Adventures on Other Planets

by Donald A. Wollheim

  The radio man told him. Frome sighed. “I wish I could suggest something. But I can’t. Too weak even to think. So I’m turning everything over to you, lad—”

  “To me!”

  “Yes. I ought to put you under arrest . . . for disobeying me . . . when I told you to save yourself. Instead I’m putting you in charge ... of the remnants of this expedition. I’m not doing this just because you showed initiative and daring . . , when you saved my life . . . but because you're old ‘Find-a-way-or-make-one' Avery's son. He never let anything stop him. And you're his son. You'll get us out of this mess . .. if anybody can."

  The radio man's mind was reeling. Captain Frome was telling him that he was the boss. “But what about Mcllrath and Sutter? Will they—"

  “I think they will. But let them answer for themselves."

  Sutter nodded nervously. “I don’t care what's done as long as we get out of here alive."

  Mcllrath said simply. “I followed "your father, lad. You're his own true son. I will not hesitate to follow you.”

  The surge of exultation that leaped up in Sparks was drowned in the recognition of his new responsibility. Before, he had been taking orders. Now he was giving them. He well knew that Frome had had another reason for designating him as action captain. Sutter and Mcllrath were both too old to respond quickly in an emergency. He was young, his reactions timed to split seconds. And if they were to escape alive, they had to have a leader who could react instantly.

  He stood up. “We'll carry Captain Frome into the galley. It's the best protected spot in the ship. We'll take all our emergency equipment in there. We'll plug the porthole with putty. And after that—” But he didn't finish the sentence. He knew the metal walls of the galley would yield in time.

  After they had carried everything to the galley, Sparks came back to the stem. Mcllrath followed him. “What are ye planning to do, lad?” he asked quietly.

  “What makes you think I'm planning anything?” Sparks answered sharply.

  “Ye've got the same quiet ferocity in your eyes that your father had. When he was planning something dangerous, and didn't intend to tell anybody about it, he looked just exactly like you do now."

  “Yeah?” Sparks rasped. “Well, I am planning something, but you can't stop me. You heard what Frome said. I'm in charge now.”

  The engineer's eyes did not falter. “Ye needn’t remind me of that, lad. Im not trying to stop you. But if I know what it is you re doing, I might be able to help you.”

  “OhI”. the radio man answered. “I am planning something. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you might kick about it—think it was too dangerous. But it's the only way I can see for us to have even a chance to get out of here alive.”

  “And what is that, lad?” Mcllrath asked quietly.

  “You remember my father had a saying,” Sparks answered.

  'For every evil, nature provides a virtue. For every poison there's an antidote. For every disease, there’s a cure—somewhere—’ There is something that will whip these gas balls, something that will destroy them. They've got a weakness, somewherel”

  “I also remember the rest of that saying. Nature provides a way to cure everything that goes wrong. But she doesn't hand you that cure on a silver platter. Youve got to find it yourself! I don't doubt there’s a way to whip these red devils, but, lad, how are we going to find it in the few hours we've got left?” The old engineer's face was wrinkled into a frown of pleading perplexity.

  “By going to the only possible source of information, the Martians themselves. They fought these damned things for centuries. If anybody knows what to do to lick ’em, the Martians do,” Sparks answered.

  “But they fought and lost,” Mcllrath protested. “They hid away in a hole. If they had known how to whip their enemy, they would have done it.”

  The radio man's youthful face clouded. “I’ve thought of that,” he said desperately. “But maybe they ran out of ammunition to fight with. The fact that they put their city in order shows they expected these damned radium suckers to be gone when they awakened. Anyhow, they're our only hope. We can either take a chance that they will know how to whip these devils, or we can sit here and die waiting. I'm damned if I’m going to sit here and wait for one of those things to suck the life out of me. I'm going after one of those Martians. And this one,” he finished grimly, “won’t commit suicide before we get a chance to talk to him.”

  “But, lad—”

  "But, hell!” Sparks snarled. “I’m going.”

