The City and the Stars

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “Well, I hope you never have to put this theory into practice.”

  “So do we! But on Mars one has to be prepared for anything. Ah, there goes the All Clear.”

  The speaker had burst into life again.

  “Exercise over. Will all those who failed to reach shelter in the regulation time please inform Admin in the usual way? End of message.”

  “Will they?” asked Gibson. “I should have thought they’d keep quiet.”

  The engineer laughed.

  “That depends. They probably will if it was their own fault. But it’s the best way of showing up weak points in our defenses. Someone will come and say: ‘Look here— I was cleaning one of the ore furnaces when the alarm went; it took me two minutes to get out of the blinking thing. What am I supposed to do if there’s a real blow-out?’ Then we’ve got to think of an answer, if we can.”

  Gibson looked enviously at Squeak, who seemed to be asleep, though an occasional twitch of the great translucent ears showed that he was taking some interest in the conversation.

  “It would be nice if we could be like him and didn’t have to bother about air-pressure. Then we could really do something with Mars.”

  “I wonder!” said the engineer thoughtfully. “What have they done except survive? It’s always fatal to adapt oneself to one’s surroundings. The thing to do is to alter your surroundings to suit you.”

  The words were almost an echo of the remark that Hadfield had made at their first meeting. Gibson was to remember them often in the years to come.

  Their return to Port Lowell was almost a victory parade. The capital was in a mood of elation over the defeat of the epidemic, and it was now anxiously waiting to see Gibson and his prize. The scientists had prepared quite a reception for Squeak, the zoologists in particular being busily at work explaining away their early explanations for the absence of animal life on Mars.

  Gibson had handed his pet over to the experts only when they had solemnly assured him that no thought of dissection had ever for a moment entered their minds. Then, full of ideas, he had hurried to see the Chief.

  Hadfield had greeted him warmly. There was, Gibson was interested to note, a distinct change in the Chief’s attitude towards him. At first it had been— well, not unfriendly, but at least somewhat reserved. He had not attempted to conceal the fact that he considered Gibson’s presence on Mars something of a nuisance— another burden to add to those he already carried. This attitude had slowly changed until it was now obvious that the Chief Executive no longer regarded him as an unmitigated calamity.

  “You’ve added some interesting citizens to my little empire,” Hadfield said with a smile. “I’ve just had a look at your engaging pet. He’s already bitten the Chief Medical Officer.”

  “I hope they’re treating him properly,” said Gibson anxiously.

  “Who— the C.M.O.?”

  “No— Squeak, of course. What I’m wondering is whether there are any other forms of animal life we haven’t discovered yet— perhaps more intelligent.”

  “In other words, are these the only genuine Martians?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll be years before we know for certain, but I rather expect they are. The conditions which make it possible for them to survive don’t occur in many places on the planet.”

  “That was one thing I wanted to talk to you about.” Gibson reached into his pocket and brought out a frond of the brown “seaweed.” He punctured one of the fronds, and there was the faint hiss of escaping gas.

  “If this stuff is cultivated properly, it may solve the oxygen problem in the cities and do away with all our present complicated machinery. With enough sand for it to feed on, it would give you all the oxygen you need.”

  “Go on,” said Hadfield noncommittally.

  “Of course, you’d have to do some selective breeding to get the variety that gave most oxygen,” continued Gibson, warming to his subject.

  “Naturally,” replied Hadfield.

  Gibson looked at his listener with a sudden suspicion, aware that there was something odd about his attitude. A faint smile was playing about Hadfield’s lips.

  “I don’t think you’re taking me seriously!” Gibson protested bitterly.

  Hadfield sat up with a start.

  “On the contrary!” he retorted. “I’m taking you much more seriously than you imagine.” He toyed with his paperweight, then apparently came to a decision. Abruptly he leaned towards his desk microphone and pressed a switch.

  “Get me a Sand Flea and a driver,” he said. “I want them at Lock One West in thirty minutes.”

  He turned to Gibson.

  “Can you be ready by then?”

  “What— yes, I suppose so. I’ve only got to get my breathing gear from the hotel.”

  “Good— see you in half an hour.”

  Gibson was there ten minutes early, his brain in a whirl. Transport had managed to produce a vehicle in time, and the Chief was punctual as ever. He gave the driver instructions which Gibson was unable to catch, and the Flea jerked out of the dome on to the road circling the city.

  “I’m doing something rather rash, Gibson,” said Hadfield as the brilliant green landscape flowed past them. “Will you give me your word that you’ll say nothing of this until I authorize you?”

  “Why, certainly,” said Gibson, startled.

  “I’m trusting you because I believe you’re on our side, and haven’t been as big a nuisance as I expected.”

  “Thank you,” said Gibson dryly.

  “And because of what you’ve just taught us about our own planet. I think we owe you something in return.”

  The Flea had swung round to the south, following the track that led up into the hills. And, quite suddenly, Gibson realized where they were going.

  “Were you very upset when you heard that we’d crashed?” asked Jimmy anxiously.

  “Of course I was,” said Irene. “Terribly upset. I couldn’t sleep for worrying about you.”

