Uller Uprising | Page 6

and a grizzled beard, chewed nervously at the stump of a
dead cigar and listened intently to what was--or for what
wasn't--coming in to his headset receiver. A couple of assistants
checked dials and refreshed their memories from notebooks and peered
anxiously into the big screen. A large, plump-faced, young man in
soiled khaki shirt and shorts, with extremely hairy legs, was doodling
on his notepad and eating candy out of a bag. And a black-haired girl in
a suit of coveralls three sizes too big for her, and, apparently, not much
of anything else, lounged with one knee hooked over her chair-arm,
staring into the screen at the distant horizon.
"Dr. Murillo. Dr. Mur--" The radioman broke off in mid-syllable and
listened for a moment. "I hear you, doctor, go ahead." Then, a moment
later "What's your position, now, doctor?"
"I can see them," the girl said, lifting a hand in front of her. "At two
o'clock, about one of my hand's-breadths above the horizon."
The man with the grizzled beard put his face into the fur around the
eyepiece of the telescopic-'visor and twisted a dial. "You have good
eyes, Miss Quinton," he complimented. "Only four personal armors;
Ahmed, ask him where the fifth is."
"We only see four of your personal-armors," the radioman said. "Who's
missing, and why?" He waited for a moment, then lowered the
hand-phone and turned. "The fifth one's inside the handling-machine.
One of the Ullerans. Gorkrink."
The larger of the specks that had appeared on the horizon resolved
itself into a handling-machine, a thing like an oversized
contragravity-tank, with a bulldozer-blade, a stubby derrick-boom
instead of a gun, and jointed, claw-tipped arms to the sides. The smaller

dots grew into personal armor--egg-shaped things that sprouted arms
and grab-hooks and pushers in all directions. The man with the grizzled
beard began talking rapidly into his hand-phone, then hung it up. There
was a series of bumps, and the armor-tender, weightless on
contragravity, shook as the handling-machine came aboard.
"You ever see any nuclear bombing, Miss Quinton?" the young man
with the hairy legs asked, offering her his candy bag.
"Only by telecast, back Sol-side," she replied, helping herself.
"Test-shots at the Federation Navy proving-ground on Mars. I never
even heard of nuclear bombs being used for mining till I came here,
though."
"Well, if this turns out as well as the other job, three months ago, it'll be
something to see," he promised. "These volcanoes have been dormant
for, oh, maybe as long as a thousand years; there ought to be a pretty
good head of gas down there. And the magma'll be thick, viscous stuff,
like basalt on Terra. Of course, this won't be anything like basalt in
composition--it'll be intensely compressed metallic fluorides, with a
very high metal-content. The volcanoes we shot three months ago
yielded a fine flow of lava with all sorts of metals--nickel, beryllium,
vanadium, chromium, indium, as well as copper and iron."
"What sort of gas were you speaking about?" she asked.
"Hydrogen. That's what's going to make the fireworks; it combines
explosively with fluorine. The hydrogen-fluorine combination is what
passes for combustion here; the result is hydrofluoric acid, the local
equivalent of water. See, the metallic core of this planet is covered,
much less thickly than that of Terra, with fluoride rock--fluorspar, and
that sort of thing. There's nothing like granite here, for instance. That's
why those big dunes, out there, are the best Niflheim has in the way of
mountains. The subsurface hydrogen is produced when the acid filters
down through the rock, combines with pure metals underneath."
"Dr. Murillo's inside, now," the radioman said. "Just came out of the
inner airlock. He'll be up as soon as he gets out of his pressure-suit."

"As soon as he gets here, I'll touch it off," the bearded man said.
"Everything set, de Jong?"
"Everything ready, Dr. Gomes," one of his assistants assured him.
The door at the rear of the control-cabin opened, and Juan Murillo, the
seismologist, entered, followed by an assistant. Murillo was a big man,
copper-skinned, barrel-chested; he looked like a third-or
fourth-generation Martian, of Andes Indian ancestry. He came forward
and stood behind Gomes' chair, looking down at the instruments. His
assistant stopped at the door. This assistant was not human. He was a
biped, vaguely humanoid, but he had four arms and a face like a lizard's,
and, except for some equipment on a belt, he was entirely naked.
He spoke rapidly to Murillo, in a squeaking jabber. Murillo turned.
"Yes, if you wish, Gorkrink," he said, in the
English-Spanish-Afrikaans-Portuguese mixture that was Sixth Century,
A.E., Lingua Terra. Then he turned back to Gomes as the Ulleran sat
down in a chair by the door.
"Well, she's all yours, Lourenço, shoot the works."
Gomes stabbed