The Space Trilogy

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “Do these machines ever break down outside?” he asked as they climbed into the Flea.

  “Not very often. They’ve got a terrific safety factor and there’s really very little to go wrong. Of course, sometimes a careless driver gets stuck, but you can usually haul yourself out of anything with the winch. There have only been a couple of cases of people having to walk home in the last month.”

  “I trust we won’t make a third,” said Mackay, as the vehicle rolled into the lock.

  “I shouldn’t worry about that,” laughed the driver, waiting for the outer door to open. “We won’t be going far from base, so we can always get back even if the worst comes to the worst.”

  With a surge of power they shot through the lock and out of the city. A narrow road had been cut through the low, vivid vegetation—a road which circled the port and from which other highways radiated to the nearby mines, to the radio station and observatory on the hills, and to the landing ground on which even now the Ares’s freight was being unloaded as the rockets ferried it down from Deimos.

  “Well,” said the driver, halting at the first junction. “It’s all yours. Which way do we go?”

  Gibson was struggling with a map three sizes too big for the cabin. Their guide looked at it with scorn.

  “I don’t know where you got hold of that,” he said. “I suppose Admin gave it to you. It’s completely out of date, anyway. If you’ll tell me where you want to go I can take you there without bothering about that thing.”

  “Very well,” Gibson replied meekly. “I suggest we climb up into the hills and get a good look round. Let’s go to the Observatory.”

  The Flea leapt forward along the narrow road and the brilliant green around them merged into a featureless blur.

  “How fast can these things go?” asked Gibson, when he had climbed out of Mackay’s lap.

  “Oh, at least a hundred on a good road. But as there aren’t any good roads on Mars, we have to take it easy. I’m doing sixty now. On rough ground you’ll be lucky to average half that.”

  “And what about range?” said Gibson, obviously still a little nervous.

  “A good thousand kilometres on one charge, even allowing pretty generously for heating, cooking, and the rest. For really long trips we tow a trailer with spare power cells. The record’s about five thousand kilometres; I’ve done three before now, prospecting out in Argyre. When you’re doing that sort of thing, you arrange to get supplies dropped from the air.”

  Though they had now been travelling for no more than a couple of minutes, Port Lowell was already falling below the horizon. The steep curvature of Mars made it very difficult to judge distances, and the fact that the domes were now half concealed by the curve of the planet made one imagine that they were much larger objects at a far greater distance than they really were.

  Soon afterwards, they began to reappear as the Flea started climbing towards higher ground. The hills above Port Lowell were less than a kilometre high, but they formed a useful break for the cold winter winds from the south, and gave vantage points for radio station and observatory.

  They reached the radio station half an hour after leaving the city. Feeling it was time to do some walking, they adjusted their masks and dismounted from the Flea, taking turns to go through the tiny collapsible airlock.

  The view was not really very impressive. To the north, the domes of Port Lowell floated like bubbles on an emerald sea. Over to the west Gibson could just catch a glimpse of crimson from the desert which encircled the entire planet. As the crest of the hills still lay a little above him, he could not see southwards, but he knew that the green band of vegetation stretched for several hundred kilometres until it petered out into the Mare Erythraeum. There were hardly any plants here on the hilltop, and he presumed that this was due to the absence of moisture.

  He walked over to the radio station. It was quite automatic, so there was no one he could buttonhole in the usual way, but he knew enough about the subject to guess what was going on. The giant parabolic reflector lay almost on its back, pointing a little east of the zenith—pointing to Earth, sixty million kilometres Sunwards. Along its invisible beam were coming and going the messages that linked these two worlds together. Perhaps at this very moment one of his own articles was flying Earthwards—or one of Ruth Goldstein’s directives was winging its way towards him.

  Mackay’s voice, distorted and feeble in this thin air, made him turn round.

  “Someone’s coming in to land down there—over on the right.”