  “Now it’s all over, though, don’t you think it was worth it?”

  “I suppose so, but somehow it keeps reminding me that in a month you’ll be gone again. Oh, Jimmy, what shall we do then?”

  Deep despair settled upon the two lovers. All Jimmy’s present satisfaction vanished into gloom. There was no escaping from this inevitable fact. The Ares would be leaving Deimos in less than four weeks, and it might be years before he could return to Mars. It was a prospect too terrible for words.

  “I can’t possibly stay on Mars, even if they’d let me,” said Jimmy. “I can’t earn a living until I’m qualified, and I’ve still got two years’ post-graduate work and a trip to Venus to do! There’s only one thing for it!”

  Irene’s eyes brightened; then she relapsed into gloom.

  “Oh, we’ve been through that before. I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t agree.”

  “Well, it won’t do any harm to try. I’ll get Martin to tackle him.”

  “Mr. Gibson? Do you think he would?”

  “I know he will, if I ask him. And he’ll make it sound convincing.”

  “I don’t see why he should bother.”

  “Oh, he likes me,” said Jimmy with easy self-assurance. “I’m sure he’ll agree with us. It’s not right that you should stick here on Mars and never see anything of Earth. Paris— New York— London— why, you haven’t lived until you’ve visited them. Do you know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “Your father’s being selfish in keeping you here.”

  Irene pouted a little. She was very fond of her father and her first impulse was to defend him vigorously. But she was now torn between two loyalties, though in the long run there was no doubt which would win.

  “Of course,” said Jimmy, realizing that he might have gone too far, “I’m sure he really means to do the best for you, but he’s got so many things to worry about. He’s probably forgotten what Earth is like and doesn’t realize what you’re losing! No, you must get away be
fore it’s too late.”

  Irene still looked uncertain. Then her sense of humor, so much more acute than Jimmy’s, came to the rescue.

  “I’m quite sure that if we were on Earth, and you had to go back to Mars, you’d be able to prove just as easily that I ought to follow you there!”

  Jimmy looked a little hurt, then realized that Irene wasn’t really laughing at him.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s settled. I’ll talk to Martin as soon as I see him— and ask him to tackle your dad. So let’s forget all about it until then, shall we?”

  They did, very nearly.

  The little amphitheater in the hills above Port Lowell was just as Gibson had remembered it, except that the green of its lush vegetation had darkened a little, as if it had already received the first warning of the still far-distant autumn. The Sand Flea drove up to the largest of the four small domes, and they walked over to the airlock.

  “When I was here before,” said Gibson dryly, “I was told we’d have to be disinfected before we could enter.”

  “A slight exaggeration to discourage unwanted visitors,” said Hadfield, unabashed. The outer door had opened at his signal, and they quickly stripped off their breathing apparatus. “We used to take such precautions, but they’re no longer necessary.”

  The inner door slid aside and they stepped through into the dome. A man wearing the white smock of the scientific worker— the clean white smock of the very senior scientific worker— was waiting for them.

  “Hello, Baines,” said Hadfield. “Gibson— this is Professor Baines. I expect you’ve heard of each other.”

  They shook hands. Baines, Gibson knew, was one of the world’s greatest experts on plant genetics. He had read a year or two ago that he had gone to Mars to study its flora.

  “So you’re the chap who’s just discovered Oxyfera,” said Baines dreamily. He was a large, rugged man with an absent-minded air which contrasted strangely with his massive frame and determined features.

  “Is that what you call it?” asked Gibson. “Well, I thought I’d discovered it. But I’m beginning to have doubts.”

  “You certainly discovered something quite as important,” Hadfield reassured him. “But Baines isn’t interested in animals, so it’s no good talking to him about your Martian friends.”

  They were walking between low temporary walls which, Gibson saw, partitioned the dome into numerous rooms and corridors. The whole place looked as if it had been built in a great hurry; they came across beautiful scientific apparatus supported on rough packing cases, and everywhere there was an atmosphere of hectic improvisation. Yet, curiously enough, very few people were at work. Gibson obtained the impression that whatever task had been going on here was now completed and that only a skeleton staff was left.

  Baines led them to an airlock connecting with one of the other domes, and as they waited for the last door to open he remarked quietly: “This may hurt your eyes a bit.” With this warning, Gibson put up his hand as a shield.

  His first impression was one of light and heat. It was almost as if he had moved from Pole to Tropics in a single step. Overhead, batteries of powerful lamps were blasting the hemispherical chamber with light. There was something heavy and oppressive about the air that was not only due to the heat, and he wondered what sort of atmosphere he was breathing.

  This dome was not divided up by partitions; it was simply a large, circular space laid out into neat plots on which grew all the Martian plants which Gibson had ever seen, and many more besides. About a quarter of the area was covered by tall brown fronds which Gibson recognized at once.

  “So you’ve known about them all the time?” he said, neither surprised nor particularly disappointed. (Hadfield was quite right: the Martians were much more important.)

