over; I think you’ll be safer inside the dome until then. What did you preserve the specimens with?”
“Nothing special—hydrogen—the local air. I supposed that any of our regular preservatives would ruin them from your point of view. You’d better come for them fairly soon; Barlennan says that meat turns poisonous after a few hundred days, so I take it they have micro-organisms here.”
“Be funny if they hadn’t. Stand by; I’ll be down there in a couple of hours.” Rosten broke the connection without further comment about the wrecked tank,
for which Lackland felt reasonably thankful. He went to bed, not having slept for nearly twenty-four hours.
He was awakened—partially—by the arrival of the rocket. Rosten had come down in person, which was not surprising. He did not even get out of his armor; he took the bottles, which Lackland had left in the air lock to minimize the chance of oxygen contamination, took a look at Lackland, realized his condition, and brusquely ordered him back to bed.
“This stuff was probably worth the tank,” he said briefly. “Now get some sleep. You have some more problems to solve—I’ll talk to you again when there’s a chance you’ll remember what I say. See you later.” The airlock door closed behind him.
Lackland did not, actually, remember Rosten’s parting remarks; but he was reminded, many hours later, when he had slept and eaten once more.
“This winter, when Barlennan can’t hope to travel, will last only another three and a half months,” the assistant director started almost without preamble. “We have several reams of telephotos up here which are not actually fitted into a map, although they’ve been collated as far as general location is concerned. We couldn’t make a real map because of interpretation difficulties. Your job for the rest of this winter will be to get in a huddle with those photos and your friend Barlennan, turn them into a usable map, and decide on a route which will take him most quickly to the material we want to salvage.”
“But Barlennan doesn’t want to get there quickly. This is an exploring-trading voyage as far as he’s concerned, and we’re just an incident. All we’ve been able to offer him in return for that much help is a running sequence of weather reports, to help in his normal business.”
“I realize that. That’s why you’re down there, if you remember; you’re supposed to be a diplomat. I don’t expect miracles—none of us do—and we certainly want Barlennan to stay on good terms with us; but there’s two billion dollars’ worth of special equipment on that rocket that couldn’t leave the pole, and recordings that are literally priceless—”
“I know, and I’ll do my best,” Lackland cut in, “but I could never make the importance of it clear to a native—and I don’t mean to belittle Batlennan’s intelligence; he just hasn’t the background. You keep an eye out for breaks in these winter storms, so he can come up here and study the pictures whenever possible.”
“Couldn’t you rig some sort of outside shelter next to a window, so he could stay up even during bad weather?”
“I suggested that once, and he won’t leave his ship and crew at such times. I see his point.”
“I suppose I do too. Well, do the best that you can—you know what it means. We should be able to learn more about gravity from that stuff than anyone since Einstein.” Rosten signed off, and the winter’s work began.
The grounded research rocket, which had landed under remote control near
Mesklin’s south pole and had failed to take off after presumably recording its data, had long since been located by its telemetering transmitters. Choosing a sea and/or land route to it from the vicinity of the Bree’s winter quarters, however, was another matter. The ocean travel was not too bad; some forty or forty-five thousand miles of coastal travel, nearly half of it in waters already known to Barlennan’s
“Nothing special—hydrogen—the local air. I supposed that any of our regular preservatives would ruin them from your point of view. You’d better come for them fairly soon; Barlennan says that meat turns poisonous after a few hundred days, so I take it they have micro-organisms here.”
“Be funny if they hadn’t. Stand by; I’ll be down there in a couple of hours.” Rosten broke the connection without further comment about the wrecked tank,
for which Lackland felt reasonably thankful. He went to bed, not having slept for nearly twenty-four hours.
He was awakened—partially—by the arrival of the rocket. Rosten had come down in person, which was not surprising. He did not even get out of his armor; he took the bottles, which Lackland had left in the air lock to minimize the chance of oxygen contamination, took a look at Lackland, realized his condition, and brusquely ordered him back to bed.
“This stuff was probably worth the tank,” he said briefly. “Now get some sleep. You have some more problems to solve—I’ll talk to you again when there’s a chance you’ll remember what I say. See you later.” The airlock door closed behind him.
Lackland did not, actually, remember Rosten’s parting remarks; but he was reminded, many hours later, when he had slept and eaten once more.
“This winter, when Barlennan can’t hope to travel, will last only another three and a half months,” the assistant director started almost without preamble. “We have several reams of telephotos up here which are not actually fitted into a map, although they’ve been collated as far as general location is concerned. We couldn’t make a real map because of interpretation difficulties. Your job for the rest of this winter will be to get in a huddle with those photos and your friend Barlennan, turn them into a usable map, and decide on a route which will take him most quickly to the material we want to salvage.”
“But Barlennan doesn’t want to get there quickly. This is an exploring-trading voyage as far as he’s concerned, and we’re just an incident. All we’ve been able to offer him in return for that much help is a running sequence of weather reports, to help in his normal business.”
“I realize that. That’s why you’re down there, if you remember; you’re supposed to be a diplomat. I don’t expect miracles—none of us do—and we certainly want Barlennan to stay on good terms with us; but there’s two billion dollars’ worth of special equipment on that rocket that couldn’t leave the pole, and recordings that are literally priceless—”
“I know, and I’ll do my best,” Lackland cut in, “but I could never make the importance of it clear to a native—and I don’t mean to belittle Batlennan’s intelligence; he just hasn’t the background. You keep an eye out for breaks in these winter storms, so he can come up here and study the pictures whenever possible.”
“Couldn’t you rig some sort of outside shelter next to a window, so he could stay up even during bad weather?”
“I suggested that once, and he won’t leave his ship and crew at such times. I see his point.”
“I suppose I do too. Well, do the best that you can—you know what it means. We should be able to learn more about gravity from that stuff than anyone since Einstein.” Rosten signed off, and the winter’s work began.
The grounded research rocket, which had landed under remote control near
Mesklin’s south pole and had failed to take off after presumably recording its data, had long since been located by its telemetering transmitters. Choosing a sea and/or land route to it from the vicinity of the Bree’s winter quarters, however, was another matter. The ocean travel was not too bad; some forty or forty-five thousand miles of coastal travel, nearly half of it in waters already known to Barlennan’s
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