The Space Trilogy

by Arthur C. Clarke

  Not without difficulty, he hacked off one of the long black fronds near the roots. A dark brown fluid began to ooze out of the severed end, releasing tiny bubbles of gas as it did so. With this souvenir hanging over his shoulder, Gibson began to make his way back to the ship.

  He did not know that he was carrying with him the future of a world.

  They had gone only a few paces when they encountered a denser patch and had to make a detour. With the sun as a guide there was no danger of becoming lost, especially in such a small region, and they had made no attempt to retrace their footsteps exactly. Gibson was leading the way, and finding it somewhat heavy going. He was just wondering whether to swallow his pride and change places with Jimmy when he was relieved to come across a narrow, winding track leading more or less in the right direction.

  To any observer, it would have been an interesting demonstration of the slowness of some mental processes. For both Gibson and Jimmy had walked a good six paces before they remembered the simple but shattering truth that footpaths do not, usually, make themselves.

  “It’s about time our two explorers came back, isn’t it?” said the pilot as he helped Hilton detach the floodlights from the underside of the aircraft’s wing. This had proved, after all, to be a fairly straight-forward job, and Hilton hoped to find enough wiring inside the machine to run the lights far enough away from the cliff to be visible from Phobos when it rose again. They would not have the brilliance of Gibson’s flash, but their steady beams would give them a better chance of being detected.

  “How long have they been gone now?” said Hilton.

  “About forty minutes. I hope they’ve had the sense not to get lost.”

  “Gibson’s too careful to go wandering off. I wouldn’t trust young Jimmy by himself, though—he’d want to start looking for Martians!”

  “Oh, here they are. They seem to be in a bit of a hurry.”

  Two tiny figures had emerged from the middle distance and were bounding across the valley. Their haste was so obvious that the watchers downed tools and observed their approach with rising curiosity.

  The fact that Gibson and Jimmy had returned so promptly represented a triumph of caution and self-control. For a long moment of incredulous astonishment they had stood staring at that pathway through the thin brown plants. On Earth, nothing could have been more commonplace; it was just the sort of track that cattle make across a hill, or wild animals through a forest. Its very familiarity had at first prevented them from noticing it, and even when they had forced their minds to accept its presence, they still kept trying to explain it away.

  Gibson had spoken first, in a very subdued voice—almost as if he was afraid of being overheard.

  “It’s a path all right, Jimmy. But what could have made it, for heaven’s sake? No one’s ever been here before.”

  “It must have been some kind of animal.”

  “A fairly large one, too.”

  “Perhaps as big as a horse.”

  “Or a tiger.”

  The last remark produced an uneasy silence. Then Jimmy said: “Well, if it comes to a fight, that flash of yours should scare anything.”

  “Only if it had eyes,” said Gibson. “Suppose it had some other sense?”

  It was obvious that Jimmy was trying to think of good reasons for pressing ahead.

  “I’m sure we could run faster, and jump higher, than anything else on Mars.”

  Gibson liked to believe that his decision was based on prudence rather than cowardice.

  “We’re not taking any risks,” he said firmly. “We’re going straight back to tell the others. Then we’ll think about having a look round.”

  Jimmy had sense enough not to grumble, but he kept looking back wistfully as they returned to the ship. Whatever faults he might have, lack of courage was not among them.

  It took some time to convince the others that they were not attempting a rather poor practical joke. After all, everyone knew why there couldn’t be animal life on Mars. It was a question of metabolism: animals burned fuel so much faster than plants, and therefore could not exist in this thin, practically inert atmosphere. The biologists had been quick to point this out as soon as conditions on the surface of Mars had been accurately determined, and for the last ten years the question of animal life on the planet had been regarded as settled—except by incurable romantics.

  “Even if you saw what you think,” said Hilton, “there must be some natural explanation.”

  “Come and see for yourself,” retorted Gibson. “I tell you it was a well-worn track.”

  “Oh, I’m coming,” said Hilton.

