Running along each walk were streams of bright clear water, irrigating the flowers, adding freshness and beauty to a spot already so beautiful that an artist would go mad trying to catch the color tones and the balanced symmetry of dissymmetry expressed in changing curve and shifting straight line. Beyond the city was the main canal going off to the low hills which once had formed the shed from which this city drew its water.
The reservoir was still there, the hills were there, all open to the sky from which no rain had fallen for a hundred centuries. And the water was there too, in the reservoir. It was always there, flowing through conduits that had been built when water fell from clouds the way water was supposed to fall.
Kennedy had seen the watershed, the reservoir, the canals. He had studied everything—and the result of his study had been baffled, bewildered perplexity. Moses, where art thou? he thought. Moses, with thy staff to strike the rock!
The block of pure white sand was there too, like unexposed picture film, like clay waiting the touch of the modeler's fingers, like marble awaiting the sculptors chisel, like—Kennedy shook his head. Tryor had permitted him to examine the blueprints, complete in every detail, every curve of every walk, every flower bed, every rounded dome of pearl or coral. Yes, Tryor had said, the population increased. Slowly to be sure, but it increased. And increased living quarters were needed—Doak spoke again.
“I was greatly interested in your account of the Martian eating habits. You said they eat essentially the same basic foods we do, with perhaps some variation in the subtle vitamins.”
“That's right," Kennedy said.
“But you added that you had not been able to discover the source of the Martian food supply.”
For a second, Kennedy hesitated. That, of course, was the essence of the report. It was also, in essence, the secret of Traxia, and of every other city on the Red Planet. He nodded slowly.
“Nor have I been able to discover the source of their water/" he said.
“But hang it, man, they eat, don’t they?”
Kennedy nodded.
“They drink water, don't they?”
“They do.”
“It's got to come from somewhere, hasn’t it?”
“Has it?” Kennedy said.
Doak s face revealed that he liked neither the answer nor the attitude of this field man. “What about farms?” he said. “Don't they raise their grain on farms?”
“I haven't seen a farm on Mars,” Kennedy answered.
“Hydroponics, then?''
“Once they used such a system,” Kennedy answered. He had asked Tryor the same question at least fifty times, before the Martian had finally understood and had answered. “But not in the last five thousand years.”
He looked at his watch. He could give Doak five more minutes.
"But they manufacture their food from grain, don't they?”
“They certainly do,” Kennedy answered. He had studied that too, as he had studied the water supply, with much the same result. “They have storage bins in every city in which they keep their grain, the greater part of which consists of a cereal much like wheat. They mill it much as we do on earth, and it comes out a very good grade of flour. From there it goes to the individual homes and is baked into a hard bread which they call yussa
“But how does the grain get into the elevators?” Doak demanded.
“That is what I have never been able to discover,” Kennedy said. He rose to his feet. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Doak. I imagine I'll be seeing more of you before you leave.”
He held out his hand.
Doak didn't rise to speed the parting guest. He didn't seem to see the extended hand. His eyes came up to Kennedy's face and his gaze was cold.
“Sit down,” he said.
Kennedy lifted one eyebrow an eighth of an inch. He had always described himself as one part scientist, one part mystic, and one part adventurer. The remaining quarter of him was pure cutthroat. He was a combination of qualities and character-traits that would have driven a psychiatrist cock-eyed trying to follow the curves and twists and angles and knotty knobs of his personality.
As a field man for the Council, he had had need for every knotty knob on his personality, as well as a need for the knowledge of how to use a pair of brass knuckles expertly in a knock-down drag-out fight, with the loser getting a pair of spaceman’s landing boots on his head the instant he was knocked down.
Doak, apparently, had only read his report and had not gone to the trouble of checking on the man who had written it, automatically assuming that a scientist good enough to be a field man would be hollow chested, have flat feet, wear glasses, and would possess the daring of a rabbit whose mother had been frightened by an atom bomb.
