The Red Journey Back (21 page)

“Time
passed and time passed. The moisture upon the Martian surface grew scarcer
still. Yet, as you yourselves know, for you have seen them, there
are
two gigantic fields on Mars where
moisture still exists in comparative abundance; and those are the two white
polar caps, as we all observed them in our approach to the planet—as they can
be observed even from Earth through powerful enough telescopes. Ice—or at least
a heavy hoarfrost—exists on and near the two poles. And so the last survivors
of the old Martians solved their final problem. By this time, as I believe,
they themselves had evolved further—were physically almost helpless, so
mightily had their actual intelligences developed. There were probably very few
of them; but among all other problems solved was surely that also of
longevity—those few were capable of survival for long, long years, even
centuries perhaps, if once they could find warmth, moisture and a means of
movement. They found all three—with the unwitting help of the cultivated
alisma
plants.

“They
concentrated on the poles—and mainly, for some reason impossible as yet to
guess, on the southern pole. There, for a space, as I see it in my vision, they
reared huge colonies, huge nurseries of
alisma.
And from there, in a gigantic network
over the entire Martian surface, they traveled!

“Yes—traveled!
I have spoken of the power of
alisma
to reproduce its kind at a speed inconceivable to any plant, wild or
cultivated, upon Earth. That, then, is how the few remaining survivors of those
old animal Martians move—in the midst of what we have called the Creeping
Canals, those immense green
channels
seen by Schiaparelli and
Lowell. They are borne forward
in any direction in which they wish to travel by the crowded ranks of the
gigantic
alisma
—the
Ridge plants. With them, as they go, they carry—literally manufacture in vast
morasses around
alisma’s
thirsty roots—the moisture they need for survival. As for warmth, the warmth
which is evident in the steamy vapor you have seen in the heart of the Canals
themselves, that problem too has been solved. If
alisma
sprouts at fabulous speed, so also
does it die and decay at fabulous speed; and in decay lies warmth!

“In
their traveling dens the remaining Survivors of that ancient intelligent race
still lurk. They push forward across the plains in any direction they may
choose. Progress is maintained by an advance guard, as it were, of sprouting
alisma;
behind, the long forest consolidates
itself—forms a marshy bed for the Survivors, warm and dank as the expended
Ridge plants die. From time to time, the Survivors communicate with each other
across the desert spaces by causing
alisma
to ejaculate great clouds of the messenger spores—which also act as spies, as
it were, to bring back news of any unusual objects encountered on the
flight—objects such as ourselves in the
Albatross
,
toward which the particular Creeping Canal out there immediately directed its
track of advance. From Canal to Canal these myriad yellow messengers travel to
and fro. Within each Canal, as I am convinced, there lives one—only one—of the
Survivors; an intelligence controlling all things within its deadly range. They
are not evil—not truly evil, as we conceive it; it is only, I believe, that in
their long struggle for existence, those intelligences, once perhaps noble, are
concerned now not with worthy thoughts, but with thoughts only for further
survival in their extreme age. All things are subordinated to that—all objects
encountered are considered only in relation to that: how can they help the
Survivors still to survive? And it has become more imperative than ever that
they should survive, these Vivores, as you call them; for now they are old and
must find some method to replace themselves—to renew themselves. That is the
final horror. And that is why—” he paused and sighed profoundly, “why you, my
dears, are here!”

Silence—a
long, long silence. The gigantic vision filled me. It was fabulous—impossible;
yet it was the truth—I knew it for the truth as I looked out through the little
kalspex window to the silent forest of the Ridge plants—of the
alisma
, as McGillivray had called them.
Somewhere within it, in addition to our own lost friends, was
 . . .
what?
One single Survivor—one of the terrible Vivores indeed. I recalled the white
jellyish nightmare I had glimpsed in the forest’s deep heart: was that huge
shapeless mass the very creature?

The
question was asked—and answered—the moment I had formulated it.

“And
the Survivors themselves?” asked Dr. Kalkenbrenner very quietly in the silence.
“They are, I take it, from your descriptions, from the messages you sent us—”

Dr.
McGillivray held up a hand to arrest the question, smiling sadly.

“When
I myself was immersed in the Cloud,” he said, “there was communicated to me,
from that swirling horror, even as it stung me to insensibility, a vision of
its master. As MacFarlane has told you, as I gradually came back to life, this
vision haunted me. The creature—as you yourselves now know—is white and
jellyish indeed. It had stung me almost to death. In my confusion of mind it
was likened to the only creature I knew upon earth to be jellyish and to sting:
Discophora.”

“The
jellyfish,” cried Paul, jumping to his feet in his excitement. “We looked it up
in the dictionary too. Discophora does mean jellyfish! A huge jellyfish! Is
that
what the Vivores are, sir?—monstrous
jellyfish?”

