The chirper was still preening in front of the blower, but now it began to settle down on its haunches, leaning back against the wall. The huge eyes closed, as if it were sleeping.
It hadn’t been planning a trip up—it had been bragging about one already made. Chuck had been led on another fool’s chase around the maze, and he was no nearer out than before—probably farther, if their working quarters were located away from the entrances, as seemed to be the case.
He moved back out of the light from the slit, and touched the switch. This time there was no denying that the little bulb was glowing much more dimly than before. However, it gave enough illumination for him to read the dial on his oxygen tank. There were between fifteen and twenty minutes more to go on one tank—and the other was already empty.
He remembered the classical adage which advised a man who was faced with the inevitable to accept his fate gracefully; but he could also remember his father’s comment on it:
“When you’re at the end of your rope, you’ll be a wise man to sit down and wait for the rope’s end to hit you; but you’ll live a lot longer if you grab it and start trying to climb up it, even if you don’t know where it’s tied.”
There were three passages here. One led to the room where he’d first seen the chirper; the second was the one in which he was standing. Both were dead-end streets. The third went off into nowhere—it might be the nowhere that led but of the maze. He probably couldn’t make the ship unless it was the right exit, but he could get close enough to scratch a warning in the sand, with luck.
He turned down the third passage, no longer caring about saving light or avoiding anything. His legs pumped under him. The fear of dying came late, as if the act of running had brought it out. It caught at his chest, and made the air seem stale and re-used already. His stomach wanted to turn over, but he had no time. It was now or never.
The passage went on at a slow curve, and ended in a double intersection. He chose one of the tunnels at random and went racing down. It seemed to be going upward slightly, although he couldn’t be sure. His fingers on the wall were already necessary to aid the dying light of the little-bulb, but he only tried to run harder.
This time, when he saw the light, he knew better than to hope; the hope came anyway, together with another wave of fear—a mixture that left him no room for reason. He dashed toward it frantically and came to a stop beside another of the slits through the wall.
A bit of the scene inside told him he’d made a circle right back to the workshop!
His mind was a crazy mixture of feelings. Part of him was glad; it would mean that he would no longer be a burden on the crew of the Eros. Part was worrying about his family and what they would have to suffer because of his stowaway antics. But most of it was shrieking against the idea of dying here uselessly, without even one friend to know what happened to him.
Then, as suddenly as the desperation of fear had hit him, it was gone. The relief left him weak and shakes, but he was master of himself again. He leaned against the slitted wall, breathing hard.
The valve on the tanks began to click back and forth, trying to turn on a new supply when there was none. He still had two or three minutes of air left—perhaps he could live on the stale air in his suit for a couple of minutes more.
“All right,” he decided aloud. “Here goes nothing.”
He brought his fist up against the slit and kicked at the door where the chirper had entered. He saw the creatures inside stir suddenly, but without any move toward the entrances. He kicked again, harder.
This time he got results. One of them got up and went to the entrance. He did something with his hands and it was open.
Chuck walked in, pushing the Martian aside, before its small round mouth could utter a sound. He stomped across the floor, heading toward the blower that was hanging on the wall. There was a chorus of chirps and shrieks around him, but he paid no attention to that. First things had to come first.
His hand was on the blower before they made a move toward him. Then it was the chirper who stood up and let out one of the soul-jarring shrieks that could tear the nerves out of anyone hearing it for the first time. Chuck shoved him aside and reached for the blower. His other hand was already on the slide that attached the oxygen tanks. He took one deep breath, and started to make the changeover.
The creatures hit him in a single wave that knocked the blower out of his hands and sent him tumbling to the floor. They couldn’t hold him. On hands and knees, he crawled after the source of the oxygen his system demanded. The loosened tanks on his back came off under the pull of the Martians’ hands and the air in the suit whooshed out suddenly.
He reached the blower in spite of them. He jerked to his feet, tossing several of them topsy-turvy. Everything was turning black, but he could feel the blower unit slide home and lock in place.
He pressed the switch and heard the welcome hum of the little unit at work. Then the second assault wave of Martians hit him.
CHAPTER 17
A Dying Race
Chuck was half-unconscious as the Martians swarmed over him, and he was in no mood to struggle with them. The blower unit was purring along, sending air into his starved lungs, and there was no hurry about anything else. Of course, if they insisted on trying to tie him down, he wasn’t going to help them. He…
He snapped out of it quickly, to find himself covered with creatures who were painstakingly trying to make him look like a mummy with something that reminded him of coarse thread. They had wound it wherever they could and were trying to reach new places.
He doubled his knees up sharply, slapping one little creature up against his chest; three others went tumbling backward as his legs snapped out again. It felt like a good way to warm up for better maneuvers, until they dragged out something long and nasty with sharp pointed stones in it. Then he relaxed again, and let them tie him down to the floor. It began to look as if his idea that one human in a space suit was equal to fifty Martians wasn’t as sound as if had seemed.
