Trouble on Titan/Chapter IX

EAGERLY Gerry donned the thought helmet once more, placing the corresponding helmet upon the leading Titanian. Gone now were all thoughts of delving into the mysteries of an ancient and dying civilization. Even the urgency of their terrible predicament faded momentarily before the importance of learning the queer relationship between the Titanians and the monsters.

"They are the Gora," came the Titanian thought waves, anticipating Gerry's questions. "They are native to this world."

"Which means that you're not?"

"No. Many ages ago, the Old Ones came here from a far star. There was death on our original home, though I know little about it. When we arrived here, our presence was resented by the Gora. But their catacombs were underground, and we did not interfere much with one another. Then it was discovered by the Gora that we people have a strange gland in our bodies—"

The Titanian lifted his chin to expose his throat. There was an opening there, reddened from the recent mistreatment.

"Formerly, when our race was expanding, our artisans worked miracles with metals by virtue of the secretion from this gland. Now, however, there is no longer any need to build, and that secret has been lost."

A thrill of excitement passed through the Ark's crew.

"So to us the gland is a vestigial organ of no value. But to the Gora, the secretion serves not only as food and drink, but as valuable plastic material for many uses. From the moment they learned this, there was constant warfare between us. Raiding parties of the Gora would lie in wait for incautious individuals, or occasionally make daring night raids into our homes. Once captured, a Titanian was rarely seen again live. He was doomed to a ghastly slavery far underground, a living death.

"We, in our turn, fought back with powerful weapons. Poison gases were released in the burrows of the Gora. Traps were set. But in the end, superior intelligence solved the terrible problem. To end the futile, destructive warfare, we as the dominant race made a pact with the inferior Gora. After all, the glandular secretion was of no particular importance to us. So we agreed that twice every planetary revolution we would set aside a brief period.

"During that time, the Gora are permitted to come up from below and replenish their supplies of the secretion. This period, known as the Time of Offering, is marked by the great gong. In return, the Gora agreed to take over all manual duties in running the city and keeping it in a fine state of repair. They clean our homes, operate all our machines, while we are free to engage in cultural pursuits and enjoy the more abundant life. Thus, by virtue of intellect, we have relegated the Gora to the status of our slaves.

"They are utterly dependent upon our glandular gifts. They must appease our every whim or suffer the consequences. We have a falling birth rate, which you may have guessed from the fact that the outer portions of our city are no longer in use. This fact also strengthens our dominant position."

STRIKE and Gerry exchanged a long look of profound horror. "What a monstrous bargain!" burst out Gerry in dismay.

Barrows smiled uncomfortably. "Why, the idiots actually think they put over a fast one! Why don't they look around? Can't they see the evidences of mental and moral decay, the results of easy living? Dominant race! The Gora give them a few concessions and grab off the secretion—the most precious thing they have."

"Poor little children of Esau," said Gerry somberly. "They sold their birthright for a mess of pottage."

The Titanian, able to get only Gerry's thoughts, bowed politely.

"I am sorry. I do not understand." Gerry removed her helmet, cradling it in her arm.

"I have an orange grove back in California," she said with apparent irrelevancy. "We have a lot of trouble with ants."

"Aunts?" queried Strike. "Troublesome relatives?"

"Ants. Those creatures that get into everything with amazing persistence."

"That describes my female relatives, all right."

"No, I'm serious, Tommy. Ants have an astonishingly complicated and well developed economy. They take plant-lice and carry them up to the tender young leaves of the citrus trees. They let the insect cows extract the vital juices of the plant. Then the ants return and stroke them with their feelers to induce them to exude this juice. The ants promptly harvest it and take it down into their formicaries. They handle aphides the way human beings handle cows, tending them and 'milking' them. Any encroachment upon their little system—ladybird beetles, for instance, eat aphides—is met with fierce resistance."

"I get the analogy. This relationship between Titanian and Gora is a parallel case. The Gora are pretty ant-like in habits, at that. Symbiosis."

There was a lengthy silence while the politely attentive Titanian looked from face to face, trying to interpret the expressions of pity and sorrow. Again, more heavily than ever, came the pressure of their desperate situation and the need for swift action. But it was sharpened now by the knowledge that a possible solution to their troubles was at hand.

Gerry slipped on her thought helmet again. In her most diplomatic manner, she began to dicker for a supply of the probably vital glandular secretion. The Titanian's answering thoughts were evasive, regretfully negative. With a great show of deprecating hand-waving, he indicated that this would be a technical violation of their pact with the Gora. No amount of urging or offers of barter could move him.

Strike suddenly leaned over and snapped off the switch on Gerry's helmet.

"Before you start losing your temper," he urged, "and alienate them for good— Look. It's obvious they're scared stiff of what the Gora might do in retaliation. The stuff about violating their pact is just a pretext. And if they're scared, there's no persuading 'em. So I have an idea. Let's call this visit quits for today, and I'll tell you later what I'm planning."

