Finishing the work, he gestured to them. “Come, we must escape.”
Gladly they followed him through the wreckage of the dome, avoiding the sounds of fighting and the squealings and bangs as the ancient metal structure came apart. Eventually he found a rent where the external skin had ruptured.
They emerged on to what was now a headland. A warm fog was everywhere, a phenomenon which must have seemed utterly strange to the Gaminte. He started coughing continuously and seemed to find it difficult to move. Krabbe wondered what his understanding of the situation was, as he loyally followed orders to protect his charges. Probably he thought the rebel attackers were to blame for everything.
A short distance away lay a large vehicle park, a sort of terminus for traffic to and from the hydrorium. Beckoning to them, the Gaminte went limping towards it.
From not much further off, a red glow could be seen.
The fog cleared a little as they neared the park. The source of the glow became visible, spreading to the edge of visibility. A broad front of hissing, smoking lava was advancing on the dome, already lapping around the parked vehicles.
Castaneda had warned that there would be modest vulcanism in some areas, as increased pressure and temperature on the plate edges caused rock melt to percolate upwards to the surface. He had promised that it would cease once sufficient water had been vented.
Evidently, this was one of the affected areas.
“Karl,” Bouche said worriedly, “where’s the communicator?”
“Back in the cell,” Krabbe said. “I dropped it. Don’t worry, O’Rourke will find us.”
The Gaminte was heading straight for the lava. He stopped at an odd-looking craft which lacked wheels but stood on bent legs like some huge insect. Attached by struts above the passenger compartment was a large curved structure made of very thin metal. More than anything, it resembled a parachute.
“This one,” the Gaminte gasped, still coughing. “Hurry. Mount.”
Krabbe held back. “How the hell is that thing going to walk on lava?”
“We’d better do as he says,” Boris muttered.
The Gaminte was already clambering aboard. They followed his example, levering themselves over the side.
The coal-black Gaminte, without waiting for them to make themselves comfortable, seated himself at the controls and pulled a lever.
The result was startling. The vehicle leaped high into the air, taking the Earthmen by surprise and sending them tumbling to the floor of the car.
The Gaminte knew what he was doing. He manipulated other levers which altered the angle of the parachute structure over their heads. The vehicle entered a controlled glide.
Peering below them, Krabbe and Bouche could see no end to the lava field glowing through the drifting fog. It was, more correctly, a lava swamp. There were patches of solid ground here and there, the yellow sand seeming to be turning black.
It was towards one of these that the Gaminte was taking them. The machine alighted with the grace of a gull. Its feet seemed to touch the sand for but a moment. The legs bent, bracing themselves, then sprang straight. The leaping parachute machine hurtled froglike back into the air.
“I’ll be damned,” Krabbe murmured, his eyes dreamy. It was fascinating to see how expertly the dehydrate guided the seemingly clumsy contraption in such difficult circumstances. It was a surprisingly effective way of progressing, if one did not mind the discomfort.
The Gaminte selected a second island in the creeping lava, landed and took off again. He was taking them further from the hydrorium.
But by now he was suffering badly. His coughing increased to a paroxysm, and his hands fell from the controls.
Briefly he seemed to go into convulsions. He fell from his seat. Then he was still.
Krabbe let go an exclamation of shock. “He’s died of water poisoning! Boris! We’re going into the lava! Do something!”
Cursing savagely, Bouche scrambled into the pilot’s seat.
The machine was descending swiftly. He had watched how the Gaminte used the control levers. He experimented, and somehow managed to level out the glide. The machine jolted down. Two legs went into the bubbling melt and two on to sand which immediately crumbled. The vehicle tilted alarmingly.
“Take us up, Boris! We’re sinking!”
Bouche yanked on the trigger lever. Again the machine leaped into the air and began its delayed descent. Desperately looking for another landing place, Bouche worked the levers. He thought he was getting the hang of it now. He hit sand, went off again, and now could see the edge of the swamp.
His last landing was most inexpert. The leaping parachute vehicle hit off-balance and toppled over on its side, only yards from the lava flow. They crawled out and looked about them.
A warm wind had sprung up from the direction of the still-forming sea. For a brief spell it swept away the dense fog and they found themselves able to gaze down at the bay where the wrecked hydrorium slumped like a ship that had run aground. The Tlixix, maddened with joy, were trying to sail the boats they had dragged out of the dome.
But they knew nothing about how to manage such craft, which lacked motors and were wind-driven, other than to run sails up the masts. Also, the swirling surface of the bay was unstable. The heat currents that ran through it produced unpredictable boiling areas. As Krabbe and Bouche watched, one of the boats turned over, tipping its crew into the scalding sea. The death hoots of the Tlixix reached the ears of the observing Earthmen.
“Sweet Krishna!” breathed Bouche, unconsciously revealing the religion practised by the orphanage where he had been raised. “Just look at it! Boiled lobster!”
Then the fog cut the view off. Krabbe was wondering what to do next when he noticed a shadowy shape moving above the swamp in the murk, heading for the slumped dome. He yelled and waved his arms about over his head. It was a lighter from the Enterprise.
Alarmed at the break in communications, O’Rourke had sent a rescue party.
Northrop, not having eaten for five days—though he had been given plenty of water—had gone beyond the stage of hunger. But he was feeling weak, and was barely able to stand.
So when the quakes came, he was not at his best. There were countless casualties when the caverns fell in. He had tried to warn the Artaxa that their revolt had come too late.
The shock tubes had been set off. The Great Hydration was beginning.
Perhaps it was his enfeebled state, which the Artaxa were unable to understand, that caused them to ignore his advice. They had been rejoicing when the disaster struck, performing a mass tribal dance. Radio messages had brought thrilling news of the assaults on the hydroriums. Northrop was not taken seriously until those same radio reports began telling of water appearing on the desert floor.
Even then his urgings to evacuate were not heeded. It was when the caves began filling with scalding, steaming water, not his weak voice, that prompted the exodus. Still he was able to explain that they should leave the bed of the old ocean and make for what had been the continental part of Tenacity. He had no idea whether they could survive there, but there was nothing else they could do.
“May all Tlixix die!” Karvass had exclaimed. “No matter if we are to perish as long as we take them with us!”
An understandable sentiment, but Northrop did not see how it could be accomplished.
He was rewarded by being placed in one of the sandboats, whereas thousands of Artaxa and Sawune would have to seek salvation on foot. A lengthy convoy set off for the southern fringe of the old sea bed.