Chirper was playing an active part—at a safe distance. He jumped up and down, making violent gestures as he got new ideas for the others to follow. He chirped and chattered away with enough noise for a whole company. Now he stopped and surveyed the results, before deciding that Chuck was properly fastened down.
Then he let out a final screech and sprang forward, his hands going toward the blower unit. Chuck brought his arm around sideways and caught the Martian in the chest with his elbow, but the cords hampered him, and the blow-lacked force. Chirper darted in behind him and made another grab for the blower.
The old Martian who had been trying to draw directions on the floor earlier had been watching the whole affair calmly. Now he came forward. One foot lifted from the floor and struck Chirper in the face in a neat stroke that sent the younger creature rolling across the floor. Before he could get to his feet, the old one’s arms reached out and caught him by one leg and the back of his neck. Someone opened the entrance, and Chirper was thrown through it. The entrance closed again.
The old one came behind Chuck and examined the blower unit, making sure it was still seated properly in its slides. Evidently he realized its purpose, and didn’t approve of killing Chuck at once. He walked back in front of the boy and touched his head.
“Sptz-Rrll,” he announced, as nearly as Chuck could hear. It was apparently his name or tide, and Chuck pronounced his own name. The Martian clacked his teeth. “Tchkh!”
Chuck waited hopefully for further sign of friendship, but the old Martian stood quietly, simply staring at him, as if not sure what to do with this clumsy captive. It was an excellent time to use all the study of communication between races Chuck had made—but it couldn’t be done while his hands were tied.
The eyes studied him a moment longer, and then Sptz-Rrll made a peculiar hunching motion of his body that must have been a shrug and turned back to the serious work that had occupied him before.
A maze of crude machinery leaned agai
nst the wall and Chuck could see that some of the parts were obviously of still clean and sparkling copper, as if they were tended daily, though most of them were now clearly useless. But the part the old creature was demonstrating now must have functioned more recently, though not in the memory of the younger ones.
Spte-Rrll drew pictures on the dirt again. He picked up the copper gadget, put it down, and finally began taking it apart and reassembling it. Crude as it was in workmanship, the design was sound; it was a hand-tooled rotary impeller, meant to compress the air and drive it up a pipe that Sptz-Rril indicated. Chuck followed the pipe upward to a small pile of stones covered with blackened bits of something.
The Martians had discovered fire, then. By compressing the air and forcing it through some vegetation, they had built themselves a crude forge for handling copper. Now Sptz-Rrll was telling them that it could be made to work again. He even brought out a few bits of metal from equipment that had probably broken or worn out long before.
The casing of the impeller was also ruined, so that the impeller could not work. Sometime in the past, a piece had been cracked open somehow. It had been hammered back into shape, but the crack remained, destroying its usefulness in compressing the thin air for their fire.
Sokolsky would have been interested. Chuck thought He wondered Whether Sokolsky would ever bother to remember that he had first discovered the secret of the canals with Chuck. Would any of them remember the seventh member of the crew if they got back to Moon City by determination and luck?
He’d been a fool to fight for a few hours more of life. What good would it do him? He was captured here, waiting for has battery to run down and lead to the same end, anyhow. Even if he broke free, there was still the maze of the tunnels with no opening from them that he could find. He might as well have gotten it all over with at once.
Then he grimaced at his own self-pity. At least he’d die knowing some of the answers to his questions. He’d wanted to find Martians, and he’d found them. In fact, he was the leading human expert on Martians. And a lot of good if amounted to.
Now activity was going on again, and his eyes followed it as a relief from his own thoughts. One of the younger Martians had pulled one of the bulky welders into the center of the room. With a great deal of manipulation, he managed to get a spark going and start the flame. While Sptz-Rrll watched, he began work on a broken bit of copper—using a stainless steel rod!
Sptz-Rrll studied the work for a minute more, and then jumped forward in disgust, making gestures that ended in the flame being extinguished and the welder returned to its position against the wall. It was easy to see now why the equipment had been stolen.
The old Martian had seen a chance to get back some of the culture that was rapidly dying away, and had seized it. Now, though, he was finding that all his hopes for fixing the ruined equipment were useless.
The sigh the old Martian made was almost human. He came over and stood in front of the boy again, holding the compressor in his hands. He thrust it toward Chuck doubtfully, and looked at the welder.
Chuck nodded, and wriggled his arms frantically, trying to show that they would have to be free. He saw understanding on Sptz-Rrll’s face too.
But the old Martian only sighed again and turned back. He couldn’t risk it. Chuck slumped down. For a moment, he had almost hoped. If he could get the welder in his hands, he’d have a weapon that would be strong enough to force them to map out a way to the surface!
The others in the workshop were going back to their jobs, molding clay, carving at stone utensils, or carefully trying to shape crude bits of copper. But Sptz-Rrll sat despondently in the center of the floor. He lifted a little stone lid there, and came up with a group of thin porcelain plates all painted in bright colors.
