The City and the Stars / The Sands of Mars (61 page)

The satellite was now a thin crescent not far from the Sun, and Gibson felt extremely foolish aiming his flash into the full glare of the summer sky. But the time was really well chosen, for it would be dark on the side of Phobos towards them and the telescopes there would be observing under favorable conditions.

He let off his ten shots in five pairs, spaced well apart. This seemed the most economical way of doing it while still making sure that the signals would look obviously artificial.

“That’ll do for today,” said Gibson. “We’ll save the rest of our ammunition until after dark. Now let’s have a look at these plants. Do you know what they remind me of?”

“Overgrown seaweed,” replied Jimmy promptly.

“Right first time. I wonder what’s in those pods? Have you got a knife on you— thanks.”

Gibson began carving at the nearest frond until he had punctured one of the little black balloons. It apparently held gas, and under considerable pressure, for a faint hiss could be heard as the knife penetrated.

“What queer stuff!” said Gibson. “Let’s take some back with us.”

Not without difficulty, he hacked off one of the long black fronds near the roots. A dark brown fluid began to ooze out of the severed end, releasing tiny bubbles of gas as it did so. With this souvenir hanging over his shoulder, Gibson began to make his way back to the ship.

He did not know that he was carrying with him the future of a world.

They had gone only a few paces when they encountered a denser patch and had to make a detour. With the sun as a guide there was no danger of becoming lost, especially in such a small region, and they had made no attempt to retrace their footsteps exactly. Gibson was leading the way, and finding it somewhat heavy going. He was just wondering whether to swallow his pride and change places with Jimmy when he was relieved to come across a narrow, winding track leading more or less in the right direction.

To any observer, it would have been an interesting demonstration of the slowness of some mental processes. For both Gibson and Jimmy had walked a good six paces before they remembered the simple but shattering truth that footpaths do not, usually, make themselves.

“It’s about time our two explorers came back, isn’t it?” said the pilot as he helped Hilton detach the floodlights from the underside of the aircraft’s wing. This had proved, after all, to be a fairly straight-forward job, and Hilton hoped to find enough wiring inside the machine to run the lights far enough away from the cliff to be visible from Phobos when it rose again. They would not have the brilliance of Gibson’s flash, but their steady beams would give them a better chance of being detected.

“How long have they been gone now?” said Hilton.

“About forty minutes. I hope they’ve had the sense not to get lost.”

“Gibson’s too careful to go wandering off. I wouldn’t trust young Jimmy by himself, though— he’d want to start looking for Martians!”

“Oh, here they are. They seem to be in a bit of a hurry.”

Two tiny figures had emerged from the middle distance and were bounding across the valley. Their haste was so obvious that the watchers downed tools and observed their approach with rising curiosity.

The fact that Gibson and Jimmy had returned so promptly represented a triumph of caution and self-control. For a long moment of incredulous astonishment they had stood staring at that pathway through the thin brown plants. On Earth, nothing could have been more commonplace; it was just the sort of track that cattle make across a hill, or wild animals through a forest. Its very familiarity had at first prevented them from noticing it, and even when they had forced their minds to accept its presence, they still kept trying to explain it away.

Gibson had spoken first, in a very subdued voice— almost as if he was afraid of being overheard.

“It’s a path all right, Jimmy. But what could have made it, for heaven’s sake? No one’s ever been here before.”

“It must have been some kind of animal.”

“A fairly large one, too.”

“Perhaps as big as a horse.”

“Or a tiger.”

The last remark produced an uneasy silence. Then Jimmy said: “Well, if it comes to a fight, that flash of yours should scare anything.”

“Only if it had eyes,” said Gibson. “Suppose it had some other sense?”

It was obvious that Jimmy was trying to think of good reasons for pressing ahead.

“I’m sure we could run faster, and jump higher, than anything else on Mars.”

Gibson liked to believe that his decision was based on prudence rather than cowardice.

“We’re not taking any risks,” he said firmly. “We’re going straight back to tell the others.
Then
we’ll think about having a look round.”

Jimmy had sense enough not to grumble, but he kept looking back wistfully as they returned to the ship. Whatever faults he might have, lack of courage was not among them.

It took some time to convince the others that they were not attempting a rather poor practical joke. After all, everyone knew why there couldn’t be animal life on Mars. It was a question of metabolism: animals burned fuel so much faster than plants, and therefore could not exist in this thin, practically inert atmosphere. The biologists had been quick to point this out as soon as conditions on the surface of Mars had been accurately determined, and for the last ten years the question of animal life on the planet had been regarded as settled— except by incurable romantics.

“Even if you saw what you think,” said Hilton, “there must be some natural explanation.”

“Come and see for yourself,” retorted Gibson. “I tell you it was a well-worn track.”

“Oh, I’m coming,” said Hilton.

“So am I,” said the pilot.

“Wait a minute! We can’t all go. At least one of us has got to stay behind.”

For a moment Gibson felt like volunteering. Then he realized that he would never forgive himself if he did.

“
I
found the track,” he said firmly.

“Looks as if I’ve got a mutiny on my hands,” remarked Hilton. “Anyone got some money? Odd man out of you three stays behind.”

“It’s a wild goose chase, anyway,” said the pilot, when he produced the only head. “I’ll expect you home in an hour. If you take any longer I’ll want you to bring back a genuine Martian princess,
à la
Edgar Rice Burroughs.”

Hilton, despite his skepticism, was taking the matter more seriously.

“There’ll be three of us,” he said, “so it should be all right even if we do meet anything unfriendly. But just in case
none
of us come back, you’re to sit right here and not go looking for us. Understand?”