  With some difficulty, Gibson spotted the tiny arrowhead of the rocket moving swiftly across the sky, racing in on a free glide just as he had done a week before. It banked over the city and was lost behind the domes as it touched down on the landing strip. Gibson hoped it was bringing in the remainder of his luggage, which seemed to have taken a long time to catch up with him.

  The Observatory was about five kilometres farther south, just over the brow of the hills, where the lights of Port Lowell would not interfere with its work. Gibson had half expected to see the gleaming domes which on Earth were the trademarks of the astronomers, but instead the only dome was the small plastic bubble of the living quarters. The instruments themselves were in the open, though there was provision for covering them up in the very rare event of bad weather.

  Everything appeared to be completely deserted as the Flea approached. They halted beside the largest instrument—a reflector with a mirror which, Gibson guessed, was less than a meter across. It was an astonishingly small instrument for the chief observatory on Mars. There were two small refractors, and a complicated horizontal affair which Mackay said was a mirror-transit—whatever that might be. And this, apart from the pressurized dome, seemed to be about all.

  There was obviously someone at home, for a small Sand Flea was parked outside the building.

  “They’re quite a sociable crowd,” said the driver as he brought the vehicle to a halt. “It’s a pretty dull life up here and they’re always glad to see people. And there’ll be room inside the dome for us to stretch our legs and have dinner in comfort.”

  “Surely we can’t expect them to provide a meal for us,” protested Gibson, who had a dislike of incurring obligations he couldn’t readily discharge.

  The driver looked genuinely surprised; then he laughed heartily.

  “This isn’t Earth, you know. On Mars, everyone helps everyone else—we have to, or we’d never get anywhere. But I’ve brought our provisions along—all I want to use is their stove. If you’d ever tried to cook a meal inside a Sand Flea with four aboard you’d know why.”

  As predicted, the two astronomers on duty greeted them warmly, and the little plastic bubble’s air-conditioning plant was soon dealing with the odours of cookery. While this was going on, Mackay had grabbed the senior member of the staff and started a technical discussion about the Observatory’s work. Most of it was quite over Gibson’s head, but he tried to gather what he could from the conversation.

  Most of the work done here was, it seemed, positional astronomy—the dull but essential business of finding longitudes and latitudes, providing time signals and linking radio fixes with the main Martian grid. Very little observational work was done at all; the huge instruments on Earth’s moon had taken that over long ago, and these small telescopes, with the additional handicap of an atmosphere above them, could not hope to compete. The parallaxes of a few nearer stars had been measured, but the very slight increase of accuracy provided by the wider orbit of Mars made it hardly worthwhile.

  As he ate his dinner—finding to his surprise that his appetite was better than at any time since reaching Mars—Gibson felt a glow of satisfaction at having done a little to brighten the dull lives of these devoted men. Because he had never met enough of them to shatter the illusion, Gibson had an altogether disproportionate respect for astronomers, whom he regarded as leading lives of monkish dedication on their remote mountain eyries. Even his first encounter with the excellent cocktail
bar on Mount Palomar had not destroyed this simple faith.

  After the meal, at which everyone helped so conscientiously with the washing-up that it took twice as long as necessary, the visitors were invited to have a look through the large reflector. Since it was early afternoon, Gibson did not imagine that there would be a great deal to see; but this was an oversight on his part.

  For a moment the picture was blurred, and he adjusted the focusing screw with clumsy fingers. It was not easy to observe with the special eyepiece needed when one was wearing a breathing mask, but after a while Gibson got the knack of it.

  Hanging in the field of view, against the almost black sky near the zenith, was a beautiful pearly crescent like a three-day-old moon. Some markings were just visible on the illuminated portion, but though Gibson strained his eyes to the utmost he could not identify them. Too much of the planet was in darkness for him to see any of the major continents.