Chuck strained his eyes toward them, and the old creature held them out. They were pictures of the work methods used in the past. The last one showed what might have been a windmill on the surface, with a shaft down to gearing that ran what could only have been the compressor. It was obvious that Mars had fought hard to develop civilization, but that the battle had been lost; they were on the long, downhill road back to savagery. After the windmill they had used the treadmill that still stood against the wall. Now they had nothing that needed power.
Chuck coughed harshly; his nose and throat had been bothering him. The cough only made things worse. He frowned, and then realized that the traces of water left in the blower unit for moistening the air must be gone; probably the Martians had drained that precious fluid off at once.
Sptz-Rrll was staring at him in deep thought now. The creature put the plates back slowly. He got up and moved back to a dark corner of the room. Then he approached Chuck again, hesitantly. He drew nearer, a step at a time, watching for a hostile move. Chuck sat motionlessly. Finally, Sptz-Rrll took the plunge. He darted in, and his quick little hands found the cap without error. Something gurgled, and the air grew more breathable. Sptz-Rrll screwed the cap back on, and again his eyes moved from Chuck to the welder.
Suddenly another weird cry broke from outside. One by one, the Martians began to file from the room. Sptz-Rrll waited until the last, but he obeyed whatever command it was without holding up the parade. Chuck was left alone in the workroom.
He muttered angrily, sure that the old Martian had been about to risk freeing his hands in the hope he would handle the welder. It was too late for that now.
He drew his arms up to his chest, testing the cords without any real hope. He heaved—and the cords snapped!
For a second he stared at them before he began unwinding himself. They’d judged his muscles by his size, not by his Earth origin, where he’d had to adapt to nearly three times the effort that would be required for the same results on Mars.
He slid out of the last of the cords and kicked them aside. With a single jump he was across the room and grabbing the big welding torch. He flicked it on, setting the flame to low. Now let them try to stop him! Even their ridiculous doors would be useless against this.
The tanks were a full load for him, but he had carried the equipment around while the ship was being repaired and he had no doubt of his ability to handle it now. He let the flame spurt out with a roar and brought it back to a clean, hot point again.
His step was almost jaunty as he headed toward the entrance. There’d still be plenty of trouble—but not if he walked into the first meeting room he’d seen and gave them a real demonstration of a welder at work. They’d be happy to get rid of him, then.
He passed the low bench where Sptz-Rrll had laid the ruined compressor. He picked it up and examined it, curious about the odd cleverness that had enabled them to find the best design for the housing and blades while they were still hammering it out of bits of copper by hand.
He knew he wasn’t going to leave the old Martian without granting the request that had been in those big eyes. He’d never be able to sleep nights. From Sptz-Rrll’s view, there had been no destruction or thievery; it had been a blinding hope for a rebirth of some of the culture they had once known, and the creature would have been a fool not to do anything he could to gain his ends. At least, there’d been no murdering involved.
Chuck found the right rod and adjusted his flame. He hadn’t worked too much with copper, and he didn’t like the idea. His experience had been with the hardest, toughest allows known. But the equipment would braze copper, and he’d had some training. He spread the housing section on the floor and began depositing metal on it, smoothing it out as best he could. When it was done, he knew it was probably better than the original. One of the impeller blades was cracked off, and he found it among the broken bits Sptz-Rrll had been saving. It was a little more work to braze it back on, but it left the compressor as useful as it had been when it was first finished.
He felt better as he reassembled it and put it on the bench where the creature would be sure to find it. It had taken only a little time.
He glanced down at the indicator on the blower, at the
thought of time. It should have been fully charged, but it wasn’t The Martians must have been fascinated by electrical equipment, judging by his burned-out helmet light and these batteries; probably they shorted them to watch the spark.
He had only an hour’s current left. But it should be enough.
He turned to go, getting the welder ready to tackle the door, if it gave him trouble.
The door swung inward as he started toward it, and the Martians began trooping back!
Chuck lifted the torch and let the flame leap out They halted at the sight, and he pointed it at the floor which steamed faintly, dry as it must have been. He pointed it toward them again and started forward.
They gave ground slightly, studying the situation out of their huge eyes, but without any sign of real fear. Here, on their home ground, the grab and run tactics they used on the surface were not even considered.
They drew backward, keeping as far to the side as they could, so that he had to watch every move they made. They were out of the workshop now, backing down the tunnel. Here the only light was from the torch, and it was a poor one. He’d been staring at it too intently—the plastic of his helmet could save him from the dangerous ultra-violet radiation of the torch, but it couldn’t help his eyes adjust to both the bright spot of light and the shadows around.
The torch sputtered. It came on again, and again it sputtered. This time it went out, leaving him in darkness. He’d forgotten to check the tanks and it had simply run out of fuel.
Knowing the reason didn’t help him any. Knowing that whatever the Martians pilfered seemed to be about to stop working hadn’t helped him, either.
He leaped backward toward the workshop, then reversed field, and plunged forward blindly into them. But it was a useless trick. Hands shot out toward him with the sureness of certain vision, and equally certain knowledge that he couldn’t see. They piled onto him in a mad scramble, avoiding his flailing arms, and always beyond reach of his kicking legs.
Marooned on Mars Page 15
