Anderson, Poul We Have Fed Our Sea

Archiwum

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take."
WHEN the ship was prepared, they met once on the obser-vation deck, to put on their spacesuits. The
hull might be cracked in landing. Maclaren and Ryerson would be down at the engine controls,
Nakamura in the pilot's turret, strapped into acceleration harness with only their hands left free.
Nakamura's gaze sought Maclaren's. "We may not meet again," he said.
"Possible," said Maclaren.
The small, compact body held steady, but Nakamura's face thawed. He had suddenly, after all the time
which was gone, taken on an expression; and it was gentle.
"Since this may be my last chance," he said, "I would like to thank you."
"Whatever for?"
"I am not afraid any more."
"Don't thank me," said Maclaren, embarrassed. "Something like that, a chap does for himself, y' know."
"You earned me the time for it, at least." Nakamura made a weightless bow."Sensei, give me your
blessing."
Maclaren said, with a degree of bewilderment: "Look here, everybody else has had more skill,
contributed more, than I. I've told you a few things about the star and the planet, but you Dave, at
least could have figured it out with slightly more difficulty. I'd never have known how to reconstruct a
drive or a web, though; and I'd never be able to land this ship."
"I was not speaking of material survival," said Nakamura. A smile played over his mouth. "Still, do you
remember how disorganized and noisy we were at first, and how we have grown so quiet since and work
together so well? It is your doing. The highest interhuman art is to make it possible for others to usetheir
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arts." Then, seriously: "The next stage of achievement, though, lies within a man. You have taught me.
Knowingly or not, Terangi-san, you have taught me. I would give much to be sure you will . . . have the
chance . . . to teach yourself."
Ryerson appeared from the lockers. "Here they are," he said. "Tin suits all around."
Maclaren donned his armor and went aft.I wonder how much Seiichi knows. Does he know that I've
stopped making a fuss about things, that I didn't exult when we found this planet, not from
stoicism but merely because I have been afraid to hope?
I wouldn't even know what to hope for. All this struggle, just to get back to Earth and resume having
fun? No, that's too grotesque.
"We should have issued the day's chow before going down," said Ryerson. "Might not be in any shape
to eat it at the other end."
"Who's got an appetite under present circumstances?" said Maclaren. "So postponing dinner is one way
of stretching out the rations a few more hours."
"Seventeen days' worth, now."
"We can keep going, foodless, for a while longer."
"We'll have to," said Ryerson. He wet his lips. "We won't mine our metal, and gasify it, and separate out
the fractional per cent of germanium, and make those transistors, and tune the circuits, in any seventeen
days."
Maclaren grimaced. "Starvation, or the canned willy we've been afflicted with. Frankly, I don't think
there's much differ-ence."
Hastily, he grinned at Ryerson, so the boy would know it for a jest. Grumbling was not allowed any
more; they didn't dare. And the positive side of conversation, the dreaming aloud of "when we get home,"
had long since worn thin. Dinner-table conversation had been a ritual they needed for a while, but in a
sense they had outgrown it. Now a man was driven into his own soul.And that's what Seiichi meant,
thought Maclaren.Only, I haven't found anything in myself Or, no. I have. But I don't know what.
It's too dark to see.
He strapped himself in and began checking instruments.
"Pilot to engine room. Read off!"
"Engine room to pilot. Plus voltage clear. Minus voltage clear. Mercury flow standard "
The ship came to life.
And she moved down. Her blast slowed her in orbit, she spiraled, a featureless planet of black steel
called her to itself. The path was cautious. There must be allowance for rotation; there must not be too
quick a change of velocity, lest the pon-derous sphere go wobbling out of control. Again and again the
auxiliary motors blasted, spinning her, guiding her. The ion-drive was not loud, but the rockets roared on
the hull like hammers.
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And down. And down.
Only afterward, reconstructing confused memories, did Maclaren know what had happened; and he was
never alto-gether sure. TheCross backed onto an iron plain. Her tripod touched, on one foot, on two.
The surface was not quite level. She began to topple. Nakamura lifted her with a skill that blended main
drive and auxiliaries into one smooth surge such skill as only an utterly relaxed man could achieve,
re-sponding to the immense shifting forces as a part thereof. He rose a few hundred meters, changed
position relative to the ground, and tried again. The tripod struck on two points once more. The ship [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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