Chapter 9
Gail and Axel went aft to see what could be done about fixing the water-cycling machinery. I helped Morrie adjust his spacesuit in silence.
Although I felt that he had not been sane when he attacked Gail, I couldn't forgive his actions. I don't suppose he felt forgiving toward me. I was sure he hated me for stopping him from taking Gail, even though he appeared to be remorseful over his actions.
Before I put the helmet over his head, he said, "I—I wasn't myself, Bill. I want you to realize that. And try to make Gail see it that way."
"She'll accept your apology later," I said, "but get one thing straight, Grover. If you ever make another pass at her, whether you're sane or not, I'll kill you in spite of hell and Doc Spartan."
He bit his lip. "Can't blame you for feeling that way. You do love her, don't you?"
"You're damn right," I said. "Even before we were married I loved her."
His helmet was fastened and he stepped into the locks. I closed the door, ready to use the walkie-talkie transmitter for any messages. Dr. Spartan reappeared. "Grover will need welding equipment to fix that motor," he said. "Did he take it with him?"
"No, sir," I said.
"Then get it and take it out to him," said Spartan, turning and going back to his cabin.
I shrugged. I hadn't been sentenced to repair the tubes, as Morrie had, but I still had to obey orders. I got the equipment and a tool bag from the storage compartment of the machine room. When I told Gail and Axel I was taking welding equipment out to Morrie, Axel gave me a worried look. "Don't start anything, Bill," he said.
"We have an understanding," I replied.
Returning to the main cabin, I found Dr. Spartan waiting again, an oxygen tank in his hands.
"Here's the tank I want you to use, Drake," he said. "There's just a small amount of oxygen in it, but to use a new tank for such a short errand would be wasteful. We don't know when we might have another accident."
"Okay. I mean—yes, sir," I said.
"I trust you and Grover won't resume—uh—hostilities."
"No, sir. I'm sure he wasn't himself, sir."
While I put on my helmet, Spartan put the tank on my shoulders. I checked the connections, then I went into the locks. I started the pumps to exhaust the air and called to Morrie on my helmet transmitter.
"I'm bringing some welding equipment, Morrie."
He didn't answer.
"Do you read me, Morrie?" I called.
Still no answer. I called a third time and when Morrie didn't seem to hear, I grew apprehensive.
"Morrie!"
I knew something was wrong now. He should have heard me. Sometimes a man will switch off his transmitter, but he always keeps his receiver on. The locks were emptied of air and I swung open the outer door. I fastened a lifeline to my belt and fitted the hasp of the other end to a ring just outside the door.
Then I pivoted around the door frame and planted my magnetized boots against the metal side of the ship. They stuck, and I started to walk around the craft toward motor No. Five.
I found Morrie Grover beside the engine, standing like a statue, his hands raised—thrown out by centrifugal force—as if some unseen bandit had ordered him to stick 'em up.
His unnatural position and his failure to answer my calls was enough to convince me that something was radically wrong. He was unconscious or—I tried not to think of the alternative.
What was wrong? Only a meteor could have hurt him here and we'd long since passed through that cloud. I knew the chance of being hit by one was so remote that it wasn't likely to occur in a couple of hundred years.
I stepped over the metal housing of the bank of motors between myself and Morrie. His body looked weird in the sunlight, going into phases like a man-shaped moon, with each revolution of the ship. Half his figure was black, half gleaming like a star. And then, as the sun peeped through the glass of his helmet, I saw a contorted face, open mouth, and staring, sightless eyes.
Sure that he was dead, I stepped to his side and peered down at the oxygen gauge on his chest, worn upside down so that it would be visible to Morrie. The tank was nearly full, but the needle didn't wiggle as it would have done if Morrie had been breathing. He was dead, all right.
"Dr. Spartan!" I called.
No answer came through my earphones. I called again. Apparently, Dr. Spartan wasn't listening, nor was anyone else. I felt the urge to walk to the nearest video camera and wave my arms so that Joel would see me in the control room. Instead, I decided to take Morrie's body to the locks—quickly, in case there was still some spark of life in the man.
The tool kit I'd brought topside wasn't magnetized and would be thrown into space by the rotation of the ship. I opened the bag, took the pliers and cut two short lengths from Morrie's life line. One I used to lash the tools to the motor housings, and the other I fastened from Morrie's belt to mine, leaving about eight feet of slack between us. Then I replaced the pliers, closed the tool kit and was ready to move.
Dragging Morrie and his magnetized boots back to the locks would be hard work, especially since I'd have to pull myself the same distance. So I lifted him off the deck and then, holding his weightless body over my shoulder, doubled my knees and jumped upward.
I sailed outward—or, if you choose, upward—for the ship, myself and Morrie, and the sun, formed a right angle, if you're interested in the geometry of our positions. The sun was toward the rear of the ship and about thirty degrees to the right, when you looked toward the tail of the craft. This geometry was presently going to become very important to my future existence.
It seemed as if I were sailing a great distance, although distance is difficult to judge in space when there's nothing to mark it. I had perhaps fifty feet of life line and it wasn't until I was certain I'd gone much further that I began to grow worried.
Then I looked down. The thin copper wire which had secured me to the ship was no longer fastened to the ring just outside the locks. It was being pulled upward and Morrie and I were swinging around each other like twin stars around a common center of gravity. The centrifugal force of our motion was swinging the wire with it.
I just couldn't explain it. There was a hasp at the end of the line which shouldn't have come unfastened. The line could hardly have broken. It was meant to stand a great deal of strain and there had been none. Not only were we weightless, but I hadn't to my knowledge, put any strain on the wire during the entire time.
My push outward—or upward—had been translated into a motion away from the ship and I would continue in that direction forever unless some force were applied to stop me. The only force I was subject to was the gravitational pull of the sun, which meant I'd revolve around the sun forever, never to return to the Jehad.
But there was another motion, too, and this was the velocity of the ship at the moment I had broken away from it. This carried me forward—which to me was in the general direction of the orbit of Mars. However, my relationship to the ship was not permanent. The ship was being constantly accelerated, second by second, by the thrust of the plasma motors. Even as I looked down, my heart freezing with horror at the thought of never being able to return to the Jehad, I could see the ship inching forward. The right triangle had become acute and presently I'd be behind the ship.
Even in this tense moment my mind was demanding explanations, even fantastic ones. What had happened? If the hasp couldn't unfasten itself, if the line couldn't have broken, something must have broken it or unfastened the hasp. What? Morrie's ghost, vowing vengeance for whatever fancied wrong I'd done to him in the machinery cabin? Or Spartan? Or something else?
These thoughts occupied only a second because I had to get busy and, as Morrie and I whirled around in our ghostly dance in space, I reached for the petcock of my oxygen flask. Just as I touched it, a warning shot through my mind: Spartan had given me a tank with only a small amount of oxygen in it, therefore he had to be the one who was trying to get rid of me. He had released my line, knowing I'd take the quickest way back to the locks, rather than to clamber over the sides.
