A plain, a vast extending plain, entirely similar in its red expanse to that which we had left behind.
But cutting across it in a straight wide line, to the remotest horizon, was a great ridge of dark, dark green—a confusion of tumultuous growth, lush, prodigal. A mile, perhaps, in width—perhaps, at its farther reaches, even wider. And swelling, at the end now near us, to an immense circumference, enclosing in its vernal depths—
“The Albatross—the Albatross!”
It was Jacqueline’s voice, thin in my ears through the reedy diaphragm of our communication apparatus, yet charged with profoundest feeling.
The great ship lay on a slight incline, gleaming in the sunlight, a silvery contrast to the monstrous fronds surrounding it. I recognized her from the photographs I had seen—I saw her very name across the swelling brow of her.
Over all—over all the silent scene—there hung an air of unutterable strangeness. All was still, all peaceful—no sign, no hint of danger. And yet something, something—
Kalkenbrenner, bewildered, drew to a long slithering downhill halt, small reddish clouds rising from our tracks. And I heard Jacqueline’s voice once more: “Uncle Steve—oh, Uncle Steve! And Doctor Mac . . . !”
Standing close to the looming spaceship, unbelievable after all we had known, all we had expected, were two human figures. One—the older—held his head inclined a little away from us, as if uncertain of our true direction. But the other gazed at us—and waved in all cheerfulness, beckoning us forward.
I had seen neither before; but again I knew them both from photographs and descriptions. They were the men we had come so far to find—alive, alive and well, unharmed—awaiting us!
And MacFarlane still waved us forward—was shouting, as we could see, yet stood at too great a distance for us to hear his words. And all about were peace and utter stillness—no menace, no danger after all. . . .
Slowly we crawled forward again, in lowest gear. Nearer and nearer to the great forest of silent green growth. And at last MacFarlane s voice came, rare and distorted through the exterior microphones: “Come closer, closer! Why do you hesitate? There is nothing to fear—nothing, nothing!”
There was nothing to fear indeed—nothing in all that extending scene—and the two men stood beckoning us on, the men we had thought to find besieged and in uttermost peril.
There was nothing to fear as we crept forward, always forward.
And yet, and yet—and yet . . .
Something lingered: over all that peaceful scene, in the very silent air itself: something lingered!
CHAPTER X. “DR. LIVINGSTONE, I PRESUME by A. Keith Borrowdale
I SHALL NEVER FORGET—never, never—the unutterable strangeness of that first Martian scene with MacFarlane and McGillivray. . . . How best to describe it, even? The almost nightmare bewilderment as we still advanced, slowly, slowly, toward them—toward the gleaming Albatross and their two quiet figures beside it.
The whole moment was fabulously different from anything we had expected. We had prepared for danger, we had equipped ourselves to face an incalculable horror: and we saw only two quiet men—two friends of our own kind in that alien place—who smiled and beckoned us on.
Two friends—who smiled and beckoned us on.
And all about them, vast and silent, lay the great forest of the Ridge. The plants which constituted it were different from any we had seen on Mars before. They were not trees, nor yet were they kin to the cactus plants of the plains. They sprouted from squat, white bulbous bases in huge sheaths, great broad and sword-shaped leaves, like iris leaves or lilies upon Earth, yet towering high above our heads—as high as poplars in some instances. Enclosed in the outer fleshy sheaths, which were all of the deep, dark olive-green color we had noted from the start, were half-glimpsed stems—long rods, as it seemed—of a yellowish tinge, the first real hint of the much-feared color in all the peaceful scene; and these were curled over at the top in smaller and smaller convolutions, like ferns in spring. (I am, alas, no botanist, and so I forbear any attempt to describe these various parts of the Ridge plants, as we called them, by their proper terms.)
