Chapter 24 
Chapter 24
SEEING A PLANET as a tourist is not the same as running your own survey, but it is better than not seeing a planet at all. Macedon, with all her experience-hungry passengers, was in, and the three large atmosphere fliers, the aircoaches, were now completely overhauled and ready for service.
Billinghurst sneered at Grimes and Williams, saying they were having a glorious holiday at public expense. He preferred to stay in Inferno Valley, keeping his eyes and ears open. The only one of his officers to go on the tours was Denise Dalgety—but not so that she could continue to turn her considerable charm on to Williams. She had transferred her attentions to Larwood, who was in charge of the sightseeing expeditions. Grimes felt sorry for the dark, morose assistant manager. He would liked to have warned him. More and more it was becoming obvious that he appreciated the company of the plump redhead who, ever more frequently, was able to coax an occasional smile from him. Sooner or later there would have to be a rude awakening.
The first trip was to the Painted Badlands. Grimes and Williams rode in the leading aircoach, the command vehicle, which was piloted by Larwood. They had been given seats right forward, on the starboard side, immediately abaft the pilot. In the corresponding seats to port were an elderly Terran businessman and his wife, both looking slightly ludicrous in the heavy-duty one-piece suits, as much metal as fibre, that were mandatory wear. There was a single seat to port of that occupied by Larwood; in this, of course, sat Denise Dalgety. In any form of transport whatsoever rank hath its privileges. She, apart from Williams, was the only young passenger in the coach. Her companions had said, rather too loudly, at the bar the previous night, that they didn’t want to be herded around with a lot of old fossils.
Dawn was just coming in when the three coaches lifted from the landing field close by the hotel. Their inertial drives hammering erratically, they climbed slowly, drifting a little to the west so that the fantastic bubble structure, multihued and luminescent, lay beneath them. Grimes permitted himself to wonder what would be the effect of a few handfuls of heavy steel darts dropped from the aircraft.
Slowly they climbed, hugging the north wall of the canyon which, in this light, was blue rather than red, splotched with opalescent patches where grew the phosphorescent lichen and fungi. Slowly they climbed, and with every meter of altitude they gained the orange ribbon of sky directly above them widened. “Aero-Space Control to Painted Badlands Tour,” came a matter-of-fact voice from the transceiver. “There’s as much of a lull as you’re likely to get. Keep clear of the Devil’s Phallus. There’s turbulence. Over.”
“PB Tour to Aero-Space Control. Roger. Over.”
Grimes grinned to himself. This, he knew, was all part of the window dressing.
Larwood said into his microphone, “Make sure your seat belts are fastened, folks. We may get a few bumps when we clear the canyon rim.”
There were a few bumps, but very minor ones. The coaches were lifting under maximum thrust now, and below them was Inferno Valley, a deep, dark slash in the face of the planet. To the south towered the Erebus Alps, peak after conical peak, from each of which a pillar of flame-shot smoke rose almost vertically. Dim in the distance were the Devil’s Torches, volcanoes even more spectacularly active than those of the Alps. And beyond those? The Infernal Beacons? It was hard to be sure. Already the early-morning clarity of the atmosphere was becoming befouled.
The note of the inertial drive changed as Larwood brought his coach around to a northerly heading. He announced, “If you look hard, folks, you’ll see the Bitter Sea out to port, on our left. We shall be stopping there overnight on our way back. Most of the day we shall be spending in the Painted Badlands, of course.”
“Pilot!” This was an old lady well back in the coach. “We’ve come all this way and you’ve shown us practically nothing of the Erebus Alps and the other ranges.”
“I may wear wings on my uniform, madam,” Larwood told her, “but they aren’t bat’s wings. A devil, one of those mythological devils out of the mythological hell, might survive there, but we certainly shouldn’t. Updraughts, downdraughts, red hot boulders hurtling through the air—you name it, the Erebus Alps and the other ranges have got it. But I promise you that the Painted Badlands will be an experience none of you will ever forget. Now, all of you, you can either look astern, behind you, or at the stern view screen that is in front of every seat. I’ve just switched it on. The screen might be clearer. You will realize the sort of muck and rubbish we should have to fly through. The wind’s just starting to rise.”
