Clinging tightly to the stanchion with one hand, he reached for the top of the gunwale with the other in an effort to regain his feet. His hand encountered a curving, leathery object which he took to be a lifebelt until he glanced towards it and saw the mottled grey-and-brown skin and rows of whitish suckers. He had grasped the end of a tentacle belonging to a squid which was clinging to the underside of the boat.
Tarrant let go at once, just as the deck dropped away again, and he fell against the single midship mast. He threw his arms around it and tried to line himself up for a dive into the cockpit where he had left the rifle. From the corners of his eyes he saw the movement of tentacles at several points along the gunwales. The squid was consolidating its hold.
The deck rotated sickeningly once more and, trying to judge the midpoint of the sweep, Tarrant threw himself forward. His shoulder collided painfully with a doorpost, but he tumbled into the cockpit and was able to wedge himself in the confined area. His first thought was for the rifle, and he was unutterably thankful to find it swinging from the hook on which he had placed it. He caught hold of the weapon and pointed it at the deck.
From the spread of its tentacles and the way it was able to affect the boat, he guessed the squid was even larger than those he had seen, but there was no time to try working out where best to place his shots. At the limit of its last gyration the deck was almost vertical and had Tarrant not been braced against the cockpit housing he would have gone overboard. He worked the rifle’s trigger and the high-velocity bullets snapped a series of almost invisible holes in the wood of the deck. They seemed totally inadequate compared with the bulk of the squid, but Tarrant was counting on the slugs deforming and exiting through the boat’s plastic bottom as spinning, ragged cutting implements.
Somewhere around his seventh or eight shot he felt a shudder go through the boat, the tips of the tentacles vanished from the gunwales, and the oscillations abruptly damped down. The spotlight was pointing towards the water and Tarrant caught one glimpse of a vast, conical body followed by an intent, rueful eye and a thrashing of tentacles as the squid torpedoed away in the direction of the open sea. Within a second there was nothing visible but slow-swirling algae.
Tarrant slumped back against the steering column, breathing heavily, then he noticed that the shallow bilge space had already filled and that water was welling up through the bullet holes in the deck. He gathered up some empty cartridge cases and jammed their narrow necks into the holes, effecting a temporary seal. When he switched on the motor the boat still felt sluggish, because of the water it had shipped, but he was confident it would get him back to the shore—provided that nothing extraordinary happened.
He brought the little craft round into the main radial channel, selected maximum forward speed, and tried to make himself relax as he rode south through the watchful darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
The light grew stronger as they neared the surface of the world, and Myrah had to narrow her eyes to screen out the excessive brilliance. Even in her mood of detachment, she was intrigued, as always, at the way in which her skin and that of the other swimmers began to show colour changes with the increase in brightness. Her fingertips developed tinges of red and her nipples slowly altered from near-black to a pinkish brown. As the livid quality faded from the bodies of the others she noticed that lips were now pink instead of blue, that fair hair was shining like newly-cut brass, and that even the swimmers’ eyes displayed variations in shade.
The idea crossed Myrah’s mind, not for the first time, that it was curiously wasteful for human beings to possess colour attributes which were not visible in their normal environment at the level of the Home. To her this seemed almost an indication that humans were meant to live close to the surface, although her logic was defeated by the daily temperature variations which made the uppermost levels of the world unsuitable for habitation.
The ice sheet was close above her now, and she could feel chill currents brushing across her skin. A canopy of green leaves spread out through the ice from the top of the root column, and in the distances opened up to her vision by the brilliance she could see similar giant plants, hugely motionless, forming a backdrop to the immediate scene. The other members of the group, all swimming separately now, were unfolding their bags of watertight skin and slowly paddling upwards with spears at the ready. In between the areas of foliage the surface shone with an intolerable cloudy brilliance which gave the drifting air bubbles the appearance of solid globes of silver, and made the fish darting through them glitter like multi-hued jewels.
Braving the coldness of the water, Myrah swam close to the ice and began chipping out a large section with her spear. The ice was thicker than usual because they had arrived at the surface so early in the day, and she had to work hard to cut through to the emptiness beyond. Finally the section came free, opening an irregular window to the outside, and Myrah saw the white fire of the sun burning through the encircling mist. Air bubbles crowded past her, elongating as they disappeared into the void, and she kept her head well back to reduce the risk of losing the bubble from her cage.
She drew the bag over the transparent block, being careful to exclude salt water, and sealed it by pressing the mastic-coated edges together. As soon as she had secured her quota of ice, Myrah swam down into warmer waters and waited for the rest of the group to reassemble. She was not timid by nature, but every member of the Clan knew about the strange death which awaited those who were incautious enough to let themselves be carried outside. It was said that their faces turned black as they floated away in the mist, and that—even though they were obviously screaming in agony—no sound emerged from their mouths. This was evidence enough for Myrah that the surface of the world was, in fact, the edge of an alien universe, and even the prospect of someday drifting down into Ka’s dark fronds was preferable to the thought of being suspended for ever in the sterile white loneliness outside.
Geean approached Myrah with her ice bag in tow, her hair glinting oddly red in the plentiful light. She paused to trap a bubble and said, “Give me your bag, Myrah.”
Myrah shook her head. “I’ll take it back.”
“But you came up alone—you’re entitled to swim back with one of the men.”
“I’m going alone, thanks.”
“Well … can I have your place?”
“You’re welcome to it.” Myrah spoke with a show of disinterest.
Geean smiled uncertainly. She was barely sixteen and had a fragile slimness of form which suggested to Myrah that she would begin to cough at an early age. “Don’t you want your chance, Myrah? It might be a long time before you’re on another ice trip.”
“I’m not superstitious,” Myrah said curtly.
“It isn’t a superstition.” Geean looked hurt. “Everybody knows that God makes women more fertile while they gather water for drinking. It’s been proved.”
“How do you know it isn’t something to do with our being midway between periods when we go for ice?”
“What do you mean?”