The forest of the Ridge plants stretched, as I have said, as far as we were able to see across the plain. The verge formed an immense straight line—a barrier, almost; and so thick were the growths in this great “tail,” as I might call it, that indeed it seemed at first glimpse like a ridge. We saw at once how, in his descriptions of it across space, MacFarlane had come to use the word. At the end that was near us, the plants, as I have already said, spread out to form an immense enclosure around the rearing spaceship. Here they were more sparsely spaced—at least in the part of the enclosure immediately facing us; indeed, directly ahead of us, they opened out altogether so as to form a clear line of approach for us to the Albatross.
One other thing I noticed in those first few moments of our encounter with the Ridge plants: Whereas the cacti on the plains were surrounded entirely by the loose and extremely dry Martian soil, these growths seemed to have found—I had a strange and half-instinctive notion that they had veritably created—much moisture. The deep red soil about their white bases was oozy and soft. I had even the impression, as I glanced more deeply into the forest’s thick heart, of a positive vapor rising—a tenuous steam. The great damp leaves of the more distant plants—spongy and yielding—seemed to quiver a little, as if in a heat haze. . . .
But there was little time for anything other than a cursory glance at the massive Ridge plants as we crawled forward. I remember only reflecting, as I glanced along the great line of the forest, that here indeed was the answer to the age-old problem of the Martian Canals. Suppose there were many more of these great ridges, stretching straightly over the reddish plains of the Angry Planet?—ridges rather wider even than this one, perhaps, so as to be visible to terrestrial observers?—but then on the instant I remembered something else: the strange and awesome adjective which had been applied to the Canals in MacFarlane’s messages: the Creeping Canals. I remembered how the Albatross had plainly been lying, after the time of its removal to the foothills, in a clear and exposed position. Somehow this tremendous burgeoning of green growth had approached so as to surround it. I recalled some lines from a nightmare poem I once had learned on distant Earth:
And look! behind without a sound
The woods have come up and are standing round in deadly crescent . . .
and I recalled, as well, in the same brief moment of time, a strange fact that had always occasioned ironical comment, even mirth, among terrestrial astronomers: that Lowell, the brilliant American scientist of the early 1900’s, had always claimed that the so-called Canals did move. Under the perfect observing conditions of the high Arizona desert, he had seen them move, had seen the remote spidery lines of them form and reform, break slowly away from each other, run parallel, intercross—literally (in his own word) “geminate. . . .”
I had a vision of the whole vast forest before me somehow crawling, somehow edging forward, somehow veritably marching over the expanse of the plain. . . .
The woods have come up and are standing round!
And in the vision (which had about it, as we subsequently found, a strange counterpart in reality) there was fear again—an intensification of the subtle fear which, in spite of all the peace, the silence, the smiling faces of our friends as they waved us on, permeated everything we saw before us as we rolled steadily toward the Albatross. . . .
“Hurry, hurry,” called MacFarlane again. “Why do you hesitate? Come forward, forward!”
We now had halted once more. Dr. Kalkenbrenner, his face still a study of bewilderment through the kalspex of his helmet, had braked the tractor hard a few paces from the outer rim of the great Ridge plants. He stood up in his seat and I saw his hand on the switch which would bring into operation the exterior speaker on his suit.
It should have been, heaven knows, an historic moment—a moment equivalent (in Katey’s previous irreverent quotation) to
H. M. Stanley’s celebrated, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume.” But somehow, in the unnatural bewilderment of the occasion, all fell strangely flat; there was even an irresolute tremor in our leader’s voice as he called out:
“This is Kalkenbrenner—Kalkenbrenner. I take it that all is safe? I mean, your messages . . . ?”
MacFarlane waved again. He smiled more blandly even than before. He was weirdly—how shall I put it?—boyish, somehow, irresponsible-seeming; as if the whole event were some kind of immense caper, as we say in Scotland. And I remember thinking how strange it was that neither he nor McGillivray made any movement toward us, as might have been expected: they stood beside the Albatross like people on a railroad platform, waiting for us to “come in,” as it were.
“All safe, all safe. Of course it’s safe,” cried MacFarlane. “Come along. Everything’s fine—all fine.”
The very words seemed unnatural, unduly trivial for such a meeting after all that had gone before. But there was no mistaking the sense of them, the complete cheerful conviction of the explorer’s tone.
