The Early Asimov. Volume 2

by Isaac Asimov

  Eyes, puffed for lack of sleep, glistened once more at the sight of hills on the horizon. Bodies, almost broken for sheer weariness, tensed once more when they rose against the sky.

  And the truck leaped ahead, - for just behind the hills lay Aresopolis. The road they traveled was no longer a rule-edge straight one, guided by the compass, over table-top-flat land. It followed narrow, twisting trails over rocky ground.

  They had reached Twin Peaks, then, when there was a sudden sputter from the motor, a few halting coughs and then silence.

  Allen sat up and there was weariness and utter disgust in his voice, 'What's wrong with this everlastingly-to-be-damned machine now?'

  His brother shrugged, 'Nothing that I haven't been expecting for the last hour. We're out o' gas. Doesn't matter at all. We're at Twin Peaks - only ten miles fr'm the city. We c'n get there in an hour, and then they c'n send men out here for the blooms.'

  'Ten miles in an hour!' protested Allen. 'You're crazy.' His face suddenly twisted at an agonizing thought, 'My God! We can't do it under three hours and it's almost night. No one can last that long in a Martian night. George, we're -'

  George was pulling him out of the car by main force, 'By Jupe 'n' domn, All'n, don't let the tenderfoot show through now. We c'n do it in an hour, I tell y'. Didn't y' ever try running under sub-normal gravity? It's like flying. Look at me.'

  He was off, skimming the ground closely, and proceeding in ground-covering leaps that shrank him to a speck up the mountain side in a moment.

  He waved, and his voice came thinly, 'Come on!'

  Allen started, - and sprawled at the third wild stride, arms flailing and legs straddled wide. The Ganymedan's laughter drifted down in heartless gusts.

  Allen rose angrily and dusted himself. At an ordinary walk, he made his way upwards.

  'Don't get sore, All'n,' said George. 'It's a knack, and I've had practice on Gannie. Just pretend y'r running along a feather bed. Run rhythmically - a sort o' very slow rhythm -and run close t' the ground; don't leap high. Like this. Watch me!'

  The Earthman tried it, eyes on his brother. His first few uncertain strides became surer and longer. His legs stretched and his arms swung as he matched his brother, step for step.

  George shouted encouragement and speeded his pace, 'Keep lower t' the ground, All'n. Don't leap 'fore y'r toes hit the ground.'

  Allen's eyes shone and, for the moment, weariness was forgotten, 'This is great! It is like flying - or like springs on your shoes.'

  'Y' ought t' have lived on Gannie with me. We've got special fields f'r subgravity races. An expairt racer c'n do forty miles an hour at times - and I c'n do thirty-five myself. - O' course, the gravity there's a bit lower than here on Mars.'

  Long hair streamed backwards in the wind and skin reddened at the bittercold air that blew past. The ruddy patches of sunlight traveled higher and higher up the slopes, lingered briefly upon the very summits and went out altogether. The short Martian twilight started upon its rapidly darkening career. The Evening Star - Earth - was already glimmering brightly, its attendant moon somewhat closer than the night previous.

  The passing minutes went unheeded by Allen. He was too absorbed by the wonderful new sensation of sub-gravity running, to do anything more than follow his brother. Even the increasing chilliness scarcely registered upon his consciousness.

  It was George, then, upon whose countenance a tiny, puckered uneasiness grew into a vast, panicky frown.

  'Hi, All'n, hold up!' he called. Leaning backward, he brought himself to a short, hopping halt full of grace and ease. Allen tried to do likewise, broke his rhythm and went forward upon his face. He rose with loud reproaches.

  The Ganymedan turned a deaf ear to them. His gaze was sombre in the dusk, 'D' y' know where we are, All'n?'

  Allen felt a cold constriction about his windpipe as he stared about him quickly. Things looked different in semi-darkness, but they looked more different than they ought. It was impossible for things to be so different.

  'We should've sighted Old Baldy by now, shouldn't we have?' he quavered.

  'We sh'd've sighed him long ago,' came the hard answer. ' 'Tis that domned quake. Landslides must've changed the trails. The peaks themselves must've been screwed up -' His voice was thin-edged, 'Allen, 'tisn't any use making believe. We're dead lost.'