Small comfort, this sudden discovery. I realized that since I had a minimum supply of oxygen to breathe, it would be suicidal to use any part of it for jetting back to the ship, which was pulling farther and farther ahead.
Across from me, sailing round and round like a devil's carousel, Morrie seemed to grin as the sunlight struck his helmet again. He was dead and had plenty of air, he seemed to say. I was alive and hadn't enough. And that grin was what did it. I realized he had enough to get us both back—if I acted quickly.
I pulled him toward me. It was difficult to twist him around, more difficult to turn him toward the ship. Finally I succeeded in pointing him right and I thumbed open the jet petcock at the base of his oxygen equipment.
He shot forward, but the line attached to both our belts made him somersault, and there was a tug on the thin strand that tied us together. He was pulling me away from the ship, putting more distance between me and safety. For him, it didn't matter.
Quickly I pulled him back. I grabbed both his legs, like the handles of a wheelbarrow, and pointed him toward the ship, which with each second was getting farther and farther away. How far I had no idea because, as I said, distances are hard to judge in space.
Now the air jet was shoving us forward, accelerating us toward the ship. I hoped it would match the ship's acceleration but I couldn't tell at first. Then I laughed out loud. My voice made a hollow sound in my ears. We were gaining. Just a tiny bit, but the ship was getting larger. Now the question was, did I have enough air on Morrie's back to carry us to the ship? The air jet was intended for only short bursts, such as I'd used when I crossed from the Saturn capsule to the Jehad. Now I needed continued acceleration.
The thin vapor stream from the flask continued and now we were above the stern of the ship, where Gail's quarters had been established. Then the rush of air didn't seem quite as strong—we weren't creeping up as fast.
The air locks weren't far ahead, but we were above the ship, maybe two hundred yards away. Morrie's life line, the part still attached to the ship after I cut him loose, was whirling around with the ship, thrown out to its full length by the rotation. Whoever had released my line hadn't bothered Morrie's. Maybe the killer knew Morrie was dead—or maybe his object was only to kill me.
I steered down, hoping to get close enough to grab the line. Then the oxygen fizzled out. No more vapor came from the tank. It was empty and I couldn't quite reach the line. It was just a foot or two beyond me.
In desperation I gave Morrie a push and then praised God for Isaac Newton's action and reaction. The shove I gave Morrie was sufficient to push me back so that my free hand caught the line. I grabbed it and held on.
A couple of moments later I was pulling myself hand over hand toward the locks.
Just as I reached the locks, they opened. A hand stretched out, grasped my arm and pulled Morrie and me inside. I detached the life lines.
It was Axel Ludson, standing there in a spacesuit.
Instantly, all the suspicions I'd had in space crystallized. Axel had unfastened the life line!
I watched him close the locks and turn the valve that would presently fill the locks with air. "How long have you been here, Axel?" I demanded.
He turned, but didn't answer. His eyes focused, from within the helmet, on Morrie's body, planted to the floor of the locks by magnetic boots, swaying lifelessly as the ship rotated on its axis. "What's wrong with him? Did he pass out?"
"Dead." I said.
Axel gave me the same kind of a look I must have given him when I wondered about the life line. He was thinking of the fight between Morrie and me. "How'd it happen?" he asked quietly.
"Your guess is as good as mine," I said. "I found him that way. And somebody tried to kill me, Axel. Didn't you see how my line was loose and how I was drifting in space?"
He shook his head, then reached down and examined my life line on the floor. The hasp was on the end. Someone had unfastened it. "I looked out the port and saw you pulling yourself in. I thought it was your life line," he said.
"It was Morrie's. I had to cut it to lash the tools topside."
Axel didn't seem to believe me. Now he examined the section of line I'd used to tie Morrie and me together. Apparently satisfied, he went to look at the air gauge. A breathable amount of air was in the locks—we took off our helmets. Then we worked Morrie's loose. He was dead, all right. Dead and cold.
Axel examined Morrie's helmet. His fingers probed inside where the valve from the air supply enters.
"Stuck valve," he said.
I looked relieved. "I thought somebody had killed him," I said.
"Somebody did," said Axel. He pulled his fingers from the valve. They held a tiny piece of paper.
"But it could have been an accident," I said.
"There could have been enough air in the suit to keep him alive for some minutes," Axel said. "What killed him was stale air—carbon dioxide he'd exhaled. Somebody put that paper there to keep him from getting air. Probably didn't know what was happening till too late."
I was no longer as suspicious of Axel. A murderer wouldn't be likely to explain how he killed his victim but I had to be sure. "You didn't answer me, Axel, when I asked how long you'd been in the locks."
He gave me a strange look. "You think I took your life line off the ring?"
I avoided his eyes.
"Well, I guess I'd feel the same way. But I just came into the locks a few minutes ago. I'd just pumped the air out of the locks and was ready to go topside to help you and Morrie when I saw you outside. I didn't have time to cut your life line loose. You ought to know that if I had murder in mind, I could have pushed you back into space again."
"I'm sorry, Axel," I said. "But things get screwed up in my mind. Nothing seems right out here in high space."
"There was nobody around the locks when I entered them," Axel went on. "Gail and I were working in the machinery cabin till she got worried and asked me to check up on you. I figured I'd give you a hand. Joel's in the control cabin."
He paused and I said nothing. We both knew who'd tried to kill me and who probably was responsible for Morrie's death. That piece of paper didn't get in Morrie's helmet by accident. The entire paper supply was in Spartan's chartroom.
"Why?" Axel asked slowly, a trace of accent creeping into his voice. It sounded like vy. He stared at me in utter perplexity. "Is Dr. Spartan crazy, too?"
I remembered something that had happened—ages ago, it seemed, although it had been less than two hours before. "I was in Spartan's cabin during the time we went through the meteor cloud, Axel. I found something there."
"Yes?"
"Yes. A piece of paper—with our names on it. Morrie's was at the top of the list. Then mine. Warner Joel's name had been crossed out and written in again after yours. At the bottom there was Gail's name with a question mark after it."
"A roster of the crew?"
"Perhaps. But the question mark puzzled me. Now I believe he had listed us in the order of execution—in the order of expendability, so to speak."
"It is a ridiculous idea," said Axel.
"He killed Morrie and tried to kill me," I said. "We were Numbers One and Two on the list."
Axel blinked his eyes. Then he looked at Morrie swaying upright, held in place by his magnetic boots. "First we must take the dead man into the ship," he said. "Later we talk about it, Bill. Yust you and I."
We dragged Morrie into the main cabin. Gail was still in the machinery room, and we called Spartan on the intercom. When he came through the door and saw Morrie stretched out on his sleeping bag, he glanced at him as he might have at a soiled spot on the rug.
"What happened?" he asked.
I told him just what I'd found, purposely omitting my narrow escape from death. I figured that if he wasn't told about this he might give himself away. But he had shown no surprise at my being alive and he didn't ask how I'd gotten Morrie inside.