  He thought the engineer meant to protest his going because he would have to run the gantlet of the growing numbers of gas balls outside. But Mcllrath had no such intention. The old Scot'knew very well that death lurked outside, but the threat of death had never stopped Richard Avery. Nor would it stop his son. It wouldn’t stop Mcllrath either. Very calmly he insisted on going along.

  “Hell, no,” Sparks rasped. Then his voice softened. "I mean, Angus, you had better stay here and help me through the emergency lock when I come back.”

  “Aye, lad,” Mcllrath answered. “I’ll be waiting for you.” Sparks waited until deep darkness had fallen. Then he slipped through the emergency lock.

  V

  A globe of witchfire floated outside the lock. Sparks eyed it. All over his body he felt his skin writhe. What if one of those things caught him? He knew the answer to that. His heart would stop beating, just as Orsatti’s heart had stopped, just as—

  He watched the gas ball. It floated away toward the stem of the ship. He slipped to the sand and dropped on his face, crawling up against the hull. A thin whine sounded as another of the creatures passed. Or perhaps it was the same one. Perhaps it had sensed his presence and had returned. He held his breath. Death went on by.

  He waited until everything was clear and then dashed across the sand. Panting for breath in the thin, dry air, he reached the shelter of the buildings—and saw a luminosity coming toward him.

  He dived headfirst into the sand. Dust rose in choking clouds. The gas ball passed. He lay still, fighting for breath. The dust irritated his nostrils. He began to worm his way forward.

  Two hours later he was back at the ship, a bound-and-gagged Martian over his shoulder. He took one look at the vessel, and his heart sank. It was surrounded by hundreds of balls of fire mist. Swirling over the hull, squirming against the ports, eating their way through to the food that lay inside. Hundreds of them. And others were coming.

  Had they already penetrated the hull?

  He lay down flat on his face and began to worm his way across the open space, the Martian still over his shoulder. The Martian had seen the gas balls. He was whimpering like a badly frightened child.

  Would he reach the ship? Or would they see him and dart at him in a swarming cloud? He was now only ten feet from the flier. A quick dash would take him to the lock. He took a deep breath, and lifted himself for the dash.

  Then it happened. A gas ball, passing over him, suddenly whined angrily, and looped back toward him, hovering over him like a buzzard investigating carrion. Other luminosities, attracted by the action of the first one, came swirling downward.

  They had discovered him.

  It was the end. He didn't have a chance in a million. The gas balls were darting at him from all directions. He leaped to his feet, tried to race toward the emergency lock, knowing he couldn't make it.

  He tripped and fell. Everything went black. Acid seemed to bite at his nose. He couldn’t see. Dimly he wondered— did death come like this, a sudden rushing blackness? He felt no pain.

  Something touched him. He screamed. A sharp voice said, "This way, lad.”

  Sparks gulped in thankfulness. Mcllrath! He knew now what had happened. The engineer had been watching from the lock, a smoke projector ready. That rushing wave of blackness was smoke. Smoke I He could hear the gass balls whining as they groped through it. Mcllrath guided him to the lock. The outer door clanged shut behind them.

  In all his life Sp
arks had never been so miserable. When he had succeeded in returning to the ship with the Martian, he had thought they now had a chance to live. Instead he had learned that they were doomed. Doomed!

  Two hours had passed since he returned. They were all in the cramped galley. Death was eating at the walls around them, death that now was only minutes off.

  “I tried to tell you when you left, lad.” Mcllrath said softly, “but you thought I was trying to keep you from going, and wouldn’t listen.”

  “I know,” Sparks nodded glumly, “but hell, I didn’t think about this. All I could think was that maybe the Martians knew some way to fight these devils.”

  “I know, lad,” Mcllrath answered. “Don’t be feeling bad about it. 'Twas a brave thing that ye did. And maybe they do know some way—”

  “Yeah,” Sparks answered gloomily. "Maybe they do.”

