The Works of Clifford D. Simak Volume One

by Clifford D. Simak

  As he retreated slowly before the deliberate advance of the Martians, he jerked the blade from the scabbard.

  Seeing the flash of steel and realizing that their foe was armed with some sort of a strange weapon, the two Martians leaped silently forward, five hands outstretched in the usual manner of attack, the sixth member clutching the upraised club.

  Tom knew the greatest danger lay in the clubs of his opponents breaking the steel of his suit or smashing his helmet, thus robbing him of his artificial atmosphere and exposing him to the horrible vacuum of the planet.

  Hampered by his awkward suit, he knew he would be unable to sidestep the blows of the club, so he resorted to different tactics.

  The point of the sword flicked out, aimed straight at the wrist of the Martian who was closing in, with the club already descending. There was no sound of steel on steel, for in that atmosphereless place no sound was possible. But the aim of the Martian was deflected and the club missed its target, Tom’s helmet, by a wide margin.

  Tom now turned his attention to the other Martian. If he could slash the armored suit of the second attacker, he would have only one foe.

  The Martian raised his club, but as the sword drove at him point first, he stepped quickly backward, out of reach of the threatening point. Following this advantage Tom lunged again and the point struck hard against the armored breast, the force of the blow knocking the Martian off balance, so that he fell sprawling to the sands.

  Almost feeling his other foe close behind him ready to strike, Tom swung on his heel, but his apprehension was unfounded, for the other lay, a heap of glistening armor, in the shade of the ridge.

  In some unaccountable manner the sword point, in striking the wrist to ward off the blow, had penetrated the steel. Just a small hole, perhaps, but the Martian had died as the air rushed out of the suit.

  He turned quickly to the second Martian, who was struggling to his feet. With a powerful and well directed kick Tom sent him reeling, to sprawl again on his back. With sword raised high, both fists clutching the hilt, ready to put every ounce of strength into a blow calculated to smash its way through heavy steel, Tom straddled the prostrate foeman.

  The Martian raised clasped hands in signal of surrender and a plea for mercy, for all the world like a dog groveling to ward off a well-deserved kick. Tom stared straight down into the warted, yellow face, upon which terror was stamped. Well might terror be there, for it was a tradition that any lesser man who raised a hand against a Terrestrial was automatically doomed to death. Seldom had mercy ever been shown.

  As Tom stared down into the mottled face behind the helmet, something akin to sympathy touched his heart.

  He slowly lowered the sword, touched the point gently on the Martian’s helmet and then raised it and with a questioning look, pointed with it in several directions.

  A flash of understanding came into the eyes of the prostrate figure and his lips moved slowly. He pointed toward the outcropping of rock.

  Watching his lips, Tom read the word, “Ship.”

  “It Is Not Only Mercury”

  The Martian had come from a ship. But how had he obtained a ship? For ages no Martian had been anything other than a slave, a troublesome slave, but a slave, of a greater race.

  Tom pointed to the body of the dead Martian and then to his captive.

  “How many more?” he formed the words with his lips.

  The Martian shook his head. He pointed to himself and his dead companion and again made the sign of negation. There were apparently no others.

  Tom stepped back, sword still in hand, and motioned the other to rise.

  Slowly Tom followed his captive, sword held ready for instant use, across the sand and up the rocky outcropping. At the top of the ridge the Martian halted and pointed with one of his six arms.

  Looking in the direction of the pointing arm, Tom saw a small rocket plane resting on the sand. Upon its silver nose was painted the ancient emblem of Mars, a red equilateral triangle inside a blue circle which, in turn, was surrounded by a yellow square.

  He marveled, for that emblem had not been seen, except in the museums of the worlds, for many years.

  Inside the flyer, and with the air locks closed, Tom snapped back his helmet and gulped in great breaths of the pure air.

  The Martian had also removed his helmet and now the two men faced one another.