The distant Sun had already disappeared, and Saturn bulged low on the horizon. Gerry made excuses, refusing to impose upon Titanian hospitality further. She promised to return the next day to resume the interesting conversation. Escorted by the unbelievably gracious Titanians, who were visibly relieved at the change of subject, Gerry and her men marched toward the hills where their rocket ship lay.

THE life-boat barely managed to accommodate the entire party. There appeared to be just sufficient fuel left to carry them back to the Ark. Gerry, before taking off, twisted around to speak.

"Would it be too much to ask just what's on your mind, my sweet?"

Strike smiled. "Skip the sarcasm, kitten. Here's the way I see it. We aren't sure yet whether this Titanian stuff will help or not. That's the first thing we must know. After that, maybe we'll have reason to battle for it."

"And how will we find out?"

Strike took from his shirt the decapitated head of the slain Gora and waved it aloft triumphantly.

"There's a sample of the stuff inside the cheek-pouches of this thing. It'll be enough for Baumstark to make a test."

It didn't take long, back at the Ark, for the chief engineer to grasp what was wanted. He promptly disappeared into the engine room with welding apparatus in one hand and a cupful of the all-important secretion in the other, searching for rotors and matrix upon which to experiment. A reddish glow flickered and shadows danced. Finally Baumstark reappeared. His grin was so wide that he dropped the oxygen tube from his mouth. He held up thumb and forefinger in a circle, squinting through it in glee.

"Perfect !" he gloated. "It works perfectly!"

Beyond question, the secret of the ancient Titanians' genius with metals lay in their glandular secretion, which acted as a miraculous flux. It lowered the melting point of neutroxite far below beryllium's danger point, fusing the alloy rotors onto their matrix beautifully.

There was a swift gabble of explanations from the scouting party to the crew members who had stayed with the Ark. Then Baumstark posed a sombre question.

"I'll need quite a lot of this stuff for the welding job. Can you get it?"

"That's why I wanted to get you away from there before explaining my plan, Gerry," Strike said. "I was afraid the Titanian might read your thoughts while I told you what I intend to do. We'll have to scrape together every hypodermic syringe in the Ark, improvise some if we can't find enough. Then back we go tomorrow. When the Time of Offering comes again, we enter and help ourselves.

"It must be done without the Titanians' knowledge, of course. They're too scared of their 'inferior' neighbors to risk any violation of their pact. And naturally we've got to give those little devils, the Gora, something to think about in the meantime."

Excitement ran like electricity through the crew. Darkness came, blackly impenetrable. But hope, which had burned only as a dim spark, now flamed into a blazing beacon. With courage and skill, they might yet save themselves.

WHEN dawn came, Strike laid out his plan of campaign. Gerry willingly let him take full command. There were two proton cannon in the Ark itself, but they were huge. In those days, it still took a vast machine to produce an effective stream of subatomic bullets. So Strike detailed one squad to remain with the ship, using the proton cannon to protect their final stronghold, in case the coming war should be carried to that extreme. The last dregs of rocket fuel in the life-boats had now been used up, so the raid had to be carried out on foot. Eighteen of the crew, including Gerry and Strike, formed themselves in groups of three. One was equipped with hypodermics and containers for the vital fluid, the other two armed to the teeth. The rest of the men made a skeleton squad to be posted midway between the Ark and the city of the Titanians, prepared to fight, a rear guard action if necessary.

"This may go off quietly, without a hitch," said Strike. "I hope it does. But if we have to fight—and it's our lives we'll be fighting for—I mean to put up a real scrap."

Timing their approach to arrive shortly before the morning Time of Offering, Gerry Carlyle and Tommy Strike led their little party over the six miles of barren, trailless badlands and into the Titanian city. Though they were gripped by interest and excitement, their expressions demonstrated their grim determination to carry off the coup successfully. They knew the penalty for failure. It was death—if not by the Gora, then by scarcely less horrible thirst or starvation. There was little water on the satellite, and the food of the Titanians had proved unsuited to human consumption. They had to win or die.

Gerry was met by apparently the same Titanian trio who had entertained them the previous day. They were still as smiling and ingratiating as ever. A faint qualm stirred her conscience.

"My only real regret," she said, "is that we can't stay and uncover the secrets that lie hidden in this ancient city."

"Don't forget Kurtt," reminded Tommy. "He must be a third of the way back to Earth by now."

"I remember. But don't worry about the race. We may not win, but it's a foregone conclusion that Kurtt won't, either."

"Your inspired logic escapes me. However, I agree that there's plenty around to interest us here. Too bad we can't put off this job of having to fight for our lives. Maybe we can return some day and dig around a little. Yeah—maybe !"