  “So am I,” said the pilot.

  “Wait a minute! We can’t all go. At least one of us has got to stay behind.”

  For a moment Gibson felt like volunteering. Then he realized that he would never forgive himself if he did.

  “I found the track,” he said firmly.

  “Looks as if I’ve got a mutiny on my hands,” remarked Hilton. “Anyone got some money? Odd man out of you three stays behind.”

  “It’s a wild goose chase, anyway,” said the pilot, when he produced the only head. “I’ll expect you home in an hour. If you take any longer I’ll want you to bring back a genuine Martian princess, à la Edgar Rice Burroughs.”

  Hilton, despite his scepticism, was taking the matter more seriously.

  “There’ll be three of us,” he said, “so it should be all right even if we do meet anything unfriendly. But just in case none of us come back, you’re to sit right here and not go looking for us. Understand?”

  “Very well. I’ll sit tight.”

  The trio set off across the valley towards the little forest, Gibson leading the way. After reaching the tall thin fronds of “seaweed,” they had no difficulty in finding the track again. Hilton stared at it in silence for a good minute, while Gibson and Jimmy regarded him with “I told you so” expressions. Then he remarked: “Let’s have your flash-gun, Martin. I’m going first.”

  It would have been silly to argue. Hilton was taller, stronger, and more alert. Gibson handed over his weapon without a word.

  There can be no weirder sensation than that of walking along a narrow track between high leafy walls, knowing that at any moment you may come face to face with a totally unknown and perhaps unfriendly creature. Gibson tried to remind himself that animals which had never before encountered man were seldom hostile—though there were enough exceptions to this rule to make life interesting.

  They had gone about halfway through the forest when the track branched into two. Hilton took the turn to the right, but soon discovered that this was a cul-de-sac. It led to a clearing about twenty meters across, in which all the plants had been cut—or eaten—to within a short distance of the ground, leaving only the stumps showing. These were already beginning to sprout again, and it was obvious that this patch had been deserted for some time by whatever creatures had come here.

  “Herbivores,” whispered Gibson.

  “And fairly intelligent,” said Hilton. “See the way they’ve left the roots to come up again? Let’s go back along the other branch.”

  They came across the second clearing five minutes later. It was a good deal larger than the first, and it was not empty.

  Hilton tightened his grip on the flash-gun, and in a single smooth, well-practiced movement Gibson swung his camera into position and began to take the most famous photographs ever made on Mars. Then they all relaxed, and stood waiting for the Martians to notice them.

  In that moment centuries of fantasy and legend were swept away. All Man’s dreams of neighbours not unlike himself vanished into limbo. With them, unlamented, went Wells’ tentacled monstrosities and the other legions of crawling, nightmare horrors. And there vanished also the myth of coldly inhuman intelligences which might look down dispassionately on Man from their fabulous heights of wisdom—and might brush him aside with no more malice than he himself might destroy a creeping insect.

  There were t
en of the creatures in the glade, and they were all too busy eating to take any notice of the intruders. In appearance they resembled very plump kangaroos, their almost spherical bodies balanced on two large, slender hind-limbs. They were hairless, and their skin had a curious waxy sheen like polished leather. Two thin forearms, which seemed to be completely flexible, sprouted from the upper part of the body and ended in tiny hands like the claws of a bird—too small and feeble, one would have thought, to have been of much practical use. Their heads were set directly on the trunk with no suspicion of a neck, and bore two large pale eyes with wide pupils. There were no nostrils—only a very odd triangular mouth with three stubby bills which were making short work of the foliage. A pair of large, almost transparent ears hung limply from the head, twitching occasionally and sometimes folding themselves into trumpets which looked as if they might be extremely efficient sound detectors, even in this thin atmosphere.

  The largest of the beasts was about as tall as Hilton, but all the others were considerably smaller. One baby, less than a meter high, could only be described by the overworked adjective “cute.” It was hopping excitedly about in an effort to reach the more succulent leaves, and from time to time emitted thin, piping cries which were irresistibly pathetic.

