Dimensiion X

by Jerry eBooks

  CHAPTER II

  Red Reckoning

  THE party was not going too well. The wind kept coming in off the dead sea. It moved around the men and it moved around the captain and Jeff Spender as they returned to the group. The wind pulled at the dust and the shining rocket and pulled at the accordion and the dust got into the vamped harmonica. The dust got in their eyes and the wind made a high singing sound in the air. As suddenly as it had come the wind died.

  But the party had died, too.

  The men stood upright against the dark cold sky. They had their pale hands to their eyes, some of them coughed. Spender and the captain sat down.

  “Come on, gents, come on!” Biggs bounded from the ship, in a fresh uniform, not looking at Spender even once. “Come on, you guys!” His voice was like someone in an empty auditorium. It was alone. It sounded like bad oratory.

  Nobody did anything but stand there.

  “Come on, Whitie, your harmonica!”

  The wind passed on away along the length of the canal, stirring the cool deep clear waters like so much distilled wine lying in the stone channel.

  “Oh,” said Whitie, and blew a harmonica chord. It sounded funny and alone and wrong. Whitie knocked the moisture from the harmonica and put it in his pocket.

  The party was over.

  “Come on,” insisted Biggs. “What kind of a party is this?” Somebody hugged the accordion. It gave a sound like a dying animal. That was all.

  Biggs put his hands down. “We’re tired,” said Whitie.

  “Well, me and my bottle will go off and have our own party, by gosh!” Biggs held a bottle to his chest. He walked to the ship and squatted against it, taking a drink from the flask.

  Jeff Spender watched him. Spender did not move for a long time. Then his fingers crawled up along his trembling leg to his holstered pistol very quietly and stroked and tapped the leather sheath for a moment.

  “All of those who want to can come into the city with me. Come along,” said the captain. “We’ll need a guard posted here at the rocket, of course, and we’ll go armed, in case anything untoward happens.”

  The men counted off. Fourteen of them wanted to go along, including Biggs, who laughed when he included himself and waved his bottle. Six others stayed behind.

  The party moved out into the night, through the moonlight, saying not a word, Captain Wilder and Jeff Spender in the lead, Biggs bringing up the rear, stumbling and swearing.

  “Here we go!” Biggs shouted.

  They stood on the outer rim of the dreaming dead city in the light of the racing twin moons. Their shadows, under them, were double shadows. They did not breathe, or it seemed they did not, perhaps, for a long time. They were waiting for something to stir in the dead city, some gray form to rise, some ancient, ancestral shape to come galloping across the vacant sea bottom on an ancient, armored steed of impossible lineage, of unbelievable derivation.

  Spender filled the streets with his eyes and his mind. People moved like blue vapor lights on the cobbled avenues, and there were faint murmurs of sound, and odd animals scurrying across the gray-red sands. Each window was given a person who leaned from it and waved slowly, as if under a timeless water, at some moving form in the fathoms of space below the moonsilvered towers. Music was played on some inner ear, and Spender imagined the shape of such instruments to evoke such music. The land was haunted.

  “Hey!” shouted Biggs, standing tall, his hands around his open mouth. He pointed his face at the city. “Hey, you people in there, you!”

  “Biggs!” said the captain.

  Biggs quieted.

  THEY walked forward on a tiled avenue. They were all whispering now, for it was like entering a vast open library or a mausoleum in which the wind lived and over which the stars shone. The captain talked. He wondered where the people had gone, and what they had been, and who their kings were and how they died? And he wondered, quietly aloud, how they had built this city to last the ages through, and had they ever come to Earth? Were they ancestors of Earth men, ten thousand years removed? And had they loved and hated similar loves and similar hates, and done similar silly things when silly things were done?

  Nobody moved. The moons held and froze them, the wind beat slowly around them, the sand shifted in little tremors over their feet.

  “Lord Byron,” said Jeff Spender.

  “Lord who?” The captain turned and regarded the man.

