitch of muscle. Waunder was compact, balding, blond, with features too
ordinary for description. Waunder was older by a year or two; Reith however,
held senior rank, and was in nominal command of the scout-boat: a miniature
spaceship thirty feet long, carried in a clamp under the
Explorator’s
stern.
In something
over two minutes they were aboard the scoutboat. Waunder went to the controls;
Reith sealed the hatch, pushed the detach-button. The scout-boat eased away
from the great black hull. Reith took his seat, and as he did so a flicker of
movement registered at the corner of his vision. He glimpsed a gray projectile
darting up from the direction of the planet, then his eyes were battered by a
tremendous purple-white dazzle.
There was
rending and wrenching, violent acceleration as Waunder clutched convulsively
upon the throttle, and the scout-boat went careening down toward the planet.
Where the
Explorator
IV
had ridden space now drifted a curious object: the nose and stern of a
spaceship, joined by a few shreds of metal, with a great void between, through
which burnt the old yellow sun Carina 4269. Along with crew and technicians,
Commander Marin, Chief Officer Deale, Second Officer Walgrave had become
fleeting atoms of carbon, oxygen and hydrogen, their personalities, brisk
mannerisms, and jocularity now only memories.
THE
SCOUT-BOAT, STRUCK rather than propelled by the shockwave, tumbled bow over
stern down toward the gray and brown planet, with Adam Reith and Paul Waunder
bumping from bulkhead to bulkhead in the control cabin.
Reith, only
half-conscious, managed to seize a stanchion. Pulling himself to the panel, he
struck down the stabilization switch. Instead of a smooth hum there was hissing
and thumping; nevertheless the wild windmilling motion gradually was damped.
Reith and
Waunder dragged themselves to their seats, made themselves fast. Reith asked, “Did
you see what I saw?”
“A torpedo.”
Reith nodded.
“The planet is inhabited.”
“The
inhabitants are far from cordial. That was a rough reception.”
“We’re a long
way from home.” Reith looked along the line of non-signifying dials and dead
indicator lights. “Nothing seems to be functioning. We’re going to crash,
unless I can make some swift repairs.” He limped aft to the engine room, to
discover that a spare energy-cell, improperly stowed, had crushed a connection
box, creating a chaotic tangle of melted leads, broken crystals, fused
composites.
“I can fix
it,” Reith told Waunder, who had come aft to inspect the mess. “In about two
months with luck. Providing the spares are intact.”
“Two months
is somewhat too long,” said Waunder. “I’d say we have two hours before we hit
atmosphere.”
“Let’s get to
work.”
An hour and a
half later they stood back, eyeing the jury-rig with doubt and dissatisfaction.
“With luck we can land in one piece,” said Reith gloomily. “You go forward, put
some power into the lifts; I’ll see what happens.”
A minute
passed. The propulsors hummed; Reith felt the pressure of deceleration. Hoping
that the improvisations were at least temporarily sound, he went forward and
resumed his seat. “What’s it look like?”
“Short range,
not too bad. We’ll hit atmosphere in about half an hour, somewhat under
critical velocity. We can come down to a soft landing-I hope. The long-range
prognosis-not so good. Whoever hit the ship with a torpedo can follow us down
with radar. Then what?”
“Nothing
good,” said Reith.
The planet
below broadened under their view: a world dimmer and darker than Earth, bathed
in tawny golden light. They now could see continents and oceans, clouds,
storms: the landscape of a mature world.
The atmosphere
whined around the car; the temperature gauge rose sharply toward the red mark.
Reith cautiously fed more power through the makeshift circuits. The boat
slowed, the needle quivered, sank back toward a comfortable level. There came a
soft report from the engine room and the boat began to fall free once more.
“Here we go
again,” said Reith. “Well, it’s up to the airfoils now. Better get into
ejection harness.” He swung out the sideflaps, extended the elevators and
rudder and the boat hissed down at a slant. He asked, “How does the atmosphere
check out?”
Waunder read
the various indices of the analyzer. “Breathable. Close to Earth normal.”
“That’s one
small favor.”
Looking
through scanscopes, they could now observe detail. Below spread a wide plain or
a steppe, marked here and there with low relief and vegetation. “No sign of
civilization,” said Waunder. “Not below, at any rate. Maybe up there, by the
horizon-those gray spots ...”
“If we can
land the boat, if no one disturbs us while we rebuild the control system, we’ll
be in good shape ... But these airfoils aren’t intended for a fast landing in
the rough. We’d better try to stall her down and eject at the last instant.”
“Right,” said
Waunder. He pointed. “That looks like a forest-vegetation of some sort. The
ideal spot for a crash.”
“Down we go.”
The boat
slanted down; the landscape expanded. The fronds of a dank black forest reached
into the air ahead of them.
“On the count
of three: eject,” said Reith. He pulled the boat up into a stall, braking its
motion. “One-two-three. Eject!”
The ejection
ports opened; the seats thrust; out into the air snapped Reith. But where was
Waunder? His harness had fouled, or the seat had failed to eject properly; and
he dangled helplessly outside the boat. Reith’s parachute opened, swung him up
pendulum-wise. On the way down he struck a glossy black limb of a tree. The
blow dazed him; he swung at the end of his parachute shrouds. The boat careened
through the trees, plowed into a bog, Paul Waunder hung motionless in his
harness.
There was
silence except for the creaking of hot metal, a faint hiss from somewhere under
the boat.
Reith
stirred, kicked feebly. The motion sent pain tearing through his shoulders and
chest; he desisted and hung limp.
The ground
was fifty feet below. The sunlight, as he had noted before, seemed rather more
dim and yellow than the sunlight of Earth, and the shadows held an amber
overtone. The air was aromatic with the scent of unfamiliar resins and oils; he
was caught in a tree with glossy black limbs and brittle black foliage which
made a rattling sound when he moved. He could look along the broken swath to
the bog, where the boat sat almost on an even keel, Waunder hanging head-down
from the ejection hatch, his face only inches from the muck. If the boat should
settle, he would smother-if he was still alive even now. Reith struggled
frantically to untangle himself from his harness. The pain made him dizzy and
sick; there was no strength in his hands, and when he raised his arms there
were clicking sounds in his shoulders. He was helpless to free himself, let
alone assist Waunder. Was he dead? Reith could not be sure. Waunder, he
thought, had twitched feebly.
Reith watched
intently. Waunder was slipping slowly into the mire. In the ejection seat was a
survival kit with weapons and tools. With his broken bones he could not raise
his arms to reach the clasp. If he detached himself from the shrouds he would
fall and kill himself... No help for it. Broken shoulder, broken collarbone or
not, he must open the ejection seat, bring forth the knife and the coil of
rope.
There was a
sound, not too far distant, of wood striking wood. Reith desisted in his
efforts, hung quietly. A troop of men armed with fancifully long rapiers and
heavy hand-catapults marched quietly, almost furtively, below.
Reith stared
dumbfounded, suspecting hallucination. The cosmos seemed partial to biped
races, more or less anthropoid; but these were true men: people with harsh,
strong features, honey-colored skin, blond, blond-brown, blond-gray hair and
bushy drooping mustaches. They wore complicated garments: loose trousers of
striped brown and black cloth, dark blue or dark red shirts, vests of woven
metal strips, short black capes. Their hats were black leather, folded and
creased with out-turned earflaps, each with a silver emblem four inches across
at the front of a tall crown. Reith watched in amazement. Barbarian warriors, a
wandering band of cutthroats: but true men, nonetheless, here on this unknown
world over two hundred light-years from Earth!