Read Ebook: Morley's Weapon by Barefoot D W Emshwiller Ed Illustrator

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Ebook has 1165 lines and 58669 words, and 24 pages

Madsen was thoughtful. "We could stand a little briefing on the local flora and fauna, but palaver won't get us to the Equator. And that little stock treatise entitled 'Physical Attributes of Phoebe' is worse than useless. Lucky the sextant is O.K., we can at least check our latitude. There's just one flaw."

"What's that?"

"Which way do we go when we hit the line? The D.D.'s are spaced ninety degrees apart. We might be within a hundred miles of one. If we head the wrong way, we'd have three or four hundred miles to go. There's no method of figuring our longitude."

Morley was staring sunward, with thoughtful eyes. "Yes, there is," he said quietly.

Madsen's jaw dropped. "Give," he said.

"We both forgot something we know perfectly well. Notice the sun? It hasn't moved perceptibly since we landed. Japetus doesn't revolve on its axis."

"So what?"

"Two things. One, no night, since we're on the sunward side. The sun will move from side to side in the sky, reaching its lateral limits when Japetus is in quadrature in regard to Saturn. If we were here for a month, we'd see Saturn rise, make a full arc through the sky, and set. Let's hope for a shorter stay."

"Go on," said Madsen, and suddenly there was nothing patronizing or scornful in his voice.

"Two. We came in over the Pole almost exactly at inferior conjunction. Right?"

"I think I get it." Madsen answered slowly.

For a moment Morley was silent. He could almost smell the dingy classroom in Port Chicago, almost see the words on the examination paper in front of him. The paragraph leaped out, limned sharply in his mind. "Section 4, Subhead A, Solar Space Code. The initial Distress Depot on any satellite shall be situated, when practical, on the Prime Meridian. For the purposes of this act, the Prime Meridian of a satellite shall be the meridian that bisects the Sun when the Satellite is in inferior conjunction. Quarter mile belts shall be burned fifty miles to the North, South, East, and West as guides. Radio beacons will operate, unless impracticable due to atmospheric conditions, or other reasons."

"We're on, or practically on the Prime Meridian right now," said Madsen. "A trek due South should hit D.D. No. 1 square on the nose. Right?"

"Right. Two or three hundred miles to go. We might make it in two weeks."

Madsen squinted at the stationary disk of Sol, hanging in the sky. "Let's load up and get started. The sooner we're on our way, the better."

Both men had discarded their space suits, were dressed in the gray work clothes of Satellites, Inc. Equipment was easily divided. Each had a blaster, and a wrist compass-chronometer. Radio was useless on Japetus, and the little headsets were ruthlessly jettisoned. The flat tins of emergency food concentrate were stowed in two knapsacks. Madsen took charge of the sextant, and Morley carried a lightweight repeating rifle for possible game that might be out of blaster range. Canteens, a pocket first-aid kit, and a small heliograph, were the final items, except for several articles which Morley unobtrusively stowed away about his person.

Less than three hours after the crash, the two men shouldered their burdens, took a bearing to determine their course, and headed into the south.

In a matter of minutes Spaceboat 6 was out of sight. With Madsen leading, they threaded their way through the scant undergrowth. Underfoot the dry, broad-bladed grass rustled through a morning that had no beginning or end. Farther away were other and less easily explained rustlings, and once both men froze as a half-dozen of what looked like baby dragons arrowed past within yards of them.

"Formation flying, like ducks," muttered Morley, watching from the corner of his eye.

When the whispering of scaled wings had died away, the castaways resumed their steady plodding into the south. Twice they crossed small fresh water brooks, providing a welcome opportunity to drink their fill, and replenish the canteens. The going was easy, since the footing was in fairly dense soil, and the scrub was not so thick as to provide any difficulties. After eight hours of nearly continuous travel, they reached the banks of a third stream. Here Madsen stopped, and dropped his knapsack to the ground.

"Campsite," he grunted.

"Alabama," Morley murmured.

Madsen goggled. "Are you delirious? What do you mean--Alabama?"

Morley laughed sheepishly. "Alabama means 'Here we rest,' I said it without thinking."

Madsen was grinning now. "What beats me is how you remember all that junk. I'd go nuts if I tried to clutter up my mind with a bunch of useless data. Alabama!"

"I don't have to try to remember things," Morley said thoughtfully. "If I read or hear something that seems the least bit curious or unusual, it just sticks. And sometimes it's useful."

"Such as?"

"Well, remember when Storybook ran a mile last year in 1.29? He was the first to break 1.30. Some joe that knew a lot about horses gave me an argument in a bar about the first horse to break 1.40. He bet me ten credits it was Man o' War. I knew it was Ten Broeck, and I got an almanac and proved it."

Madsen looked up from the tin of coffee concentrate he was opening. "Hasn't anyone ever tried to win an argument by poking you one in the snoot?"

"Once or twice." Morley was almost apologetic. "But I learned judo a few years ago, just for the hell of it, so I didn't get hurt much."

"You're a whiz with the sabre, no doubt?" said Madsen dryly.

"No, I tried swordplay for a while, but gave it up. It's a little too, er--primitive for my tastes."

"Primitive!" Madsen glanced around at the alien scene and nearly choked. "I'm crossing my fingers, but what would you do if some carnivore, or a gang of those spiders suddenly appeared and started for us with evil intentions?"

"I think I'd run," said Morley simply. "It was pretty dull at General Plastic but at least the comptometers weren't man-eating."

Madsen blinked, and seeming to find expression difficult, forbore to answer.

They ate, and relaxed on the soft sod, lulled almost into a feeling of security. Not being foolhardy, however, they slept in six hour shifts. Morley stood the first watch, and slept the second. When he awoke, Madsen was tensely examining a ration tin. Jarred into instant alertness by a feeling of urgency and alarm, Morley leaped to his feet.

"Something wrong?"

Without answering, Madsen handed him the tin. It was pockmarked with inch wide patches of metallic gray fungus, from several of which liquid was seeping. There was a sharp odor of decay.

Madsen was hastily dumping the contents of the knapsacks on the ground. Morley joined him, and both men commenced scraping the clinging gray patches from the tins. All but three were perforated and ruined.

"We'll at least be traveling light from now on," Madsen said. "Any idea what this stuff is?"

"Some of that lichen, or whatever it is, was around the scene of the crash," Morley answered. "The stuff must have an affinity for tin; probably secretes some acid that dissolves it. Only trouble is, it goes through thin steel too."

Madsen commenced repacking their effects.

"From now on, laddie, keep your eyes peeled for game, and if you see any, use that rifle. If we don't knock down some meat, and soon, we aren't going to make it. Might as well realize it right now."

"Were you ever wrecked before, Madsen?"

"Once, on Venus. Cartographic expedition."

"What happened?"

"Tubes blew and we made a forced landing. Wound up sitting in the middle of a pile of highgrade scrap."

"What did you do then?"

Madsen shouldered his knapsack and smiled condescendingly.

"Not a thing, Mr. Fix-it. We didn't have to. Since I seem to have accidentally stumbled on something new and strange to you, add this to your files. It's usual on cartographic trips of any length, for one ship to go out, while another stays at a temporary base, and keeps in constant directional radio contact. If anything happens, they come a-running. Makes it fine for us uninformed common people."

"Oh."

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