9: OVER THE EDGE
For long moments nothing was said. Both Lackland and Barlennan, who had worked so carefully over the photographs from which the map of their journey had been prepared, were far too astonished to speak. The crew, though by no means devoid of initiative, decided collectively and at the first glance to leave this problem to their captain and his alien friend. “How could it have been there?” Barlennan was first to speak. “I can see it’s not high, compared to the vessel from which your pictures were taken, but should it not have cast a shadow far across the country below, in the minutes before sunset?”
“It should, Barl, and I can think of only one reason it escaped us. Each picture, you recall, covered many square miles; one alone would include all the land we can see from here, and much more. The picture that does cover this area must have been made between sunrise and noon, when there would have been no shadow.”
“Then this cliff does not extend past the boundary of that one picture?”
“Possibly; or, just as possibly, it chanced that two or three adjacent shots were all made in the morning — I don’t know just what course the photo rocket flew. If, as I should imagine, it went east and west, it wouldn’t be too great a coincidence for it to pass the cliff several times running at about the same time of day. “Still, there’s little point in going through that question. The real problem, since the cliff obviously
does exist, is how to continue our journey.” That question produced another silence, which lasted for some time. It was broken, to the surprise of at least two people, by the first mate. “Would it not be advisable to have the Flyer’s friends far above learn for us just how far this cliff extends to either side? It may be possible to descend an easier slope without too great a detour. It should not be hard for them to make new maps, if this cliff was missed on the first.” Barlennan translated this remark, which was made in the mate’s own language. Lackland raised his eyebrows. “Your friend may as well speak English himself, Barl — he appears to know enough to understand our last conversation. Or do you have some means of communicating it to him that I don’t know about?” Barlennan whirled on his mate, startled and, after a moment, confused. He had not reported the conversation to Dondragmer; evidently the Flyer was right — his mate had learned some English. Unfortunately, however, the second guess had also some truth; Barlennan had long been sure that many of the sounds his vocal apparatus could produce were not audible to the Earthman, though he could not guess at the reason. For several seconds he was confused, trying to decide whether it would be better to reveal Dondragmer’s ability, the secret of their communication, both together, or, if he could talk fast enough, neither. Barlennan did the best he could. “Apparently Dondragmer is sharper than I realized. Is it true that you have learned some of the Flyer’s language, Don?” This he asked in English, and in a pitch that Lackland could hear. In the shriller tones that his own language employed so much he added, “Tell the truth — I want to cover up as long as possible the fact that we can talk without his hearing. Answer in his own language, if you can.” The mate obeyed, though not even his captain could have guessed at his thoughts. “I have learned much of your language, Charles Lackland. I did not realize you would object.”