  For a moment, they stood silently - uncertainly. The sky was purple and the hills retreated into the night. Allen licked bluechilled lips with a dry tongue.

  'We can't be but a few miles away. We're bound to stumble on the city if we look.'

  'Consider the situation, Airthman,' came the savage, shouted answer, ' 'Tis night, Martian night. The temperature's down past zero and plummeting every minute. We haven't any time t' look; - we've got t' go straight there. If we're not there in half an hour, we're not going t' get there at all.'

  Allen knew that well, and mention of the cold increased his consciousness of it. He spoke through chattering teeth as he drew his heavy, fur-lined coat closer about him.

  'We might build a fire!' The suggestion was a half-hearted one, muttered indistinctly, and fallen upon immediately by the other.

  'With what?' George was beside himself with sheer disappointment and frustration. 'We've pulled through this far, and now we'll prob'ly freeze t' death within a mile o' the city. C'mon, keep running. It's a hundred-t'-one chance."

  But Allen pulled him back. There was a feverish glint in the Earthman's eye, 'Bonfires!' he said irrelevantly. 'It's a possibility. Want to take a chance that might do the trick?'

  'Nothin' else t' do,' growled the other. 'But hurry. Every minute I -'

  'Then run with the wind - and keep going.'

  'Why?'

  'Never mind why. Do what I say - run with the wind!'

  There was no false optimism in Allen as he bounded through the dark, stumbling over loose stones, sliding down declivities, - always with the wind at his back. George ran at his side, a vague, formless blotch in the night.

  The cold was growing more bitter, but it was not quite as bitter as the freezing pang of apprehension gnawing at the Earthman's vitals.

  Death is unpleasant!

  And then they topped the rise, and from George's throat came a loud 'B' Jupe 'n' domn!' of triumph.

  The ground before them, as far as the eye could see, was dotted by bonfires. Shattered Aresopolis lay ahead, its homeless inhabitants making the night bearable by the simple agency of burning wood.

  And on the hilly slortes, two weary figures slapped each other on the backs, laughed wildly and pressed half-frozen, stubbly cheeks together for sheer, unadulterated joy.

  They were there at last!

  The Aresopolis lab, on the very outskirts of the city, was one of the few structures still standing. Within, by makeshift light, haggard chemists were distilling the last drops of extract.

  Without, the city's police-force remnants were clearing desperate way for the precious flasks and vials as they were distributed to the various emergency medical centres set up in various regions of the bonfire-pocked ruins that were once the Martian metropolis.

  Old Hal Vincent supervised the process and his faded eyes ever and again peered anxiously into the hills beyind, watching hopefully but doubtfully for the promised cargo of blooms.

  And then two figures reeled out of the darkness and collapsed to a halt before him.

  Chill anxiety clamped down upon him, 'The blooms! Where are they? Have you got them?'

  'At Twin Peaks,' gasped Allen. 'A ton of them and better in a sand-truck. Send for them.'

  ' A group of police grind-cars set off before he had finished, and Vincent exclaimed bewilderedly, 'A sand-truck? Why didn't you send it in a ship? What's wrong with you out there, anyway? Earthquake-'

  He received no direct answer. George had stumbled toward the nearest bonfire with a beatific expression on his worn face.

  'Ahhh, 'tis warm!' Slowly, he folded and dropped, asleep before he hit the ground.

 
; Allen coughed gaspingly, 'Huh! The Gannie tenderfoot! Couldn't - ulp - take it!'

  And the ground came up and hit him in the face.

  Allen woke with the evening sun in his eyes and the odor of frying bacon in his nostrils. George shoved the frying pan toward him and said between gigantic, wolfing mouthfuls, 'Help yourself.',

  He pointed to the empty sand-truck outside the labs, 'They got the stuff all right.'

  Allen fell to, quietly. George wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, 'Say, All'n, how 'd y' find the city? I've been sitting here trying t' figure it all out.'

  'It was the bonfires,' came the muffled answer. 'It was the only way they could get heat, and fires over square miles of land create a whole section of heated air, which rises, causing the cold surrounding air of the hills to sweep in.' He suited his words with appropriate gestures. 'The wind in the hills was heading for the city to replace warm air and we followed the wind. - Sort of a natural compass, pointing to where we wanted to go.'

  George was silent, kicking with embarrassed vigor at the ashes of the bonfire of the night before.