  He glanced across the galley at the Martian. He was alive all right. Scared half to death but alive. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his arms and legs bound. His bright, fear-filled eyes darted restlessly over the room. Occasionally he said something in a high, singsong tone of voice. He knew what was eating through the walls of the ship, and he might know something to do about it. Every time he spoke he might be telling them how to whip the radium suckers.

  The trouble was—they couldn't understand what he said.

  The men of Earth and the men of Mars had met, under desperate circumstances with the future of the planet depending on them, and they couldn’t understand each other. The languages were different. John Orms, language expert, had spent eleven years trying to crack the written Martian language, and had failed.

  In time, now that they had found a Martian, they would be able to understand each other. But there wasn’t time.

  Seconds ticked away into nothingness. A red blot appeared on the wall of the galley. Mcllrath slapped a wad of putty over it, and looked down at the diminishing supply. There was very little putty left.

  Sutter twitched nervously. Mcllrath calmly sat down. Sparks glowered at the Martian. To have safety so near, and yet so far away. It was maddening!

  Frome, lying on the floor, tried to sit up and fell back. “Could I,” he whispered, “have a drink of water?”

  They had plenty of water. Sparks drew a cupful from the cooler. The eyes of the Martian followed him as he lifted Frome to a sitting position. The captain drank. “Any luck, lad?” he said weakly.

  “No,” Sparks answered, “but were not finished yet. There's some way to lick these damned things and I know it.” He rose to his feet. He was lying to himself, trying to lie to them. They were finished. And when the rescue expedition came after them, as it certainly would, it would be finished too. The bones of men would lie with the bones of Martians in the dry deserts, in the dust of the deserted cities. The exploration of the planet, so bravely begun, might well end here. The labor of the men who had fought space to reach

  Mars, the daring of the pioneers who had braved the deserts, would have resulted only in death.

  Then Sutter screamed, an inarticulate screech, the yell of a man who has seen death coming, and knows he cannot stop it.

  A red dot, the size of the end of a lead pencil, had appeared on the outer wall. It began to grow in size.

  Slowly the archaeologist slumped to the floor. He had fainted. The pressure had got too much for him. They let him die. Death would come easier if he did not know it was coming.

  The red dot grew. The galley was silent. In the silence men breathed heavily.

  The Martian screeched. Another red dot had appeared on the wall.

  “Damn you, shut up I” Sparks rasped. “Were in the same boat—”

  He broke off to stare at the Martian. A sudden savage hope sent his heart pounding.

  The Martian seemed to be having a fit. He was twisting and turning and trying to free himself from his bonds. His eyes were darting continuously from the two men to another object in the room. He looked like a dog trying to warn his master that a grizzly bear is lurking on the trail ahead. And like a dog he could only tell what he knew by howling and begging with his eyes.

  “He’s trying to tell us something,” Sparks whispered tensely. He leaped across the galley and cut the ropes that bound the native. The Martian struggled to his feet. He leaped across the room toward—Sparks caught his breath—the water cooler. He drew a cupful of the liquid, turned and splashed it across the red dots growing on the wall.

  Something hissed like an angry snake. Hissed and drew away. The dots stopped growing.

  “Water,” Sparks gulped. “The one thing this damned planet has always needed and never had. Water! Those damned gas balls have evolved in a desert. They can’t stand water; it kills them. Sutter was right. The Martians went into frozen sleep because their water supply had given out. The answer was right under our eyes all the time. The very dust that choked us should have told us what to do.”

  He was screaming now. “There’s always a cure for every evil. But you've got to find that cure. And we’ve found it. Take that, damn you! And that.”

  He was splashing water on the walls, wetting them down. Mcllrath and the Martian were helping him. The putty began to slip and fall away. Luminosities tried to surge through the holes. When water struck them, they sizzled like a skillet full of hot grease, burst into steam, and steaming died.

  Two Earthmen and a Martian fought side by side, and they used as a weapon the one thing of which Mars for centuries had never had enough—water.

  When the rescue ship came knifing down out of the sky, the surprised captain found four weary, happy Earthmen to greet him. Two of them supported the man he recognized as captain of this ill-fated expedition. But when he came to greet Frome, it was Sparks who stepped forward, and gravely saluted.

