The Great Hydration

The convoy could have outrun it for the time being, but by now the dehydrates were dying. The rain was like acid on their naked skin. The fog was like mustard gas in their lungs. The column ground to a halt. The dehydrates, humanoid and lizard, went into convulsions and expired.

Northrop heaved the bodies out of his own vehicle, retrieved a radio rig from another, and continued. But it was not long before the craft bogged down in increasingly damp sand, and would move no further. He would have to walk.

Soon this whole area would be under water. Northrop was making for a clump of hills which would take longer to be submerged, and they were now no more than a kilometer or two away. It was late evening. The usually blazing Tenacity sun created colourful displays on newly formed clouds—which must have been dazzling to any natives still in a mood to behold anything. Cursing the universal tendency for primitive technology always to be too big and too heavy, Northrop dragged the radiator behind him in the sand, now changed from a brilliant sulfur colour to a drab ochre. A canteen of water dangled from his neck. He did not know how he had found the strength to put one foot in front of another, let alone drag the Analane radio too, but the will to survive could work wonders. Not that his prospect of survival was very good.

The sun was still visible when he forced himself up the first hill he came to and set up the radiator. It was simple to operate. He had only to close the switch that completed the circuit to the antenna, and speak into the microphone consisting of a flat plate built into the cabinet.

“Northrop calling the Enterprise. Northrop calling the Enterprise. I’m in the southern reach of the sea bed. Can you get a fix on me?”

The radiator’s ground level range was limited. He was banking on the signal reaching the gogetter ship, no matter how attenuated. Project monitoring included an all-frequency watch—it was one way of detecting what was happening geologically. By now it would be realized that the long-wave, amplitude-modulated analogue signals coming from several sources were artificial. Log procedure would be demodulating and translating those signals.

But would anyone bother to listen to the translations? They had nothing to do with the project. The person on log watch was probably some young girl, the latest recruit to the staff. Would she hear his voice?

It would take a minor miracle.

He carried on speaking into the microphone until his voice was hoarse. Occasionally he switched the apparatus to receive, but all he heard was a faint and distant Artaxa voice bewailing its owners’ fate.

The small sun’s last rays disappeared. Would it still be freezing cold at night? The cloud cover wasn’t thick yet.

He took a last swig from his canteen, then lay down and fell into a stupor.

Maybe dying of exposure wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.

Stepping thankfully into the lighter’s cabin, the partners settled themselves into the passenger seats. The door closed. O’Rourke’s voice came from orbit.

“Are you all right, Sirs?”

“Yes, we’re all right,” Krabbe told him impatiently. “Good work, O’Rourke. Might as well bring us up. We’ll watch the rest of the show from the ship.”

In a flat, casual voice O’Rourke spoke again. “There’s been radio traffic on the planet recently, sir. Analogue, amplitude modulated—very primitive stuff. It seems the dehydrate rebels are using it. A few minutes ago the log watch girl heard a voice she recognised. It’s Northrop.”

He left the last words hanging, as if waiting.

“Got his coordinates?” Krabbe enquired.

“Yes, sir,” O’Rourke replied, with a resigned sigh.

“Okay, we’ll pick him up on the way, if he hasn’t drowned.”

He gestured to the pilot. “Move.”

The lighter rose into the air. On the view screen, the fog-shrouded scene fell away below.

A whistling noise awoke Northrop. Half-frozen, he opened his eyes. His heart leaped when he recognised the outline of the lighter against the stars, hanging over the hillside.

A searchlight shone down. The pilot had spotted him. The lighter came nearer and swung itself level with the hilltop. The door opened to expose a lighted interior.

A sour baritone voice emerged. “Step inside, Roncie.”

It was Boris Bouche!

To enter the lighter and find that he had been rescued by the partners themselves gave Roncie an unaccustomed feeling of gratitude—even an unwelcome one. But they ignored his effusive thanks. In fact, they pretty much ignored him altogether. He relaxed in the seat they offered him, enjoying the warmth, experiencing a renewed stirring of hunger, which he took as a healthy sign.

The lighter soared into the blackness of space and sped towards the Enterprise. Then, on the approach, the pilot let out an explosive exclamation of startlement.

They all leaned towards the viewscreen. An angular shape was jockeying into position ahead of them.

The partners’ jaws dropped.

A Stellar Commission pursuit ship was in the sky.