Muck and rubbish, thought Grimes, peering into the screen that he shared with Williams. A good description. The pillars of fiery smoke from the multitudinous craters were leaning towers now, blown ever further and further from the vertical until they approached the horizontal. The sharp outlines of the peaks were blurred, were obscured by the wind-driven fumes and dust. Overhead the sky was no longer orange but a glowing yellow across which scudded the low black clouds. And below, the whirling flurries of red dust were blotting out all landmarks. Then, through some meteorological freak, the air ahead of them cleared and, brooding sullenly over the red plain, the Great Smokies appeared, almost black against the yellow sky, belching volumes of white steam and dark brown smoke.
“But you’re flying over them, Pilot!” complained the old lady accusingly.
“Not over, madam. Through. Just fine in our starboard bow, a little to the right of dead ahead, you’ll see the entrance to Dante’s Pass. Also, if you will look at the smoke from the volcanoes, you will see that the wind is nowhere near as bad as it is to the south’ard. The Smokies are in the lee of the highest part of Satan’s Barrier.”
“But these mountains are only smoking,” muttered the old lady.
“If we’d only known,” whispered Williams to Grimes, “we could have brought along a couple of nuclear devices just to keep the old dear happy.”
“Mphm. Smoke or flame—this is a good place for a holiday, but I wouldn’t want to live here.”
“Don’t mention holidays, Skipper. Glamorpuss up ahead might hear you.”
Denise Dalgety turned in her seat, smiled sweetly at Williams. “I’m enjoying my holiday,” she said.
“What was all that about, Denise?” asked Larwood.
“Nothing much, Ron. Nothing much. Just something that Commander Williams said.”
“Oh,” grunted Larwood. Then, into the microphone again, “Coming up to Dante’s Pass now, folks. To port, Mount Dante. To starboard, Mount Beatrice. Looks like Dante’s a heavy smoker still, but Beatrice seems to have kicked the habit. Ha, ha.”
Ha, ha, thought Grimes. I’m rolling in the aisle in a paroxysm of uncontrollable mirth.
But his irritation faded as he stared out at the spectacular scenery. The coach had dropped to an altitude well below that of the peaks, seemed to be barely skimming the numerous minor craters that pocked the valley floor. Smoke was issuing from almost all of them—in some cases a trickle, in others as a billowing cloud. And all up the steep, terraced side of Dante were similar small craters, most of them active. The slopes of Mount Beatrice were also pockmarked but, for some reason, only an occasional wisp of vapor was evident.
“You could do better, Skipper,” whispered Williams.
Grimes, who had brought out his pipe and was about to fill it, changed his mind and put the thing back in his pocket.
On they flew, and on, the three coaches in line ahead, the Great Smokies to either side of their course and at last falling astern. On they flew, and the smoldering mountain range dropped astern, and the foothills, each of which was a volcano. Smoke eddied about them, restricting visibility, often blotting out the view of the tortured landscape below them. Turbulence buffeted them, and once the coaches had to make a wide alteration of course to avoid a huge red tornado.
Desert was below them at last—huge dunes the faces of which displayed all colors from brown through red to a yellow that was almost white, with streaks of gray and silver and blue. Beyond the dunes was a region where great rock pillars towered like the ruins of some ancient devastated city, sculpted by wind and sand into fantastic shapes, glowing with raw color.
“The Painted Badlands,” announced Larwood unnecessarily. “The wind’s from the west still, so it’s safe to land.”
“What if the wind was from the east?” asked the old lady.
“Then, madam, we shouldn’t have the protection of Satan’s Barrier. There’d be a sandstorm that’d strip us to our bare bones. You can see what wind and sand have done to those rocks down there.”
The irregular hammering of the inertial drive became less insistent. The coach slowed, began losing altitude. It dropped at last to coarse red sand in what could have been a city square, a clear space with the eroded monoliths all about it. The second vehicle landed in a flurry of ruddy dust, then the third.
“Welcome to Dis,” said Larwood. “You may disembark for sight-seeing. Respirators will be worn; I wouldn’t say that the atmosphere’s actually poisonous, but too much of it wouldn’t do your eyes, throat or lungs any good. You will all stay with me and not go wandering off by yourselves. You may pick up souvenirs—pretty pebbles and the like—within reason, but I warn you that this wagon doesn’t develop enough thrust to carry home one of the monoliths. Ha, ha.”
One by one the passengers passed out through the airlock, jumped or clambered down to the windswept sand.
“If it wasn’t for the easterlies,” said Williams to Grimes, his voice muffled by his breathing mask, “this’d be a good spot for a Base.”
“At least,” said Grimes, “we shall be able to write some sort of report on this base business now. Just in case somebody actually asks for it.”