  “Avery, sir, acting captain of the rescue ship Kepler, reporting.”

  The puzzled captain acknowledged his salute. They told him what had happened. “I get that,” he said. “You did a swell job. But,” he gestured toward the other group. “Who are these?”

  “The men of Mars,” Sparks announced. “We’ve found them.”

  They had awakened the Martians from their frozen sleep. They stood in a large group apart from the Earthmen.

  “But what's the matter with them?” the captain asked. “What are they acting like that for?”

  The Martians were waving their hands in the air, turning somersaults, twisting and contorting their bodies.

  “They’re trying to tell you how happy they are to see you,” Sparks answered. “They haven't learned how to talk to us yet—but they sure know how to make signs.”

  Beyond Mars, out where the giant planets whirl, life, if it exists, must be different. Here the worlds are many many times the size of Earth, composed of poisonous gases, with mighty winds and strange fluctuations of gravity and density. Stanley G. Weinbaum, pioneer de-picter of space life, whose conceptions have left an indelible stamp on science-fiction, displays one of those giant worlds—the great Uranus, out beyond Saturn, the first new planet ever to be discovered by astronomy and possibly still one of the most enigmatici

  THE PLANET OF DOUBT by Stanley G. Weinbaum

  Hamilton Hammond started nervously as the voice of Cullen, the expedition's chemist, sounded nervously from his station aft. “I see somethingl” he called.

  Ham bent over the floor port, staring into the eternal green-gray fog that blankets Uranus. He glanced hastily at the dial of the electric plumb; fifty-five feet, it said with an air of positiveness, but that was a lie, for it had registered that same figure for a hundred and sixty miles of creeping descent. The fog itself reflected the beam.

  The barometer showed 86.2 cm. That too was an unreliable guide, but better than the plumb, for the intrepid Young, four decades earlier in 2060, had noted an atmospheric pressure of 86 in his romantic dash from Titan to the cloudy planet's southern pole. But the Gaea was dropping now at the opposite pole, forty-five thousand miles from Young's la
nding, and no one knew what vast hollows or peaks might render his figures utterly useless.

  “I see nothing," Ham muttered.

  "Nor I,” said Patricia Hammond, his wife—or more of-fically, biologist of the Smithsonian's Gaea expedition. “Or— yes! Something moved!” She peered closer. “Up! Up!” she screamed. “Put up!”

  Harbord was a good astrogator. He asked no questions, nor even took his glance from the controls. He simply slapped the throttle; the underjets roared in crescendo, and the upward thrust pressed all of them hard against the floor.

  Barely in time. A vast gray wave of water rushed smoothly below the port, so close that its crest was carved by the blast, and spray clouded the glass.

  “Whew!" whistled Ham. “That was close. Too close. If we'd touched that it would have cracked our jets for sure. They're white-hot.”

  “Ocean!” Patricia said disgustedly. “Young reported land.” “Yeah, forty-five thousand miles away. For all we know this sea is broader than the whole surface of the Earth.”

  She considered this frowning. “Do you suppose,” she asked, “that this fog goes right down to the surface everywhere?”

  “Young says so.”

  “But on Venus the clouds form only at the junction of the upper winds and the underwind.”

  “Yes, but Venus is closer to the Sun. The heat here is evenly distributed, because the Sun accounts for practically none of it. Most of the surface heat seeps through from within, as it does on Saturn and Jupiter, only since Uranus is smaller, it's also cooler. It's cool enough to have a solid crust instead of being molten like the larger planets, but it's considerably colder than the Venusian twilight zone."

  “But," she objected, “Titan is as cold as a dozen Nova Zemblas, yet it's one perpetual hurricane."

  He grinned. “Trying to trip me? It isn't absolute temperature that causes wind—its differences in temperature between one place and another. Titan has one side warmed by Saturn, but here the warmth is even or practically even, all around the planet, since it comes from within."