The Early Asimov. Volume 2

George made leisurely for the door, 'Just short-caircuited it. Here's y'r screw-driver; fix 't up again.' And just before he slammed the door, 'So much f'r y'r pracious machines. They go wrong at the wrong times.'

The sounder was buzzily insistent and Allen Carter opened one eye peevishly. It was still dark.

With a sigh, he lifted one arm to the head of his bed and put the Audiomitter into commission.

The treble voice of Amos Wells of the night shift squawked excitedly at him. Allen's eyes snapped open and he sat up.

'You're crazy!' But he was plunging into his breeches even as he spoke. In ten seconds, he was careening up the steps three at a time. He shot into the main office just behind the charging figure of his twin brother.

The place was crowded; - its occupants in a jitter.

Allen brushed his long hair out of his eyes, 'Turn on the turret searchlight!'

'It's on,' said someone helplessly.

The Earthman rushed to the window and looked out. The yellow beam reached dimly out a few feet and ended in a muddy murkiness. He pulled at the window and it lifted upwards grittily a few inches. There was a whistle of wind and a tornado of coughing from within the room. Allen slammed it down again and his hands went at once to his tear-filled eyes.

George spoke between sneezes, 'We're not located in the sandstorm zone. This can't be one.'

'It is,' asserted Wells in a squeak. 'It's the worst I've ever seen. Started full blast from scratch just like that. It caught me flat-footed. By the time I closed off all exits to above, it was too late.'

'Too late!' Allen withdrew his attention from his sand-filled eyes and snapped out the words, 'Too late for what?'

'Too late for our rolling stock. Our rockets got it worst of all. There isn't one that hasn't its propulsives clogged with sand. And that goes for our irrigation pumps and the ventilating system. The generators below are safe but everything else will have to be taken apart and put together again. We're stalled for a week at least. Maybe more.'

There was a short, pregnant silence, and then Allen said, 'Take charge, Wells. Put the men on double shift and tackle the irrigation pumps first. They've got to be in working order inside of twenty-four hours, or half the crop will dry up and die on us. Here - wait, I'll go with you.'

He turned to leave, but his first footstep froze in midair at the sight of Michael Anders, communications officer, rushing up the stairs. 'What's the matter?'

Anders spoke between gasps, 'The damned planet's gone crazy. There's been the biggest quake in history with its center not ten miles from Aresopolis.'

There was a chorus of 'What?' and a ragged follow-up of blistering imprecations. Men crowded in anxiously; - many had relatives and wives in the Martian metropolis.

Anders went on breathlessly, 'It came all of a sudden. Aresopolis is in ruins and fires have started. There aren't any details but the transmitter at our Aresopolis labs went dead five minutes ago.'

There was a babel of comment. The news spread out into the furthest recesses of Central, and excitement waxed to dangerously panicky proportions. Allen raised his voice to a shout.

'Quiet, everyone. There's nothing we can do about Aresopolis. We've got our own troubles. This freak storm is connected with the quake some way - and that's what we have to take care of. Everyone back to his work now - and work fast. They'll be needing us at Aresopolis damned soon.' He turned to Anders, 'You! Get back to that receiver and don't knock off until you've gotten in touch with Aresopolis again. Coming with me, George?'

'No, rackon not,' was the response. 'Y' tend t' y'r machines. I'll go down with Anders.'

Dawn was breaking, a dusky, lightless dawn, when Allen Carter returned to Central. He was weary - weary in mind and body - and looked it. He entered the radio room.

'Things are a mess. If -'

There was a 'Shhh' and George waved frantically. Allen fell silent. Anders bent over the receiver, turning tiny dials with nervous fingers.

Anders looked up. 'It's no use, Mr. Carter. Can't get them.'

'All right. Stay here and keep y'r ears open. Let me know if anything turns up.'

He walked out, hooking an arm underneath his brother's and dragging the latter out.

'When c'n we get out the next shipment, All'n?'

'Not for at least a week. We haven't a thing that'll either roll or fly for days, and it will be even longer before we can start harvesting again.'

'Have we any supplies on hand now?'

'A few tons of assorted blooms - mainly the red-purples. The Earth shipment last Tuesday took off almost everything.'

George fell into a reverie.

His brother waited a moment and did sharply, 'Well, what's on your mind? What's the news from Aresopolis?'

'Domned bad! The quake's leveled three-fourths o' Aresopolis and the rest's pretty much gutted with fire, I rackon. There 're fifty thousand that'll have t' camp out nights. -That's no fun in Martian autumn weather with the Airth gravity system broken down.'

Allen whistled, 'Pneumonia!'

'And common colds and influenza and any o' half doz'n diseases t' say nothing o' people bairnt. - Old Vincent is raising cain.'

'Wants blooms?'

'He's only got a two-day supply on hand. He's got t' have more.'

Both were speaking quietly, almost with indifference, with the vast understatement that is all that makes great crises bearable.

There was a pause and then George spoke again, 'What the best we c'n do?'

'Not under a week - not if we kill ourselves to do it. If they could send over a ship as soon as the storm dies down, we might be able to send what we have as a temporary supply until we can get over with the rest.'

'Silly even t' think o' that. The Aresopolis port is just ruins. They haven't a ship t' their names.'

Again silence. Then Allen spoke in a low, tense voice, 'What are you waiting for? What's that look on your face for?"

'I'm waiting f'r y* t' admit y'r domned machines have failed y' in the fairest emairgency we've had t' meet.'

'Admitted,' snarled the Earthman.

'Good! And now it's up t' me t' show y' what human ingenuity can do.' He handed a sheet of paper to his brother, 'There's a copy of the message I sent Vincent.'

Allen looked long at his brother and slowly read the pencilled scribbling.

'Will deliver all we have on hand in thirty-six hours. Hope it will keep you going the few days until we can get a real shipment out. Things are a little rough out here.'

'How are you going to do it?' demanded Allen, upon finishing.

'I'm trying to show y',' answered George, and Allen realized for the first time that they had left Central and were out in the caverns.

George led the way for five minutes and stopped before an object bulking blackly in the dimness. He turned on the section lights and said, 'Sand truck!'

The sand truck was not an imposing object. With the low driving car in front and the three squat, open-topped freight-cars behind it, presented a picture of obsolete decrepitude. Fifteen years ago, it had been relegated to the dust-heap by the sand-sleds and rocket-freights.

The Ganymedan was speaking, 'Checked it an hour ago, m'self, and 'tis still in wairking order. It has shielded bearings, air conditioning unit f'r the driving car and an intairnal combustion engine.'

The other looked up sharply. There was an expression of distaste on his face. 'You mean it burns chemical fuel.'

'Yup! Gas'line. That's why I like it. Reminds me o' Ganymede. On Gannie, I had a gas engine that -'

'But wait a while. We haven't any of that gasoline.'

'No, rackon not. But we got lots o' liquid hydrocarbons round the place. How about Solvent D? That's mostly octane. We've got tanks o' it.'

Allen said, 'That's so; - but the truck holds only two.'

'I know it. I'm one.'

'And I'm the other.'

George grunted, 'I rackond y'd say that - but this isn't going t' be a push-button machine job. Rackon y'r up t' it - Airth-man?'