  Not far away floated an identically shaped but much smaller and fainter crescent, and Gibson could distinctly see some of the familiar craters along its edge. They formed a beautiful couple, the twin planets Earth and Moon, but somehow they seemed too remote and ethereal to give him any feeling of homesickness or regret for all that he had left behind.

  One of the astronomers was speaking, his helmet held close to Gibson’s.

  “When it’s dark you can see the lights of the cities down there on the night side. New York and London are easy. The prettiest sight, though, is the reflections of the Sun off the sea. You get it near the edge of the disc when there’s no cloud about—a sort of brilliant, shimmering star. It isn’t visible now because it’s mostly land on the crescent portion.”

  Before leaving the Observatory, they had a look at Deimos, which was rising in its leisurely fashion in the east. Under the highest power of the telescope the rugged little moon seemed only a few kilometres away, and to his surprise Gibson could see the Ares quite clearly as two gleaming dots close together. He also wanted to look at Phobos, but the inner moon had not yet risen.

  When there was nothing more to be seen, they bade farewell to the two astronomers, who waved back rather glumly as the Flea drove off along the brow of the hill. The driver explained that he wanted to make a private detour to pick up some rock specimens, and as to Gibson one part of Mars was very much like another he raised no objection.

  There was no real road over the hills, but ages ago all irregularities had been worn away so that the ground was perfectly smooth. Here and there a few stubborn boulders still jutted above the surface, displaying a fantastic riot of colour and shape, but these obstacles were easily avoided. Once or twice they passed small trees—if one could call them that—of a type which Gibson had never seen before. They looked rather like pieces of coral, completely stiff and petrified. According to their driver they were immensely old, for though they were certainly alive no one had yet been able to measure their rate of growth. The smallest value which could be derived for their age was fifty thousand years, and their method of reproduction was a complete mystery.

  Towards mid-afternoon they came to a low but beautifully coloured cliff—“Rainbow Ridge,” the geologist called it—which reminded Gibson irresistibly of the more flamboyant Arizona canyons, though on a much smaller scale. They got out of the Sand Flea and, while the driver chipped off his samples, Gibson happily shot off half a reel of the new Multichrome film he had brought with him for just such occasions. If it could bring out all those colours perfectly it must be as good as the makers claimed, but unfortunately he’d have to wait until he got back to Earth before it could be developed. No one on Mars knew anything about it.

  “Well,” said the driver, “I suppose it’s time we started for home if we want to get back for tea. We can drive back the way we came, and keep to the high ground, or we can go round behind the hills. Any preferences?”

  “Why not drive down into the plain? That would be the most direct route,” said Mackay, who was now getting a little bored.

  “And the slowest—you can’t drive at any speed through those overgrown cabbages.”

  “I always hate retracing my steps,” said Gibson. “Let’s go round the hills and see what we can find there.”

  The driver grinned.

  “Don’t raise any false hopes. It’s much the same on both sides. Here we go!”

  The Flea bounced forward and Rainbow Ridge soon disappeared behind them. They were now winding their way through completely barren country, and even the petrified trees had vanished. Sometimes Gibson saw a patch of green which he thought was vegetation, but as they approached it invariably turned into another mineral outcrop. This region was fantastically beautiful, a geologist’s paradise, and Gibson hoped that it would never be ravaged by mining operations. It was certainly one of the show places of Mars.

  They had been driving for half an hour when the hills sloped down into a long, winding valley which was unmistakably an ancient watercourse. Perhaps fifty million years ago, the driver told them, a great river had flowed this way to lose its waters in the Mare Erythraeum—one of the few Martian “seas” to be correctly, if somewhat belatedly, named. They stopped the Flea and gazed down the empty river bed with mingled feelings. Gibson tried to picture this scene as it must have appeared in those remote days, when the great reptiles ruled the Earth and Man was still a dream of the distant future. The red cliffs would scarcely have changed in all that time, but between them the river would have made its unhurried way to the sea, flowing slowly under the weak gravity. It was a scene that might almost have belonged to Earth; and had it ever been witnessed by intelligent eyes? No one knew. Perhaps there had indeed been Martians in those days, but time had buried them completely.