Our leader switched off the exterior speaker for a moment.
“There’s something uncanny,” I heard his whisper in my ear, “something devilishly uncanny, Borrowdale! But there’s nothing we can do—we must trust him. We go forward—but be ready, each one of you, to switch on the oxygen breathing at the first sign of trouble, if there is one.”
Throughout, the young people in the trailer had said nothing. I saw the bewilderment on their faces too—particularly on Jacky’s. It was she who now called out, through her own exterior speaker:
“Doctor Mac—Doctor Mac! It’s us—it’s Paul and Jacky and Mike. Is everything all right? Really and truly all right?”
The frail figure of Dr. McGillivray had, all this time, remained inclined a little away from us. Now, at Jacky’s urgent cry, he turned his pale strained face completely in our direction. I saw his lips moving soundlessly for a moment; but then his expression changed to one as cheerful and innocent as MacFarlanes, and his voice came:
“Certainly—certainly, child! Come forward—all is well.”
And in the final authority from the distinguished scientist, we did indeed roll forward again—past the outer rim of the Ridge plants and so within the enclosure. In a last lingering of the ineffable sense of nightmare, it was as if we were plunging deep into one of the old mysterious enchanted forests of the ancient fairy-tales: such forests as had grown up overnight to encircle the castle of the Sleeping Beauty. . . .
We drew nearer, always nearer, the two smiling figures waiting patiently. Again it seemed strange to me that they made no move forward to greet us. They stood quite still until, in the damp and marshy soil now, the tractor slithered to a final halt a few paces away from them.
And once more the words seemed inadequate as Dr. Kalkenbrenner, with one precautionary look around and a warning nod of the head to me, leaped out of the driving seat and strode forward to wring McGillivray’s hand.
“Dr. McGillivray. A proud moment, sir—a proud moment indeed! I hardly know what to say, sir—how to express my deep feelings . . .”
The explorer smiled—smiled and smiled.
“Welcome, Dr. Kalkenbrenner. A strange occasion truly. It makes me happy, very happy.”
He spoke with a curious mechanical simplicity. I recalled MacFarlane’s accounts of his occasional lapses, and wondered if at this very instant he was in the grip of such an aberration. But MacFarlane himself seemed as innocent, as he also spoke—spoke to our companions, who had, by now, clambered down from the trailer.
“Well, you came,” he smiled. “I’m glad. It’s different from before, isn’t it? Much different.”
He shook hands solemnly with the young people, one by one. In all that had gone before, I would have expected Jacky at least to run forward—to throw her arms around these old companions of hers; I would have expected an ebullient display of some kind from Michael, a quieter warmth of greeting from Paul. But they held back—each of them held back a little; it was as if an instinctive reserve, even fear, had grown up in them. They still distrusted something—something intangible in the whole alien scene; something expressed, almost, in the very incessant smiling of the two lost men we had come to find. They smiled too much . . . !
We were introduced—we who had not known the explorers before: we were lamely and inadequately introduced, with handshakes and muttered ineffectualities, as if at some trivial social event upon Earth! And it was at the height of this last unexpected folly that the impetuous Katey burst out: “In Glory’s name, it’s impossible! There’s something wrong—there’s something, and it’s no use denying it! What have we come all this way for? What did you mean by those messages, Mr. MacFarlane? This isn’t what we expected! What’s the meaning of it all?”
There was a moment, an empty moment when something seemed to encircle us all—again nothing tangible: a sense, a veritable breath of menace. The two men facing us seemed to hesitate. The smiles for an instant left their strained faces—on Dr. McGillivray’s face particularly there was a fleeting expression of . . . what?—of suffering, perhaps, of intense concentration. But it passed, and both were smiling again—smiling and smiling.
“It’s nothing, Miss Hogarth,” said MacFarlane smoothly, “nothing at all. We can very easily explain. You took us all rather too seriously, perhaps—”
“Too seriously?” (Katey again—and her voice now openly impatient, even indignant.) “You mean it was a joke—it was all some kind of joke?”
