The Red Journey Back

by John Keir Cross

  “Maggie,” he says, very weak and faint, “can you hear me, Maggie?” (or rather: “Anci ooyi earhi eemi, Aggiemi?”)

  And this time self makes it.

  “Yes,” self says, “can hear you, Mike.”

  And Mike says, still in Double-talk:

  “You get the idea? It’s one of us and then another of us, and in the times between we can talk, the other two, just a little, not much, but enough.”

  And self says yes, that self had jumped to it, and Mike says he had spoken to Katey in this way the last time it was me was the one being hypnotized, and that maybe we could work out something, and self says fine and dandy only what? And Mike says he has an idea and it maybe sounds silly but it might work, and just at that moment Old Jellybags swings around to concentrate on Mike and he has to shut up—but of course self can talk to Katey now for a little bit, and self and Katey have some dialogue along same lines before self is under the influence again in her turn.

  Get it?

  It took hours. All in Double-talk. I don’t really know why we did use Double-talk—except maybe it helped to make it all a bit more secret to us. We were all a bit dopey and it seemed a good idea at the time. ’Course, if Old J.B. had chosen to do a bit of concentrating on all of us together we’d’ve been caught out. He could have understood Double-talk just as easily as any other kind of talk—not that he could hear, of course, for he’d no ears, but it wasn’t words that mattered to him at all, but the thought behind the words.

  Still, luckily he didn’t tackle us all three at once—and we took tremendous care right through only to talk when he wasn’t looking, so to say.

  Well then: Mike’s idea for a way to escape seems just blamed silly when you set it down like this on paper—I’m almost ashamed to do it! But I told you we were very dopey when we were half under the influence, and it was all we could think of, and anyway it worked, kind friends.

  Mike said (only it took a long time for him to say all this, partly to me and partly to Katey) Mike said: “You know back home,” Mike said, “when you’re with the gang, and you suddenly say to one of them ‘Look out behind,’ why you can be doggone sure that just for a split second he will look out behind. Well,” says Mike, “suppose we did that with Old J.B. in front there? ’Course he can’t look behind, we know that, but if we all three all thought at the same time, as hard as we could, that there was something dangerous behind him, maybe just for the one moment he would switch his thoughts away from us. And we can move so quickly on Mars that if we all made one great jump over to the left it would take us twenty feet at least, and then Old Jellybags wouldn’t be so strong in his power over us and we could jump again, and then again, and we might get away, right outside, and we would only have the Terrible Ones to cope with, and we could maybe outpace them if we took them by surprise.”

  Well, Mike said all that, bit by bit, and in the old Double-talk, to each of us, and Katey and I talked about it too, when Mike was under the influence. And so we built it all up. And even at the time it seemed silly, but we had to do something, and it was a long shot.

  Once or twice, as we worked it all out, there was the notion that maybe Old Jellybags was wise to us. He started switching from one to the other more quickly. But we kept it hidden by only doing a little bit at a time. And at last we were all ready.

  “Next time,” says Mike, “—next time around and we’ll do it. He’s at Katey now. He’ll switch to me next. Tell Katey to be ready. Then after me he’ll switch to you. Now, you know there’s just a moment when you feel it all coming on as he does his full hypnotizing stuff? Well, just at that moment, when it’s coming to you and leaving me, do everything you can to shout what we’ve agreed to shout. Katey can do it at the same time, and so will I, just when the ’fluence is leaving me, you see. He won’t hear us, of course, but while we shout we’ll all three think at the same time, and the thought behind the shout will get over to him, and with luck it might work—he might just switch away from all three of us at the same time, and the minute you feel free of him, jump, my girl, as hard as you can!”

  We did it.

  We built it all up.

  We had worked out what to say, you see. Not that it mattered what we did say—it was the thought behind it that mattered. If we could only believe it strongly enough ourselves . . .

  I got the signal from Katey while Mike was under the influence. Then I felt Old Jellybags beginning to switch to me. And I screwed up all my concentration, every single ounce of it, and we all did shout at the same time, with a tremendous effort, and we almost deafened ourselves inside the helmets. And you’ll never guess what we shouted, and if it seems silly you’ll remember that we were all dopey when we worked it out, and anyway as I’ve said it wasn’t the words that mattered at all.