  “Lord Byron, a Nineteenth Century poet. He wrote a poem a long time ago that fits this city and how the Martians may feel, if there’s anything left of them to feel. It might have been written by the last Martian poet.”

  The men stood motionless, their shadows under them. The captain said, “How does it go, Spender?”

  “What, sir?”

  “The poem, how does it go?”

  Spender shifted, put out his hands to remember, squinted silently a moment; then, remembering, his slow quiet voice repeated the words and the men listened to everything he said:

  So we’ll no more a-roving

  So late into the night

  Though the heart be still as loving

  And the moon be still as bright

  The city was gray and high and motionless. The men’s faces were turned in the light.

  For the sword outwears its sheath

  And the soul wears out the breast

  And the heart must pause to breathe

  And love itself must rest.

  Though the night was made for loving

  And the day returns too soon

  Yet we’ll go no more a-roving

  By the light of the moon.

  Without a word, the Earth men stood in the center of the city. It was a clear night. There was riot a sound, except the wind. At their feet lay a tile court, worked into the shape of ancient animals and peoples. They stood looking down upon it.

  Biggs made a noise in his throat. His eyes were dull. He groped out thick senseless fingers, shuffled forward upon the tiles, there to hesitate. His hands went up to his neck, he choked several times, shut his eyes, bent, and a thick rush of fluid filled his mouth, came out, fell to and lay upon the tiles, covering the patterns. Biggs repeated this twice and a sharp stench filled the quiet air.

  Nobody moved to help Biggs. He went on being sick.

  Spender stared for a moment, then turned and walked off into the avenues of the city, lost to their sight, alone in the moonlight. Never once did he pause to look back at the gathered men there.

  They turned in at four in the morning. They lay down upon the blankets with pillows under their heads and shut their eyes and breathed the quiet air. Captain Wilder sat feeding the fire little sticks. His hands hung down between his muscular legs. He watched the fire steadily.

  McClure opened his eyes for a moment. “Are you sleeping, sir?”

  “Never you mind.” The captain smiled faintly. “I’m waiting for Spender.”

  “Isn’t he back, sir?”

  Captain Wilder shook his head.

  McClure thought it over a moment. “You know, sir, I don’t think he’ll ever come back. I don’t know how I know it, but that’s the way I feel about him, sir, he’ll never come back.”

  McClure rolled over into sleep. The fire crackled and died out.

  Spender did not return in the following week. The captain sent out a party for him, but they came back saying they didn’t know where he could have gone. He would be back when he got good and ready. He was a sorehead, they said. To the devil with him.

  The captain said nothing, but wrote it down in the log . . .

  IT WAS a morning that might have been a Monday or a Tuesday or any day on Mars. Biggs was sitting at the edge of the canal, now and again lifting his bare feet up and peering at them while he spread the toes with his fingers. Then he hung the feet back down into the cool water and sat there.

  A man came walking along the rim of the canal. The man threw a shadow down upon Biggs and Biggs looked up. “Well, I’ll be blistered!” s
aid Biggs.

  “I’m the last Martian,” said the man, taking out a gun.

  “What did you say?” asked Biggs.

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Cut it. What kind of joke is that, Spender?”

  “Stand up and take it in the stomach.”

  “For Christ’s sake, put that gun away.”

  Spender pulled the trigger only once. Biggs sat on the edge of the canal for a moment before he leaned forward and fell into the water. The body drifted with slow unconcern under the slow tides of the canal. It went away and down, making a hollow bubbling sound that ceased after a moment.

  Spender shoved his gun into its holster and walked away quietly. The sun was shining down upon Mars. He felt it burn his hands and slide over the sides of his tight face. He did not run, he walked as if nothing was new except the daylight. It was good to take it easy. He walked down to the rocket and some of the men were having a freshly cooked breakfast under a shelter built by Cookie.

  “Here comes the Lonely One,” somebody said.

  “Hello, Spender! Long time no see.”

  The four men at the table regarded the silent man who stood looking back at them.