  “How intelligent would you say they are?” whispered Gibson at last.

  “It’s hard to say. Notice how they’re careful not to destroy the plants they eat? Of course, that may be pure instinct—like bees knowing how to build their hives.”

  “They move very slowly, don’t they? I wonder if they’re warm-blooded.”

  “I don’t see why they should have blood at all. Their metabolism must be pretty weird for them to survive in this climate.”

  “It’s about time they took some notice of us.”

  “The big fellow knows we’re here. I’ve caught him looking at us out of the corner of his eye. Do you notice the way his ears keep pointing towards us?”

  “Let’s go out into the open.”

  Hilton thought this over.

  “I don’t see how they can do us much harm, even if they want to. Those little hands look rather feeble—but I suppose those three-sided beaks could do some damage. We’ll go forward, very slowly, for six paces. If they come at us, I’ll give them a flash with the gun while you make a bolt for it. I’m sure we can outrun them easily. They certainly don’t look built for speed.”

  Moving with a slowness which they hoped would appear reassuring rather than stealthy, they walked forward into the glade. There was now no doubt that the Martians saw them; half a dozen pairs of great, calm eyes stared at them, then looked away as their owners got on with the more important business of eating.

  “They don’t even seem to be inquisitive,” said Gibson, somewhat disappointed. “Are we as uninteresting as all this?”

  “Hello—Junior’s spotted us! What’s he up to?”

  The smallest Martian had stopped eating and was staring at the intruders with an expression that might have meant anything from rank disbelief to hopeful anticipation of another meal. It gave a couple of shrill squeaks which were answered by a noncommittal “honk” from one of the adults. Then it began to hop towards the interested spectators.

  It halted a couple of paces away, showing not the slightest signs of fear or caution.

  “How do you do?” said Hilton solemnly. “Let me introduce us. On my right, James Spencer; on my left, Martin Gibson. But I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name.”

  “Squeak,” said the small Martian.

  “Well, Squeak, what can we do for you?”

  The little creature put out an exploring hand and tugged at Hilton’s clothing. Then it hopped towards Gibson, who had been busily photographing this exchange of courtesies. Once again it put forward an enquiring paw, and Gibson moved the camera round out of harm’s way. He held out his hand, and the little fingers closed round it with surprising strength.

  “Friendly little chap, isn’t he?” said Gibson, having disentangled himself with difficulty. “At least he’s not as stuck-up as his relatives.”

  The adults had so far taken not the slightest notice of the proceedings. They were still munching placidly at the other side of the glade.

  “I wish we had something to give him, but I don’t suppose he could eat any of our food. Lend me your knife, Jimmy. I’ll cut down a bit of seaweed for him, just to prove that we’re friends.”

  This gift was gratefully received and promptly eaten, and the small hands reached out for more.

  “You seem to have made a hit, Martin,” said Hilton.

  “I’m afraid it’s cupboard love,” sighed Gibson. “Hey, leave my camera alone—you can’t eat that!”

  “I say,” said Hilton suddenly. “There’s something odd here. What colour would you say this little chap is?”

  “Why, brown in the front and—oh, a dirty gray at the back.”

  “Well, just walk to the other side of him and offer another bit of food.”

  Gibson obliged, Squeak rotating on his haunches so that he could grab the new morsel. And as he did so, an extraordinary thing happened.

  The brown covering on the front of his body slowly faded, and in less than a minute had become a dingy gray. At the same time, exactly the reverse happened on the creature’s back, until the interchange was complete.

  “Good Lord!” said Gibson. “It’s just like a chameleon. What do you think the idea is? Protective coloration?”

  “No, it’s cleverer than that. Look at those others over there. You see, they’re always brown—or nearly black—on the side towards the sun. It’s simply a scheme to catch as much heat as possible, and avoid re-radiating it. The plants do just the same—I wonder who thought of it first? It wouldn’t be any use on an animal that had to move quickly, but some of those big chaps haven’t changed position in the last five minutes.”