  We shouted:

  “Look out behind there! Paul Revere!”

  It was all we could think of—it was all we could agree on. And we thought so hard, so hard. I know I thought so hard myself it was as if, just for the one quick second, I had a kind of vision behind Old Jellybags of that old hero we used to read about when we were very young, galloping to the rescue. There was a kind of shadow, very fleeting, in the forest beyond, of a great black horse and a man astride her, coming to save us. I thought so hard, you see.

  And it was the thought that did it. There must have been, just for a second, a sudden sense of some kind of danger from all three of us to Old Jellybags. He didn’t look around, of course—but he did switch his thought away from us, kind friends! I felt all of a sudden free—and I remembered to jump—and I was suddenly flying through the air with Mike on one side and Katey on the other!

  And I was suddenly flying through the air.

  And we landed right at the edge of the clear space in the Yellow Cloud. And at that moment Old Jellybags’ thoughts were back on us, and he was as angry as angry as angry. But his thoughts weren’t so strong this time, and we jumped again, right into the Yellow Cloud, and then again, and by now the influence had gone, and the next jump took us clear of the Forest altogether, and we were out in the open and running and jumping on the plain, and the air was all clear, and we could move and use our hands and our own thoughts again, and we fired and fired at the Terrible Ones who were chasing us after the first surprise, and we saw the others in the tractor far, far away before the Yellow Cloud came swirling out again all around us, and we ran on and on and on and on, and suddenly the Cloud all cleared when the tractor came into it with the flame throwers working full blast and there you have it, kind friends, you know the rest!

  Cut! Cut!

  Triumphant music!

  THE END.

  Next Week: Another Sherwood Production, featuring Bing Malone and Marlene Hogarth.

  Phew!

  Phew indeed!

  It is how I invariably feel when I finish reading Maggie’s contribution here inserted—quite breathless, as she must have felt when she finished writing it.

  So I resume then (Borrowdale writing again), with all threads in the narrative now tied, with the story’s progress complete up to the point when we routed the pursuing Terrible Ones and swung open the trailer covering to admit our rescued friends.

  May I add only this as a last parenthesis—as a postscript to Maggie’s paper:

  The method used to escape from the influence of Discophora may seem indeed, set down in cold black and white, to be somewhat trivial, as Maggie herself has said. But it must be emphasized that the principle lying behind it is more than sound. Not only did it work in practice in this particular instance, but it has, we believe, shown us the way in which we might combat the Vivores when someday we return to renew our contact with them. They are Brain, all Brain. In close proximity to them one cannot help but fall beneath their gradual telepathic control. The one way in which release can truly be found is indeed to contrive some method to divert the intolerably intense attention of that gigantic living intelligence. Maggie and her companions did so by concentrating their own inten
se thoughts on imaginary danger—so powerfully, for one split second, as to release themselves from the spell long enough to effect an escape. They thought of Paul Revere, the ancient hero of American history, because he constituted, to them, something normal and safe. They might equally well have concentrated on King Arthur, of British legend, or on Charlemagne of French. The words, the image, were of no importance—it was the sudden impression that achieved results, the sudden diverting of Discophora’s whole attention.

  With this elementary but effective example before us, we have, since our return to Earth, been attempting to perfect a method operating on the same broad principle, which might help us to hold the attention of the Vivores for longer periods. It is, putting it briefly, an apparatus which should be able to oppose and annihilate the deadly thought-impulses from Discophora. We propose, in short, to counter the Living Brains of Mars with the noble Electronic Brain created by Man; and that will be a battle indeed!

  It is a tale that is still to be told. This one must meanwhile be ended; and at its end, however we may come to control them in the future, the Vivores were our deadliest enemies.

  We knew that most bitterly as we sped across the Cloud-swept plain toward our threatened Comet. In the excitement of our plunge forward in the tractor to rescue Katey and the others, we had, of course, ignored the danger signal transmitted to us from the photo-electric barrier apparatus set up around the rocket’s base. We had switched off the receivers within our helmets so as to be free from the distraction of the high-pitched frequency hum. Now, with the rescue completed, we retuned—and heard the signal again, insistently. The Comet was indeed in danger—something had penetrated the barrier.