The fact that Kennedy was none of these things, that he stood a good six feet tall and was broad in proportion, that he had hot gray eyes and did not wear glasses, did not seem to mean anything to Doak. So the financier said, “Sit down.”
"Go chase yourself,” Kennedy said.
Doak blinked.
“That’s from me, personally,” Kennedy said. “It is entirely unofficial.”
Doak sat up very straight in his chair. Kennedy, the cutthroat in him very much in control, knew he shouldn't do this. But he knew he was going to do it. Reaching across the desk, he placed one big hand on Doak’s shoulder—and shoved down.
When he finished shoving. Doak was sitting very low in the chair. The financier looked like a surprised frog that had tried to duck hastily under water but had forgotten to close his mouth as he went under. Kennedy grinned at him, sweetly.
‘"Again unofficially, but so far as I am concerned, you can jump in the lake!”
Doak tried to shove the chair out of his way, forgetting it was bolted to the floor. He kicked at it and got to his feet. Kennedy, already thinking the man looked like a frog, had no difficulty in imagining the frog spewing water from its mouth as it came up.
“Do you know who I am?” Doak said.
"I don’t give a cuss,” Kennedy said. “Take it easy, big shot. And if you discover the source of the Martian grain supply, and of their water, and their homes and everything else they possess, let me know, will you? I’m curious myself.” He turned to the door.
Doak opened the drawer of his desk. The gun there was an automatic, flat and thin, but no doubt efficient. Kennedy, looking at the gun in Doak’s hand, saw that he had made a mistake. Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake. He had at least forced the issue to a head and knew exactly where he stood —in front of a gun.
“Do you know who I am?” Kennedy said.
“I know," Doak answered. “And I don’t give a hoot, either. Sit down, Kennedy. I want to talk to you.”
“I’m a field man—” Kennedy started to say, then shut up. He had intended to say that, as a field man for the UN, he packed a little weight himself. But, looking at the gun, he realized that all the weight he actually packed was concentrated in his ability to write a report which would be read by somebody back on Earth, and, presumably, after going through the proper channels, would be acted on.
All of which would take a year. Presuming he was able to write the report in the first place. Presuming he had a chance to send it back to Earth. And presuming Doak wasn’t able to interfere with the operation of the proper channels, which was doubtful, in view of his ability to read a TS report.
Kennedy looked at the gun again. From his position at this moment, Earth was a long way off. The gun was right here. He sat down.
Doak grinned. “I read your report with great interest. In it, you hinted that a miracle was responsible for the Martian food and water supply.”
“I hinted at no such thing. A miracle involves the contradiction of known natural laws. So I did not talk of a miracle. But I did hint that the Martians seemed to know the secret of spontaneous generation of matter.” Angry tones sounded in his voice as if he had tried to understand and had failed and was angry at his inability to grasp the solution.
Bu
t he knew it was not a solution you just reached out and grasped, as a hungry man reaches for a hamburger.
“Something from nothing?” Doak said.
Kennedy shook his head. “Shall we say that something tangible to our senses comes from something intangible to our senses. It makes a little more sense if you put it this way. Though not much more.” He shook his head again.
“I don’t understand this,” Doak said.
“I don’t either.”
’‘I want to understand it.”
“So do I,” Kennedy answered. His tone was flippant. Deliberately so. Doaks eyes glinted.
The financier toyed with the pistol. "You are a competent scientist; otherwise you would not be a field man for the UN. You have been here almost two years, spending my money, investigating this phenomenon, without results? How do you explain your failure?”
“I don't explain it. I have a hunch I can easily spend the rest of my life here, without results.”
"I think you re lying,” Doak said. “I think you have made important discoveries and are attempting to conceal them.” He sounded outraged.
