Gorbovsky looked at Sidorov and said affectionately, “When all is said and done, why is it so necessary to come with us? We have our own biologist—Percy Dickson, a wonderful scientist. He’s a little crazy but he’ll get you samples, whatever sort you like, and in any quantity.”
“Eh,” Sidorov said, and waved his hand.
“Honestly,” said Gorbovsky. “You wouldn’t like it at all if you did come along. And so everything will be all right. We’ll land and get you everything you need. Just give us instructions.”
“And you’ll do everything backward,” said Sidorov. “Quippa asked for instructions too, and then brought back two containers full of penicillium. An ordinary terrestrial mold. You yourself don’t know the working conditions on Vladislava. You won’t be in the mood for my instructions there.”
“You’ve got a point,” sighed Gorbovsky. “We don’t know the conditions. You’ll have to wait a little longer, Comrade Sidorov.”
Falkenstein nodded in satisfaction.
“All right,” said Sidorov. His eyes were almost closed. “Then at least take the instructions.”
“Absolutely,” said Gorbovsky. “Immediately.”
In the course of the next forty cycles, Gorbovsky made sixteen search runs. He was using an excellent impulse craft which Bader had supplied him, the Skiff-Aleph. He did the first five runs by himself, testing Vladislava’s exosphere at the poles, at the equator, at different latitudes. Finally he selected the north polar region and started taking Falkenstein with him. Time after time they plunged into the atmosphere of the orange-black planet, and time after time they jumped back out like corks from water. But each time they plunged deeper.
Bader assigned three observatories to the work of the Assaultmen. They continually kept Gorbovsky informed about the movements of weather fronts in Vladislava’s atmosphere. The production of atomic hydrogen—the fuel for the Skiff-Alepb—began on Bader’s order: the fuel expenditure had turned out to be enormous, beyond expectations. The research into the chemical composition of the atmosphere by means of bomb probes with meson emitters was curtailed.
Falkenstein and Gorbovsky would return from a run exhausted, worn to shreds, and they would greedily rush to a meal, after which Gorbovsky would force his way to the nearest sofa and lie there for a long time, amusing his friends with various maxims.
Sidorov, on Gorbovsky’s invitation, remained on the Tariel. He was allowed to place trap containers for biosamples, and an automatic biological laboratory, in the Skiff-Aleph’s test-equipment slots. In the course of this he cut into the domain of Ryu, the atmosphere physicist. But Sidorov had little to show for his efforts—the containers came back empty, the recordings of the autolab did not yield to decipherment. The influence on the instruments of the wild atmosphere’s magnetic fields fluctuated chaotically, and the autolab required human direction. When he came out of the airlock, Gorbovsky would first of all see Sidorov’s gleaming skull and would wordlessly clap his hand to his forehead. Once he said to Sidorov, “The thing is, Mikhail, that all biology flies out of my head at the one-hundred-twenty-kilometer mark. It’s simply knocked out. It’s very dangerous there. Just sneeze, and you’re dead.”
Sometimes Gorbovsky took Dickson with him. After each such run the long-haired biologist rested in bed. At Sidorov’s timid request that Dickson look after the instruments, he answered straight out that he did not plan on worrying about any side issues. “There’s just not enough time, kid.”
None of them is planning on worrying about side issues, Sidorov thought bitterly. Gorbovsky and Falkenstein are looking for a city, Falkenstein and Ryu are studying the atmosphere, and Dickson is observing the godlike pulses of all three of them. And they put off the landing, put it off, put it off… Why don’t they hurry? Can they really not care?
It seemed to Sidorov that he would never understand these strange creatures called Assaultmen. Everyone in the whole huge world knew of the Assaultmen and was proud of them. It was considered an honor just to be the personal friend of an Assaultman. But now it turned out that no one knew clearly what an Assaultman was. On the one hand, it was something incredibly daring—on the other, something shamefully cautious; they kept coming back. They always died natural deaths.
They said, “An Assaultman is one who prudently waits for the exact moment when he can afford to be imprudent.” They said, “An Assaultman stops being an Assaultman when he gets killed.” They said, “An Assaultman goes places that machines don’t come back from.” They also said, “You can say, ‘He lived and died a biologist.’ But you have to say, ‘He lived an Assaultman and died a biologist.’” All these sayings were very emotional, but they explained absolutely nothing. Many outstanding scientists and explorers were Assaultmen. There was a time when Sidorov had been thrilled by the Assaultmen too. But it was one thing to be thrilled sitting at a school desk, and quite another to see Gorbovsky crawl like a tortoise over miles that could be covered in a single risky but lightning-fast swoop.
When he returned from the sixteenth run, Gorbovsky declared that he intended to move on to the exploration of the last and most complex part of the path to the surface of Vladislava. “There are twenty-five kilometers of an unknown layer left before the surface,” he said, blinking his sleepy eyes and gazing over their heads. “Those are very dangerous miles, and I will move with particular caution. Falkenstein and I will make at least another ten or fifteen runs. If, of course, Director Bader will furnish us with the fuel.”
“Director Bader will furnish you with the fuel,” Bader said majestically. “You need not have the least doubt about that, Leonid.”
“Wonderful!” said Gorbovsky. “The fact is that I will be extremely cautious, and for that reason I feel justified in taking Sidorov with me.”
Sidorov jumped up. Everyone looked at him.
“Well, so you’ve waited it out, kid,” said Dickson.
“Yes. We have to give a new boy a chance,” said Bader.
Waseda only smiled, shaking his handsome head. And even Falkenstein remained silent, although he was displeased. Falkenstein did not like heroes.
“It’s the thing to do,” Gorbovsky said. He stepped back and, without looking behind him, sat down with enviable precision on the sofa. “Let the new boy go.” He smiled and lay down. “Get your containers ready, Mikhail—we’re taking you along.”
Sidorov tore himself from the spot and ran out of the wardroom. When he had left, Falkenstein said, “Bad move.”
“Don’t be selfish, Mark,” Gorbovsky drawled lazily. “The kid has been sitting here for a year already. And all he needs is to collect some bacteria from the atmosphere.”
Falkenstein shook his head and said, “It’s a bad move. He’s a hero.”
“That’s nothing,” Gorbovsky said. “I remember him now—the cadets called him Athos. Besides, I read a little book of his. He’s a good biologist and he won’t act up. There was a time when I was a hero too. And you. And Ryu. Right, Ryu?”
“Right, captain,” Waseda said.
Gorbovsky narrowed his eyes and rubbed his shoulder. “It aches,” he said in a plaintive voice. “Such a horrible turn. And against the wind at that. How’s your knee, Mark?”
Falkenstein raised his leg and flexed it several times. Everyone followed his movements attentively. “‘Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt,’” he said in a drawl.
“I’ll give you a massage right now,” Dickson said, and got up ponderously.