“Yeah,” I said, “but I’ve been thinking. It’s odd. After all, Nullaquans have been here for five hundred years. You’d think that everyone would be doing Flare by now. Or at least know about it.”
“So? Let’s go, you’re wasting time.”
I was annoyed. “Wait a minute, hear me out,” I said calmly. “I’m not sure you know this, but the first settlers on Nullaqua were a very small group. Only about fifty.”
“What in Oblivion’s name are you talking about?” Calothrick had a flair for Nullaquan profanity.
“Keep listening. They cloned off the first generation, you see, to fit in with Nullaquan conditions. Hairy noses, thick eyelids, the whole thing, you understand? There were no direct descendants of the original fifty. They’d all had themselves sterilized. So, maybe, in all that genetic manipulation, there was a gene that causes immunity to Flare.”
“Immunity?” said Calothrick aghast.
“Why not? I suppose it’s possible. The founders were opposed to unorthodox drugs in general. Death, they probably knew about Flare from the beginning. They were cranks, but they weren’t stupid.”
“You mean we fed that bastard a whole bottle of Flare for nothing?” Calothrick said. He had turned pale.
“I’m not sure of it. I’m not a geneticist.”
“Give me the bottle,” Calothrick said flatly.
I did. “What I said about it’s being dangerous still holds, of course.”
“Shut up.” Calothrick pulled his eyedropper out, tilted fhe bottle, and sucked up a minimal dose. “I suppose I’m an idiot to do this.”
“You said it, not me.”
“On the other hand . . . well, here’s greasy luck.** Calothrick squeezed out a shot onto his tongue. He swallowed.
We waited. “Any effect?” I said finally.
Calothrick opened Us month, but choked on words. Finally he emitted a strangled, “Wow!”
“If it’s that good I think I’ll have a small blast myself. Lend me your dropper.” I plucked it out of his nerveless fingers. Ideally I should have waited to see if Calothrick suffered any adverse side effects, but I was hurting. Besides, it seemed to have done him a world of good. A blasted grin was plastered on his face and the yellow withdrawal tinge was already fading from his eyes. I sucked up a normal dose and swallowed.
By the time I got up from the floor, the food had grown cold and I had to reheat it But it had been worth it.
I felt reasonably content about the bottle. There was a good five months’ worth in it for one man, maybe two months for Calothrick and me. Calothrick was something of an enthusiast.
I hid the bottle in the cupboard. At night, after the washing up was done, or rather scrubbing up—I used sand, not water, I wrestled with my self-control about a second dose. I almost always limited myself to one a day, less than that most of the time. Or at least a great deal of the time. Sometimes I even quit for two or three weeks at a stretch. But my alcohol intake went up sharply then, and, coming from a frontier planet like Bunyan, I knew the debilitating and addictive effects of booze. I wasn’t sure about the long-term effects of Flare. But better an unknown devil than one known only too well, I thought. Besides, this new discovery called for a celebration. Abstinence was ridiculous.
I took my eyedropper from its hiding place under the counter and measured off a healthy dose—perhaps more then healthy. I turned off the lights in the kitchen, laid down on my pallet pulled the quilt up to my chin, and took the blast. I had just enough time to put the dropper under my pillow before the rush hit me.
Hallucinations filled the darkness. Electric blue networks expanded across my field Of vision. They were replaced by glittering silver dots, linked in inextricable, inexplicable geometric patterns. Bright energy surged up my spine. I felt that my brain was dissolving.” Someone stepped over me. A sudden conviction overcame me—it was the Angel of Death. I felt sudden panic. I fought it down, repeating internal mantras: Tranquillity. Peace. Calm. Repose. . . .
The same someone pulled open the cupboard. The click as it opened was as loud as a gunshot. Aural hallucinations now, echoes, alien voices speaking. I struggled to get a grip on myself. Someone was definitely in the room. I tried to pull myself up on one elbow; dizziness overcame me. I sank back onto the pillow, grinning helplessly.
“Who is it?” I tried to say, but the words came out sounding like “wizard.” A bad omen. I was helpless.
I heard the distorted thuds of feet on the steps. The hatch snapped open. It shut again.
I suddenly realized that it must have been Calothrick who had come down for another dose and been unwilling to wake me. The image of Calothrick appeared in my mind’s eye, recognizably him, although his narrow head was adorned with bulbous gray spines. Calothrick, of course. Nothing to worry about. I fell asleep.
Next morning I discovered that my bottle was gone. Calothrick and I argued, he holding forth the absurd theory that I had hidden it for my own use, myself convinced that he had squirreled it away somewhere else on board. The third’ possibility, that someone else had lifted it, aroused mutual apprehension. Since there was nothing we could do about it, we resolved to keep our eyes open and hope” for the best.
The Lungtance could have stayed by the Seagull Peninsula until she had filled her holds. But too many planets had been raped and made worthless for mankind to indulge in this kind of exploitation any more. We did not stop; we were bound on the Grand Tour, to sail the entirety of the Sea of Dust on the slow, circular winds.
Nullaqua’s weather patterns were peculiar. There was a very slight temperature differential between the middle of the Nullaqua Crater, located on the equator, and the upper and lower margins. This was enough to power a weak double convection cell. Heated air rose from the equator and diverged northward and southward. Traveling, it cooled, to sweep slowly downward along the cliffsides and back to the equator. Though most of the dust had precipitated out of it, there were still enough microscopic rock grains to chew slowly away at the base of the cliff. Over the eons the base was slowly eaten away; eventually, the top of the cliff, weakened, would shelve off and crumble downward. Then there would be a pile of rubble at sea level to protect the cliff from further damage. Ages would pass before the wind could get at the cliff again. And it was never strong.
Or almost never. My first hint that it might be otherwise came when I was awakened one morning, six weeks into our cruise, by a loud series of blasts from the lookout’s horn. I did not recognize the code; it is one infrequently used.
Captain Desperandum emerged from his cabin, looked to the southeast, and immediately ordered all the sails furled. I followed his gaze. I saw a mighty gray wall; behind it was the shadowed backdrop of the NullaqUa Crater. A minor island, I thought. We must have drifted toward it during the night.
No. Even as I watched, the wall grew longer. The crew ran up the ratlines and began to tug at the sails. I looked up. There was a man in the lookout’s nest; Dalusa was nowhere in sight. Anxiety struck me.
The tents were folded quickly and stowed belowdecks. All loose objects were tied down or taken below. Mr. Bogunheim had a single word for me in response to my gestured queries. “Storm,” he said.
Sailors were already deserting the deck, leaping quickly through the hatches. I went below with them. Tramping through the kitchen, they went through the door into the storeroom. Other crew members were already there, sitting glumly on barrels and lighting up their rank pipes. Calothrick leaned against the false bulkhead, slipping his eyedropper back into his belt. Seeing me, he burst into a series of uncontrollable giggles.
Dalusa was not there. I rushed past the startled second mate, ripped open the hatch, and jumped up on deck. Shrugging, Grent slammed the hatch behind me. There was no sense in getting us all killed.