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 becoming 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 signalled 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.
But there was no doubt that Mars had changed him. He knew what some of his friends would say when they read the news. “Have you heard about Martin? Looks as if Mars has made a man out of him! Who’d have thought it?”
Gibson wriggled uncomfortably. He had no intention of becoming an elevating object lesson for anyone, if he could help it. Even in his most maudlin moments he had never had the slightest use for those smug Victorian parables about lazy, self-centred men becoming useful members of the community. But he had a horrible fear that something uncommonly like this was beginning to happen to him.
Fourteen
Out with it, Jimmy. What’s on your mind? You don’t seem to have much appetite this morning.”
Jimmy toyed fretfully with the synthetic omelette on his plate, which he had already carved into microscopic fragments.
“I was thinking about Irene, and what a shame it is she’s never had a chance of seeing Earth.”
“Are you sure she wants to? I’ve never heard anyone here say a single good word for the place.”
“Oh, she wants to all right. I’ve asked her.”
“Stop beating about the bush. What are you two planning now? Do you want to elope in the Ares?”
Jimmy gave a rather sickly grin.
“That’s an idea, but it would take a bit of doing! Honestly though—don’t you think Irene ought to go back to Earth to finish her education? If she stays here she’ll grow up into a—a—”
“A simple unsophisticated country girl—a raw colonial? Is that what you were thinking?”
“Well, something like that, but I wish you wouldn’t put it so crudely.”
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to. As a matter of fact, I rather agree with you; it’s a point that’s occurred to me. I think someone ought to mention it to Hadfield.”
“That’s exactly what—” began Jimmy excitedly.
“—what you and Irene want me to do?”
Jimmy threw up his hands in mock despair.
“It’s no good trying to kid you. Yes.”
“If you’d said that at the beginning, think of the time we’d have saved. But tell me frankly, Jimmy—just how serious are you about Irene?”
Jimmy looked back at him with a level, steadfast gaze that was in itself a sufficient answer.
“I’m dead seri
ous; you ought to know that. I want to marry her as soon as she’s old enough—and I can earn my living.”
There was a dead silence, then Gibson replied:
“You could do a lot worse; she’s a very nice girl. And I think it would do her a lot of good to have a year or so on Earth. Still, I’d rather not tackle Hadfield at the moment. He’s very busy and—well, he’s already got one request from me.”
“Oh?” said Jimmy, looking up with interest.
Gibson cleared his throat.
“It’s got to come out some time, but don’t say anything to the others yet. I’ve applied to stay on Mars.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Jimmy. “That’s—well, quite a thing to do.”
Gibson suppressed a smile.
“Do you think it’s a good thing?”
“Why, yes. I’d like to do it myself.”
“Even if Irene was going back to Earth?” asked Gibson dryly.
“That isn’t fair! But how long do you expect to stay?”
“Frankly, I don’t know; it depends on too many factors. For one thing, I’ll have to learn a job!”
“What sort of job?”
“Something that’s congenial—and productive. Any ideas?”
Jimmy sat in silence for a moment, his forehead wrinkled with concentration. Gibson wondered just what he was thinking. Was he sorry that they might soon have to separate? In the last few weeks the strain and animosities which had once both repelled and united them had dissolved away. They had reached a state of emotional equilibrium which was pleasant, yet not as satisfactory as Gibson would have hoped. Perhaps it was his own fault; perhaps he had been afraid to show his deeper feelings and had hidden them behind banter and even occasional sarcasm. If so, he was afraid he might have succeeded only too well. Once he had hoped to earn Jimmy’s trust and confidence; now, it seemed, Jimmy only came to him when he wanted something. No—that wasn’t fair. Jimmy certainly liked him, perhaps as much as many sons liked their fathers. That was a positive achievement of which he could be proud. He could take some credit, too, for the great improvement in Jimmy’s disposition since they had left Earth. He was no longer awkward and shy; though he was still rather serious, he was never sullen. This, thought Gibson, was something in which he could take a good deal of satisfaction. But now there was little more he could do. Jimmy was slipping out of his world—Irene was the only thing that mattered to him now.
“I’m afraid I don’t seem to have any ideas,” said Jimmy. “Of course, you could have my job here! Oh, that reminds me of something I picked up in Admin the other day.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper and he leaned across the table. “Have you ever heard of ‘Project Dawn’?”
“No; what is it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. It’s something very secret, and I think it must be pretty big.”
“Oh!” said Gibson, suddenly alert. “Perhaps I have heard about it after all. Tell me what you know.”
“Well, I was working late one evening in the filing section, and was sitting on the floor between some of the cabinets, sorting out papers, when the Chief and Mayor Whittaker came in. They didn’t know I was there, and were talking together. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but you know how it is. All of a sudden Mayor Whittaker said something that made me sit up with a bang. I think these were his exact words: ‘Whatever happens, there’s going to be hell to pay as soon as Earth knows about Project Dawn—even if it’s successful.’ Then the Chief gave a queer little laugh, and said something about success excusing everything. That’s all I could hear; they went out soon afterwards. What do you think about it?”
“Project Dawn!” There was a magic about the name that made Gibson’s pulse quicken. Almost certainly it must have some connection with the research going on up in the hills above the city—but that could hardly justify Whittaker’s remark. Or could it?
