the wreck and scatter it in front of the thorn clumps — that might make them
lose interest in the wreck for a while.”
“I hope so,” Fletcher said.
The lander took off in a small, self-created sandstorm as Conway was dragging
the first containers of food toward the edge of the nearest thorn patch, which
was about four hundred meters astern of the wreck. They had agreed that Fletcher
would move the containers from the storage deck to the ground outside the hatch,
and Conway would scatter them along the front of the advancing thorns. He had
wanted to use,the litter with its greater capacity and gravity neutralizers, but
Naydrad had stated in its forthright fashion that the Doctor was unused to
controlling the vehicle and if the gravity settings were wrong or a part of the
load fell off, the litter would disappear skyward or blow weightlessly away.
Conway was forced to do it the hard way.
“Make this the last one, Doctor,” the Captain said as he was coming in from his
eighth round trip. “The wind is rising.”
The shadow of the wreck had lengthened steadily as he worked and the sky had
deepened in color. The suit’s sensors showed a marked drop in the outside
temperature, but Conway had been generating so much body heat himself that he
had not noticed it. He threw the containers as far in front and to each side of
him as he could, opening some of them to make sure that the thorns would know
that the unopened containers also held food, although they could probably sense
that for themselves. The thorn clumps covered the sand across a wide front like
black, irregular crosshatching, seemingly motionless. But every time he looked
away for a few minutes then back again, they were closer.
Suddenly the thorn patches and everything else disappeared behind a dark-brown
curtain of sand and a gust of wind punched him in the back, knocking him to his
knees. He tried to get to his feet but an eddy blew him onto his side. Half
crawling and half running, he headed back toward the wreck, although by then he
had no clear idea where it was. The storm-driven sand was hissing so loudly
against his helmet that he could barely hear Dodds’ voice.
“My sensors show you heading toward the thorns, Doctor,” the astrogator said
urgently. “Turn right about one hundred ten degrees and the wreck is about three
hundred meters distant.”
Fletcher was outside the cargo hatch with his suit spotlight turned to maximum
power to guide him in. The Captain pushed him through the hatch and closed it
behind him. The crash had warped the hatch so that sand continued to blow in
around the edges, except near the bottom where it came through in a steady
trickle.
“Within a few minutes the outside of the hatch will be sealed
by a sand drift,” Fletcher said without looking at Conway. “It will be difficult
for our cannibal to get in. Dodds will spot it on the sensors anyway and I’ll
have time to take the necessary steps.”
Conway shook his head and said, “We’ve nothing to worry about except the wind,
sand, and thorn patches.” Silently he added, If that wasn’t enough.
The Captain grunted and began climbing through the hatch leading to the
corridor, and Conway crawled after him. But it was not until Fletcher slowed to
pass the leaking hydraulic reservoir, which was steaming very faintly now, that
Conway spoke.
“Is there anything else bothering you, Captain?”
Fletcher stopped and for the first time in over an hour looked directly at the
Doctor. He said, “Yes, there is. That creature in the Control Deck bothers me.
Even in the hospital, what can you do for it, a multiple amputee? It will be
completely helpless, little more than a live specimen for study. I’m wondering
if it would not be better just to let the cold take it and—”
“We can do a great deal for it, Captain,” Conway broke in, “if we can get it
safely through the night. Weren’t you listening to Murchison, Prilicla, and me
discussing the case?”
“Yes and no, Doctor,” Fletcher said, moving forward again. “Some of it was quite