Spartan dropped to his knee beside the body. He picked up Morrie's helmet and probed the valve with his fingers as Axel had done. "Stuck valve," he announced. "Inefficiency on the part of the manufacturer. I'll make a full report of this when I get back to the earth." I noted he said "when I get back." I sensed he didn't expect much company on the return trip. Today's events had proved it.
"What do we do now, sir?" Axel asked respectfully.
"Give him a space burial, of course," said Spartan. He turned to me. "Within the next few days, you can make an oral report on the incident and I'll transcribe it on the tape recorder. We'll need it for the officials when we get back to earth." He paused and looked down at Morrie. "Our young friend has discovered a second great reality in space, I fear. The reality of death."
He turned on his heel and went back to his ivory tower.
I reached down and picked up Morrie's helmet. I felt inside the valve. The piece of paper which Axel had replaced was gone now. Dr. Spartan had removed the evidence of murder.
We put Morrie's helmet on his head and carried his body into the locks. After we put on our own helmets, we emptied the locks of air and pushed the body out into space. Then we went to tell Gail.
Chapter 10
Axel and I did not get a chance to have our talk immediately. For one thing, I was completing my disciplinary tours of duty imposed by Dr. Spartan and, for another, I was faced with the extra duties imposed on me by the death of Morrie.
Spartan had not attempted again to take my life, a fact that seemed very strange to me. He continued to thrive on his hatred for all of us, particularly Axel and me. Understandably, he wasn't quite as harsh with Gail. Toward Joel he seemed to have adopted a special manner. On the surface he was as curt toward him as toward the others, but I noticed that Joel was given light duties, while the rest of us got the menial tasks and the tough ones. Not that this mattered, because to be busy was not to be bored. But Joel was Spartan's fair-haired boy, there was no doubt about that. Perhaps Spartan saw need for an ally, or maybe he planned to use him for things that were to come.
Joel was elated because his chief often invited him into the chartroom for a meal, or to discuss adjustments in our orbit. And I am sure Joel reported every slip of the tongue Axel and I made which showed our true feelings toward Spartan.
Before my extra duty—and Gail's—ended, we reached the middle part of our voyage. At this point we had achieved the maximum speed for the trip, which was 40,000 miles per hour. This was far short of the ship's theoretical speed of 100,000 miles per second, but Mars was too near the earth for that kind of travel.
Planners of the trip had computed several possible routes to Mars. The shortest, a mere 40 million miles, would be undertaken when our earth and Mars were nearest each other. Such a route would be like cutting across a vacant lot from one street to the next parallel street. However, there would be fences to climb in the form of the sun's pull of gravity. The ship would have to use power from the first day till the last, and much pay load would have to be sacrificed.
The second route would use a minimum of fuel and maximum time. We would accelerate to an orbit intersecting the paths of the earth and Mars. Then the motors would be cut and we would coast in free flight to our destination, where we would decelerate. But such a trip would take from five to seven years.
Our actual path was a compromise between the two. We would use a minimum of fuel and a minimum of time. It was faster than plan 2, but more economical than plan 1. We would accelerate to a good speed, coast awhile on the planned orbit, then decelerate. Had we enough supplies, we might have remained on Mars about three months. However, every ounce of supplies we would use on Mars had to be shipped separately on conventional, unmanned rocket ships which were now orbiting Mars. Three ships of this type had been fired from the earth two years before. One of these would take us from the Jehad and back again, just as we had boarded the Jehad from the earth. The other two would be left on Mars.
But only three weeks of supplies could be shipped. After our return to the Jehad, we would orbit for about 75 days, when Mars and the earth would be in position for our return trip.
Even though we had more work than usual, the trip grew boring after Gail and I completed our disciplinary duty. Then we changed our "day" from 25 to 24 hours, replacing the five-hour shifts, which had included a shift for Morrie, to six-hour shifts. Following through on our dull routines, we realized why Morrie had cracked up. But the rest of us showed no signs of this, and even Joel bore up well. Perhaps the headshrinkers who passed on us were entitled to one mistake. We figured one despite the fact that Dr. Spartan could not be considered a direct hit on the psychological target. However, Spartan was a good spaceman, just as Nero had been good at his job, though more than slightly cracked.
Then, as we neared the end of the middle stage of the trip, we picked up a new kind of signal from Mars on our electronic equipment. The first, undoubtedly a radar beam, continued as before. But the second was on a longer wave length and was undoubtedly a radio transmission. It came to us as a deep chirping sound, and Axel suggested the Martians were trying to communicate with us.
"Maybe words of welcome," he said, adding, "or warning against trespassing."
Then the middle portion of our voyage ended. Mars was now a discernible disc and the gyroscope twisted the ship around so that its tail was headed toward our destination. The motors were fired and the long period of deceleration began.
While this was being done by Spartan, with Joel assisting him in the control room, Gail, Axel and I were together in the main cabin, and we had our first full discussion on what might lie ahead.
"Spartan might have had a change of heart," Gail said, always hopeful. "He really hasn't done anything out of line since he tried to take Bill's life."
"At that time," said Axel, "we believed—and he did, too—that there would be suffering from lack of water. However, we have been able to distill water for irrigating the garden by using the vacuum of the air locks. There is plenty to drink—if we're careful not to waste it—and for our dehydrated food. We can even do a washing once in a while." He smiled and rubbed his hands over his dirty T-shirt. "Now it is not necessary to reduce the size of the crew because of lack of water."
"Why didn't he wait before trying it in the first place?" I asked.
"Morrie Grover had to be eliminated," Axel explained. "Spartan gave his reasons. He said there was no prison aboard the ship, hinting that Morrie should be confined. He figured that what had happened once could happen again; that Morrie might very well flip under further pressure."
"And was I dangerous or unstable?" I demanded.
"Neither," Gail broke in to answer for Axel, "but he considered you expendable and in his way."
"You fought for Gail," Axel said. "Spartan wants no interference when he tries to have his way."
"He's as crazy as poor Morrie," said Gail.
"In a different way," said Axel, "I've known Doc a long time. Went to the moon with him. He's pushed by ambition and the dislike of sharing credit for a job well done. He was very disturbed when the newspapers gave a bigger play to the Loring-Drake wedding than to the objectives of the Mars flight. Spartan wanted to be the only hero."
"Isn't that why we're all making this trip? To win credit, fame, glory—or whatever else you want to call it?"
"Partly. There is also something else," said Axel.
"The old college try," I said. "Just what is the reason for going to Mars? It's costing six billion dollars. We couldn't bring back anything worth that much."
"Knowledge," said Gail.
"Is it knowledge that'll do any good?" I asked.
"We don't know," said Gail. "Remember Columbus? He was tossed into prison. People accused him of ruining the Spanish government through his crazy trips to far-off lands. There wasn't much gold, people said, without realizing that wasn't what really mattered; that the value of the discovery of the new world couldn't be figured in terms of dollars and cents. So will it prove it be, I'm sure, with Mars."
