The Red Planet (18 page)

“But McLean, Doc--and Whitaker--they . . .”

“They must have been easy meat mentally,” I interrupted before Jet could get the question out, “once they were caught. It seems they put up no fight at all. They merely obeyed orders.”

“It seems, then,” said Jet, “that whoever induces this hypnosis can get our men to do anything they want without even seeing them?”

“I don’t know,” I protested.

“But, if it’s true, they can keep us or whoever they have in their control for years.”

“In the case of Whitaker,” I reminded him, “forty-seven years.”

“And how many people are there on this planet, I wonder, living in a dream and not knowing about it?”

“I hate to think but, unless we are very careful, there’ll be a few more soon.”

“Us, you mean?”

“Yes, Jet. Unless we can find some way of combating it.” “But how can we? We don’t even know what we’re fighting.”

“This much I do know,” I told him, “there is nobody more difficult to hypnotise than an unwilling subject. If we are all determined to fight this thing, maybe we can render ourselves immune to it. Up to now, everyone who has come under the influence of this telepathic, hypnotic power has had prior warning. In your case, when you blacked out just before we landed here, there was that strange, sleep-inducing sound. McLean heard the same sound just before Number Two crashed. And now look at him. Three days ago he was a normal man--a member of our expedition working for us and with us. Now he isn’t in control of his mind. Does nothing unless ordered to.”

“Then what we must find out is who gives him his orders. Who sent him here to get Lemmy to leave this truck and go with him? Where would he have taken Lemmy? And, above all, where’s Mitch?”

“Lying there on the bed, Jet, is the only man who might know.”

Jet looked thoughtfully towards where McLean still lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“I suggest,” I went on, “that we keep McLean here until morning at any rate. Then, if he’s sufficiently recovered to walk out of this truck, we’ll let him--and follow. He may lead us to Mitch.”

Jet agreed and then suggested it was about time we got some sleep--one of us always to remain on watch. But the night was uneventful. By the time the sun was rising we were all awake. While Jet prepared a hasty breakfast, Lemmy took his second turn at watch in the driving cabin and I took another look at McLean.

He seemed in much the same state as the previous night. I watched him for fully five minutes but he didn’t move a muscle. Then suddenly he sat up, giving a little groan as he did so. I thought at first that perhaps he was coming out of his hypnotic trance and returning to normal, but when he climbed down from the bunk and began to make his way towards the airlock with the steady, even, almost ghostly tread of a sleep-walker, I realised he was still as much conditioned as ever.

“Where are you going, McLean?” I asked.

He continued walking and did not even look in my direction as he replied: “My orders are to return to the ship.”

“The orders have been changed,” I told him. “You are to remain here. Do you understand? You are to remain here.”

He stopped, half-turned towards his bunk and then stopped again.

“Sit down at the table and eat,” I commanded. He did so, and mechanically began to consume the food Jet placed before him.

“Well, that seems to have done the trick,” said Jet. “If it lasts,” I told him. “How do you mean?”

“There must be a great conflict going on in his mind. Somehow, from somewhere, he’s been receiving orders to go back to where he came from--to ‘the ship’--wherever that is.”

“Well, it can’t be far away,” said Jet, “or he wouldn’t have attempted to walk to it.”

We had decided that, as soon as we had all eaten, we would follow wherever McLean might lead us, when, a few minutes later, an excited yell from Lemmy sent Jet and I running to him.

“That ship,” said Lemmy, pointing excitedly to the top of the pyramid, “it’s been up there all the time. And now it’s pulling out.”

Jet and I followed Lemmy’s gaze and, sure enough, poised motionless at the top of the pyramid was the sphere. A few seconds later it was heading, at incredible speed, in a south-westerly direction.

“Now why should it take off just now,” I asked, “when, in all probability, McLean was about to lead us up there?”

“I should think that’s all too clear,” said Jet. “They’ve given up waiting for McLean.”

“Well, Jet, what do we do now?” I asked.

“Go after that ship, of course. I’d stake my life on the rest of the crew of Number Two, and Mitch, being in it. Lemmy can drive this truck while you stay here, Doc, and keep an eye on McLean. I’ll go into the other one.”

