Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One (19 page)

“Yes, yes,” said Paskell. “Let’s get it up.”

In space-suits, with booster goggles over their eyes, they left the ship. Paskell looked across the quicksilver lake, up into the jutting rock—icy bright and black through the booster goggles
. The lake gleamed like
buffed nickel, terminating nearby in a long finger pointing up a defile. In the direction opposite it dropped off around the curve of the horizon.

Paskell said in a tone of dubious humor, “I don’t see Three-legged Joe anywhere.”

Milke’s snort sounded loud in the earphones.

“He’s supposed to know we’re here.”

Milke said crisply, “Let’s get to work.”

From an exterior locker they took the assay tent, carried it fifty feet across the quicksilver to the length of the air hose. Milke turned
the valve; the tent swelled into a half-sphere fifteen feet in diameter.

Milke tested the lock with a deftness attained on lunar field trips. He squeezed the lock compartment against the tent, forcing the enclosed air into the tent through a flap valve; then entering the lock, he sealed the outside entry, opened the inside valve, letting
the compartment fill with air,
and entered the tent.

“Works fine,” he told Paskell confidently. “Let’s get the equipment.”

From the locker they brought the knock-down bench, carried it inside through the lock. Milke brought out a rack of reagents and the pulverizer. Paskell carried out the furnace, then went into the ship for the spectroscope.

“That should be good for a while,” said Milke. He shot a glance up at distant Sigma Sculptoris. “It’s a six hour day here—about two hours of light left. Feel like taking a quick look around?”

“It might
be a good idea.” Paskell fingered the empty loop at his belt. “I think I’ll get my gun.”

Milke chuckled. “There’s nothing alive here; it’s a vacuum, absolute zero. You’ve let that talk of Three-legged Joe get you down.”

“Quite right,” said Paskell. “In any event, I’ll feel better with my gun.”

Milke followed him into the ship. “Might as well get in the habit of wearing the thing.” He holstered his own gun
.

They set out across the lake, past the tent, up the narrow finger of quicksilver, into the defile. “Strange stuff,” said Paskell chipping
a fragment from the cliff. “Looks like chalk—gray chalk.”

“Can’t be chalk,” said Milke. “Chalk is sedimentary.”

“Whatever it is,” said Paskell, “it’s still strange stuff, and it still looks like chalk.”

The fissure widened, the cliffs fell away almost at once; another quicksilver lake spread before them. “Makes for easy walking,” observed Milke. “Better than scrambling through the rocks.”

Paskell eyed the mirror-like surface
which wound like a glacier past alternating bluffs,
and in
a perceptible curve over
the horizon. “It might easily be connected all the way around.”

Milke motioned to him. “See that pink stone? Rhodochrosite. And look down at the end—somehow it’s been fused and reduced, leaving the pure metal.”

“Very encouraging,” said Paskell.

“Encouraging?” boomed Milke. “Why it’s downright wonderful! If we found nothing else but this one vein, we’re made…perhaps it
might even be economical to mine the quicksilver…”

Paskell glanced at the sun, “There’s not much daylight left; perhaps—”

“Oh, just around the next bend,” said Milke. “It’s easy walking.” He pointed ahead to a massive knob of shiny black material projecting from the crag. “Look at that knob of galena—interesting.”

Paskell felt a throb and hum at his side. He looked down to the dial, stopped short, walked to the left, turned, walked back to the right. He looked up toward the knob of shiny black rock. “That’s not galena, that’s pitchblende.”

“By Jove,” breathed Milke reverently, “you’re right! As big as the Margan-Annis strike…Oliver, my boy, we’re made.”

Paskell said with a puckered brow, “I can’t understand why the planet hasn’t been developed…” He glanced nervously up into the deep shadows, perceptibly lengthening. “I wonder—”

“Three-legged Joe?” Milke laughed. “Fairy-tale stuff.”
He looked at Paskell. “What’s the matter?”

Paskell said in a husky whisper, “Feel the ground.”

Milke stood stock-still
.

Thud-bump. Thud-bump. Thud-bump.