"Okay," I said, "suppose the trip is worth it. Why are we going? Particularly if there's no real money in it."
"Soldiers don't get rich," said Axel. "And how many of them risk their lives to win wars, or even to save a comrade, or perform other acts of bravery."
"Couldn't you call that glory seeking? Selfishness, in other words?"
"Do you call martyrs glory seekers because they die for principles and beliefs?"
"Not many men—sane ones, that is—become martyrs intentionally," I said.
"There are two kinds of selfishness that rule our lives, Bill Drake," said Gail. "One is self-preservation, which makes a man kill to defend himself. The other is race-preservation, which includes preservation of ideals and beliefs necessary for race progress. Men will die and become martyrs for that."
"One kind of preservation makes you kill, another makes you get killed," I said. "It doesn't make sense."
"No," said Axel. "But Gail is right. That is the way it works out. Would you call Willy Zinder a martyr?"
"No," I told him. "Willy took a chance and got killed. I suppose he was a hero, though."
"Willy Zinder was murdered," Axel said bluntly.
"He was what?"
"Murdered, I said. Spartan didn't intend for Willie to be killed. He only wanted Willy washed out, but he planned the accident."
Gail gasped.
"He wanted Gail to go to Mars," Axel added.
"But I thought it was my idea," said Gail. Then she paused. "But he did fall in with the idea rather suddenly when I suggested it. Maybe he did plan it all along. But how—what makes you think it was murder?"
"Spartan was the last man to inspect the controls on Willy's capsule. They had been inspected by others before him and called okay. But it would have been easy for Spartan to gimmick the re-entry controls so that Willy would return to the atmosphere ninety minutes too soon. Such an event would make it appear that Willie had become confused, or had panicked. You remember he put Gail Loring on the control board just before the accident? He wanted her to believe she'd been responsible. And for a time, she felt she had been."
"But you have no real proof, Axel," said Gail.
He shook his head. "I did not suspect it was anything but an accident until I learned that Spartan killed Morrie Grover and then tried to kill Bill. Also, Bill told me of that little death list Spartan had. Only then did I know that Spartan had killed Willy Zinder."
"Just to get me aboard!" Gail said. Her voice was almost a whisper.
"He wanted to marry you, of course, but you changed his plans. His objections to your plans would have looked suspect and he did not have unlimited power on the earth to force you into marriage against your will. Besides, the platonic marriage finally decided on did not interfere with his plan. He'd decided Bill would die before the return to earth."
"He'd made such a big thing of a six-man crew so he could take you along," I told Gail. "We're doing okay now with five—" I stopped. Dr. Spartan had entered the room.
He surveyed the group with angry eyes. I wondered how long he had been listening and how much he had heard.
"Relieve Warner Joel in the control room, Ludson," he said.
Joel had another hour to go before his relief was due, but Axel rose. "Yes, sir," he said.
"Miss Loring, it is time you started preparing our next meal, isn't it?"
"It's Bill Drake's turn in the galley, sir," she said.
"You will take it this time. Drake will take over the duty the next time it is yours. I wish to talk to him." He turned to me. "Will you come into my cabin, Drake?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
I followed him through the door and we entered the chartroom. You don't walk into that room, you drop into it. The corridor which separates the two parts of Spartan's cabin is equipped with small doors opposite each other and in the approximate center of the craft. You must pull yourself up to the opening and slide through by aid of centrifugal force.
Spartan was standing opposite the door when I came through. I dropped to the floor beside him and he gestured for me to sit down on the floor.
"Drake," he said, "I understand you had some difficulty bringing Grover's body into the ship after you found it."
This was the first time he mentioned what I knew he knew. "A very minor difficulty, sir," I said.
"For your information, Warner Joel saw the entire episode on the television screens in the control room. You were in view most of the time. It looked as if your safety line broke."
"It became disengaged, sir," I replied.
"Disengaged? How did that happen?"
"I don't know," I said. "And, as you recall, I had a short supply of oxygen in my tank. I used Grover's tank to jet to the ship."
He scowled at me in disapproval. "You call that a minor difficulty?" His hand, I noticed, was on the butt of the dart pistol, but he made no move to draw it.
"I survived," I said, keeping my face noncommittal.
"Then you wouldn't consider a difficulty serious unless you did not survive it?" Was it my imagination or was he deliberately toying with me?
"Most serious, sir,"
He thought for a moment. "From now on, Drake, you will avoid dangerous tasks. You are slightly accident prone and you might get into serious difficulties, which would not be in the best interests of our mission. I need a full crew to do our work on Mars."
"Thank you, sir," I said.
"You may go."
I returned to the main cabin, realizing that Spartan had spoken plainly enough. He knew that I knew he'd tried to kill me and he was now granting me a reprieve, probably because he figured he might need an extra pair of hands on Mars. However, he had warned me—if I wasn't a good boy, he might change his mind and decide I was expendable.
Chapter 11
We were a mere million miles from Mars, traveling at the comparatively snail-like speed of 12,000 miles an hour—a shade over the escape velocity on Mars' surface—when Spartan made his next move.
He announced over the intercom that a serious accident had occurred. The air-lock doors had become unfastened in some mysterious fashion and ten previous gallons of waste water which was being distilled for irrigation purposes for the garden had escaped as steam.
"It will be absolutely necessary for us to find water on Mars," he added. "Otherwise only half our crew, maybe only two of us, will be able to return to the earth. That is all."
It was too damned much, if you ask me. Later, when Axel and I were alone, I voiced my concern and suspicions.
"It was no accident," said Axel bluntly.
"Right," I said. No one had been in the main cabin at the time, about an hour before, when the water escaped. Gail had been asleep in her compartment. I'd been in the machinery room checking the air and water-cycling equipment. Axel had been in the control room, and Joel had been in the galley preparing food for the rest of us. "Maybe he thinks we're stupid," I added. "Anybody could figure out he did it."
"On the log it will look just as Spartan says," Axel told us. "You and I may never live to contradict it. For that matter, neither may Joel."
"Murder?"
Axel nodded his head. "I think he has been planning for a long time to return alone."
"But surely—surely not without Gail?"
"If you were Spartan and thought as he did, what would you do? Gail is the one witness who could endanger him by contradicting his story."
"You think even Gail is in danger?"
Axel shrugged again. "As we mentioned once before, Dr. Spartan is not a man who likes to share glory," he said. "Besides there are two murders which would need some explaining."
It seemed incredible, and yet there was a logical order of events that made Axel's theory plausible. First, Spartan wanted Gail. He had arranged an accident for Willy Zinder and this accident became murder. Second, there had been the accidental damaging of the water-cycling equipment, an incident which had served Dr. Spartan's scheme to cut down the crew—assuming of course that Spartan never intended any of us to return, with the possible exception of Gail. This had resulted in the second murder. Thirdly, he had planned to eliminate me but, for good reason, had changed his mind: I would be needed when the base was set up on Mars. Once that was accomplished I could be disposed of. Or, possibly, Spartan feared hostile creatures on Mars and could not afford to reduce the size of his crew if fighting could be expected. Now he had produced a water shortage.
