Chapter II

He climbed into a gaping hole in the bow. Morley followed, humiliated but still thinking hard. Catalogue it, he told himself. Remember everything. The Distress Depots, or D.D.'s, as spacemen called them, were studded on every frontier world, usually on the Equator. They contained two small spacecraft plus ample supplies of food, medicine, and tools. When wrecked, get to a D.D. and live. It was that simple.

They spent an hour worming their way through the shambles that had been the well ordered interior of Spaceboat 6, before emerging to take stock of their loot on the ground outside. Both men knew that they were pitifully equipped to cover several hundred miles, on foot, in a completely hostile environment. Suddenly Madsen looked up from the sextant he was examining.

"How come this gravity, Brain? I weigh about a hundred right now, I figure, and that's too much, by plenty. Japetus isn't a quarter the size of our moon."

"It's supposed to have a core of heavy radioactive metals," said Morley, thoughtfully, "and a corresponding high density. Keeps it warm anyway, instead of a big icicle, like Phoebe."

"Phoebe!" Madsen laughed. "I remember, back in '89--" He stopped abruptly at a rattling from the ledge. A green, little lizard-like creature was scrambling frantically over the granite, while hot in pursuit were three--spiders? Black, they were, a black like living velvet, and incredibly fast as they closed in, beady stalked eyes fastened on their prey. They were deliberately herding the desperate lizard toward a cleft in the rock. As the creature leaped into the opening, another spider dove at it from the recess. The others closed in. There was a hopeless hissing, a vicious clicking of mandibles. The struggle subsided. Once again the day was silent. Madsen holstered the blaster he had drawn and looked whitely at Morley.

"Pleasant pets," he grunted.

"Poisonous and carnivorous, too," said Morley, shakingly. "I remember reading that Valdez dissected one when he first landed here twenty years ago. One of his crew was bitten, and died in less than five minutes."

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."

"Of course, this is somewhat different. If we don't get out by ourselves, whoever finds us need only say, 'X marks the spot.'"

Morley didn't bother answering. No comment was necessary. He knew as well as Madsen that whatever margin of safety they possessed had been shaved to the vanishing point.

* * * * *

They made twenty miles in a forced march, slept, ate, and then traveled again. The stunted forest grew thinner, and occasionally they crossed open spaces acres in extent. Twice they saw, in the distance, animals resembling terrestrial deer, and on the second occasion Morley tried a fruitless shot. They slept and ate again, and now the last of the rations were gone. They went on.

As they made southing, the dull sun crept higher in the sky by infinitesimal degrees. Now the going became tougher. Patches of evil looking muskeg began to appear in the scrub, and the stunted trees themselves gradually gave way to six foot ferns. There were occasional signs that some creature had been foraging on the lush growth. When they found fresh tracks in the soft footing, Morley unlimbered the rifle, and the two men trod more softly. By that time either would have cheerfully made a meal on one of the miniature flying dragons, alive and kicking, and the thought of a juicy steak from some local herbivore was as soul stirring as the sight of Mecca to a true believer.

Both men whirled at a sudden crashing on their left. Something like a large splay footed kangaroo broke cover, and went loping away, clearing the fern tops at every bound. In one motion Morley whipped up the rifle and fired. There was an earsplitting report, the leaper kept right on going, under forced draught, and the two castaways stared in consternation at a rifle that resembled a bundle of metallic macaroni more than it did a firearm.

Madsen spoke first. "You probably got some mud in the barrel when we stopped last time," he accused. "Look at us now."

Morley started to mumble an apology, but Madsen cut him short. "Look at us now," he repeated, with all stops out. "It was bad before, now it's practically hopeless. Our only long range gun! What do we do now if we do find game--dig pits for it?"

If a man can be said to slink without changing his position, Morley slunk. Madsen continued, double fortissimo.

"A kid of ten knows enough to keep a gun clean, but you, Mr.--Mr. Unabridged Webster in the flesh--"

He stopped, temporarily out of breath. Morley regarded him abjectly, and suddenly Madsen began to feel a little ashamed. After all, the fellow had figured out that business about the meridian.

"No use in having any post mortems," he said, with fine logic. "Throw that junk away. It's that much less to carry, anyway."

Two hours later, they plodded wearily through the last of the swamp onto higher ground. The two haggard, muddied figures that threw themselves on the dry soil to rest bore little resemblance to the men who had parachuted from Spaceboat 6 seventy-two hours before.

The slope on which they rested was tufted with small bushes. One particular type with narrow dark green leaves bore clusters of fruit like small plums, which Madsen eyed speculatively.

"Do we risk it?" he asked.

"Might as well."

Morley was completely unaware that he had just accepted the responsibility for making a decision.

"We can't afford not to risk it," he said, adding, with little show of enthusiasm, "I'll be the guinea pig."

"Take it easy, chum," Madsen countered. "We'll match for it."

They matched and Morley called it wrong. He plucked a sample of the fruit and stood regarding it like some bewhiskered Little Jack Horner. Finally he broke the thin skin with his thumbnail and gingerly conveyed a couple of drops of juice to his tongue. The taste was simultaneously oily and faintly sweet, and after a short wait he essayed a fair sized bite. Madsen was about to follow suit, when Morley motioned him to wait. The next second he was rolling on the ground, coughing and choking, while Madsen tried grimly to feed him water from a canteen.

It was no use. The throat tissues became swollen and inflamed in seconds, to the point of agony, and swallowing was totally impossible. To this was shortly added an overpowering nausea. When the retching finally stopped, Morley tried to speak, but in vain. Even the effort meant waves of pain.

Madsen watched helplessly, and when the spasms of choking finally stopped, spoke gently.

"We'll be camping right here for a while, looks like. Try to get some sleep if it slacks off any. You'll be okay in a while."

His doubts were hidden, and Morley thanked him with his eyes.