The statement was perfectly true, and Gibson remembered the remark that Whittaker had made to him that very morning. Mars had been a lure to many others besides himself, and now he could understand why. What prodigies of persuasion, what intricate negotiations and downright deceptions Hadfield must have performed in these last few years! It had, perhaps, been not too difficult to attract the really first-rate minds; they could appreciate the challenge and respond to it. The second-raters, the equally essential rank-and-file of science, would have been harder to find. One day, perhaps, he would learn the secrets behind the secret, and discover just how Project Dawn had been launched and guided to success.
What was left of the night seemed to pass very swiftly. Phobos was dropping down into the eastern sky when the Sun rose up to greet its rival. It was a duel that all the city watched in silent fascination—a one-sided conflict that could have only a predetermined outcome. When it shone alone in the night sky, it was easy to pretend that Phobos was almost as brilliant as the Sun, but the first light of the true dawn banished the illusion. Minute by minute Phobos faded, though it was still well above the horizon, as the Sun came up out of the desert. Now one could tell how pale and yellow it was by comparison. There was little danger that the slowly turning plants would be confused in their quest for light; when the Sun was shining, one scarcely noticed Phobos at all.
But it was bright enough to perform its task, and for a thousand years it would be the lord of the Martian night. And thereafter? When its fires were extinguished, by the exhaustion of whatever elements it was burning now, would Phobos become again an ordinary moon, shining only by the Sun’s reflected glory?
Gibson knew that it would not matter. Even in a century it would have done its work, and Mars would have an atmosphere which it would not lose again for geological ages. When at last Phobos guttered and died, the science of that distant day would have some other answer—perhaps an answer as inconceivable to this age as the detonation of a world would have been only a century ago.
For a little while, as the first day of the new age grew to maturity, Gibson watched his double shadow lying upon the ground. Both shadows pointed to the west, but though one scarcely moved, the fainter lengthened even as he watched, becoming more and more difficult to see, until at last it was snuffed out as Phobos dropped down below the edge of Mars.
Its sudden disappearance reminded Gibson abruptly of something that he—and most of Port Lowell—had forgotten in the last few hours’ excitement. By now the news would have reached Earth; perhaps—though he wasn’t sure of this—Mars must now be spectacularly brighter in terrestrial skies.
In a very short time, Earth would be asking some extremely pointed questions.
Sixteen
It was one of those little ceremonies so beloved by the TV newsreels. Hadfield and all his staff were gathered in a tight group at the edge of the clearing, with the domes of Port Lowell rising behind them. It was, thought the cameraman, a nicely composed picture, though the constantly changing double illumination made things a little difficult.
He got the cue from the control room and started to pan from left to right to give the viewers a bit of movement before the real business began. Not that there was really much to see: the landscape was so flat and they’d miss all its interest in this monochrome transmission. (One couldn’t afford the bandwidth for colour on a live transmission all the way to Earth; even on black-and-white it was none too easy.) He had just finished exploring the scene when he got the order to swing back to Hadfield, who was now making a little speech. That was going out on the other sound channel and he couldn’t hear it, though in the control room it would be mated to the picture he was sending. Anyway, he knew just what the Chief would be saying—he’d heard it all before.
Mayor Whittaker handed over the shovel on which he had been gracefully leaning for the last five minutes, and Hadfield began to tip in the sand until he had covered the roots of the tall, drab Martian plant standing there, held upright in its wooden frame. The “airweed,” as it was now universally called, was not a very impressive object: it scarcely looked strong enough to stand upright, even under this low gravity. It certainly didn’t look as if it could control the future of a planet…
Hadfield had finished his token gardening; someone else could complete the job and fill in the hole. (The planting team was already hovering in the background, waiting for the bigwigs to clear out of the way so that they could get on with their work.) There was a lot of hand-shaking and back-slapping; Hadfield was hidden by the crowd that had gathered round him. The only person who wasn’t taking the slightest notice of all this was Gibson’s pet Martian, who was rocking on his haunches like one of those weighted dolls that always come the same way up however you put them down. The cameraman swung towards him and zoomed to a close-up; it would be the first time anyone on Earth would have seen a real Martian—at least in a live program like this.
Hello—what was he up to? Something had caught his interest—the twitching of those huge, membranous ears gave him away. He was beginning to move in short, cautious hops. The cameraman chased him and widened the field at the same time to see where he was going. No one else had noticed that he’d begun to move; Gibson was still talking to Whittaker and seemed to have completely forgotten his pet.
So that was the game! This was going to be good; the folk back on Earth would love it. Would he get there before he was spotted? Yes—he’d made it! With one final bound he hopped down into the little pit, and the small triangular beak began to nibble at the slim Martian plant that had just been placed there with such care. No doubt he thought it so kind of his friends to go to all this trouble for him… Or did he really know he was being naughty? That devious approach had been so skilful that it was hard to believe it was done in complete innocence. Anyway, the cameraman wasn’t going to spoil his fun; it would make too good a picture. He cut for a moment back to Hadfield and Company, still congratulating themselves on the work which Squeak was rapidly undoing.