"Supposing you're right, Axel," I said after these thoughts ran through my mind. "What can we do about it?"
"Nothing—now."
"Later?"
"If we are to live, something must be done," said Axel. "One thing we must decide, Bill, is just how far we are willing to go."
"What do you mean by that?" I asked. "If it comes to defending my life, I'll go all out—as far as necessary."
"It isn't that simple," said Axel. "As Spartan said, without exaggeration, there is water enough for only two—three at the most. That means two of us, at least, must die—unless we find water on Mars. Suppose we were to make Spartan a prisoner? What then?"
I realized now what the real problem was. Even as a prisoner, we would not have the right to execute Spartan just because there was insufficient water. And how would we choose the other person to be sacrificed?
"It's a terrible problem, Axel," I said. "Must we decide it now?"
"We must decide it before we leave Mars," he replied. And I agreed. But I also agreed that we could do nothing now unless we wanted to scuttle the entire expedition. In spite of Dr. Spartan, in spite of everything, success of the expedition came first. And ahead of us was Mars—which could mean death to some of us.
The planet loomed like a red giant on the television screens. The signals, which we believed to be ominous, were now signals of hope. If there was life on Mars, there might be water. True, scientists had pointed out that life, different from ours, might exist without water, using ammonia, perhaps. For our sakes, we hoped this wasn't so.
We looked thirstily at the polar caps, the northern one diminishing rapidly, because it was nearly summer in that hemisphere. The southern cap was growing as winter set in.
But we were still uncertain of our reception. "They're uneasy about us," Gail told me. "Just think how you'd feel if a fleet of spaceships from Mars was closing in."
"A fleet? This is only one ship."
"Three rocket ships are already circling Mars," she reminded me. "If the inhabitants spotted us when we were less than halfway here, they certainly would know all about those smaller rockets."
"It shouldn't take them long to see we intend no harm," said Joel. "Unless they're the type who shoot first and ask questions afterwards."
"There may be no common ground for communication at all," Gail said. "Martians may not be life as we know it."
We'd all read everything we could about Mars before we left the earth. The question of life on Mars wasn't debatable. There was life, but whether it amounted to anything more than the vegetation observed by photo and telescope, was another matter. We tried to imagine plants using radar and sending messages—the idea seemed absurd.
The canals—originally named by Schiaparelli, who called them canali, the Italian word for channels, erroneously translated to read canals—were so geometrically straight that many people thought they could not be natural phenomena and were, actually, man-made canals.
There was some oxygen, but how much was an open question. It was hard to determine because all the tests had to be made through the sea of oxygen that surrounds the earth. They were not conclusive. There was water, but the amount could not be determined because the earth's air is full of water vapor. The climate could be studied. Mars was cold, but not too cold. At the equator a very warm day was possible, with, perhaps, temperatures as high as 60 or 70 degrees. Nights could be very cold, below freezing, even in summer. The ice caps were thin because they melted rapidly. Generally they were believed to be ice, but a few scholars thought they might be of carbon dioxide—dry ice. The poles were cold enough to precipitate carbon dioxide in winter.
There were two kinds of clouds on Mars. Fleecy white ones which probably were water vapor, and yellowish clouds strongly suggestive of dust clouds, whipped up by violent storms. Although Mars had thin air, it could have strong winds.
We could now see the two Martian moons. The furthermost of the two, Deimos, is only 15,000 miles from the surface of the planet. Its diameter is about 20 miles, and it revolves around Mars once every sixteen hours. Since the Martian day is about the same length as the earth's, being only 37 minutes longer, Deimos would rise in the west and sink in the east about three days later, being visible and moving slowly eastward through the entire time. The larger moon, Phobos, is about thirty miles in diameter, and only 6,000 miles from the surface of Mars. Even though it is extremely small it would be seen as a tiny, bright disc from the surface of Mars. Its period is six hours, therefore it rises in the west three times every Martian day. It actually circles Mars four times daily but Mars turns once so that Phobos would appear, to Martian eyes, to circle only three times.
Our problem was not to hit Mars, but to score a near miss. We would come close enough to be captured by Martian gravity. Then we would spiral as a satellite, decelerating and tightening our orbit till we were as close as possible to the group of rockets that had been fired from the earth with our supplies. We would board one of these, and then, using electronic controls, would land the three rockets comparatively close together at a spot in the desert near an oasis that looked fruitful for exploration.
The most interesting of these oases, of which there were many, were two oval-shaped greenish brown areas marked on Percival Lowell's maps as Solis Lacus Minor and Solis Lacus Major—generally called Solis Lacus. These were about halfway between the equator and the pole in the northern hemisphere. In 1924 Solis Lacus showed a startling expansion, growing to almost twice its size and extending northward. Undoubtedly vegetation existed in profusion in this area. Furthermore, the two areas were connected by a short canal, which frequently doubled, forming two canals. Between the oases was desert. Thus, by landing between the two Solis Lacuses we could learn a great deal about the physical characteristics of Mars.
At a distance of one million miles, we had to aim carefully at Mars. The planet was speeding along its orbit at about fifteen miles per second, in comparison with our speed which was slightly more than three. If we missed we couldn't catch up because our acceleration was too slow. We'd have to go home empty-handed.
Our electronic computer worked out the corrections to our line of flight so that we would be caught by Mars' gravitational field. We had already located the three unmanned rockets by radar and we had a small telescope in the control room, plus telescopic lens on the video cameras to help us. This was lucky, because as we approached Phobos, Axel called excitedly from the control room.
"We're having trouble with the Martians, Dr. Spartan!"
There was nothing on the television screens to indicate an attack by spaceship, but we did see an unusual amount of "snow," as if there were interference. It wasn't until I took my turn in the control room that I found out the trouble. Axel was there then, having remained to check out what he was certain was the truth.
"They're jamming our radar," he explained. "It's so fogged up we can't locate the unmanned rockets."
"Then they're not friendly," I said. I'd suspected they wouldn't welcome us with open arms, and I think the others had felt the same way.
"Maybe playing safe," he said.
"If we could only find a way to communicate with them," I said. "Maybe we could make them understand that we're friendly."
Axel shook his head. "Would you believe everything a man from outer space told you?" he asked. "With three rocket ships circling their planet, they must expect an invasion, now that a bigger one is approaching."
"At least they don't have missiles," I said. Then a sudden thought struck me. "This fogging of the radar may prove something. Maybe they don't have eyes."
He gave me a blank look. "How do you figure it?"
"They have radar and they must know we'll contact the rest of the 'fleet.' They figure it'll be by radar. Since they don't seem to suspect that we can see the rockets, maybe radar is their only method of seeing."
"Even if you brought that in from left field, you're thinking, boy," said Axel.
But the fogged radar had given us a distinct message: Earthmen, you're not welcome because we don't know your reasons for coming here. We don't want you to land. The message was as plain as if it had been sent in English.