  “I don’t know why I let you live,” said Tom, “but I did. However, one false move and it’s taps for you.”

  “Yes, master,” said the Martian in a voice humble and subservient.

  “Where did you get this plane?” asked Tom.

  “I and others took it and ten others from Station Number One a few hours ago.”

  “Station One,” screamed Tom, clutching the sword. “Was there an uprising there, too?”

  “At the same hour today, master, there was an uprising in every station on Mercury.”

  Tom took a step forward.

  “Were all successful?”

  “I do not know, master. All should have been. They were carefully planned.”

  “And the emblem of Mars?”

  “Tars Kors and I painted it while we were waiting here for the arrival of our men from Station Number Nine. They should be arriving at any time now. If they do not arrive in a half hour, I am supposed to make an observation flight around the dome.”

  Tom smiled grimly.

  “Put on your helmet,” he said. “You are going to paint out your damned emblem and paint in the correct one. You needn’t expect your friends from Number Nine. They are all dead. Also, if there is any flying to be done, I do it. Understand?”

  The Martian nodded and donned his helmet. Under the directions of the Terrestrial he painted out the emblem of Mars and painted in its stead an emblazoned golden sun, insignia of the Earth.

  Back in the flyer, always keeping a watchful eye on his captive, Tom checked over the machine. It was one of the police craft maintained by the government at Station Number One for emergency calls and was built for speed and intricate maneuvers, a fighting ship.

  It was equipped with four guns, one a projector of the Allison heat ray, and the other three rapid fire guns.

  Everything seemed in perfect condition.

  “How did you capture these machines?” asked Tom. The police were not often caught napping and they were fighters of renown.

  “Our plans were well laid, master,” said the Martian blandly.

  Tom snorted. They must have been well laid, he thought. According to this fellow’s story, Mercury had at one stroke fallen into the hands of the Martians, who had used the stupid Moon men as mere pawns to crush the Terrestrial rule.

  “What about firearms?” he asked. “How does it happen you tackled me with clubs? Are there no pistols on board?”

  “It was all very confusing,” explained the Martian, “Tars Kors and I were only to capture the flyer and bring it here to meet the men from Station Number Nine. Undoubtedly, if they had come, they would have brought firearms.”

  “And what do you fellows plan to do now that you have momentarily conquered Mercury?”

  The Martian spread six claw-like hands.

  “A start, master, just a start. We plan to establish independence.”

  “A hell of a fat chance you have,” Tom informed him. “Don’t you know that only a few hours will bring a flight of fighters that will wipe out every one of you.”

  The Martian smiled crookedly.

  “But, master,” he used the word with faint sarcasm, “it is not only Mercury.”

  Tom started.

  “You scum! Do you mean—”

  “Everywhere, at the same hour, the Martian struck, aided by the other races you have enslaved. On Mars, on Earth, on Venus, on every planet and satellite—”

  “Enough,” screamed To
m. “Another word out of you and I’ll wring your filthy neck. You poor fools! You would try to conquer the masters!”

  “Yes, master,” said the Martian.

  Tom leaped at the man and his fist, lashing out like a whip, smashed squarely into the leering, yellow, wart-covered face. The Martian spun like a top, slipping and sliding across the metal floor, to crash with a thud into a corner.

  With feet spread far apart, Tom glared at the Martian.

  “Get into that seat,” he snarled, pointing to the pilot’s chair, “and do exactly what I tell you. If you pull one boner I’ll chop you to bits with this sword.”

  The terrified Martian scrambled out of the corner and scuttled for the seat.

  “Now, listen to me,” said Tom, “there are at least ten other machines that you rats have stolen. We are out to get them. We are going to wipe out as many Martians and Moon men as we can before it’s all over with us. You and I are going to do that—you and I—do you understand? We are going to be avengers—”

  The Martian half rose out of his seat, but Tom struck him with his open palm and he again collapsed into it.