  Gibson promptly set to work photographing this peculiar phenomenon—not a very difficult feat to do, as wherever he moved Squeak always turned hopefully towards him and sat waiting patiently. When he had finished, Hilton remarked:

  “I hate to break up this touching scene, but we said we’d be back in an hour.”

  “We needn’t all go. Be a good chap, Jimmy—run back and say that we’re all right.”

  But Jimmy was staring at the sky—the first to realize that for the last five minutes an aircraft had been circling high over the valley.

  Their united cheer disturbed even the placidly browsing Martians, who looked round disapprovingly. It scared Squeak so much that he shot backwards in one tremendous hop, but soon got over his fright and came forward again.

  “See you later!” called Gibson over his shoulder as they hurried out of the glade. The natives took not the slightest notice.

  They were halfway out of the little forest when Gibson suddenly became aware of the fact that he was being followed. He stopped and looked back. Making heavy weather, but still hopping along gamely behind him, was Squeak.

  “Shoo!” said Gibson, flapping his arms around like a distraught scarecrow. “Go back to Mother! I haven’t got anything for you.”

  It was not the slightest use, and his pause had merely enabled Squeak to catch up with him. The others were already out of sight, unaware that Gibson had dropped back. They therefore missed a very interesting cameo as Gibson tried, without hurting Squeak’s feelings, to disengage himself from his new-found friend.

  He gave up the direct approach after five minutes, and tried guile. Fortunately he had failed to return Jimmy’s knife, and after much panting and hacking managed to collect a small pile of “seaweed” which he laid in front of Squeak. This, he hoped, would keep him busy for quite a while.

  He had just finished this when Hilton and Jimmy came hurrying back to find what had happened to him.

  “O.K.—I’m coming along now,” he said. “I had to get rid of Squeak somehow. That’ll stop him following.”

  The pilot in the crashed aircraft had been getting anx
ious, for the hour was nearly up and there was still no sign of his companions. By climbing on to the top of the fuselage he could see halfway across the valley, and to the dark area of vegetation into which they had disappeared. He was examining this when the rescue aircraft came driving out of the east and began to circle the valley.

  When he was sure it had spotted him he turned his attention to the ground again. He was just in time to see a group of figures emerging into the open plain—and a moment later he rubbed his eyes in rank disbelief.

  Three people had gone into the forest; but four were coming out. And the fourth looked a very odd sort of person indeed.

  Thirteen

  After what was later to be christened the most successful crash in the history of Martian exploration, the visit to Trivium Charontis and Port Schiaparelli was, inevitably, something of an anticlimax. Indeed Gibson had wished to postpone it altogether and to return to Port Lowell immediately with his prize. He had soon abandoned all attempts to jettison Squeak, and as everyone in the colony would be on tenterhooks to see a real, live Martian it had been decided to fly the little creature back with them.

  But Port Lowell would not let them return; indeed, it was ten days before they saw the capital again. Under the great domes, one of the decisive battles for the possession of the planet was now being fought. It was a battle which Gibson knew of only through the radio reports—a silent but deadly battle which he was thankful to have missed.

  The epidemic which Dr. Scott had asked for had arrived. At its peak, a tenth of the city’s population was sick with Martian fever. But the serum from Earth broke the attack, and the battle was won with only three fatal casualties. It was the last time that the fever ever threatened the colony.

  Taking Squeak to Port Schiaparelli involved considerable difficulties, for it meant flying large quantities of his staple diet ahead of him. At first it was doubted if he could live in the oxygenated atmosphere of the domes, but it was soon discovered that this did not worry him in the least—though it reduced his appetite considerably. The explanation of this fortunate accident was not discovered until a good deal later. What never was discovered at all was the reason for Squeak’s attachment to Gibson. Someone suggested, rather unkindly, that it was because they were approximately the same shape.