There was no thought of turning back. What the hell? We'd come this far, hadn't we?
We got a good look at Phobos, a jagged, uneven rock. It wasn't even round. It looked like a chunk of basalt, but Dr. Joel, the geologist, pointed out black streaks which, he said, were outcroppings of meteoric iron. It hadn't originally been a part of Mars, as our moon was once a part of the earth. Phobos was a captured asteroid, and so probably was Deimos.
The unmanned rockets were in a group, all within ten miles of each other. They were circling Mars in two hours, inside the orbit of Phobos. We approached them without radar because they were easily seen as bright moving specks in the sky.
There was nothing to pack, not even instruments, because these unmanned rockets were supposed to contain every item we would need. We just put on our spacesuits, strung a line between the Jehad and the largest of the three rockets—after stopping the Jehad's rotation—and crossed over.
Although I'd been treated to some very pretty sights of the earth and the moon, Mars was on a par with any of them. It's a small planet, only 4,200 miles in diameter, but it didn't look so small now. It filled half the sky, big, red and angry. In the northern hemisphere, where it was late spring, the polar ice cap had all but disappeared. Brownish green vegetation swept southward. Here and there over the surface was a fleecy cloud and the mysterious canals were as straight as if they'd been drawn by ruler. All those in the north had doubled and looked like parallel lines. There was a suggestion of mountains in the area known as Mare Erithraeum, which was not a sea as the early astronomers thought, but an oasis.
Once aboard the rocket, I took a seat next to Gail. Unlike the Saturn capsule, this one had portholes, to be used for observing Mars once we landed. And through them we could see Mars as we orbited toward our landing site.
We had entered through locks just above the rocket chambers. A large storeroom was packed with equipment, and a ladder ran through it to the nose cone. I noted with a great deal of relief that there was a huge tank marked WATER. It contained enough for all uses on Mars. Three weeks of "luxury" as far as water was concerned and if we found drinkable water on Mars, we could replenish our supply on the Jehad.
This, of course, did not take into consideration Dr. Spartan's plans.
Dr. Spartan came aboard last. He sat down.
"Don't remove your helmets," he warned. "I haven't released the oxygen supply yet and it's best that we land in spacesuits. We don't know what kind of terrain we'll strike and it's possible we may wind up with a punctured ship which could cost us our air supply." He paused, then added: "And, of course, we don't know what weapons the Martians have."
There was a sharp intake of breath in my earphones. It was not only Gail but others who made the sound.
"In a short time," Spartan went on, "we'll be the first men to set foot on Martian soil. We've had a long trip, beset by—ah—serious difficulties." He was using my terminology. "Perhaps you have disliked me, or even hated me. However, there is more to be thought of than personalities. The earth expects us to complete a mission on Mars. I am the leader. I give the orders. And whether you like me or not, you'll obey. We are going into a strange world, where a strange form of life—hostile life—exists.
"The Martians will meet us on their own soil, undoubtedly with superior numbers and, possibly, with weapons we will not comprehend. But on the earth there are many glorious tales of small, determined groups who have defended themselves against vastly superior forces. In the interest of self-preservation we must stick together. In the interest of the faith of our world in us, the expedition must succeed. We must stick together until our last day on Mars."
Paying close heed to Spartan's words, his phrase, "until our last day on Mars," did not escape me. I was certain he intended no group cohesion after that time.
"Now," he continued after a slight pause, "the planners of this trip had considerable foresight. In spite of the opinions of many men who have studied Mars, that intelligent—and hence, possibly, belligerent—life cannot exist here, the men who selected our equipment saw to it that we could defend ourselves should the need arise."
Dr. Spartan reached up and pulled open the door of a cabinet behind him. There, in racks, were two rifles. Six pistols, in holsters, were on shelves. He pulled out five of the pistols and strapped one on himself before passing out the others.
"We will keep Grover's pistol in reserve," Spartan said, nodding toward the one left. "There are clips in all of them and extra ammunition aboard. We have regular and explosive bullets for the rifles, which are automatic. You'll note that all the trigger guards are large enough to accommodate your space gloves."
As we strapped on the pistols, Spartan reached down and held up one of the rifles. It, too, had a modified trigger guard.
"These are M-14 weapons," he continued. "It's a modern military weapon using a 7.62 mm. slug. It can be fired automatic or semi-automatic and it is simple in its operation. However, besides myself, only William Drake has had experience with these weapons. He was in the army for a short time. Therefore Drake and I will be the riflemen of the group."
At least, I thought, Spartan and I will be armed equally.
I looked around at the group. Gail was rubbing her hand gingerly over her weapon. "I don't know how to fire this thing, Dr. Spartan," she said.
"There's nothing to know," said Spartan. "You point the gun and pull the trigger. It's very simple if you aim it accurately."
Axel cleared his throat. "Don't you think it would be wiser, sir, if we made our first appearance on Mars without arms? If we meet the intelligent life of the planet, or if they should detect us through spotting devices, it might convince these creatures that we are not hostile invaders, but peaceful scientists."
"Whoever said we were peaceful?" Spartan asked. "Eventually Mars will become a colony of the earth."
"That's the same mistake Spain made when Columbus discovered America," said Axel. "A lot of blood could have been spared if the nations of the earth hadn't thought of land grabbing."
"Idealistic motives become you, Ludson," said Spartan, "but they never got anybody anywhere. Man is the highest form of intelligent life in the solar universe—"
"How do you know?" Gail asked.
"Because I am a man. We will be doing the Martians a favor by giving them the benefits of our civilization. I mean to claim Mars for the earth. And don't worry about these Martian monsters taking offense at our guns. They may not recognize them as weapons." He paused and then his voice grew harsh. "Wear your guns at all times. Keep them near at hand when you sleep. This is an order."
We knew he was right about guns, as he had been right about many things. No one sold Spartan short on his ability as an astronaut. The Martians would not recognize guns. Anything we carried in our hands, a scientific instrument, even a flag of truce, might be mistaken for a weapon. Just as Mars was new, different and incomprehensible to us, the earth would be to them, and so would the people of the earth.
"Fasten your seat belts," Spartan snapped.
As I adjusted my straps, I had the same feeling I'd had the first time I orbited. I was half afraid and half eager. At the time I took my first solo, I'd asked a ground crewman: "What'll I do if something goes wrong?" And he replied: "Just sit there. You won't have time to do anything else."
We'd land on Mars, all right. Chances were good that we'd land alive. Leaving Mars alive would be a different matter. I found myself thinking: If the Martians don't get me, Dr. Spartan will.
Spartan touched a switch. A green light flashed on in the control room. Everything was ready for the entry into Mars atmosphere. The light blinked once. The electronic controls were working. At the proper moment the rockets would slow us down and Mars' gravity would do the rest.
Then the whole ship shook. Our rockets were blasting. I felt pressure in the seat of my spacesuit. After living for eighteen months with gravity so lean that a man could hardly fall down, I had G's in my pants. I felt as if I'd returned to earth again. I was no longer afraid. We were on our way down to Mars.
