“It’s your turn,” Nerishev pointed out.
“I know. Let me complain a little first, will you? Come on, let’s get a forecast from Smanik.”
They walked the length of the station, their heels echoing on the steel floor, past compartments filled with food, air supplies, instruments, extra equipment. At the far end of the station was the heavy metal door of the receiving shed. The men slipped on air masks and adjusted the flow.
“Ready?” Clayton asked.
“Ready.”
They braced themselves, gripping handholds beside the door. Clayton touched the stud. The door slid away and a gust of wind shrieked in. The men lowered their heads and butted into the wind, entering the receiving shed.
The shed was an extension of the station, some thirty feet long by fifteen feet wide. It was not sealed, like the rest of the structure. The walls were built of openwork steel, with baffles set in. The wind could pass through this arrangement, but slowed down, controlled. A gauge told them it was blowing 34 miles an hour within the shed.
It was a damned nuisance, Clayton thought, having to confer with the natives of Carella in a 34-mile gale. But there was no other way. The Carellans, raised on a planet where the wind never blew less than 70 miles an hour, couldn’t stand the “dead air” within the station. Even with the oxygen content cut down to the Carellan norm, the natives couldn’t make the adjustment. Within the station, they grew dizzy and apprehensive. Soon they began strangling, like a man in a vacuum.
Thirty-four miles an hour of wind was a fair compromise-point for human and Carellan to meet.
Clayton and Nerishev walked down the shed. In one corner lay what looked like a tangle of dried-out octopi. The tangle stirred and waved two tentacles ceremoniously.
“Good day,” said Smanik.
“Good day,” Clayton said. “What do you think of the weather?”
“Excellent,” said Smanik.
Nerishev tugged at Clayton’s sleeve. “What did he say?” he asked, and nodded thoughtfully when Clayton translated it for him. Nerishev lacked Clayton’s gift for language. Even after eight months, the Carellan tongue was still an undecipherable series of clicks and whistles to him.
Several more Carellans came up to join the conversation. They all looked like spiders or octopi, with their small centralized body and long, flexible tentacles. This was the optimum survival shape on Carella, and Clayton frequently envied it. He was forced to rely absolutely on the shelter of the station; but the Carellans lived directly in their environment.
Often he had seen a native walking against a tornado-force wind, seven or eight limbs hooked into the ground and pulling, other tentacles reaching out for further grips. He had seen them rolling down the wind like tumbleweed, their tentacles curled around them, wickerwork-basket fashion. He thought of the gay and audacious way they handled their land ships, scudding merrily along on the wind....
Well, he thought, they’d look damned silly on Earth.
“What is the weather going to be like?” he asked Smanik.
The Carellan pondered the question for a while, sniffed the wind and rubbed two tentacles together.
“The wind may rise a shade more,” he said finally. “But it will be nothing serious.”
Clayton wondered. Nothing serious for a Carellan could mean disaster for an Earthman. Still, it sounded fairly promising.
He and Nerishev left the receiving shed and closed the door.
“Look,” said Nerishev, “if you’d like to wait—”
“Might as well get it over with,” Clayton said.
Here, lighted by a single dim overhead bulb, was the smooth, glittering bulk of the Brute. That was the nickname they had given to the vehicle specially constructed for transportation on Carella.
The Brute was armored like a tank and streamlined like a spheric section. It had vision slits of shatterproof glass, thick enough to match the strength of its steel plating. Its center of gravity was low; most of its twelve tons were centered near the ground. The Brute was sealed. Its heavy diesel engine, as well as all necessary openings, were fitted with special dustproof covers. The Brute rested on its six fat tires, looking, in its immovable bulk, like some prehistoric monster.
Clayton got in, put on crash helmet and goggles, and strapped himself into the padded seat. He revved up the engine, listened to it critically, then nodded.
“Okay,” he said, “the Brute’s ready. Get upstairs and open the garage door.”
“Good luck,” said Nerishev. He left.
Clayton went over the instrument panel, making sure that all the Brute’s special gadgets were in working order. In a moment, he heard Nerishev’s voice coming in over the radio.
“I’m opening the door.”
“Right.”
The heavy door slid back and Clayton drove the Brute outside.
The station had been set up on a wide, empty plain. Mountains would have offered some protection from the wind; but the mountains on Carella were in a constant restless state of building up and breaking down. The plain presented dangers of its own, however. To avert the worst of those dangers, a field of stout steel posts had been planted around the station. The closely packed posts pointed outward, like ancient tank traps, and served the same purpose.
Clayton drove the Brute down one of the narrow, winding channels that led through the field of posts. He emerged, located the pipeline and started along it. On a small screen above his head, a white line flashed into view. The line would show any break or obstruction in the pipeline.
A wide, rocky, monotonous desert stretched before him. An occasional low bush came into sight. The wind was directly behind him, blanketed by the sound of the diesel.
He glanced at the windspeed indicator. The wind of Carella was blowing at 92 miles an hour.
He drove steadily along, humming to himself under his breath. From time to time, he heard a crash. Pebbles, propelled by the hurricane wind, were cannonading against the Brute. They shattered harmlessly against the thick armor.
“Everything all right?” Nerishev asked over the radio.
“Fine,” Clayton said.
In the distance, he saw a Carellan land ship. It was about forty feet long, he judged, and narrow in the beam, skimming rapidly on crude wooden rollers. The ship’s sails were made from one of the few leaf-bearing shrubs on the planet.
The Carellans waved their tentacles as they went past. They seemed to be heading toward the station.
Clayton turned his attention back to the pipeline. He was beginning to hear the wind now, above the roar of the diesel. The windspeed indicator showed that the wind had risen to 97 miles an hour.
Somberly he stared through the sand-pocked slit window. In the far distance were jagged cliffs, seen dimly through the dust-blown air. More pebbles ricocheted off his hull and the sound rang hollowly through his vehicle. He glimpsed another Carellan land ship, then three more. They were tacking stubbornly into the wind.
It struck Clayton that a lot of Carellans were moving toward the station. He signaled to Nerishev on the radio.
“How are you doing?” Nerishev asked.
“I’m close to the spring and no break yet,” Clayton reported. “Looks like a lot of Carellans heading your way.”
“I know. Six ships are moored in the lee of the shed and more are coming.”
“We’ve never had any trouble with the natives before,” Clayton said slowly. “What does this look like?”
“They’ve brought food with them. It might be a celebration.”
“Maybe. Watch yourself.”
“Don’t worry. You take care and hurry—”
“I’ve found the break! Speak to you later.”
The break showed on the screen, glowing white. Peering out the port, Clayton saw where a boulder had rolled across the pipeline, crushing it, and rolled on.
He brought the truck to a stop on the windward side of the pipe. It was blowing 113 miles an hour. Clayton slid out of the truck, carrying several lengths of pipe, some patches, a blowtorch, and a bag of tools. They were all tied to him and he was secured to the Brute by a strong nylon rope.