The sun dropped behind a crag; even the boosters found no light in the sudden shade. “Come on,” said Paskell. He turned, paced hurriedly back up the lake.

“Wait for me,” said Milke breathlessly.

At the ridge of chalky rock which divided the two lakes, they paused, looked back. The ground felt solid, immobile under their feet.

“Strange,” said Milke.

“Very strange,” said Paskell.

They crossed the ridge; the hulk of their ship caught the last flat rays from Sigma Sculptoris.

Paskell came to a sudden halt. Milke stared at him, then followed his gaze. “Our assay tent!”

They ran forward to where the fabric lay in a crumpled
heap. “There’s been a hole cut in it,” muttered Paskell.

“Three-legged Joe?” inquired Milke sarcastically. “More likely there’s a leak.”

Paskell kicked at the material, now stiff as sheet metal with the cold. “We’ll have a devil of a time finding it.”

“Oh
not so bad. We’ll pump in warm air—”

“And then?”

“Well, there’s a leak. As soon as the air hits the vacuum the water vapor condenses. So we look for a little jet of steam.”

Paskell said in a precise voice, “There’s no leak.”

“No? Then why—”

“We never turned on the heat. The air inside liquefied.”

Milke turned away to look out over the lake. Paskell quietly plugged in the cord; power circulated through elements meshed into the tent fabric.

Milke turned back, slapping his gloves together. “That’s about all we can do until the air thaws out…” He looked at Paskell, who again was standing as if listening. Irritably he asked, “What’s the matter now?”

Paskell made a furtive motion toward the ground. Milke looked intently down.

Thud-bump. Thud-bump. Thud-bump. Thud-bump.

“Three-legged Joe,” whispered Paskell.

Milke looked hurriedly in all directions. “There can’t be anything out there.” He turned. Paskell had disappeared.

“Oliver! Where are you?”

“I’m in the ship,” came a calm voice.

Milke backed slowly toward the port. Night had come to Odfars; starlight shone on the quicksilver lake, intensified by the booster goggles
to near the power
of moonlight. Was that a black shadow standing in the defile? Milke hurriedly backed against the port.

It was locked. He pounded against the metal. “Hey, Oliver, open up!”

He looked over his shoulder. The black shape seemed to have moved forward.

Paskell came to the port, looked carefully out past Milke, threw back the bolts. Milke burst into the air-chamber, on into the ship. He took off his helmet. “What’s the idea locking me out? Suppose that damn whatever it is
was hot on my tail?”

Paskell said in a practical voice, “Well, we’d hardly
want him inside the ship, would we?”

Milke roared, “If he got me first
I wouldn’t care whether he got into the ship or not.” He jumped up into the central dome, played the searchlight around the lake. Paskell watched from the sideport. “See anything?”

“No,” grumbled Milke. “I still don’t believe there’s anything out there. Let’s eat dinner and get some sleep.”

“Perhaps we should keep watch.”

“What do we watch for? What good would it do if we saw something?”

Paskell shrugged. “We might be able to deal with it, if we knew what it was.”

Milke said, “If there
is
anything out there—” he slapped the holster
at his belt “—I’ll
know how to deal with it… A couple of bursts into its hide and we’ll have to sift-screen
for its pieces.”

The ship vibrated; from the tail came a harsh sound. The floor jarred under their feet. Milke looked askance at Paskell, who puffed rather desperately at his pipe. Milke ran back to the searchlight. But the central dome interrupted the backward path of the beam and the tail was left in darkness.

“I can’t see a thing,” fretted Milke. He jumped down to the deck, looked indecisively at the after port.

The vibrations ceased. Milke squared his shoulders, pulled the helmet back over his head. Slowly Paskell followed suit.

“You bring a flashlight,” said Milke. “I’ll have my gun ready…”

They stepped into the air lock. Paskell gingerly thrust his arm out, aimed the light toward the tent. “Nothing there,” grumbled Milke. He pushed past Paskell, stepped down to the ground. Paskell followed, played the light in a circle.

“Whatever it was, it’s gone,” grunted Milke. “It heard us coming—”

“Look,” whispered Paskell.

It was no more than a zigzag of shadows, a moving mass.