The deceleration began to push up the gravity inside the capsule. But it was nothing like the force a man felt when re-entering the earth's atmosphere. Mars is only one tenth the mass of the earth and its gravity is something like forty per cent. We were falling in slow motion, and carefully calculated rocket bursts, all handled by automatic controls, would set us down more gently than a parachute. In fact, a parachute on Mars would only be slightly more effective than on the moon. Mars has some atmosphere, though very thin, while the moon has none at all.
The scenery was beautiful. Perhaps the colors were not as blatant as those seen approaching the earth. There were no deep blues of the sea, greens of the fields and forests, yellow of deserts and the snow-tipped majesty of great mountain ranges. The Martian polar caps were not the same as ours either, for they were almost perfect circles. The ice which caps the terrestrial poles is irregular because of continents and seas.
But Mars was spectacular. Nearly everything had a tint of red. Even the areas the early astronomers called seas, because they had a greenish shade, showed a brownish red base. The mountains, which soon became visible as we approached the planet, were massive but eroded, far less impressive than the Rockies, the Alps, the Andes or Himalayas. We saw nothing that looked like bodies of water.
As we approached the planet, our orbital momentum carried us forward more rapidly than the planet revolved on its axis. Mare Erithraeum swung beneath us and extending eastward was a broad double-canal called Nectar, flowing through a wide expanse of reddish desert.
Then I sensed a trembling in the capsule and I knew we had hit the top of the Martian atmosphere. I could not see anything directly beneath us now, because the capsule base cut off the view, but turning my head I saw the brownish green of the Martian pampas far to the north, desert to the south, Mare Erithraeum to the west, and then two smaller, oval patches of vegetation to the east.
The latter were Solis Lacus Minor and Solis Lacus Major, between which two areas we planned to land.
No friction heat was noticeable in the cabin and it was not unexpected. Although there was air enough to cause some friction on the outside of the ship, our velocity was far less than any we would have encountered on re-entry into the earth's atmosphere.
I watched the twin ovals which marked our landing site. The larger oasis, Lacus Major, was in full view. In the center was a shiny dark spot which glinted like polished ebony in the sunlight. And southward, a short distance north of the equator, was another spot just as dark and just as glinting. Cities, perhaps?
"What do you make of those things, Dr. Joel?" I asked, pointing out the spots.
Joel shook his head. "Our astronomers have noticed them," he said. "The one in Lacus Major is called Umbra. The other is Pnyx, at the junction of two canals. Certain people have suggested they are cities."
"Circular cities?" asked Gail, who also watched the screen.
"With a dome over them," I said. For now I saw why they glinted. That shiny surface was some transparent substance which covered the city like an inverted bowl. Beneath were blackened buildings.
"Since you're so interested in these things, Drake," said Spartan, "you can have the privilege of finding out what they are."
I caught a glimpse of Gail's frightened eyes as she looked toward me, then turned her head so I could not see her fear. But I knew what Dr. Spartan had in mind. He wanted me dead, and by sending me to the very doors of a Martian city, he might save himself the disagreeable task of committing murder.
Very, very slowly we came down toward the Martian desert. Through the windows I saw one of our companion rockets land near the rim of the double canal on our north. The ground was uneven there, being churned by furrows and crevasses, and for an instant the rocket teetered, then fell on its side.
Fortunately all of the fuel had been used up or jettisoned before it touched the ground, consequently there was no fire.
Turning my head I could see the second rocket, standing upright to the west.
Then there was a solid but jarring bump—about what you'd feel if you jumped off a ten-foot wall. Our ship rocked with the impact, but remained upright.
The motors were cut, but the fuel was not jettisoned, because this ship had to take us back to the Jehad.
"We're on Mars," Gail breathed into her microphone. Her hand reached out and grasped my arm with a reassuring squeeze.
"Yes, we made it," I said, and wondered if we would ever leave this planet.
Chapter 12
I longed for something on Mars that was definitely of the earth, so I could say, "This is like home." But the similarities, if any, were vague. While the rockets settled down on the desert, I heard faintly the roar of the blasts, like the murmur of a distant waterfall. The air was so thin that sounds were dampened; still, they were sounds, not the deathly silence of outer space.
Now that the rockets were stilled, I was held fast in my seat by gravity—real gravity, not centrifugal force. But it was a very light tug, not at all like earth's.
"Unfasten your harnesses," said Spartan. "But please remain here in this cabin till I test the atmosphere."
So saying, he unfastened his own belt and climbed down the ladder. As he disappeared through the trap door in the floor I caught a glimpse of his peculiar, pleased smile. Was he responding to the familiarity of gravity, or was he gloating over some particularly satisfying thought of future glory?
I heard him open the doors of the locks. Gail squeezed my arm as a small cloud of dust swept up through the opening to the lower part of the ship. "Air!" she said. Martian air had rushed into the ship.
Looking out of the porthole, I saw Spartan in his spacesuit, standing in the red sand, the first human being to set a booted foot on Mars. He walked gingerly a few paces, then set up a small instrument, pressed buttons and read dials. Then he reached down, picked up a handful of sand and tossed it in the air. A playful gesture for Dr. Spartan. But why shouldn't he be elated? He had led the first voyage from earth to Mars. The sand he threw seemed to drift down ever so slowly—a little pebble taking fully a second to fall five feet. On earth it would have fallen 16 feet in that short space of time.
Spartan stood erect and silent, his helmeted eyes fastened on the oasis to the east. For a moment I forgot his arrogance, his murderous heart, and his determination to kill me and to take Gail. He was a representative of the earth, not an individual now. Then he marched back to the ship, his evil manner suddenly accentuated. Every move, every gesture showed his utter contempt for others. He was the kind of man who was able to make you mad by merely saying, "Good morning."
He entered the ship and closed the locks. Then he came up the ladder to the control room and twisted a valve which released the air in the ship.
Not until that moment did he address us over his helmet transmitter.
"The Martian atmosphere is much like the earth's," he said. "It has oxygen, nitrogen, a small amount of carbon dioxide and minute traces of water vapor. Possibly it also contains inert gases—the heavier ones. I doubt if there's much helium here. It is not poisonous, although it does contain a small amount of ammonium vapor. However, it is too thin to breathe. We may be able to pump air into our ship to replenish our air supplies, should they get low, but we can't go out of the ship without spacesuits."
Talk of ammonia in the atmosphere led to new avenues of speculation. Scientists have suspected for many years that a kind of life might exist on compounds of ammonia, instead of water. There are indications that the first life on earth may have absorbed ammonia from sea water, instead of oxygen, for some such compounds are still present in proteins. As oxygen grew more plentiful on the earth, life adapted itself to water and oxygen. On Mars this stage may not have been reached, although it seemed rather unlikely. As rare as the oxygen was, Dr. Spartan said, the amount of ammonium vapor in the air was small.
Soon the cabin was filled with air. We descended the ladder and began to unpack the materials.