  “Yes,” said Hadfield. “They were discovered about two years ago and aren’t very rare along the equatorial belt. They only grow where there’s plenty of sunlight, and your little crop was the farthest north they’ve ever been found.”

  “It takes a great deal of energy to split the oxygen out of the sand,” explained Baines. “We’ve been helping them here with these lights, and trying some experiments of our own. Come and look at the result.”

  Gibson walked over to the plot, keeping carefully to the narrow path. These plants weren’t, after all, exactly the same as those he had discovered, though they had obviously descended from the same stock. The most surprising difference was the complete absence of gas-pods, their place having been taken by myriads of minute pores.

  “This is the important point,” said Hadfield. “We’ve bred a variety which releases its oxygen directly into the air, because it doesn’t need to store it any more. As long as it’s got plenty of light and heat, it can extract all its needs from the sand and will throw off the surplus. All the oxygen you’re breathing now comes from these plants— there’s no other source in this dome.”

  “I see,” said Gibson slowly. “So you’d already thought of my idea— and gone a good deal further. But I still don’t understand the need for all this secrecy.”

  “What secrecy?” said Hadfield with an air of injured innocence.

  “Really!” protested Gibson. “You’ve just asked me not to say anything about this place.”

  “Oh, that’s because there will be an official announcement in a few days, and we haven’t wanted to raise false hopes. But there hasn’t been any real secrecy.”

  Gibson brooded over this remark all the way back to Port Lowell. Hadfield had told him a good deal, but had he told him everything? Where— if at all— did Phobos come into the picture? Gibson wondered if his suspicions about the inner moon were completely unfounded; it could obviously have no connection with this particular project. He felt like trying to force Hadfield’s hand by a direct question, but thought better of it. He might only make himself look a fool if he did.

  The domes of Port Lowell were climbing up over the steeply convex horizon when Gibson broached the subject that had been worrying him for the past fortnight.

  “The Ares is going back to Earth in three weeks, isn’t she?” he remarked to Hadfield. The other merely nodded; the question was obviously a purely rhetorical one for Gibson knew the answer as well as anybody.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Gibson slowly, “that I’d like to stay on Mars a bit longer. Maybe until next year.”

  “Oh,” said Hadfield. The exclamation revealed neither congratulation nor disapproval, and Gibson felt a little piqued that his shattering announcement had fallen flat. “What about your work?” continued the Chief.

  “All that can be done just as easily here as on Earth.”

  “I suppose you realize,” said Hadfield, “that if you stay here you’ll have to take up some useful profession.” He smiled a little wryly. “That wasn’t very tactful, was it? What I mean is that you’ll have to do something to help run the colony. Have you any particular ideas in this line?”

  This was a little more encouraging; at least it meant that Hadfield had not dismissed the suggestion at once. But it was a point that Gibson had overlooked in his first rush of enthusiasm.

  “I wasn’t thinking of making a permanent home here,” he said a little lamely. “But I want to spend some time studying the Martians, and I’d like to see if I can find any more of them. Besides, I don’t want to leave Mars just when things are getting interesting.”

  “What do you mean?” said Hadfield swiftly.

  “Why— these oxygen plants, and getting Dome Seven into operation. I want to see what comes of all this in the next few months.”

  Hadfield looked thoughtfully at his passenger. He was less surprised than Gibson might have imagined, for he had seen this sort of thing happen before. He had even wondered if it was going to happen to Gibson, and was by no means displeased at the turn of events.

  The explanation was really very simple. Gibson was happier now than he had ever been on Earth; he had done something worth while, and felt that he was becomi
ng part of the Martian community. The identification was now nearly complete, and the fact that Mars had already made one attempt on his life had merely strengthened his determination to stay. If he returned to Earth, he would not be going home— he would be sailing into exile.

  “Enthusiasm isn’t enough, you know,” said Hadfield.

  “I quite understand that.”

  “This little world of ours is founded on two things— skill and hard work. Without both of them, we might just as well go back to Earth.”

  “I’m not afraid of work, and I’m sure I could learn some of the administrative jobs you’ve got here— and a lot of the routine technical ones.”

  This, Hadfield thought, was probably true. Ability to do these things was a function of intelligence, and Gibson had plenty of that. But more than intelligence was needed; there were personal factors as well. It would be best not to raise Gibson’s hopes until he had made further enquiries and discussed the matter with Whittaker.

  “I’ll tell you what to do,” said Hadfield. “Put in a provisional application to stay, and I’ll have it signaled to Earth. We’ll get their answer in about a week. Of course, if they turn you down there’s nothing we can do.”

  Gibson doubted this, for he knew just how much notice Hadfield took of terrestrial regulations when they interfered with his plans. But he merely said: “And if Earth agrees, then I suppose it’s up to you?”

  “Yes. I’ll start thinking about my answer then.”

  That, thought Gibson, was satisfactory as far as it went. Now that he had taken the plunge, he felt a great sense of relief, as if everything was now outside his control. He had merely to drift with the current, awaiting the progress of events.

  The door of the airlock opened before them and the Flea crunched into the city. Even if he had made a mistake, no great harm would be done. He could always go back to Earth by the next ship— or the one after.