“Well, perhaps, perhaps. A kind of joke, perhaps.”
It was too much indeed. It was absurd, impossible. MacFarlane still smiled, shaking his head a little, his eyes round and bland. A joke—after all we had experienced! A joke!
In the immensity of my bewilderment I heard Dr. Kalkenbrenner’s voice—and it was suddenly quiet, suddenly quiet and authoritative.
“Mr. MacFarlane, you will forgive us if we seem a little strained and impatient at this curious welcome. We have dared much, sir—from the moment your messages were received, we have dared much. We have many questions to ask—many explanations must indeed be made. Will you come with us now—back across the plain to my own ship? Perhaps you are a little overwrought—a little distracted after all you have gone through yourselves. If the danger you mentioned, has passed, as it seems to have—”
McGillivray interrupted, his voice now slow and somber, the expression of concentration once more fleetingly across his face.
“No. No—we . . . we do not want to come. Not yet. Not . . . yet.”
He struggled for a moment for words—struggled strangely.
“Come . . . come with us instead. Come into the rocket. Come in with us.” (This last with the words out-spaced and ponderous.)
We looked at each other in dismay. His tone was so charged with—with pleading, almost. There was something desperately wrong indeed. I glanced at MacFarlane. For a moment he seemed to hesitate again.
“No—no,” he began. “Not after all—not into—” He broke off, his features working. Then he added, with a sudden irrelevant brightness, “Yes, all right! But you haven’t, over there—” with a wave of the hand to the tractor, “—you haven’t, I say, any . . . chocolate, perhaps? —something like that—something from Earth? You see we haven’t tasted anything of the kind for so long, so long . . .”
His voice trailed away forlornly—yet he still smiled. It was the final absurdity: chocolate, at such a moment! Katey, with an expression of anger and even contempt through the kalspex, strode rapidly across to the tractor for some slabs of the candy which indeed we had stored there; and Maggie trotted along to help her. Meanwhile, we others were going forward toward the short ladder which led up to the entrance hatch in the side of the Albatross above. Dr. McGillivray groped blindly, and it was Jacky who stepped forward and set his hand upon the metal rail. One by one, in a daze of bewilderment, we mounted.
We reached the top—we entered. I saw the l
ittle cabin, so familiar to me from descriptions, in which the children and the two strange men now confronting us had made the first Martian flight so long before.
As we entered, it was to see Dr. McGillivray standing in an attitude of curious abstraction. MacFarlane stood by the inner metal door of the entrance hatch—we all filed past him into the cabin. Below, I was aware of Katey and Maggie approaching from the tractor toward the ladder’s foot.
There was a moment’s silence again. My eyes were on McGillivray. I saw a sudden sweat upon his brow—I saw his face in a torment.
Once more nightmare seemed to fill the atmosphere surrounding. I had an intense impression of danger; at last, and overpoweringly, of real danger.
And on the instant the nightmare seemed to mount to a climax and burst upon us—menace and terror swirled all around. I heard, first, a sudden strange cry from Jacqueline:
“Of course! I knew, I knew there was something wrong! Malu—where isMalu?”
It was as if the words were some kind of signal. Looking back, I feel I can hardly recollect the true sequence of events in that crowding, desperate moment. I was aware of a swift movement behind me—a high gasp of effort from MacFarlane; and with a cry he slammed shut the great metal door of the entrance hatch.
Simultaneously Dr. McGillivray, still confronting us, contorted his whole frail body—seemed gripped by an extreme biting agony. His voice rang out—differently now, clearly and with a desperate conviction in it:
“In God’s name believe nothing, nothing we have said! Bind us—restrain us!—do nothing, nothing we tell you to do! It is false, all false!”
He fell back, cowering against the wall of the cabin—yet still blindly raised his hand and groped for the handle of a doorway above his head—the doorway, as we subsequently discovered, of the small food store in which the young people had once concealed themselves.
The Red Journey Back Page 10