Axel remained in the control room, alert for Martians, listening to the radio which now was filled with a variety of weird whistles, chirping noises and rattles.
"They know we've landed," said Axel. "I can't understand these Martians, but I have a feeling a lot of this is about us."
"We can defend ourselves," said Spartan.
"What if they have nuclear weapons?" I asked.
Dr. Spartan shrugged. "It's not impossible," he said.
That first day on Mars was all work. We went to the nearest rocket ship that had landed with us, the one that remained upright, and unpacked its cargo. Since this rocket was not going to leave Mars there was much more gear aboard because no extra fuel had been carried. Most valuable of the equipment were two Mars-cars, self-propelled vehicles which were similar to those used in exploring the moon.
They were four-wheeled, with a cabin swung in the middle. Each wheel was equipped with tires sixteen feet in diameter. Although the machine itself was almost as large as a freight car, it was constructed of aluminum and lightweight alloys and even on earth it would not weigh as much as an ordinary motorcar. The Mars-cars were electrically driven, powered by specially built storage batteries which could be charged from solar cells built into our main rocket.
Also aboard the rocket was ore sampling equipment, which we expected to use in studying the geology of Mars. Dr. Spartan put Warner Joel to work with the digging tools to construct a moat around our headquarters ship. Instead of a drawbridge, a causeway was left to the north of the ship, running diagonally across the moat. Rocks were piled in the middle of the causeway so that two paths were left for the tires of the Mars-cars. A hostile force attempting to cross the causeway could be enfiladed by pistol and rifle fire from behind a small breastworks at the base of the ship, or from the locks of the ship itself.
It was while digging this moat that Dr. Joel found rubies. The soil was full of them. They were more plentiful than pebbles on the earth.
"Possibly a lot of the color of the Martian sand is due to aluminum oxide tinctured with chromium," Joel explained. He assumed we all knew this was the chemical composition of rubies.
"I suspected the Martians used lidar," said Axel.
And, of course, he assumed we all knew that lidar was light radar, which physicists on the earth were just learning how to use. It's a method of amplifying light through a special tube of artificial rubies. The light excites the chromium in the rubies and causes the atoms to give off a red glow. The resulting red beam can be focused to pencil thinness and sent vast distances. Scientists believe that some of the nearer stars—meaning stars within the range of ten light years distant from the sun—can be explored by lidar.
We had unpacked most of the gear from the two ships and had assembled the Mars-cars by noon the next day.
"Ludson," said Spartan, "take Drake over to the No. three ship and bring back all the supplies you can carry. The rest of us will make our living quarters habitable."
"Yes, sir," said Axel. He turned to me. "Come on, Bill. Let's get started."
"If you see signs of life," Spartan said, "shoot first."
"But, sir," Axel protested, "wouldn't it be best for us not to do anything unless we're attacked?"
"We must show them that we're more powerful than they are. The best way to defend is to attack," said Spartan.
"They might be better equipped to shoot than we are, sir," said Axel.
"Ludson, whatever gave you the idea that we're inferior to Martians? This is a dying, decadent world. We are young, strong and in our prime—in terms of our planet. Just because the Martians have intelligence, doesn't mean they are superior."
"But—"
"You have your orders," said Spartan. "Carry them out."
We climbed into the car through tiny locks. The interior was pressurized and full of air, so that we were able to take off our helmets. There were large windows on all sides from which we were able to look out on the red sandy plain.
Our ship had landed in the neck of desert between Solis Lacus Major and Solis Lacus Minor, which we now shortened to Major and Minor. We were on a ridge, possibly the highest point between the two oases, although we could not see Minor to our west, since it was over the horizon.
To the east, the ground sloped downward and on the horizon we could see the dark green of vegetation that marked the edge of Major. To the north was the first of the two canals connecting the double oasis. To the south there was only desert, stretching several hundred miles to the canal junction at Pnyx.
It was about three miles to the fallen spaceship. It had toppled in the soft sand, narrowly missing an outcropping of rock. Perhaps the base of the craft had struck the rock, causing the ship to fall over. I noticed the rocks were highly polished, without any sign of stratification. Probably they were igneous. Sandstorms must have given them that fine polish—there was no water around to erode them and the polar glaciers didn't come this far south.
A little ridge prevented us from looking down into the canal, and we drove over it for our first close glimpse of this Martian phenomenon.
We weren't quite prepared for the grandeur of the view. The canal was at least five miles wide, possibly three miles deep. The walls were sometimes sheer, dropping thousands of feet, leveling off, then dropping again to form a series of gigantic terraces. In other spots landslides had crumbled the walls and a slope had been formed, rather steep, but not too precipitous for a Mars-car to negotiate.
"Let's go down!" I said.
I wanted to see the bottom of this majestic ditch. It was awe-inspiring, like the Grand Canyon, which it resembled in color, except that the walls were unstratified. These rocks had never been formed at the bottom of the sea, but had been baked by the internal fires of the planet. The last sea had dried before the canals had been cut. Although they were red, the color shaded from a brilliant scarlet to a brownish green at the bottom. There was vegetation down there, and something else, as precious as anything we'd seen thus far—water!
There wasn't too much of it; merely a tiny stream flowing in the center of the canal, its path straight, like the canal itself. "I hope it's fit to drink," I told Axel. "But it's gotta be. This canal wasn't made by forces of nature. Nor could it have been built by hands, beaks or paws. Only tools could have done it. And tools are used only by intelligent life."
Axel knew it. I didn't have to tell him. He was already reaching for the microphone. He snapped on the transmitter. "Dr. Spartan!" he called.
There was no immediate answer. Then Joel's voice came over the radio. "Spartan's not here, Axel. He's checking some of the scientific equipment. Anything important?"
"There's water down here in the canal," Axel said. "Does he want us to bring some?"
"Stand by," said Joel. "I'll ask."
We waited several minutes. Then Spartan's gruff voice came to us. "Of course bring water, you stupid fool. Is it fit to drink?"
"We don't know, sir," Axel said. His face flushed with the anger brought on by Spartan's words. "It's at the bottom of the canal."
"How long will it take to find out?"
"Thirty minutes to an hour," said Axel. "There's a steep incline to the bottom of the canal."
"Drake can do it," said Spartan. "You unload the rocket ship. Both of you can stow it aboard the Mars-car when Drake returns."
"Yes, sir." Axel switched off the radio. He turned to me and shook his head. "That guy doesn't know how to be civil, does he?"
"No," I said, "but what worries me is why he's letting me fetch the water. It must be because he thinks I'm more expendable than you and he figures there's danger down there."
"Martians?"
"Yes," I said. I checked my pistol. It was loaded.
Axel put on his helmet and got out of the locks. He disappeared into the rocket and presently reappeared with a five-gallon can, which he stowed in the locks. Then I started down one of the less steep inclines toward the canal.
It was rough and bumpy all the way down. Long before I reached the bottom, I noted that the vegetation which had looked so small from the top of the canal, was big and, in some cases, twenty or thirty feet tall.