Involution Ocean

ad­vice?”

“Come in, please, and seat yourselves,” I said. “Wait. . . have you eaten?”

“Yes,” said the Nullaquan. “No, sure haven’t,” Calothrick said.

“Right through there, then, please,” I said, “Pick up a plate and introduce yourself to the rest of the household while I discuss business with our mutual acquaintance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Uh . . .”

“Newhouse,” I said, waving him on.

“Ain’t you gonna eat, John?” Andaru said.

“I’ve eaten,” I lied. It was Agathina Brant’s turn to cook, and it damaged my digestion to witness the woman’s here­sies with food. I have always prided myself on my ability with what the Terrans used to call le good cuisine.

“How much did you bring?” I asked.

' ’Bout a gallon, as usual. ’Fraid it’s the last one you’re gonna get.”

“Oh?” I said. “That’s a shock, Andaru. Are you leaving the business?”

“I got to. It’s illegal now.”

Ice grew in my veins at the words. “Who says so?” I said.

“The Confederacy does; heard the news just yesterday.”

“The Confederacy?” I repeated numbly.

“Yeah, the Confederacy, you know, skinny little fellows that float between the stars and tell folks how to get along.”

“But they have no authority over plenetary affairs”.

“Well, they made Nullaqua what you might call a polite request” “And Nullaqua obeyed it.”

“Why not? We got nothing to lose by being nice to the Confederacy as far as I can see.”

I saw a slim ray of hope. “But you have something to lose, though.”

“Yeah, there’s that,” he admitted, “but listen, they say some folks have been using this gut oil to make drugs with.”

“No! You don’t say!” I said. The bucolic Nullaquans have virtually no concept of drug abuse, sticking to tobacco and cheap beer.

“What wonderful food!” came the sudden voice of Dumonty Calothrick from the kitchen. I grimaced.

“So this is our last gallon.”

“Yep. Everyone I know who sells it is closin’ up shop.”

“They don’t want to break the law.”

“They sure don’t. That’s a sin.”

I knew better than to press the old Nullaquan. Besides, he had all the native’s aversion to water, and, unlike him, I did not have a thick, puffy growth of hair in my nostrils to filter out unpleasantness. “How much for this last jug, then?”

“One monune and thirty-six pennigs.”

“Right you are,” I said, counting out the money onto his calloused palm. We exchanged expressions of mutual esteem. I opened the door for him and he left.

Then I sat down slowly on the comfortless whalehide couch to think things over. I felt a sudden itch for a quick blast of Flare, but unlike the others, I kept my cravings rigidly under control.

“When, you’ve finished eating come in here,” I shouted. “I’ve got news.”

I took the jug in my lap and pried the lid off. I sniffed. It was the usual high-quality stuff. I resealed it.

They were out in three minutes. “Bad news, “I said. “The Confederacy has declared Flare illegal and Nullaqua is going along. This—' I thumped it— “is our last jug.”

Their faces fell in unison. It was a disturbing sight. We turned to Timon for advice. “I—' he began.

“Oh well, I’ve got a little bit here with me, let’s do up some,” Calothrick interrupted brightly. He took a plastic packet out of the breast pocket of his checkered shirtjac and pulled an eyedropper out of his belt. The group quickly shuffled themselves into a circle on the carpet as Calothrick opened the packet and sucked up a dropperful of the liq­uid.

Timon frowned. “I suggest we ration what we have left. If the Nullaquans refuse to supply us we will have to send out one of our number to get it for us. Straight from the source. From a whale.”

Daylight Mulligan clapped its hands. “Bravo, Timon,” it said. Mrs. Undine passed it the dropper; it opened its mouth and squirted a quick blast onto its tongue.

“Which one of us?” said Quade Altman, in falsetto.

“Well, the women are out,” said Mr. Undine. “I hear that whalers don’t allow them on board.”

“So will someone have to make the complete trip?” said Simon the poet, his brain now well stimulated.

“Oh, yes,” said Timon. “And as they last six months, I suggest we choose someone as quickly as possible. Toward the end things may grow uncomfortable.” Simon and Ame­lia both looked suddenly frightened. Mr. and Mrs. Undine held hands.

“I nominate John Newhouse,” said Agathina Brant sud­denly. Everyone looked startled; she spoke so seldom..

“Let’s draw straws,” I said quickly.

“John, you’re the best choice,” said Mr. Undine, in ob­vious relief. “You have the resilience of youth, certainly.”

I countered, “But you have the experience of age. Surely that counts for more.”

“But you have sharp wits. And resourcefulness. None of us can deny that,” said Simon.

“Yes, Simon, but think how your poetry could gain from the trip,” I said.

“But you have experience. You know what oil to get and how to brew it,” Daylight Mulligan said. It had me there. More than anything else, this sealed my fate.

Things looked black. Surely, I thought, Millicent will de­fend me. I looked at her.

“Yes, and you can get a job, John,” she said. “You can cook. You’re a good cook. You won’t have any trouble.”

“Let’s not reach any hasty conclusions,” I said. “Perhaps we should reconsider our situation in a week. It might be possible-—'

Then Dumonty Calothrick spoke up. “Why wait? It’s wonderful!” he laughed. “No sooner does the problem arise than it is solved. Think, Mr. Newhouse, the lure of adven­ture, the thrill of an alien planet. Six months before the mast. New sights! New thrills! Romance! Flare by the gal­lon! Hey, anybody want another quick blast?”

“Why don’t you go?” I asked gently.

“Oh, I am, I am! I’m going with you!”

Chapter 2 Boarding Ship

The entire habitable portion of Nullaqua lies at the bot­tom of a monster crater some seventy miles deep and, for the most part, five hundred miles across. Over 90 percent of the planet’s atmosphere lies pooled in this vast hollow; the rest of the planet has only a thin scattering of gases and the ruins of two Elder Culture outposts. According to ac­cepted theory, the crater was gouged by a concentrated bombardment of antimatter meteors some billions of years ago. It would have splattered a younger planet but at that time Nullaqua was solid almost to the core. Vast volumes of gas were liberated from the broken rock. After that, the multiple tons of fine dust, caused by the action of the sun on Nullaqua’s almost airless surface, sifted or were blown into the crater. This gradual but ceaseless action, continu­ing even today, has given Nullaqua an ocean of almost monatomic dust, untold miles deep. Nullaqua was given a second chance to create life. This time, she succeeded.

Five hundred years ago Nullaqua was settled by a dour group of religious fanatics. Their creed is now somewhat weakened, but still retains its colorful blasphemies and an exaggerated respect for the law.

It was that respect that now forced me to leave the com­fort of my double bed to seek my fortune on the Sea of Dust. With me was young Calothrick; I was unable to dis­suade him from coming.