  The ancient river had left a legacy, for there was still moisture along the lower reaches of the valley. A narrow band of vegetation had come thrusting up from Erythraeum, its brilliant green contrasting vividly with the crimson of the cliffs. The plants were those which Gibson had already met on the other side of the hills, but here and there were strangers. They were tall enough to be called trees, but they had no leaves—only thin, whip-like branches which continually trembled despite the stillness of the air. Gibson thought they were some of the most sinister things he had ever seen—just the sort of ominous plant that would suddenly flick out its tentacles at an unsuspecting passer-by. In fact, as he was perfectly well aware, they were as harmless as everything else on Mars.

  They had zigzagged down into the valley and were climbing the other slope when the driver suddenly brought the Flea to a halt.

  “Hello!” he said. “This is odd. I didn’t know there was any traffic in these parts.”

  For a moment Gibson, who was not really as observant as he liked to think, was at a loss. Then he noticed a faint track running along the valley at right angles to their present path.

  “There have been some heavy vehicles here,” said the driver. “I’m sure this track didn’t exist the last time I came this way—let’s see, about a year ago. And there haven’t been any expeditions into Erythraeum in that time.”

  “Where does it lead?” asked Gibson.

  “Well, if you go up the valley and over the top you’ll be back in Port Lowell; that was what I intended to do. The other direction only leads out into the Mare.”

  “We’ve got time—let’s go along it a little way.”

  Willingly enough, the driver swung the Flea around and headed down the valley. From time to time the track vanished as they went over smooth, open rock, but it always reappeared again. At last, however, they lost it completely.

  The driver stopped the Flea.

  “I know what’s happened,” he said. “There’s only one way it could have gone. Did you notice that pass about a kilometre back? Ten to one it leads up there.”

  “And where would that take anyone?”

  “That’s the funny thing—it’s a complete cul-de-sac. There’s a nice little amphitheatre about two kilometres across, but you can’t get out of
it anywhere except the way you came in. I spent a couple of hours there once when we did the first survey of this region. It’s quite a pretty little place, sheltered and with some water in the spring.”

  “A good hide-out for smugglers,” laughed Gibson.

  The driver grinned.

  “That’s an idea. Maybe there’s a gang bringing in contraband beefsteaks from Earth. I’d settle for one a week to keep my mouth shut.”

  The narrow pass had obviously once contained a tributary of the main river, and the going was a good deal rougher than in the main valley. They had not driven very far before it became quite clear that they were on the right track.

  “There’s been some blasting here,” said the driver. “This bit of road didn’t exist when I came this way. I had to make a detour up that slope, and nearly had to abandon the Flea.”

  “What do you think’s going on?” asked Gibson, now getting quite excited.

  “Oh, there are several research projects that are so specialized that one doesn’t hear a lot about them. Some things can’t be done near the city, you know. They may be building a magnetic observatory here—there’s been some talk of that. The generators at Port Lowell would be pretty well shielded by the hills. But I don’t think that’s the explanation, for I’d have heard—Good Lord!”

  They had suddenly emerged from the pass, and before them lay an almost perfect oval of green, flanked by the low, ochre hills. Once this might have been a lovely mountain lake; it was still a solace to the eye weary of lifeless, multicoloured rock. But for the moment Gibson scarcely noticed the brilliant carpet of vegetation; he was too astonished by the cluster of domes, like a miniature of Port Lowell itself, grouped at the edge of the little plain.

  They drove in silence along the road that had been cut through the living green carpet. No one was moving outside the domes, but a large transporter vehicle, several times the size of the Sand Flea, showed that someone was certainly at home.

  “This is quite a set-up,” remarked the driver as he adjusted his mask. “There must be a pretty good reason for spending all this money. Just wait here while I go over and talk to them.”