“I know. Like suddenly dying myself. I’d have recovered. But this way—My God, man, Gimmick’s out there, not a heap of smashed parts but Gimmick! And sunrise is coming.”
Willem sighed. “Exactly. Have you any idea what happened?”
The question, its style carefully parched, demanded an answer in kind. Christian’s fists unclenched. “We were examining an unusual sort of crag. All at once it broke into huge chunks. It buried Gimmick.” His tone sharpened. “The body Gimmick was using.” Again impersonal: “The top of the transceiver mast, with the dish, is sticking out, and what came to me shows that the interior armor protected the brain.”
“Are you sure? It could be in poor shape too.”
Christian shook his head. “No. Do you believe I wouldn’t know that, feel it, same as I would if my own brain took a concussion?”
“All right. But the accident—how could a collapse happen? An earthquake?”
“No.” Christian spoke with certainty. He had, in a way, been there. “Nor a meteorite strike. Somehow our seismic probe must have touched things off. I don’t see how. You know it didn’t have any great force. And Mercury’s geologically used up. That jut of rock stood unchanged for—what?—three billion years?”
“A freak occurrence, then.”
“Maybe. Or maybe such formations and weaknesses are common. How much do we know? Why the devil are we on Mercury, except to get the lay of the land? Before something like this happens elsewhere—”
Christian drew breath and forced coolness upon himself. “I was only in linkage with Gimmick. The full information isn’t in me, it’s in his database. If we don’t retrieve him before sunrise, everything will be baked and blasted to nothing.”
“I suppose so. Thermostatic system destroyed and the rocks probably not a good replacement for smashed radiation shielding.” Willem laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Dreadful luck. Worse for you than the expedition, perhaps. This association you’ve grown used to, this particular rapport you’ve developed, gone. You’ll have to start all over, won’t you?” He regarded the creases in the face, the fallowness in the blond hair. “Unless you choose to make a career change, or just retire. I’m sorry, Christian.”
The response lashed at him: “No! There’s time to go dig, detach Gimmick from the wreckage, get back here. But we’ve got to move, I tell you!”
“I … am afraid not. Let me check and make sure.” Willem turned to his keyboards and readouts. Christian stood where he was. His fists doubled again.
After a while the cyberneticist looked at him and said slowly: “No. I’ve gathered the present whereabouts of everything we have with proper capability,” self-programming robots surveying and studying the planet in advance of the grand enterprise. Christian’s had been the only direct human-machine alliance, expensive in terms of life support and equipment, rewarding in terms of special situations calling for an organic mind on the scene. “They’re scattered across the globe, remember. Even the nearest has rough terrain to cross. None can get there soon enough.”
Christian had become quite composed. “I guessed so. Well, it isn’t too far from here. I’ll go myself.”
3
Everyone else at Clement called the idea insane. The central artificial intelligence made a lightning-quick calculation and agreed. No possible gain was worth the risk of losing the outfit necessary, let alone a human life. Commander Gupta forbade it.
Christian Brannock stood his ground. He and Gimmick had been doing work impossible for any single man or machine. The delay while a replacement was found and brought to the planet, then the time spent regaining the lost information, could possibly cripple the whole undertaking, if only by the added cost. More to the point, as an independent contractor he had broad discretion. Within limits that he insisted he was not exceeding, he could commandeer whatever he needed to cope with an emergency.
His haste and resolution overbore them. Two hours later he was on his way.
After that, he waited. The rover that carried him operated itself. Its program included a topographic map, and survey satellites provided exact detail. Following its progress through communication relays, from time to time the intelligence at base ordered a change of course that would make for better speed. None of this impinged directly on Christian. Nor could he talk with the robot that accompanied him. It was built for power and dexterity, not thought. When they reached the site, the intelligence would direct its operations. Meanwhile its bulk crowded a cabin intended for, at most, three men.
Otherwise he was fairly comfortable. Air blew recycled, always pure. (He remembered odors of blossoms, pines, a woman’s sunlit hair.) Temperature varied subtly because that was best for health and alertness, without regard to the hundred-kelvin cold of midnight or the searing three hundred Celsius degrees of noonday. (He remembered a beach where surf burst and roared, a wind chill in his face and salt on his lips but warmth radiant from a leeward bluff.) The metal around him hummed and quivered, the deck underfoot pitched and swayed, as the vehicle drove full tilt across a rugged land. However, the seat in which he sat harnessed compensated for most, and what it could not entirely counteract didn’t amount to much in Mercurian gravity. If anything, the motion soothed, almost cradlelike. (He remembered a boat heeled over, climbing the crests of waves and diving into their troughs, the tiller athrum beneath his hand, the mainsail a snowpeak against heaven.)
Exhaustion claimed him. He ate and drank something, reclined the seat, and slept. His dreams were uneasy. Once during
