Half Life by Hal Clement Page B

of his courtesy; the “of course” had been unnecessary. Even Ginger could sympathize, however.
    “Better take off to the west,” cut in Belvew. “Make as tight a turn to the right as the skids will let you, and—”
    “Don’t hit the factory on takeoff!” Arthur added; then, “Sorry.”
    Ginger made no answer. Seconds later Theia slid into the air, and moments after that had reached ram speed with nearly a thousand kilograms of mass still in her tanks.
    “There’s a thunderhead at forty kilometers, two hundred degrees,” Maria informed her.
    “Right. Thanks. Is there anything I should do while I’m here after I juice up? Or have I already earned a mission credit? I did pick up data.”
    Belvew wondered whether his own contribution should be mentioned, but he was far too polite to suggest this explicitly. Besides, someone might have suggested including the loss of Oceanus in the balance.
    “All yours,” he answered innocently. The pilot was too busy to answer.
    Goodall had been technically right; nothing outside a suit should have been able to interfere with use of the Waldo controls. However, the inside of the aircraft, especially the coffinlike compartment where the pilot rode, was a great deal warmer than Titan. The specimen lockers had temperature controls, since the planners had foreseen a possible need to keep samples in their normal environment, but the “cockpit” was another matter. People might have to open their suits there. When Ginger entered and sealed herself in, the temperature began automatically to climb from ninety kelvins to two hundred ninety, and the “tar” began to melt.
    This still caused no piloting problems, but there was no way to tell where the liquid might be going—or even if it was remaining liquid. Nothing should , of course, be able to escape into the rest of the aircraft’s structure, but several people began wondering about possible corrosion effects. None of them said a word; the pilot was busy.
    Ginger tanked up, climbed to optimum speed altitude, followed instructions to the right point on Titan’s equator, and began to climb once more. Neither Belvew nor his partner gave any advice. The former nodded approvingly—his suit was now disconnected as far as Waldo activity was concerned—as she made a smooth transition from jet to rocket mode and from airborne flight to orbit.
    Enough time had passed before she docked to ease some of the worries about possible effects of melted or vaporized tar, and at least her gloves were now free to move; only traces of the stuff now coated them, and this, while still black, was no longer really flexible.
    “Stay put for a few minutes after you unseal.” Goodall’s words had the force of an order in spite of the casual tone he used. “We’d better check the dock spectroscopically before you come inside. You can hold out, can’t you?”
    “Sure. Hours yet.” Ginger was in fact thinking longingly of her comfortable quarters, food, sleeping facilities, a show, and especially a bath, but she had no intention of arguing with obvious common sense.
    “I expect the methanol will have vaporized pretty well; you ought to find it easily enough.”
    The answer was indirect. “Get a bit of that frost or whatever it is from the other specimen, quickly so the whole thing doesn’t warm up, and see how decent temperature affects it.”
    “All right.” There was a pause. “Got it, and the locker’s sealed again.”
    “Don’t leave it on your gloves. Spread it—”
    “I can’t. It vanished almost at once. It can’t be water.”
    Another pause, during which everyone visualized the colonel’s manipulating instrument controls, taking readings, and generally keeping his attention away from his own suffering.
    “Your frost seems to be ammonia. And I can’t find a trace of methanol in the dock.”
    “Yes, you can have the mission credit, Ginger,” repeated Belvew. “Or does raising more questions than you answer count as a