  “You and them shoddy ruins,” said Cookie, stirring a black substance in a crock. “You’re like a dog in a boneyard.”

  “Maybe.” Spender sat down and said, “I’ve been finding out things. What would you say if I said I’d found a Martian prowling around?”

  The four men laid down their forks.

  “Did you? Where?”

  “I’m not saying I did, I just said ‘supposing.’ ”

  The four men relaxed. Cookie went on stirring the stuff in the crock. “Well, supposing,” said Cheroke, at the table, waiting.

  “How would you feel if you were a Martian and people came to your land and started tearing it up?” asked Spender.

  “I know exactly how I’d feel,” said Cheroke. “I’ve got some Cherokee blood in me. My grandfather told me a lot of things about the Oklahoma Territory. If there’s a Martian around, I’m all for him.”

  “What about you other men?” asked Spender, carefully.

  Nobody said anything, but the silence they maintained was talk enough. Catch as catch can, finder’s keepers, if the other fellow turns his cheek slap it hard. Et cetera.

  “Well,” said Spender. “I’ve found a Martian.”

  “Where?” The men squinted at him.

  “Up in the ruins. I didn’t think I’d find him. I didn’t intend to find him. I don’t know what he was doing there. I’ve been living in a little valley town for about a week, learning how to read the ancient books and looking at their old art forms. And one day I saw this Martian. He stood there for a moment and then he was gone. He didn’t come back for another day. And I sat around, learning how to read the old writing and the Martian came back, each time a little nearer, until, on the day I learned how to read the old writing—it’s an amazingly simple language to learn, and there are tile picture-graphs to help you, and old song-spools you can listen to.”

  “On that day when I learned the language, the Martian appeared before me. He said to me, ‘Give me your boots,’ and I gave him my boots and he said, ‘Give me your shirt and all the rest of your clothes,’ and I gave him all of that, and then he looked at me and he said, ‘Give me your gun,’ and I gave him my gun. Then he said, ‘Now come along, and watch what happens.’ And the Martian walked down into camp and he’s here now.”

  The men looked around and then looked at each other. “I don’t see any Martian,” said Cheroke.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Spender took out his gun. The first bullet got the man on the left, the second and third bullets got the men on the right and the center of the table. Cookie turned in horror from the fire to receive the fourth bullet. He fell back into the fire and lay there while his clothes caught the flames. It was like stamping your foot lightly, for all the sound it made.

  The rocket lay in the sun. Three men sat at breakfast, their hands on the table, not moving, their food getting cold in front of them. Cheroke, untouched, sat alone, staring in numb disbelief at Spender.

  “You can come with me,” said Spender to Cheroke. Cheroke said nothing. His lips moved but nothing came out. His eyes widened into a kind of dull blindness. “You can be with me on this.” Spender waited.

  Finally Cheroke was able to speak. “You killed them,” he said, daring to look at the men around him.

  “They deserved it.”

  “You killed them. Why? You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe I am. But you can come with me.”

  “Come with you, for what?” cried Cheroke, the color out of his face, his eyes watering. “Go on, get out.”

  “You won’t come with me?”

  “No, no, you idiot!”

  Spender’s face hardened. “And of all of them, I thought you would understand.”

  “Go on, get out.” Cheroke reached for his gun.

  Spender pressed the trigger of his own gun once more. Cheroke stopped moving.

  Now Spender swayed. He put his hand to his sweating face. He glanced at the rocket and suddenly began to shake all over. He almost fell down, the physical reaction was so overwhelming. His face held an expression of one awakening from hypnosis, from a dream. He sat down for a moment and told the shaking to go away.

  “Stop it, stop it,” he commanded his body. Every fibre of him was quivering and shaking. “Stop it!” He crushed his body with his mind until all the shaking was squeezed out of it. His hands lay calmly now upon his silent knees.

  He arose and strapped a portable storage locker on his back with quiet efficiency. His hand began to tremble again, just for a breath of an instant, but he said, “No!” very firmly and the trembling passed. Then, walking stiffly, he moved out between the hot red hills of the land, alone.