  'Lis'n, All'n, I've had y" a'wrong. Y' were an Airthman tanderfoot t' me till-' He paused, drew a deep breath and exploded with, 'Well, by Jupe 'n' domn, y'r my twin brother and I'm.proud o' it. All Airth c'dn't drown out the Carter blood in y'.'

  The Earthman opened his mouth to reply but his brother clamped one palm over it. 'Y' keep quiet, till I'm finished. After we get back, y' can fix up that mechanical picker or anything else y' want. I drop my veto. If Airth and machines c'n tairn out y'r kind o' man, they're all right. But just the same,' there was a trace of wistfulness in his voice, 'y' got t' admit that everytime the machines broke down - from irrigation-trucks and rocket-ships to ventilators and sand-trucks -'twas men who had t' pull through in spite o' all that Mars could do.'

  Allen wrenched his face from out behind the restraining palm.

  The machines do their best,' he said, but not too vehemently.

  'Sure, but that's all they can do. When the emairgency comes, a man's got t' do a damn lot better than his best or he's a goner.'

  The other paused, nodded and gripped the other's hand with sudden fierceness, 'Oh, we're not so different. Earth and Ganymede are plastered thinly over the outside of us, but inside -'

  He caught himself.

  'Come on, let's give out with that old Gannie quaver.'

  And from the two fraternal throats tore forth a shrieking eldritch yell such as the thin, cold Martian air had seldom before carried.

  ***

  I got the cover again with 'Heredity.'

  In connection with that story, I remember best a comment I received from a young fellow named Scott Feldman (who was then still in his teens but who was later, as Scott Meredith, to become one of the most important literary agents in the business). He disapproved of the story because I introduced two characters at the start who disappeared from the story and were never heard of again.

  Once that was pointed out to me, it seemed to me that this was indeed a major flaw, and I wondered why neither Campbell nor Pohl had specifically pointed it out. I never quite had the courage to ask, however.

  But it did cause me to look at my stories more closely thereafter, and to realize again that writing isn't all inspiration and free flow. You do have to ask yourself pretty mechanical questions, such as, 'What do I do with this character now that I've taken the trouble to make use of him?'

  By the time Campbell was rejecting, and Pohl accepting 'Heredity,' I was writing 'History.' The same thing happened. I submitted it to Campbell on September 13. It was rejected, and, eventually, Pohl took it.

  History [5]

  Ullen's lank arm pushed the stylus carefully and painstakingly across the paper; his near-sighfed eyes blinked through thick lenses. The signal light flashed twice before he answered.

  He turned a page, and called out, 'Is dat you, Johnnie? Come in, please.'

  He smiled gently, his thin, Martian face alight with pleasure.

  'Sit down, Johnnie - but first lower de window-shade. De glare of your great Eard sun is annoying. Ah, dat's good, and now sid down and be very, very quiet for just a little while, because I am busy.'

  John Brewster shifted a pile of ill-stacked papers and seated himself. He blew the dust from the edges of an open book in the next chair and looked reproachfully on the Martian historian.

  'Are you still poking around these musty old things? Don't you get tired?'

  'Please, Johnnie,' Ullen did not look up, 'you will lose de page. Dat book dere is William Stewart's "Hitlerian Era" and it is very hard to read. So many words h§ uses which he doesn't explain.'

  His expression as it focussed upon Johnnie was one of frowning petulance, 'Never do dey explain deir terms. It is so unscientific. On Mars, before we even start, we say, "Dis is a list of all definitions of terms to be used." How oderwise can people talk sensibly? Hmp! You crazy Eardmen.'

  'Oh, nuts, Ullen - forget it. Why don't you look at me. Don't you even notice anything?'

  The Martian sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned them thoughtfully and carefully replaced them. He stared impersonally at Johnnie, 'Well, I dink it is new clothes you are wearing. It is not so?'

  'New clothes! Is that all you can say, Ullen? This is a uniform. I'm a member of the Home Defense.' He rose to his feet, a picture of boyish exuberance.

  'What is dis "Home Defense"?' asked Ullen languidly.

  Johnnie gulped and sat down helplessly, 'You know, I really think you haven't heard that Earth and Venus have been at war for the last week. I'll bet money you haven't.'

