Trouble on Titan/Chapter III

THE Inferno, as described by Dante, is an unpleasant place. But for sheer ugliness, inhospitality and danger, it fails to approach the planet Saturn. Twenty-one days in that dreary hell convinced Tommy Strike of Saturn's absolute hideousness.

There was one favorable aspect. The surface gravity of Saturn was not much different from that of Earth. All other aspects concerning that malodorous world afforded nothing but discomfort and peril to human beings. Of this Strike was positive as he gazed over the bleak landscape.

The surface of Saturn was rugged. Tremendous mountain ranges reared massively into the murky atmosphere, colossal on a scale that would dwarf anything known on Earth. Most of their surfaces were frozen solid. That was not so much because of temperature—for internal heat made Saturn sufficiently warm to support life—but because of the great pressures created by Saturn's thousands of miles of atmosphere. This was proved by the occasional outcroppings of blue-gray "rock," which were solidified ammonia. Clumping steps along the corridor of the Ark drew Strike's attention. It was Gerry, dressed in the special suit designed for use under such abnormal pressures. As an extra precaution, helium was used instead of nitrogen to prevent any possibility of the "bends." "More observations?" inquired Tommy despairingly.

She smiled with gentle understanding.

"Yes, a few more. But our three weeks' work is showing splendid results. It won't be long now. I know it's boring, but you realize as well as I that we're up against a completely and unclassified unknown form of life. Most people, of course, think our job's done when we bag a specimen and get him into the ship. As a matter of fact, the hard part is yet to come. Catching 'em alive is much easier than keeping 'em alive and well."

"I know, I know." Strike knew the entire lecture by heart. "We must exactly duplicate in the hold of the Ark every feature of the animal's environment. As far as possible, we must learn of what he's composed, his habits, what he eats and drinks and breathes, and how much. Transporting a creature through millions of miles of free space into an alien environment is not a job for an amateur."

Gerry applauded clumsily with her bulky gauntlets.

"Bravo! Sometimes I really think you're learning something about this business. Coming along, my hero?" Strike made a wry face, but obediently turned to the empty suit standing within the air-lock. A moment later, properly dressed, he stepped with Gerry to the hard-packed soil of Saturn's lowlands. The hour was mid-day, though full daylight was only a weak solution of night.

Gerry squinted a weather-eye at the heavens, observed the turgidly boiling fragments of cloud masses whipping past. The daily windstorm, which came regularly enough to set a clock by, was about over. Now its tag ends were confined to the upper reaches. Common to all the larger planets, Saturn suffered tremendous gales of ammonia and methane that raged above the main body of hydrogen-helium atmosphere.

THE Ark was resting in the bottom of a moderate-sized valley. This landing place had been chosen partly because it afforded shelter against the elements, but mostly because of a remarkable feature of Saturn's atmosphere.

There were still traces of oxygen on the planet. Being heavier than the other gases on the planet, the oxygen had gathered in "pools" in the low spots. Since animal life was dependent upon oxygen even on that miserable planet, the result was that small "islands" of life were distributed over Saturn existing only where sufficient oxygen remained. Naturally that helped Gerry's search considerably. The Ark simply hopped from valley to valley till they found a spot with one or more specimens of the dermaphos they were seeking.

After finding a colony, all their efforts had been devoted to the most thorough analysis of the animal's environment, to reproduce it perfectly within the space ship.

As Gerry and Strike walked ponderously along a familiar path, they encountered other members of the crew already at work. One party was busily engaged in digging vast amounts of Saturnian vegetation for transplanting inside the ship. This was to feed the dermaphos.

The plants were invariably low-growing vegetables, clinging close to the ground to prevent being uprooted by the terrible winds. The leaves were thick, spatulate, like some of Earth's ornamental cacti, and dark in color. Others were shaped like tightly bunched artichokes, some like large, flat mushrooms. One type, the favorite of the dermaphos, looked like a belligerent cabbage.

As the two walked along, occasional gusts of wind rattled a miniature hail of armored insect life against their metallic suits. Once a blundering birdlike thing flapped heavily by, shrieking mournfully, "Meeee! Meeee!" It was the Screaming Meemie.

Farther on, Gerry paused before a small, dense bush somewhat resembling the carnauba palm tree, from which Brazilian natives get coffee from the seeds, and cream from the sap.

The Saturnian plant went the carnauba one better, however. Its leaves made a tasty salad when mixed with its fruit, and a delicious drink could be distilled from its sap. To top it off, a fragrant spice could be shaken from its pinkish blossoms. Hence its name—the Blue Plate Special plant. Gerry stripped the bush eagerly, dropping her prizes into a specimen bag.

Once Strike pointed out a splatter of sticky stuff clinging to a stone. Rising from this, clear out of sight into the low-flying scud, rose a thin, silvery strand.

"Kite," remarked Strike over the tiny portable two-way radio in his space suit.

Gerry nodded. The Saturnian kite was an eight-legged creature with folds of membrane between its limbs, much in the fashion of the Terrestrial flying squirrel. It also spun a filament like a spider's web, though its thread was infinitely more powerful. The kite's web was actually thinner than piano wire, yet its tensile strength was almost twice the wire's.

The kite was insectivorous. During each of the periodical winds, it allowed itself to be swooped into the air, maintaining contact with the ground by spinning its lengthy filament. One end of the thread was firmly attached to a rock by some organic adhesive manufactured within its glands. In the teeth of a gale, it spread itself wide imitating a parachute net, to trap the millions of insects being dashed about by the wind.