“You're welcome to your opinion,” Kennedy said. He glanced at his watch, then toward the viewport. “In just a couple of minutes you will know as much as I do. Look.” Involuntarily Doak turned toward the port, then spun quickly back to face Kennedy, jerking up the gun as he did so. The field man hadn't moved from his chair. Kennedy laughed.
“Did you think I was trying to trick you? I wasn't. Watch that rectangle.”
Doak's face was alive with suspicion. “But nothing is there, except guards around a patch of sand.”
“Watch!” Kennedy said. . . .
In the sunlight the sand was smooth and even. It had been smoothed and resmoothed during the preceding weeks, in preparation for this event, until Kennedy had had the impression that every grain of sand had been counted. The thought made him uneasy, vaguely apprehensive. Machinery that took into consideration every grain of sand—What kind of machinery was that?
Outside the guards, the inhabitants of Traxia had gathered and were quietly watching. Kennedy could see Blount and Anders, busy with the recording equipment designed to trace that hidden machinery. Where was it? Under the city? Or elsewhere on the planet? Blount was looking often toward the ship, watching for Kennedy to return.
Came the blue haze.
It came from nowhere. It came suddenly, with no sign to indicate it was on the way. It looked like woodsmoke on far-off hills. It fitted the rectangle of white sand, exactly.
Kennedy came to his feet. Doak snatched up the muzzle of the pistol to cover him but he strode to the viewport without noticing the weapon. And Doak, after glancing at him, let the gun fall to his side. Doak watched too.
The blue haze thickened. Far-off came a soft crystalline chiming like glass bells ringing as they blew in a gentle breeze. The sound of the bells entered the ship. Kennedy wondered how that fragile chiming penetrated the insulated steel hull, but penetrate it did, a distant muted chiming, like atoms rearranging themselves within a crystal lattice. Within the blue haze the sand began to move. Nothing moved it. But it moved.
Blount and Anders were working with feverish speed. The instruments they were operating were enormously more sensitive than human senses. Kennedy wondered if they were sensitive enough to catch a glimpse of the sand movers. He was cold, cold. In the blue haze, shapes were taking outline. Like mushrooms, they grew. They firmed and their outlines hardened.
'‘Domes!” Kennedy whispered.
Somewhere ringing bells exulted. The walks began to take form.
“Where are those things coming from?” Doak gasped.
“Shut up,” Kennedy growled, deep in his throat.
Unnoticed, the conduits along the walks had gone in— and had been connected with the regular conduits from the city. Water flowed now along the walks. It moved along the porous conduits seeking—the shrubs, the plants, the flowers, came out of nowhere. Kennedy held his breath.
The swirling crystal notes leaped up in a flood—and died. The blue haze vanished. Before Kennedy's eyes, on what had been a rectangle of white sand, was—a new subdivision of the city.
The domes were dwelling places for a dozen families, perhaps more, perhaps less. Each complete with a flower garden. Soil and water where there had been sand. Flowers blooming in the desert.
The guards moved from their positions. During the time when the blue haze had been in existence, the watching Martians had not moved. Not an inch. Now they began to file through the newly created section of their city, examining the workmanship, seeing that everything was right, checking up to see if the sand movers had done their job well. Or were they admiring the beauty of the place? Kennedy did not know. Blount was looking desperately toward the ship.
“How’d they do that?” Doak croaked.
Kennedy shrugged. “You saw it. You know as much as I do. But that is the way they get their grain—and their water. The storage bins and the reservoirs—just fill up.”
“But you must know something of the process,” Doak said, desperately. “You’ve been here two years. You’re a competent sci—”
“Blast it, man, that’s what I’ve been trying to discover I”
Doak hesitated, his eyes on Kennedy. The frog face was labored with thought. A tongue flicked out and ran along the dry lips.
“How would you like to continue, on my pay-roll?” Doak said.
“What?” Kennedy gasped.
“At a hundred thousand a yearl” Doak said.
“A hundred thousand dollarsl”
“With a bonus of half a million dollars, if you solve the secret,” Doak added.