  'I've been busy.' He frowned and pursed his thin, bloodless lips, 'On Mars, dere is no war - at least, dere isn't any more. Once, we used to fight, but dat was long ago. Once we were scientists, too, and dat was long ago. Now, dere are only a few of us - and we do not fight. Dere is no happiness dat way.' He seemed to shake himself, and spoke more briskly, 'Tell me, Johnnie, do you know where it is I can find what it means, dis "national honor?" It holds me back. I can't go furder unless I can understand it.'

  Johnnie rose to his full height and glittered in the spotless green of the Terrestrial Service. He laughed with fond indulgence. 'You're hopeless, Ullen, - you old coot. Aren't you going to wish me luck? I'm hitting space tomorrow.'

  'Oh, is dere danger?'

  There was a squawk of laughter, 'Danger? What do you think?'

  'Well, den, to seek danger - it is foolish. Why do you do it?'

  'You wouldn't understand, Ullen. Just wish me luck and say you hope I come through whole.'

  'Cer-tain-ly! I don't want anyone to die.' He slipped his hand into the strong fist held out to him. 'Take care of yourself, Johnnie - and wait, before you go, bring me Stewart's book. Everything is so heavy here on Eard. Heavy, heavy, -and de words have no definitions.'

  He sighed, and was back at his books as Johnnie slipped quietly out of the room.

  'Dese barbarous people,' he muttered sleepily to himself. 'War! Dey dink dat by killing-' His voice died away and merged into a slurred mumble as his eyes followed creeping finger across the page.

  ' "From the very moment of the union of the Anglo-Saxon world into a single governmental entity and even as far back as the spring of 1941, it was evident that the doom of-"'

  'Dese crazy Eardmen!'

  Ullen leaned heavily upon his crutches on the steps of the University library and one thin hand shielded his watering eyes from the terrible Earthly sun.

  The sky was blue, cloudless, - undisturbed. Yet somewhere up above, beyond the planet's airy blanket, steel-sided ships were veering and sparking in vicious combat. And down upon the city were falling the tiny 'Drops of Death,' the highly-publicized radioactive bombs that noiselessly and inexorably ate out a fifteen foot crater wherever they fell.

  The city's population was herding into the shelters and burying themselves inside the deep-set leaden cells. Upstaring, silent, anxious, they streamed past Ullen. Uniformed guar
ds invested some sort of order into the gigantic flight, steering the stragglers and speeding the laggards.

  The air was filled with barked orders.

  'Hit the shelter, Pop. Better get going. You can't stand there, you know.'

  Ullen turned to the guard who addressed him and slowly brought his wandering thoughts to bear upon the situation.

  'I am sorry, Eardman - but I cannot move very fast on your huge world.' He tapped one crutch upon the marble flags beneath. 'Dings are so heavy. If I were to crowd in wid de rest, I would be crushed.'

  He smiled gently down from his lank height, and the guard rubbed a stubby chin, 'All right, pop, I can fix that. It is tough on you Marsies at that. - Here, hold those crutches up out of the way.'

  With a heave, he cradled the Martian, 'Hold your legs close to my body, because we're going to travel fast.'

  His bulky figure pressed through the line of Earthmen. Ullen shut his eyes as the rapid motion under supernormal gravity stirred his stomach into rebellion. He opened them once again in the dim recesses of the low-ceilinged shelter.

  The guard set him down carefully and adjusted the crutches beneath Ullen's armpits, 'O.K. Pop. Take care of yourself.'

  Ullen took in his surroundings and hobbled to one of the low benches at the near end of the shelter. From behind him came the sombre clang of the thick, leaden door.

  The Martian historian fished a worn tablet from his pocket and scribbled slow notes. He disregarded the excited babble that arose about him and the scraps of heated talk that filled the air thickly.

  And then he scratched at his furrowed forehead with the stub end of his pencil, meeting the staring eyes of the man sitting next to him. He smiled abstractedly and returned to his notes.

  'You're a Martian, aren't you?' His neighbor spoke in quick, squeaky tones. 'I don't like foreigners much, but I've got nothing special against Marsies. These Veenies, now, they -'

  Ullen's soft tones interrupted him. 'Hate is all wrong, I dink. Dis war is a great annoyance - a great one. It interferes wid my work and you Eardmen ought to stop it. Is it not so?'