I ordered McLean to his bunk and an hour later we set out, the two lines of trucks crashing their way through the jungle of curious plants. Soon we had climbed out of the valley and were again making our way across the south-western half of the Argyre desert, the pink miniature dust storms kicked up by the treads of our tractors marking our passage. Before long the strange pyramid city was lost to our sight below the horizon, leaving us completely surrounded by gently undulating sand dunes topped by a huge inverted mauve bowl that was the Martian sky.

We knew our chances of catching up with the spherical ship were slim and our chances of releasing its captives, if Jet was right, even slimmer, but we pressed on, spurred by the realisation that unless we recovered our comrades soon, we might well find them all in the same state as McLean.

Indeed, as I looked down at the inert, unresponsive form in the bunk below me, I could not help wondering if it were not already too late.

We had been travelling steadily for ten hours and had covered nearly two hundred miles. The terrain was getting slightly more hilly and the sand even pinker but now, instead of the barren desert, small, sparse, prickly plants were growing among the dunes. They were rather like cactus--miniature saguaro. Occasionally, at the foot of some of the dunes, we passed clumps of bushes looking very like that species of cacti known in the south-west of America as brittle bush. In fact, the whole terrain was rather like that of the more barren regions of Arizona. We travelled in a straight line towards the south-west. It might have been quicker for us, on occasions, to have gone round the little hills but we purposely climbed them because of the view we obtained from their summits.

The sun was already nearing the horizon when, from the top of one dune, we saw something directly ahead of us. About a mile away was a collection of buildings. They were very simple in construction, consisting of no more than four walls and a flat roof, and, to the west of them, was a wire fence or corral.

Jet, from his truck, had seen them, too, and we compared details, over the radio, of what we could make out through our binoculars.

“We’ve got to get a closer look at that place,” said Jet at last. “We’ll use the dunes as cover and drive as near as we can without being seen. Then we’ll approach on foot.”

We got to within about a third of a mile of the house before we deemed it necessary to park behind a high dune. Then Lemmy and I put on our suits and, after taking a quick look at McLean, went outside. “Is McLean OK?” Jet asked as I walked up to his truck. “Yes,” I told him. “I disconnected the airlock in the living quarters. He couldn’t possibly get out even if he wanted to--and we can only get in through the driving cabin now.”

It took us fully five minutes to clamber to the top of the dune. Once at the summit we lay down and peered cautiously over the rim towards the ‘farm’ which lay just below us. We could see now that the pen or corral was full of peculiar animals. They were about half the size of pigs and were dark brown in colour. They had long snouts, like ant-eaters, and rather wide paws with three horny toes sticking from them. Their long ears flopped down over their foreheads but, whenever they heard a sound, one or both cocked straight up.

“Blimey--what are they?” asked Lemmy. “I’ve never seen anything like that in the Zoo.”

“Whatever they are,” I said, “they prove one thing: that there is, at least, animal life on Mars.”

“And what animals,” said Lemmy. “Enough to drive a bloke on the wagon for the rest of his life. Do you think they’re dangerous?”

I was about to reply when a low cry from Jet froze us all to the spot. “Hold it--lay still. There’s somebody on the other side of the large building.”

“Hadn’t we better duck down out of sight?” asked Lemmy.

“No,” said Jet. “There’s less chance of his noticing us if we don’t move.”

I could see the figure clearly now. I don’t quite know why but it came as a great surprise to me to discover he was a normal man, about five foot seven in height, fairly well built and wearing clothes rather like those of the pioneers in American history books. They were, in fact, made of skins, probably the same skins as worn by the animals in the pen. He carried a rifle--quite a modern-looking weapon --in the crook of his arm.

Like McLean, the man wore no space suit nor seemed to need any kind of breathing apparatus. Suddenly he put his hand to his mouth and whistled. A few moments later there came running round from the other side of the house another peculiar beast. It had a flat body and three pairs of legs. Two waving antennae protruded from its forehead.

“Blimey, what’s that?” asked Lemmy. “Looks like an overgrown beetle.”

“But it behaves just like a dog,” said Jet. “Look at the way it follows him.”