At any time, the kite could descend by "reeling in" on the practically indestructible strand.

"I'M glad we managed to catch a couple of those things," Gerry remarked. "I have an idea we might make a fortune from them."

"No kidding! How? Sell 'em to little boys every March, instead of using paper and string for their kites?"

"No, silly. Get a couple of those creatures to spin a few miles of that amazing filament, and you could weave a coat or any other garment that would never wear out. Just think what the cotton and wool and silk tycoons would pay us to keep that off the market!"

Strike disdained to reply. In a few moments, they entered the area where they had located their dermaphos. The animal was apparently a rather rare specimen, yet once it had been located, it remained pretty well staked out. That was because it was an extremely sluggish creature, moving only short distances at any time.

Without much searching, the two hunters relocated their monster. Strike stood staring at it wryly.

"Not much of a beastie, is he?"

The dermaphos certainly was somewhat of a disappointment, being absolutely unmelodramatic in appearance. There was nothing exciting about it, like the Venusian whip, or the cacus of Satellite Five of Jupiter. Nor was there anything attractive about it, like the famous energy eaters of Mercury.

It appeared to be merely a ten-foot, crested lizard with a thick, warty hide. There were peculiarities, of course. Its six feet had only two toes apiece, indicating that evolution on Saturn had taken cognizance of the futility of scratching at that dense, rocky soil. More strangely, despite the pictures in Murray's tests which showed rows of phosphorescent lights like those that decorate deep-sea fishes, this dermaphos did not glow. For the most part, though, it was an ordinary creature, considering what important matters hinged upon its capture.

"Well, what's on the program today, kitten?" Strike wanted to know.

"A pound of flesh. Dr. Kelly is playing the role of Shylock, and would like a sample of our friend here for analysis. He's been working on the puzzle of why the dermaphos doesn't phos. So he's been taking pictures and all sorts of tests."

Strike considered. The dermaphos' hide was much too thick for any sort of injection of local anesthetics, though it could be gassed into temporary unconsciousness. But that would be the means to be used for the actual capture, and Gerry disliked to give her prospective victims any advance hint of what was in store for them. Some of the planetary life-forms were amazingly adaptable. After one shot of anesthetic, they could develop immunity to it.

"Big reptiles are always sluggish," said Tommy jauntily. "I'll bet I can whack off a piece before he even realizes what's happened."

He selected a hand-ax from the row of hooks round the outside of his suit, which had more equipment than a Boy Scout kit. Confidently he stepped around behind the dermaphos as it browsed sleepily on the leathery foliage. Seizing the tip of the monster's tail, he smashed the ax down. Instantly he was flung off-balance by a ton of enraged flesh. He fell heavily, and the world spun with incredible speed.

WHEN his eyes focused properly again, Strike found himself staring into the gaping jaws of the dermaphos. In his ears, the angry and frightened scream of his fiancée was ringing. "Tommy! Tommy! Are you hurt? Don't move. I'm coming!"

Strike grinned shakily.

"Relax. Everything's under control, I think. He can't hurt me in this suit. Just get around behind him and warm his stern with a heat beam. And listen, Gerry, remember, your credo—no unnecessary heroics. Stay well out of danger."

A faint sobbing breath in Strike's earphones was the only audible indication that the girl was anything but under iron-nerved control. For a minute there was an armed truce, while the dermaphos tried to make a decision. Strike remained motionless. Ax in one hand and tail fragment in the other, he stared unblinkingly into the unquestionably lethal mouth of the ugly Saturnian monster.

Since he was involuntarily in a position to do so, he made observations. The beast had sharp teeth in front as well as grinders in the rear. That showed that he was probably omnivorous, though none of the hunting party had seen him eat anything but vegetation. Besides, at least four of the fangs appeared to be backed by glands of some sort. The acid secretion drolled slowly onto the breast of Strike's pressure suit, and it was so powerful that the metal became pitted.

Beyond the range of Strike's vision, Gerry went into action. The dermaphos squealed suddenly with rage and flipped its mighty bulk around to face a new tormentor.

Strike rolled wildly aside to avoid the thrashing monster. Even in that confused instant of activity, he got a glimpse of the raw spot on the dermaphos' tail where he had hacked off the living flesh. It was still smoking from Gerry's well aimed heat ray blast, and Strike found time for swift sympathy. That must have stung the unhappy creature badly.

Then the brief drama was finished. Strike clambered to his feet and moved to safety on the far side of the clearing, while Gerry calmly lured away the slow-moving dermaphos.

Presently the two hunters joined forces again. Strike bowed clumsily and offered the bit of flesh from the animal.

"Compliments of the management," he said with an affected accent, "for mademoiselle."

The two looked deeply into each other's eyes, and unspoken volumes passed between them. They were a modern couple, those two, wont to spend more time kidding and roughhousing than in tender words. But they were also in love. Physical danger to either, though pretty much to be expected in their profession, was always harrowing to the other.

"It's times like these," Gerry said slowly, "when I think of chucking the whole thing."

"And settle down in a little gray penthouse in the west?"

They grinned at each other. Gerry could never of her own volition quit the rigorous, exciting game in which she was an acknowledged leader. It was in her blood like an incurable disease. She was the kind to die with her boots on, probably on some distant world where human feet had never trod before. Life, for her, consisted of boldly tackling murderous life-forms for the benefit of the millions of spectators who yearly thronged the London Interplanetary Zoo.

There was no other, and they both knew it.