Gibson knew a little about the interplay of political forces between Earth and Mars. He appreciated, from occasional remarks of Hadfield’s and comments in the local press, that the colony was now passing through a critical period. On Earth, powerful voices were raised in protest against its enormous expense, which, it seemed, would extend indefinitely into the future with no sign of any ultimate reduction. More than once Hadfield had spoken bitterly of schemes which he had been compelled to abandon on grounds of economy, and of other projects for which permission could not be obtained at all.
“I’ll see what I can find out from my—er—various sources of information” said Gibson. “Have you mentioned it to anyone else?”
“No.”
“I shouldn’t, if I were you. After all, it may not be anything important. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“You won’t forget to ask about Irene?”
“As soon as I get the chance. But it may take some time—I’ll have to catch Hadfield in the right mood!”
As a private detective agency, Gibson was not a success. He made two rather clumsy direct attempts before he decided that the frontal approach was useless. George the barman had been his first target, for he seemed to know everything that was happening on Mars and was one of Gibson’s most valuable contacts. This time, however, he proved of no use at all.
“Project Dawn?” he said, with a puzzled expression. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Are you quite sure?” asked Gibson, watching him narrowly.
George seemed to lose himself in deep thought.
“Quite sure,” he said at last. And that was that. George was such an excellent actor that it was quite impossible to guess whether he was lying or speaking the truth.
Gibson did a trifle better with the editor of the Martian Times. Westerman was a man he normally avoided, as he was always trying to coax articles out of him and Gibson was invariably behind with his terrestrial commitments. The staff of two therefore looked up with some surprise as their visitor entered the tiny office of Mars’ only newspaper.
Having handed over some carbon copies as a peace offering, Gibson sprang his trap.
“I’m trying to collect all the information I can on ‘Project Dawn,’ ” he said casually. “I know it’s still under cover, but I want to have everything ready when it can be published.”
There was dead silence for several seconds. Then Westerman remarked: “I think you’d better see the Chief about that.”
“I didn’t want to bother him—he’s so busy,” said Gibson innocently.
“Well, I can’t tell you anything.”
“You mean you don’t know anything about it?”
“If you like. There are only a few dozen people on Mars who could even tell you what it is.”
That, at least, was a valuable piece of information.
“Do you happen to be one of them?” asked Gibson.
Westerman shrugged his shoulders.
“I keep my eyes open, and I’ve done a bit of guessing.”
That was all that Gibson could extract from him. He strongly suspected that Westerman knew little more about the matter than he did himself, but was anxious to conceal his ignorance. The interview had, however, confirmed two main facts. “Project Dawn” certainly did exist, and it was extremely well hidden. Gibson could only follow Westerman’s example, keeping his eyes open and guessing what he could.
He decided to abandon the quest for the time being and to go round to the Biophysics Lab, where Squeak was the guest of honour. The little Martian was sitting on his haunches taking life easily while the scientists stood conversing in a corner, trying to decide what to do next. As soon as he saw Gibson, he gave a chirp of delight and bounded across the room, bringing down a chair as he did so but luckily missing any valuable apparatus. The bevy of biologists regarded this demonstration with some annoyance; presumably it could not be reconciled with their views on Martian psychology.
“Well,” said Gibson to the leader of the team, when he had disentangled himself from Squeak’s clutches. “Have you decided how intelligent he is yet?
”
The scientist scratched his head.
“He’s a queer little beast. Sometimes I get the feeling he’s just laughing at us. The odd thing is that he’s quiet different from the rest of his tribe. We’ve got a unit studying them in the field, you know.”
“In what way is he different?”
“The others don’t show any emotions at all, as far as we can discover. They’re completely lacking in curiosity. You can stand beside them and if you wait long enough they’ll eat right round you. As long as you don’t actively interfere with them they’ll take no notice of you.”
“And what happens if you do?”
“They’ll try and push you out of the way, like some obstacle. If they can’t do that, they’ll just go somewhere else. Whatever you do, you can’t make them annoyed.”
“Are they good-natured, or just plain stupid?”
“I’d be inclined to say it’s neither one nor the other. They’ve had no natural enemies for so long that they can’t imagine that anyone would try to hurt them. By now they must be largely creatures of habit; life’s so tough for them that they can’t afford expensive luxuries like curiosity and the other emotions.”
“Then how do you explain this little fellow’s behaviour?” asked Gibson, pointing to Squeak, who was now investigating his pockets. “He’s not really hungry—I’ve just offered him some food—so it must be pure inquisitiveness.”
“It’s probably a phase they pass through when they’re young. Think how a kitten differs from a full-grown cat—or a human baby from an adult, for that matter.”
“So when Squeak grows up he’ll be like the others?”
“Probably, but it isn’t certain. We don’t know what capacity he has for learning new habits. For instance, he’s very good at finding his way out of mazes—once you can persuade him to make the effort.”
“Poor Squeak!” said Gibson. “Sometimes I feel quite guilty about taking you away from home. Still, it was your own idea. Let’s go for a walk.”
Squeak immediately hopped towards the door.
The Space Trilogy Page 35
