Free Heavy Planet by Hal Clement Page B

them.
    Rosten, when he heard the new plan, made a number of caustic remarks to the effect that Lackland could certainly be counted on for ideas that would give him use of a tank.
    “It seems as though it should work, though,” he admitted grudgingly. “Just what sort of sled are we supposed to build for this ocean liner of your friend’s? How big is it, again?”
    “The Bree is about forty feet long and fifteen across; I suppose it draws five or six inches. It’s made of a lot of rafts about three feet long and half as wide, roped together so they can move fairly freely—I can guess why, on this world.”
    “Hmph. So can I. If a ship that long had its two ends supported by waves while the middle hung free, up near the pole, it would be in pieces before long whether it started that way or not. How is it driven?”
    “Sails; there are masts on twenty or thirty of the rafts. I suspect there may be centerboards on some of them too, retractable so the ship can be beached; but I never asked Barlennan. I don’t really know how far advanced the art of sailing is on this world, but from the casual way in which he speaks of crossing long stretches of open ocean, I assume they know about beating into a wind.”
    “Seems reasonable. Well, we’ll build something out of light metal here on the moon, and cart it down to you when we finish.”
    “You’d better not bring it down until winter’s over. If you leave it inland it’ll get lost under the snow, and if you drop it at the seashore someone may have to dive for it, if the water line goes up the way Barlennan expects.”
    “If it’s going to, why is it waiting so long? The winter is more than half over, and there’s been a fantastic amount of precipitation in the parts of the southern hemisphere that we can see.”
    “Why ask me things like that? There are meteorologists on the staff, I believe, unless they’ve gone crazy trying to study this planet. I have my own worries. When do I get another tank?”
    “When you can use it; after winter is over, as I said. And if you blow
that one up it’ll be no use howling for another, because there isn’t one closer than Earth.”
    Barlennan, hearing the gist of this conversation at his next visit some hundreds of days later, was perfectly satisfied. His crew was enthusiastic about the proposed trip; they might, as he had implied, be lured by the prospective gain, but there was liberally distributed among them a share of the plain love of adventure which had carried Barlennan so far into unknown territory.
    “We will go as soon as the storms break,” he said to Lackland. “There will still be much snow on the ground; that will help where the course lies over land different from the loose sand of the beach.”
    “I don’t think it will make much difference to the tank,” replied Lackland.
    “It will to us,” pointed out Barlennan. “I admit it would not be dangerous to be shaken off the deck, but it would be annoying in the middle of a meal. Have you decided what would be the best course to follow across the land?”
    “I’ve been working on it.” The man brought out the map that was the result of his efforts. “The shortest route, that we discovered together, has the disadvantage of requiring that I tow you over a mountain range. It might be possible, but I don’t like to think of the effects on your crew. I don’t know how high those mountains are, but any altitude is too much on this world.
    “I’ve worked out this route, which I’ve shown by a red line. It follows up the river that empties into the big bay on this side of the point, for about twelve hundred miles—not counting the small curves in the river, which we probably won’t have to follow. Then it goes straight across country for another four hundred or so, and reaches the head of another river. You could probably sail down that if you wanted, or have me keep on towing—whichever would be faster or more comfortable for you. Its worst feature is