Before they continued their journey, Gibson and his colleagues, with the pilot of the rescue plane and the repair crew who arrived later, made several visits to the little family of Martians. They discovered only the one group, and Gibson wondered if these were the last specimens left on the planet. This, as it later turned out, was not the case.
The rescue plane had been searching along the track of their flight when it had received a radio message from Phobos reporting brilliant flashes in Aetheria. (Just how those flashes had been made had puzzled everyone considerably until Gibson, with justifiable pride, gave the explanation.) When they discovered it would take only a few hours to replace the jet units on their plane, they had decided to wait while the repairs were carried out and to use the time studying the Martians in their natural haunts. It was then that Gibson first suspected the secret of their existence.
In the remote past they had probably been oxygen breathers, and their life processes still depended on the element. They could not obtain it direct from the soil, where it lay in such countless trillions of tons; but the plants they ate could do so. Gibson quickly found that the numerous “pods” in the seaweed-like fronds contained oxygen under quite high pressure. By slowing down their metabolism, the Martians had managed to evolve a balance—almost a symbiosis—with the plants which provided them, literally, with food and air. It was a precarious balance which, one would have thought, might have been upset at any time by some natural catastrophe. But conditions on Mars had long ago reached stability, and the balance would be maintained for ages yet—unless Man disturbed it.
The repairs took a little longer than expected, and they did not reach Port Schiaparelli until three days after leaving Port Lowell. The second city of Mars held less than a thousand people, living under two domes on a long, narrow plateau. This had been the site of the original landing on Mars, and so the position of the city was really an historical accident. Not until some years later, when the planet’s resources began to be better known, was it decided to move the colony’s centre of gravity to Lowell and not to expand Schiaparelli any further.
The little city was in many respects an exact replica of its larger and more modern rival. Its specialty was light engineering, geological—or rather aereological—research, and the exploration of the surrounding regions. The fact that Gibson and his colleagues had accidentally stumbled on the greatest discovery so far made on Mars, less than an hour’s flight from the city, was thus the cause of some heartburning.
The visit must have had a demoralizing effect on all normal activity in Port Schiaparelli, for wherever Gibson went everything stopped while crowds gathered around Squeak. A favourite occupation was to lure him into a field of uniform illumination and to watch him turn black all over, as he blissfully tried to extract the maximum advantage from this state of affairs. It was in Schiaparelli that someone hit on the deplorable scheme of projecting simple pictures onto Squeak, and photographing the result before it faded. One day Gibson was very annoyed to come across a photo of his pet bearing a crude but recognizable caricature of a well-known television star.
On the whole, their stay in Port Schiaparelli was not a very happy one. After the first three days they had seen everything worth seeing, and the few trips they were able to make into the surrounding countryside did not provide much of interest. Jimmy was continually worrying about Irene, and putting through expensive calls to Port Lowell. Gibson was impatient to get back to the big city which, not so long ago, he had called an overgrown village. Only Hilton, who seemed to possess unlimited reserves of patience, took life easily and relaxed while the others fussed around him.
There was one excitement during their stay in the city. Gibson had often wondered, a little apprehensively, what would happen if the pressurizing dome ever failed. He received the answer—or as much of it as he had any desire for—one quiet afternoon when he was interviewing the city’s chief engineer in his office. Squeak had been with them, propped up on his large, flexible lower limbs like some improbable nursery doll.
As the interview progressed, Gibson became aware that his victim was showing more than the usual signs of restiveness. His mind was obviously very far away, and he seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Suddenly, without warning, the whole building trembled slightly as if hit by an earthquake. Two more shocks, equally spaced, came in quick succession. From a loudspeaker on the wall a voice called urgently: “Blow-out! Practice only! You have ten seconds to reach shelter! Blow-out! Practice only!”
Gibson had jumped out of his chair, but immediately realized there was nothing he need do. From far away there came a sound of slamming doors—then silence. The engineer got to his feet and walked over to the window, overlooking the city’s only main street.
“Everyone seems to have got to cover,” he said. “Of course, it isn’t possible to make these tests a complete surprise. There’s one a month, and we have to tell people what day it will be because they might think it was the real thing.”
“Just what are we all supposed to do?” asked Gibson, who had been told at least twice but had become a little rusty on the subject.
“As soon as you hear the signal—that’s the three ground explosions—you’ve got to get under cover. If you’re indoors you have to grab your breathing mask to rescue anyone who can’t make it. You see, if pressure goes every house becomes a self-contained unit with enough air for several hours.”
“And anyone out in the open?”
“It would take a few seconds for the pressure to go right down, and as every building has its own airlock it should always be possible to reach shelter in time. Even if you collapsed in the open, you’d probably be all right if you were rescued inside two minutes—unless you’d got a bad heart. And no one comes to Mars if he’s got a bad heart.”
“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 defences. 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 CMO?”
“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 before it’s too late.”
Irene still looked uncertain. Then her sense of humour, 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 amphitheatre 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.”
The Space Trilogy Page 34