McGillivray
paused once more. His eyes, for all their blindness, seemed for a moment to
penetrate deeply into the far-off forest. His voice was barely more than a
whisper. “Monstrous—yes. And jellyish—yes. But in no other respect does this
white nightmare resemble our true Discophora after all. That great pulsating
mass you saw—which I saw, in the days when I could see, if only with my inner
eye—that bodiless Survivor of a race once splendid, is one thing and one thing
only: a gigantic and decaying
BRAIN
!”

I
thrilled with horror indeed—with a sudden horror unspeakable. I looked at the
tense, set faces of my companions in the trailer tent, and saw reflected in
them my own profound revulsion. I understood now, at last, the true power of
the deadly Vivores—why it was that they could control other intelligences, and
particularly human intelligences: because they themselves were truly nothing
other
than Intelligences, immobile and raw.
 . . .

A
thousand other questions answered themselves in the few quiet moments remaining
before the last piling climax to all the adventure. Now once more I find myself
confused as I look back, for many things indeed happened almost
instantaneously. I remember first, however, after our initial stunned silence,
a host of rapid questions and answers.

“But
the messages, sir? Why did you send the messages for us to come? You said we
had to come—that we were the only ones who could save you. Yet how? Of course
we’d
want
to try to save you; but how was it that only we could?”

“Don’t
you understand, poor boy?” (It was Paul whom Dr. McGillivray addressed, and his
voice was grave and quiet.) “There
were
no messages from us!”

“No
messages, sir? But we heard them! There by the airstrip—”

“Of
course! We established contact—you know that. We built our transmitter, using
the mineral seam as an aerial—you know all that—and MacFarlane, night after
night, sent out to you the story of our journey here. Yes, yes indeed! But as
the Canal came closer, as it closed around us before we fully knew what its
dangers were, so did the Brain within it begin to control our brains. The
process is gradual—you know that from your own experiences. We fought to retain
our own intelligences; but in the end the Brain defeated us. First it made it
impossible for us to send you any warnings. Then it dictated, it
dictated
the message you have mentioned! Even
as, with one part of our intelligences, we recognized and were horrified by
what we were doing, with another part, subservient to the Brain, we were asking
you to come!—to almost certain destruction!”

“The
Vivore
wanted us to come? But why—why, why?”

“Because
you are young, dear Jacqueline! You are youth and you are humanity! The Canal
surrounded us—and the Brain within it probed our brains. We could keep nothing
back; and so it came to understand what we were, we alien creatures from across
the skies. And what we were, my dear, was what it, once, long ago, had been!
But we had succeeded where the Vivores had failed: we had bodies as well as
brains—we had managed to preserve both in our own fight for survival on distant
Earth. They wrung from us all the secrets of human history—we felt the very
thoughts flow out from us and were helpless to prevent it. And so that
Brain—that single gigantic Brain—perceived a way in which not only it itself
but all its fellows, scattered across the southern Martian wastes, might be
renewed. If they could study humanity—could study at closest quarters every
aspect of us—perhaps someday they would find out the whole secret of human life
and would be able to reconstruct bodies for themselves equivalent to ours. The
study would take a long, long time—and the study would have to embrace all
aspects of human development indeed. We were two men of middle age, who would
die before the secret had been discovered and a way evolved to manufacture
bodies like ours to house those huge decaying Brains. They needed younger flesh
to study—they had to bring to Mars some children of our kind, so that they
could
watch them grow!
Through us—through our unwill
ing agency—they sent for you!
They forced us to use the one argument that would bring you: that only you, in
some way we could not specify, could actually save us!”

“Guinea
pigs!” cried Paul. “No more than experimental guinea pigs!”

“We
tried to send a warning once—in those very words,” said MacFarlane. “After the
message had been sent which they believed might bring you, they kept us
confined in the
Albatross
by sheer force of will power. They had with them a group of the Terrible Ones,
picked up somewhere in the course of their journey across the desert, to act as
agents, as it were—to do things for them, for as you will understand, without
bodies themselves they cannot act in any way. This group of slaves, under their
control, tore up with their tendrils the wire connection from our transmitter
to the mineral seam aerial. It was the intention, I believe, to keep us alive
until there was some sign that you were on your way; if you had not acted on
our first message for help, I believe they would have forced us to send more
and more, until at last you did come
 . . .
However, one night, with Malu’s help, and exercising all our control to combat
the influence from the single Brain immediately before us, we managed to
reconnect the wire for a few brief moments. I tried to send the message: ‘The
children are to be used as guinea pigs
 . . .
’ and
was going on to explain something of the situation. But the Brain found out and
made me stop—and the Terrible Ones were sent again to disconnect the aerial.
 . . .
And so
you arrived at last, you see; and so we greeted you.”