It was too good to last. Gibson spotted what was happening and gave a great yell which made everyone jump. Then he raced towards Squeak, who did a quick look round, decided that there was nowhere to hide, and just sat still with an air of injured innocence. He let himself be led away quietly, not aggravating his offense by resisting the forces of the law when Gibson grabbed one of his ears and tugged him away from the scene of the crime. A group of experts then gathered anxiously around the airweed, and to everyone’s relief it was soon decided that the damage was not fatal.
It was a trivial incident, which no one would have imagined to have any consequences beyond the immediate moment. Yet, though he never realized the fact, it was to inspire one of Gibson’s most brilliant and fruitful ideas.
Life for Martian Gibson had suddenly become very complicated—and intensely interesting. He had been one of the first to see Hadfield after the inception of Project Dawn. The C.E. had called for him, but had been able to give him only a few minutes of his time. That, however, had been enough to change the pattern of Gibson’s future.
“I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting,” Hadfield said, “but I got the reply from Earth only just before I left. The answer is that you can stay here if you can be absorbed into our administrative structure—to use the official jargon. As the future of our ‘administrative structure’ depended somewhat largely on Project Dawn, I thought it best to leave the matter until I got back home.”
The weight of uncertainty had lifted from Gibson’s mind. It was all settled now; even if he had to make a mistake—and he did not believe he had—there was now no going back. He had thrown in his lot with Mars; he would be part of the colony in its fight to regenerate this world that was now stirring sluggishly in its sleep.
“And what job have you got for me?” Gibson asked a little anxiously.
“I’ve decided to regularize your unofficial status,” said Hadfield, with a smile.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you
remember what I said at our very first meeting? I asked you to help us by giving Earth not the mere facts of the situation, but also some idea of our goals and—I suppose you could call it—the spirit we’ve built up here on Mars. You’ve done well, despite the fact that you didn’t know about the project on which we’d set our greatest hopes. I’m sorry I had to keep Dawn from you, but it would have made your job much harder if you’d known our secret and weren’t able to say anything. Don’t you agree?”
Gibson had not thought of it in that light, but it certainly made sense.
“I’ve been very interested,” Hadfield continued, “to see what result your broadcasts and articles have had. You may not know that we’ve got a delicate method of testing this.”
“How?” asked Gibson in surprise.
“Can’t you guess? Every week about ten thousand people, scattered all over Earth, decide they want to come here, and something like three per cent pass the preliminary tests. Since your articles started appearing regularly, that figure’s gone up to fifteen thousand a week, and it’s still rising.”
“Oh,” said Gibson, very thoughtfully. He gave an abrupt little laugh. “I also seem to remember,” he added, “that you didn’t want me to come here in the first place.”
“We all make mistakes, but I’ve learned to profit by mine,” smiled Hadfield. “To sum it all up, what I’d like you to do is to lead a small section which, frankly, will be our propaganda department. Of course, we’ll think of a nicer name for it! Your job will be to sell Mars. The opportunities are far greater now that we’ve really got something to put in our shop window. If we can get enough people clamouring to come here, then Earth will be forced to provide the shipping space. And the quicker that’s done, the sooner we can promise Earth we’ll be standing on our own feet. What do you say?”
Gibson felt a fleeting disappointment. Looked at from one point of view, this wasn’t much of a change. But the C.E. was right: he could be of greater use to Mars in this way than in any other.
“I can do it,” he said. “Give me a week to sort out my terrestrial affairs and clear up my outstanding commitments.”
A week was somewhat optimistic, he thought, but that should break the back of the job. He wondered what Ruth was going to say. She’d probably think he was mad, and she’d probably be right.
“The news that you’re going to stay here,” said Hadfield with satisfaction, “will cause a lot of interest and will be quite a boost to our campaign. You’ve no objection to our announcing it right away?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. Whittaker would like to have a word with you now about the detailed arrangements. You realize, of course, that your salary will be that of a Class II Administrative Officer of your age?”
“Naturally I’ve looked into that,” said Gibson. He did not add, because it was unnecessary, that this was largely of theoretical interest. His salary on Mars, though less than a tenth of his total income, would be quite adequate for a comfortable standard of living on a planet where there were very few luxuries. He was not sure just how he could use his terrestrial credits, but no doubt they could be employed to squeeze something through the shipping bottleneck.
After a long session with Whittaker—who nearly succeeded in destroying his enthusiasm with laments about lack of staff and accommodation—Gibson spent the rest of the day writing dozens of radiograms. The longest was to Ruth, and was chiefly, but by no means wholly, concerned with business affairs. Ruth had often commented on the startling variety of things she did for her ten per cent, and Gibson wondered what she was going to say to this request that she keep an eye on one James Spencer, and generally look after him when he was in New York—which, since he was completing his studies at M.I.T., might be fairly often.
It would have made matters much simpler if he could have told her the facts; she would probably guess them, anyway. But that would be unfair to Jimmy; Gibson had made up his mind that he would be the first to know. There were times when the strain of not telling him was so great that he felt almost glad they would soon be parting. Yet Hadfield, as usual, had been right. He had waited a generation—he must wait a little longer yet. To reveal himself now might leave Jimmy confused and hurt—might even cause the breakdown of his engagement to Irene. The time to tell him would be when they had been married and, Gibson hoped, were still insulated from any shocks which the outside world might administer.