“Very well. I’ll sit tight.”

The trio set off across the valley towards the little forest, Gibson leading the way. After reaching the tall thin fronds of “seaweed,” they had no difficulty in finding the track again. Hilton stared at it in silence for a good minute, while Gibson and Jimmy regarded him with “I told you so” expressions. Then he remarked: “Let’s have your flash-gun, Martin. I’m going first.”

It would have been silly to argue. Hilton was taller, stronger, and more alert. Gibson handed over his weapon without a word.

There can be no weirder sensation than that of walking along a narrow track between high leafy walls, knowing that at any moment you may come face to face with a totally unknown and perhaps unfriendly creature. Gibson tried to remind himself that animals which had never before encountered man were seldom hostile— though there were enough exceptions to this rule to make life interesting.

They had gone about halfway through the forest when the track branched into two. Hilton took the turn to the right, but soon discovered that this was a
cul-de-sac.
It led to a clearing about twenty meters across, in which all the plants had been cut— or eaten— to within a short distance of the ground, leaving only the stumps showing. These were already beginning to sprout again, and it was obvious that this patch had been deserted for some time by whatever creatures had come here.

“Herbivores,” whispered Gibson.

“And fairly intelligent,” said Hilton. “See the way they’ve left the roots to come up again? Let’s go back along the other branch.”

They came across the second clearing five minutes later. It was a good deal larger than the first, and it was not empty.

Hilton tightened his grip on the flash-gun, and in a single smooth, well-practiced movement Gibson swung his camera into position and began to take the most famous photographs ever made on Mars. Then they all relaxed, and stood waiting for the Martians to notice them.

In that moment centuries of fantasy and legend were swept away. All Man’s dreams of neighbors not unlike himself vanished into limbo. With them, unlamented, went Wells’ tentacled monstrosities and the other legions of crawling, nightmare horrors. And there vanished also the myth of coldly inhuman intelligences which might look down dispassionately on Man from their fabulous heights of wisdom— and might brush him aside with no more malice than he himself might destroy a creeping insect.

There were ten of the creatures in the glade, and they were all too busy eating to take any notice of the intruders. In appearance they resembled very plump kangaroos, their almost spherical bodies balanced on two large, slender hindlimbs. They were hairless, and their skin had a curious waxy sheen like polished leather. Two thin forearms, which seemed to be completely flexible, sprouted from the upper part of the body and ended in tiny hands like the claws of a bird— too small and feeble, one would have thought, to have been of much practical use. Their heads were set directly on the trunk with no suspicion of a neck, and bore two large pale eyes with wide pupils. There were no nostrils— only a very odd triangular mouth with three stubby bills which were making short work of the foliage. A pair of large, almost transparent ears hung limply from the head, twitching occasionally and sometimes folding themselves into trumpets which looked as if they might be extremely efficient sound detectors, even in this thin atmosphere.

The largest of the beasts was about as tall as Hilton, but all the others were considerably smaller. One baby, less than a meter high, could only be described by the overworked adjective “cute.” It was hopping excitedly about in an effort to reach the more succulent leaves, and from time to time emitted thin, piping cries which were irresistibly pathetic.

“How intelligent would you say they are?” whispered Gibson at last.

“It’s hard to say. Notice how they’re careful not to destroy the plants they eat? Of course, that may be pure instinct— like bees knowing how to build their hives.”

“They move very slowly, don’t they? I wonder if they’re warm-blooded.”

“I don’t see why they should have blood at all. Their metabolism must be pretty weird for them to survive in this climate.”

“It’s about time they took some notice of us.”

“The big fellow knows we’re here. I’ve caught him looking at us out of the corner of his eye. Do you notice the way his ears keep pointing towards us?”

“Let’s go out into the open.”

Hilton thought this over.

“I don’t see how they can do us much harm, even if they want to. Those little hands look rather feeble— but I suppose those three-sided beaks could do some damage. We’ll go forward, very slowly, for six paces. If they come at us, I’ll give them a flash with the gun while you make a bolt for it. I’m sure we can outrun them easily. They certainly don’t look built for speed.”

Moving with a slowness which they hoped would appear reassuring rather than stealthy, they walked forward into the glade. There was now no doubt that the Martians saw them; half a dozen pairs of great, calm eyes stared at them, then looked away as their owners got on with the more important business of eating.

“They don’t even seem to be inquisitive,” said Gibson, somewhat disappointed. “Are we as uninteresting as all this?”

“Hello— Junior’s spotted us! What’s he up to?”

The smallest Martian had stopped eating and was staring at the intruders with an expression that might have meant anything from rank disbelief to hopeful anticipation of another meal. It gave a couple of shrill squeaks which were answered by a noncommittal “honk” from one of the adults. Then it began to hop towards the interested spectators.

It halted a couple of paces away, showing not the slightest signs of fear or caution.

“How do you do?” said Hilton solemnly. “Let me introduce us. On my right, James Spencer; on my left, Martin Gibson. But I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name.”

“Squeak,” said the small Martian.

“Well, Squeak, what can we do for you?”

The little creature put out an exploring hand and tugged at Hilton’s clothing. Then it hopped towards Gibson, who had been busily photographing this exchange of courtesies. Once again it put forward an enquiring paw, and Gibson moved the camera round out of harm’s way. He held out his hand, and the little fingers closed round it with surprising strength.

“Friendly little chap, isn’t he?” said Gibson, having disentangled himself with difficulty. “At least he’s not as stuck-up as his relatives.”