He climbed into a gaping hole in the bow. Morley followed, humiliated
but still thinking hard. Catalogue it, he told himself. Remember
everything. The Distress Depots, or D.D.'s, as spacemen called them,
were studded on every frontier world, usually on the Equator. They
contained two small spacecraft plus ample supplies of food, medicine,
and tools. When wrecked, get to a D.D. and live. It was that simple.
They spent an hour worming their way through the shambles that had
been the well ordered interior of Spaceboat 6, before emerging to take
stock of their loot on the ground outside. Both men knew that they
were pitifully equipped to cover several hundred miles, on foot, in
a completely hostile environment. Suddenly Madsen looked up from the
sextant he was examining.
"How come this gravity, Brain? I weigh about a hundred right now, I
figure, and that's too much, by plenty. Japetus isn't a quarter the
size of our moon."
"It's supposed to have a core of heavy radioactive metals," said
Morley, thoughtfully, "and a corresponding high density. Keeps it warm
anyway, instead of a big icicle, like Phoebe."
"Phoebe!" Madsen laughed. "I remember, back in '89--" He stopped
abruptly at a rattling from the ledge. A green, little lizard-like
creature was scrambling frantically over the granite, while hot in
pursuit were three--spiders? Black, they were, a black like living
velvet, and incredibly fast as they closed in, beady stalked eyes
fastened on their prey. They were deliberately herding the desperate
lizard toward a cleft in the rock. As the creature leaped into the
opening, another spider dove at it from the recess. The others closed
in. There was a hopeless hissing, a vicious clicking of mandibles. The
struggle subsided. Once again the day was silent. Madsen holstered the
blaster he had drawn and looked whitely at Morley.
"Pleasant pets," he grunted.
"Poisonous and carnivorous, too," said Morley, shakingly. "I remember
reading that Valdez dissected one when he first landed here twenty
years ago. One of his crew was bitten, and died in less than five
minutes."
Madsen was thoughtful. "We could stand a little briefing on the local
flora and fauna, but palaver won't get us to the Equator. And that
little stock treatise entitled 'Physical Attributes of Phoebe' is worse
than useless. Lucky the sextant is O.K., we can at least check our
latitude. There's just one flaw."
"What's that?"
"Which way do we go when we hit the line? The D.D.'s are spaced ninety
degrees apart. We might be within a hundred miles of one. If we head
the wrong way, we'd have three or four hundred miles to go. There's no
method of figuring our longitude."
Morley was staring sunward, with thoughtful eyes. "Yes, there is," he
said quietly.
Madsen's jaw dropped. "Give," he said.
"We both forgot something we know perfectly well. Notice the sun? It
hasn't moved perceptibly since we landed. Japetus doesn't revolve on
its axis."
"So what?"
"Two things. One, no night, since we're on the sunward side. The sun
will move from side to side in the sky, reaching its lateral limits
when Japetus is in quadrature in regard to Saturn. If we were here for
a month, we'd see Saturn rise, make a full arc through the sky, and
set. Let's hope for a shorter stay."
"Go on," said Madsen, and suddenly there was nothing patronizing or
scornful in his voice.
"Two. We came in over the Pole almost exactly at inferior conjunction.
Right?"
"I think I get it." Madsen answered slowly.
For a moment Morley was silent. He could almost smell the dingy
classroom in Port Chicago, almost see the words on the examination
paper in front of him. The paragraph leaped out, limned sharply in his
mind. "Section 4, Subhead A, Solar Space Code. The initial Distress
Depot on any satellite shall be situated, when practical, on the
Prime Meridian. For the purposes of this act, the Prime Meridian of a
satellite shall be the meridian that bisects the Sun when the Satellite
is in inferior conjunction. Quarter mile belts shall be burned fifty
miles to the North, South, East, and West as guides. Radio beacons will
operate, unless impracticable due to atmospheric conditions, or other
reasons."
"We're on, or practically on the Prime Meridian right now," said
Madsen. "A trek due South should hit D.D. No. 1 square on the nose.
Right?"
"Right. Two or three hundred miles to go. We might make it in two
weeks."
Madsen squinted at the stationary disk of Sol, hanging in the sky.
"Let's load up and get started. The sooner we're on our way, the
better."
Both men had discarded their space suits, were dressed in the gray
work clothes of Satellites, Inc. Equipment was easily divided. Each
had a blaster, and a wrist compass-chronometer. Radio was useless on
Japetus, and the little headsets were ruthlessly jettisoned. The flat
tins of emergency food concentrate were stowed in two knapsacks. Madsen
took charge of the sextant, and Morley carried a lightweight repeating
rifle for possible game that might be out of blaster range. Canteens,
a pocket first-aid kit, and a small heliograph, were the final items,
except for several articles which Morley unobtrusively stowed away
about his person.
Less than three hours after the crash, the two men shouldered their
burdens, took a bearing to determine their course, and headed into the
south.
* * * * *
In a matter of minutes Spaceboat 6 was out of sight. With Madsen
leading, they threaded their way through the scant undergrowth.
Underfoot the dry, broad-bladed grass rustled through a morning that
had no beginning or end. Farther away were other and less easily
explained rustlings, and once both men froze as a half-dozen of what
looked like baby dragons arrowed past within yards of them.
"Formation flying, like ducks," muttered Morley, watching from the
corner of his eye.
When the whispering of scaled wings had died away, the castaways
resumed their steady plodding into the south. Twice they crossed small
fresh water brooks, providing a welcome opportunity to drink their
fill, and replenish the canteens. The going was easy, since the footing
was in fairly dense soil, and the scrub was not so thick as to provide
any difficulties. After eight hours of nearly continuous travel, they
reached the banks of a third stream. Here Madsen stopped, and dropped
his knapsack to the ground.
"Campsite," he grunted.
"Alabama," Morley murmured.