  CHAPTER III

  Reign Of Death

  AS THE DAY advanced, it grew nice and warm. The sun burned further along the sky. An hour later, the captain climbed down out of the ship to get some ham and eggs. He was just saying hello to the four men sitting there when he stopped and noticed a faint smell of powder fumes on the air. He saw the cook lying on the ground, with the camp fire under him. The four men at the table sat before food that was cold.

  From the ship, a moment later, Whitie and two other men climbed down. The captain stood in their way, fascinated by the silent men before him and the way they sat so quietly at their breakfast. The others moved past him and stopped.

  The captain’s face was pale. “Get the men, all of them.”

  “Yes, sir.” Whitie hurried off down the canal rim.

  The captain walked up and touched Cheroke. Cheroke twisted quietly and fell from his chair. Sunlight burned in his bristled short hair and on his high cheekbones.

  The men were called in. They looked at each other’s faces and counted each other, one, two, three, four, and said each other’s names.

  “Who’s missing?”

  “Just a moment.”

  “It’s still Spender, sir.”

  “Spender!”

  The captain saw the hills rising in the daylight. The sun showed the captain’s teeth in a grimace as he stared at the hills. “Blast him,” he said, in tired tones. “Why didn’t he come and talk to me?”

  “He should’ve come and talked to me,” cried Whitie, his eyes blazing. “I’d’ve shot his bloody brains out, that’s what I’d’ve done, and I’ll do it now, by God! I’ll spill them all over the place!”

  Captain Wilder nodded at two of the men. “Get shovels. There’ll be a service, and then we’ll go up in the hills and find Spender.”

  “We’ll beat his brains out,” said Whitie.

  It was hot digging the graves. A warm wind came from over the vacant sea and blew the dust up into their faces as the captain turned the Bible pages and said the few necessary words. They were all sweating around the opened earth. When the captain closed the book, somebody be
gan shoveling slow streams of sand down upon the wrapped figures.

  They walked back to the rocket, clicked the mechanisms of their stifles, put thick packets of grenades on their backs and checked the free play of pistols in their holsters. They were each assigned to a certain part of the hills. The captain directed them without raising his voice or moving his hands from his belt at the waist. It was like a little sermon on fishing.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Spender saw the thin dust rising in several places in the valley and he knew the pursuit was organized and ready. He put down the thin aluminum book that he had been reading as he perched easily on a flat boulder. The pages were tissue-thin pure aluminum, stamped in black and gold. It was a book of philosophy at least 10,000 years old he had found in one of the buildings of a Martian valley town. He was reluctant to lay it aside.

  For a long time he had thought, What’s the use? I’ll sit here reading until they come along and shoot me.

  The first reaction to his killing the five men at breakfast had caused a period of stunned blankness, then sickness, and now, a strange peace. But the peace was passing too, for he saw the dust going up from the trails of the hunting men and experienced the return of resentment.

  He took a drink of cool water from the hip canteen. Then he stood up, stretched, yawned, and listened to the peaceful wonder of the valley around him. How very fine if he and a few others that he knew on Earth could be here, live out their lives here, without a sound or a worry.

  He carried the book with him in one hand, the pistol ready in the other hand. There was a little swift running stream filled with white pebbles and rocks where he undressed and waded in for a brief washing. He took all the time he wanted before dressing and picking up the gun again.

  The firing began about three in the afternoon. By then, Spender was high in the hills. They passed through three small Martian towns. Really, it looked to all of them, as if the Martians were a tribal or family lot. One or another of the families from one town would find a green spot in the hills and a villa would be built with a pool and a library and some sort of stage and a good many balustrades and tiled terraces. Spender spent half an hour in one, bathing once more in a pool filled by the seasonal rains, waiting for the men to catch up with him. The shots rang out just as he was leaving the little family town, and some tile chipped up about twenty feet behind him. He broke into a trot, got behind a series of little hills, turned, and, with the first shot, dropped one of the men dead in his tracks.