Milke held out his arm; his gun spat pale blue sparks. Explosion—a great splash of orange light. “Got him!” cried Milke exultantly. “Dead center!”

Their eyes adjusted to the pallid illumination of the flashlight. Nothing but the glistening sheen of the quicksilver and—a rumpled
tumbled mess where the assay tent had stood.

Milke said in an outrage too deep for vehemence, “He’s ruined our gear—our tent!”

“Look out!” screamed Paskell. The flashlight took lunatic sweeps over the lake. Milke sent shot after shot at a tall shape; the explosions smote back on
their suits; the orange glare blinded their eyes.

Thud-bump…Thud-bump…
“Inside!” gasped Milke. “Inside, we can’t hold him off…”

The outer port slammed. A breathless moment later the hull was jarred, scraped along the
quicksilver. Milke and Paskell stood haunted and pale in the center of the deck.

Metal creaked at the stern under pressure or torsion. Milke’s voice came high-pitched. “We’re not built to take that kind of stuff—”

The ship lurched to the side. Paskell put his pipe in his pocket, grabbed a stanchion. Milke jumped up to the controls. “We’d better get out of here.”

Paskell cleared his throat. “Wait, I think it’s stopped.”

The boat was quiet. Milke thought of the searchlight, flicked the switch. “Hah!”

“What is it?”

Milke stared out the port. He said slowly, “I really don’t know. Something like a one-legged man on crutches…That’s how he
walks.”

“Is he big?”

“Yes,” said Milke. “Rather big…I think he’s gone, through that fissure—” He came down to the deck, split open his space suit, climbed nervously out
. “That was Three-legged Joe.”

Paskell took a sudden seat on the bunk, reached for his pipe. “Quite an impressive fellow.”

Milke laughed shortly. “I can certainly understand how he scared the bejabbers out of those old bindlestiffs.”

“Yes,” Paskell nodded earnestly. “I can too.” He lit his pipe, puffed reflectively. “He can’t be invulnerable…”

Milke dropped leadenly upon his own bunk. “We’ll get him—somehow or other.”

Paskell craned his neck out the port. “There’ll be light in a few hours…I suppose we might as well sleep.”

“Yes,” said Milke. “If Three-legged Joe comes back, I imagine he’ll let us know about it.”

Sigma Sculptoris washed the quicksilver lake with the palest of lights. Milke and Paskell glumly examined the wreckage of the assay
tent.

Milke’s indignation brimmed over the restraints he had set upon himself. He clenched his fists inside the gloves, glared toward the defile. “I’d like to lay my hands on that three-legged
devil…”

Paskell busied himself among the tatters of the tent. “Nothing but ribbons.”

Milke said gloomily, “No use to think about mending it…” He watched Paskell curiously. “What are you looking for?”

“I wonder what possessed him to break into the tent.”

“Sheer destructiveness.”

Paskell said thoughtfully, “I notice one thing—” he paused.

“What?”

“All our reagents are gone.”

Milke bent over the wreckage. “All of them?”

“All the acids. All the bases. He left distilled water, the salts…”

“Hm,” said Milke. “What do you make of that?”

Paskell shrugged inside his suit. “It’s suggestive.”

“Of what, if I may ask?”

“I’m not sure.” Paskell wandered out over the quicksilver, searching the surface. “He was about here when you shot at him?”

“Just about.”

Paskell bent. “Look here.” He held up a rough brownish-gray object the size of his thumb. “Here’s a piece of Three-legged Joe.”

Milke examined the fragment. “If this is all our weapons did to him—he’s tough. This stuff is flexible!”

Paskell took back the fragment. “Let’s take it in and run it through the works.”

They returned into the ship. Paskell clamped the bit
in a vise and after exasperating difficulty, succeeded in slicing free a brittle shaving. He forced it flat between a slide and a cover glass, examined it under the microscope. “Remarkable.”

“Let’s see.” Milke applied his eye. “Hm
^…
it’s like a carpet—woven in three dimensions.”

“Right. No matter which way you cut or tear, fibers mat up against you…now let’s see what he’s made of.”