Kennedy laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was time to laugh. The offer was so silly it was ridiculous.
‘Til make the bonus a million,” Doak said.
Kennedy gestured toward the viewport. “You idiot! If I knew that secret, what would a million dollars mean to me? Or ten million?”
Doak’s face hardened. “I was afraid you would think of that,” he said. He moved quickly, to place the desk between him and Kennedy. “So I prepared another inducement. I believe that back on earth, in Miss Guthrie’s private school, you have a 12-year-old daughter?"
"What?" The sound from Kennedy's throat indicated vocal cords in danger of being tom out by the roots.
Holding the gun ready, Doak took a newspaper clipping from his desk. He shoved it toward Kennedy.
CHILD MISSING FROM EXCLUSIVE SCHOOL
Joan Kennedy, 12-year-old daughter of a UN employee, was reported missing yesterday. The child, whose mother is dead and whose father is reported to be on Mars on an exploring trip, has been living with an aunt. No evidence of violence was found.
The muscles in Kennedy’s neck became ropes. The veins stood out on his forehead. His face turned dull gray. "You rat! Is it worth that, to you?"
“Yes/' Doak said.
‘Why?"
Doak s eyes glinted. "If they can create water and grain —and a complete subdivision—they can create other things/1
“What things?"
“That’s my business. Your business is to find out how. That’s all. My salary and bonus offer still holds good. In addition—” the gun centered on Kennedy’s stomach, ‘—you will get your child back, unharmed.”
Kennedy cursed softly. He wiped sweat from his face, and wished there were some way to wipe sweat from the human soul.
“Were working on it, right now,” he said. “Those two men are my assistants. The equipment they have set up is designed to trace the machinery that created the new homes.”
Doak s eyes became alive. “There is machinery?”
“There must be.”
“But it is hidden?”
“Well hidden!"
"Do you think your men have succeeded in locating it?”
“I don't know,” Kennedy answered. “But even if they have got a line on it, we may need time to locate the hiding place.”
“How much time?”
“A week, a month, six months. Man, I don’t know!”
“Go ask them what they have discovered. Report back to me here at noon tomorrow. And one more thing—” The eyes in the frog face were like shiny beads. “Don't try anything, Kennedy. This ship is well armed. My men are loyal.” He nodded toward the clipping lying on his desk. “And even if you tried to kill me, and succeeded, there would still be this.”
In the strained silence, Kennedy could hear himself breathing. “Suppose what we saw—was actually a miracle?”
“Miracles result from the operation of unknown laws. Just take the tin out of that word, Kennedy,”
“But what if I can't?”
Doak considered the question. “The Martians know where the machinery is located and how it operates,” he said at last. “I can get the information from them, if you fail.” He pressed a button on his desk. Behind Kennedy a door opened.
“Show this gentleman out,” Doak said to the guard who entered.
Kennedy left the ship and walked over to where Blount and Anders were fussing with the instrument. They seemed to be disgruntled and confused. When he asked them what they had discovered, they paid no attention. He repeated the question and Blount swung around with outstretched hands.
“But we didn't get a thing,” Blount said. “Not a single thing.” His voice was angry. Kennedy could see he was afraid.
“What?” Kennedy said.
Blount made a quick gesture. “Oh, we got a lot of stuff, before and after pictures, a partial spec analysis of that blue smoke, but we didn't get a single tracer on the source.”
“But that's impossible!” The pressure of the emotions in
Kennedy turned his normal voice into a shout. “We saw matter manipulated. That means titanic forces were at work. The magnitude of the energies flowing in that area while those domes were being constructed was great enough to strain space itself. The control forces did not have to be equally strong but they had to be powerful enough for our instruments to detect them. You blundered.”
Blount shrugged. He was hurt at what his chief said and at the tone used. But more than anything else, he was scared. His fingers were trembling and his left cheek was developing a tic.
Adventures on Other Planets Page 4