It was ironic that, having found his son so late, he must now lose him again. Perhaps that was part of the punishment for the selfishness and lack of courage—to put it no more strongly—he had shown twenty years ago. But the past must bury itself; he must think of the future now.
Jimmy would return to Mars as soon as he could—there was no doubt of that. And even if he had missed the pride and satisfaction of parenthood, there might be compensations later in watching his grandchildren come into the world he was helping to remake. For the first time in his life, Gibson had a future to which he could look forward with interest and excitement—a future which would not be merely a repetition of the past.
Earth hurled its thunderbolt four days later. The first Gibson knew about it was when he saw the headline across the front page of the “Martian Times.” For a moment the two words staring back at him were so astounding that he forgot to read on.
HADFIELD RECALLED
We have just received news that the Interplanetary Development Board has requested the Chief Executive to return to Earth on the Ares, which leaves Deimos in four days. No reason is given.
That was all, but it would set Mars ablaze. No reason was given—and none was necessary. Everyone knew exactly why Earth wanted to see Warren Hadfield.
“What do you think of this?” Gibson asked Jimmy as he passed the paper across the breakfast-table.
“Good Lord!” gasped Jimmy. “There’ll be trouble now! What do you think he’ll do?”
“What can he do?”
“Well, he can refuse to go. Everyone here would certainly back him up.”
“That would only make matters worse. He’ll go, all right. Hadfield isn’t the sort of man to run away from a fight.”
Jimmy’s eyes suddenly brightened.
“That means that Irene will be going too.”
“Trust you to think of that!” laughed Gibson. “I suppose you hope it will be an ill wind blowing the pair of you some good. But don’t count on it—Hadfield might leave Irene behind.”
He thought this very unlikely. When the Chief returned, he would need all the moral support he could get.
Despite the amount of work he had awaiting him, Gibson paid one brief call to Admin, where he found everyone in a state of mingled indignation and suspense. Indignation because of Earth’s cavalier treatment of the Chief: suspense because no one yet knew what action he was going to take. Hadfield had arrived early that morning, and so far had not seen anyone except Whittaker and his private secretary. Those who had caught a glimpse of him stated that for a man who was, technically, about to be recalled in disgrace, he looked remarkably cheerful.
Gibson was thinking over this news as he made a detour towards the Biology Lab. He had missed seeing his little Martian friend for two days, and felt rather guilty about it. As he walked slowly along Regent Street, he wondered what sort of defence Hadfield would be able to put up. Now he understood that remark that Jimmy had overheard. Would success excuse everything? Success was still a long way off; as Hadfield had said, to bring Project Dawn to its conclusion would take half a century, even assuming the maximum assistance from Earth. It was essential to secure that support, and Hadfield would do his utmost not to antagonize the home planet. The best that Gibson could do to support him would be to provide long-range covering fire from his propaganda department.
Squeak, as usual, was delighted to see him, though Gibson returned his greeting somewhat absentmindedly. As he invariably did, he proffered Squeak a fragment of airweed from the supply kept in the Lab. That simple action must hav
e triggered something in his subconscious mind, for he suddenly paused, then turned to the chief biologist.
“I’ve just had a wonderful idea,” he said. “You know you were telling me about the tricks you’ve been able to teach Squeak?”
“Teach him! The problem now is to stop him learning them!”
“You also said you were fairly sure the Martians could communicate with each other, didn’t you?”
“Well, our field party’s proved that they can pass on simple thoughts, and even some abstract ideas like colour. That doesn’t prove much, of course. Bees can do the same.”
“Then tell me what you think of this. Why shouldn’t we teach them to cultivate the airweed for us? You see what a colossal advantage they’ve got—they can go anywhere on Mars they please, while we’d have to do everything with machines. They needn’t know what they’re doing, of course. We’d simply provide them with the shoots—it does propagate that way, doesn’t it?—teach them the necessary routine, and reward them afterwards.”
“Just a moment! It’s a pretty idea, but haven’t you overlooked some practical points? I think we could train them in the way you suggest—we’ve certainly learned enough about their psychology for that—but may I point out that there are only ten known specimens, including Squeak?”
“I hadn’t overlooked that,” said Gibson impatiently. “I simply don’t believe the group I found is the only one in existence. That would be a quite incredible coincidence. Certainly they’re rather rare, but there must be hundreds, if not thousands, of them over the planet. I’m going to suggest a photo-reconnaissance of all the airweed forests—we should have no difficulty in spotting their clearings. But in any case I’m taking the long-term view. Now that they’ve got far more favourable living conditions, they’ll start to multiply rapidly, just as the Martian plant life’s already doing. Remember, even if we left it to itself the airweed would cover the equatorial regions in four hundred years—according to your own figures. With the Martians and us to help it spread, we might cut years off Project Dawn!”
The Space Trilogy Page 38