  “If we get out of this,” Tom told him, “I’ll swear that you stuck by me, that you still were faithful. I’ll recommend you for special privileges. Do you understand?”

  The Martian nodded.

  “If you fail me, however, I’ll finish you myself. Now start her up and get out of here. Fly straight ahead until I tell you to do something else. Remember I am right behind you at the gun controls and your life isn’t worth a plugged nickel to me.”

  The Martian kicked the starter and the rocket motors came to life. With a roar the machine shot forward, taking off easily and smoothly.

  In a few minutes the shining dome of Station Number Eight loomed on the horizon.

  As the flyer swept down over the dome, Tom saw a plane resting before one of the locks. Close beside it stood a car, which was disgorging figures clad in metal suits. Another car lumbered out of the air locks and made for the plane, upon which was emblazoned the Martian symbol. The victors were transporting their forces to the stolen plane.

  Swiftly he spun a wheel and through the range finders saw the plane outlined against the cross-hairs. But before he could touch the lever which released the heat ray, the floor tilted sickeningly beneath his feet.

  Whirling from the gun controls he leaped at the Martian.

  “Put her up,” he shouted. When his command was not obeyed he struck a single blow, knocking the pilot out of the seat.

  Through the observation window he glimpsed the ground rushing up at him. The sturdy little ship groaned in every joint as he put it up sharply, missing the ground by only a few feet. The rocket exhausts roared louder as the ship charged upward at a tremendous speed.

  The Martian lay huddled at the foot of a locker, dead to the world. Tom had not pulled the punch which had spun the helpless one out of the pilot’s chair.

  At a mile altitude Tom leveled off the ship and nosed it slightly downward. Far below him the Martian ship was taking off. Just above the horizon he glimpsed the dome of Station Nine, which he had quitted a few hours before.

  Tom again put the ship up. There was no sense in attempting to fight. He could not pilot the machine and handle the guns at the same time.

  He cursed the silent figure on the floor. If the blasted fool had only stuck to his job. Nevertheless, one could hardly blame the fellow. It wasn’t natural to fight your own. Probably, under similar circumstances, he would have done the same.

  Through a port he saw the Martian plane far behind, following rapidly. The emblem of the Earth on the nose of his machine must have been sighted.

  He went back to the controls and advanced the little plane to top speed. With his lighter load he might be able to outdistance the Martian machine.

  Over the horizon loomed the dome of Station Seven and a few minutes later Station Six swung into view. Stations Five and Four were past and the Martian plane was falling far behind.

  Another dome appeared ahead of the racing flyer. Above it hung a huge silver ship, which Tom recognized as the transport from Station One.

  As he watched, the dome, lying directly beneath the transport, crumbled, falling in upon itself, a cloud of dust rising slowly.

  The Martians, having captured the transport, were using the huge heat ray machine aboard to destroy the domes. It seemed their purpose to destroy every work of man on the planet.

  Red rage rising in him, Tom leaped to the gun controls, moved the ray nozzle to point straight down, shoved the release lever over and locked it in position.

  Back at the pilot controls he threw the ship down in a long dive, straight over the transport. Passing directly over the ship the ray would slice it in two—halt further destruction of the domes. The ray machines on the smaller planes, he knew, were not large enough to touch the huge quartz structures.

  With the speed indicator pressed against the pin, the machine flashed down, the ray streaming beneath it.

  Tom brought the plane to an even keel and almost as the transport disappeared beneath the machine, he heard a faint click.

  Beside the gun controls stood the Martian, his hand still upon the ray lever. He supported himself by gripping the iron railing which ran around the control board. The effects of the blow had not totally left him. He was evidently still dizzy, but the half smile on his repulsive features told Tom he had reached the controls in time to save the transport.

  For a moment the two stood eye to eye, then Tom’s hand went back to the hilt of the sword and jerked the blade free. There was not a word spoken.