It was true. When, to our surprise, the man bent down and patted the odd little creature on the head, it seemed to enjoy the fussing and rubbed itself against the man’s legs as a cat would. That over, the rifleman stood up, shaded his eyes from the sun and scanned the sky.

“Oh no,” said Lemmy. “He’ll be turning in our direction in a minute. He’s bound to see us.”

I didn’t see how he could help it but, at that moment, the man dropped his hand from his eyes and turned his head sharply towards the house.

“Looks as though somebody called him,” I suggested.

We all lay perfectly still as the skin-clad figure walked up to the door, gave it a push and disappeared inside with his ‘dog’.

Lemmy breathed a sigh of relief. “Now let’s get back to the trucks,” he said. “I’ll feel a lot safer there.”

“You can go back if you wish, Lemmy,” replied Jet, “but I’m going down there--to introduce myself, as you might say.”

“Down there?” asked Lemmy.

“We’ll never find out anything sitting up here and just watching from a distance.”

“Maybe not,” I said, “but you’re not going down there alone, Jet. I’m coming with you.”

“Me, too,” said Lemmy, changing his mind in the instant.

So we stood up and slowly but determinedly walked down the sand dune towards the house. We had to pass quite close to the corral and, as we got up to the fence, the peculiar ant-eater-like creatures came running towards us. Lemmy instinctively shied away from them, but Jet remained at the fence and even rubbed his hand over their backs which they seemed to enjoy.

“They must have thought we were going to feed them,” he said. “These animals are quite tame.”

“Well, let’s not bother with the animals until we’re sure their owners are tame, too,” suggested Lemmy.

We walked up to the house and stopped outside the door. It seemed to be woven from some kind of thick raffia and hung on leather-like hinges. A simple lift catch held it shut. Jet closed his fist and hammered on the door. To our ears, enclosed in our helmets, the knocking sounded very weak. We assumed that the noise was much louder outside in the Martian atmosphere and could easily have been heard by anyone within the house. But whether or not that was so, nobody came to the door.

“Let’s go in, Jet,” I said at last. “I don’t think anybody intends to answer.”

Jet lifted the catch and slowly pushed the door open. Lemmy blew through his lips and said: “This place feels so cold--like a tomb. What kind of people could possibly live in here?”

“From what we saw up on the sand dunes, Lemmy,” I reminded him, “ordinary human beings like ourselves.”

“Then for ordinary human beings they seem to have an extraordinary taste in furniture. What’s this contraption supposed to be?” Lemmy was standing by a very crudely-made table. It was fashioned from the same straw-like material as the door. I put my hand on it and tested its strength. It was a little rickety but seemed fairly solid otherwise.

“And I suppose this is meant to be a chair?” said Lemmy. Here again was a rough seat woven from the same kind of material.

“And just look at the state of those walls,” I said. “This place is virtually a ruin.”

“And yet it seems clean,” Jet pointed out, “and tidy.”

We moved across the room to another door and knocked on that. This time there was an answer immediately. We heard what sounded like the shrill piping of a cricket. The more we knocked the louder it became.

“Sounds like they keep a canary,” said Lemmy. “Or is that Martian language for ‘come in’?”

Jet put his hand to the latch and lifted it. He opened the door a little way and the shrill piping sound became louder. Then he pushed the door open wide and there, standing barring our path, was the strange, beetle-like creature we had seen outside.

Jet took a step forward and at once the ‘beetle’ began to back away from him. “Come on,” he said, “I don’t think this creature will give us any trouble.”

“In you go, Lemmy,” I said, giving him a push, “Let’s see where the door at the end of this passage leads to.”

When we reached it, Jet knocked as before. And, as before, there was no reply. Jet tried again and this time we heard a strangely familiar voice say: “Who’s there?”

“That sounded like Mitch,” said Jet, incredulously.

“It can’t be,” I said. “How could he have got this far?”

Jet tried the latch but found the door to be locked so he knocked again and yelled: “Mitch--Mitch--let us in.”

“For Pete’s sake,” came the immediate reply, “cut out that banging.” The voice was unmistakably that of Mitch. “If you have anything to say,” he went on, “say it. If not, go away and leave me alone.”