  At the sight of the blade in Tom’s hand, the Martian seemed to come to life. He leaped away from the gun control and ran toward the end of the ship. The Terrestrial dived after him.

  The ship tilted far to one side and both of the men lost their balance on the sloping floor. Tom, still clutching the sword, crashed solidly against the side of the hull.

  One of the locker doors on the opposite side swung open and with a clatter a varied assortment of tools hit and slid across the floor.

  Struggling to his feet, Tom worked his way up the slanting floor to the controls. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the Martian huddled in one corner of the cabin.

  With his outstretched fingers almost touching the control lever, Tom turned again to look at the Martian.

  What he saw brought a scream from his lips. On his knees before one of the ports, the Martian was aiming a heavy wrench at the quartz. If that quartz were broken it meant death for both of them. With a rush the air would leave the flier and both of them would fall in their tracks.

  At the sound of the scream, the Martian turned his head and his aim was deflected. The wrench brought up with a metallic crash against the hull, missing the port by a scant inch.

  Quickly the Martian poised the wrench again and as he did so Tom hurled the sword at him. End over end the weapon flew. Its point caught the man of Mars at the base of the skull and drove deep. The Martian rolled to one end and the wrench clattered to the plates of the floor.

  Tom stared. He had not thought he would kill the man by merely throwing the weapon. It had been his intention to thwart the other in his act and then to settle with him in a hand-to-hand encounter. After all, it didn’t matter. Sooner or later one of them would have had to die. There was not room on the ship for both of them.

  He fought his way up the inclining floor to the controls. The ship, he saw, had nosed upward and was tearing spaceward. He brought it on even keel and turned it down.

  Far below him, he saw the surface of Mercury. He could plainly see the nine domed stations, but only six of the domes remained intact. To his right he could see the edge of the hot side of the planet, where molten ores bubbled eternally and lakes of melted lead sent up fumes that mingled with the low-lying gases that hung over the ent
ire Sunward half of the planet.

  Between the twilight belt and this seething cauldron ran a low lava ridge, which rose at varying heights over the level of the molten sea. At places, Tom could see, unusual activity in the sluggish liquid metal had sent streams of it coursing out into the twilight belt, where it ran slowly for several miles before congealing. He suspected that here lay the secret of the rocky ridges, beside which he had met the two Martians.

  To his left he saw the stark frigidness of the cold side of the planet. There, chained forever as ice and frost, was the last vestige of the atmosphere and water of Mercury.

  He glanced down toward the region where the domes lay and saw that ships were rapidly taking off from Station Three. The huge transport, slower in motion than the smaller planes, was far below him and to the right.

  He grinned grimly. The planes were too low to attack him, and the transport, much too valuable for the Martians and Selenites to lose, was moving out of the way of chance rays.

  He would see about that. It was plainly up to him to destroy the transport. It was too dangerous to leave it in the hands of the mutineers. With it, they could leave Mercury. It was the only space-going ship on the planet. It had arrived only a few hours before with supplies for the stations, consisting largely of explosives to be used in the mines. He wondered if it had been unloaded.

  The planes were climbing swiftly toward him. He could see the Martian symbol, painted on the bow of the foremost, flashing in the sunlight. Behind the first plane trailed at least a dozen others.

  They had gained too great an altitude for him now to attack the transport. He would have to fight his way through. He realized he must be cautious. He was fairly familiar with the operation of a ship, and in that one thing he had an advantage over the Martians and Selenites, who were rank amateurs. In all other things the enemy had the advantage. They were greater in number and each ship carried a gunner.

  Sharply he swung the ship up and locked the controls. Leaving the pilot’s chair, he moved to the gun controls. Here he moved the ray nozzle to point slightly forward and down. The three rapid fire guns he aimed straight ahead and to each control lever tied a length of copper wire. He shoved the ray control clear over and locked it in position, and trailing the copper wires in his hand went back to the pilot’s seat.