  And we knew in our hearts, as we speeded forward through the mist, guided by the beamed signal itself—we knew what the danger was. We remembered the arrowhead of Yellow Cloud we had seen from the plain, outthrusting from the “tail” of the Ridge. We knew it now for what it was: a messenger, sent out by our own Discophora to heaven knew how many of his fellow Vivores.

  The great Creeping Canals had assembled—across the vast plain they had marched to surround our spaceship. They had reached the very base itself. To win to safety we would have to pass through the deadly controlling zone of them—somehow.

  We went forward, always forward, our one hope to reach the Comet before, perhaps, she was entirely surrounded. We were all together again. And yet—and yet!—

  We were not all together. Two members of our party were missing. The knowledge did not come to us for some time—until we were well on our way from the original Ridge. In the seething confusion of the moment when Katey and Mike and Maggie had clambered into the trailer, two figures had, unnoticed, slipped out into the swirling Cloud. We in the tractor thought they were in the trailer as we went forward toward the Comet—our friends in the trailer took them to be in the tractor.

  They were in neither. We had gone too far to turn back when, through the communication apparatus, we heard a cry from Katey. She had come across a folded note, the script on it spidery and uncertain, its corner held by the lid of one of the lockers.

  It was addressed to Dr. Kalkenbrenner. He asked her to read it and we all listened to her voice in silence—and I, in my mind’s eye, saw the stooping, writing figure of Dr. McGillivray during our long groping journey through the Cloud. . . .

  Katey read:

  My dear Kalkenbrenner, the danger signal from your ship can mean one thing only: that Discophora surround it, probably in considerable numbers. They will do all they can to prevent your reaching it. But you must reach it, you must You must go back to Earth and take my dear young friends out of the terrible danger to which I feel I have been instrumental in exposing them.

  I am blind and helpless. But there is a way in which I may be able to help you. I have discussed it silently with Malu. I need him as a guide in my sightless state, but also he wishes to assist me, and comes out with me in the true spirit which actuated Captain Oates.

  I write this as we journey to rescue Miss Hogarth and the others. Malu and I will contrive to slip out of the trailer—with good fortune you may not notice our absence for some little time. Do not try to come after us. It is my last wish that you should go forward and win to safety.

  My plan is wild. It may not succeed. But I shall try my best. You will know, when the time comes, what it is I have done.

  God bless you all. Your true friend in the eternal cause of science—

  Andrew McGillivray

  The silence held as Katey finished reading. Her voice was very quiet, imbued with the strange solemnity of the words of McGillivray’s enigmatic note.

  “Captain Oates,” said Jacqueline softly. “Captain Oates, Paul . . . ?”

  And Paul answered gravely:

  “Don’t you remember, Jacky? In Captain Scott’s last expedition. The one who went out from the tent into the blizzard to try to save the others—went out to his death. . . .”

  Around us indeed, in the little moving “tent” in which we clustered, the yellow blizzard tossed and swirled.

  “But how—how?” asked Michael. “How can he save us?”

  To that compelling question there was no reply. We knew nothing—not even where to look for McGillivray if there were any question of going back for him. We could do no more than obey the final wishes of our lost companion. We went forward, always forward.

  Around us, as the distance from the Ridge grew greater, the Yellow Cloud was thinning and dispersing. There came a time at last when it was possible to steer visually. As the last wreathings of the mist dissolved, we saw far, far ahead across the plain, the slender gleaming spire of the Comet.

  We drew nearer. And it was as if, indeed, the great rocket stood at the center of a gigantic spider’s web. Over the plain had converged a veritable network of the deadly green Creeping Canals, each housing, as we knew, in its steamy depths, a single member of the dying race of the Vivores.

  The air was clear now—there were no further traces of Cloud. We still went forward, nearer and nearer. It was the one course possible. The throb of our engine was the only sound in all the vast and menacing scene. But, mingling with it in our heads, at one moment—faintly, infinitely faintly as he made the immense telepathic effort over the distance separating us, from wherever he might be—there came the “voice” of Malu: “Farewell, my friends. Again remember Malu the Tall, Prince of the Beautiful People. Farewell—this time a last farewell. . . .”

  CHAPTER XIV. THE LAST JOURNEY, by A. Keith Borrowdale

  WE DREW TO A HALT at a distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile from the base of the Comet. It was evening now, early evening. The silver of the rocket’s slender hull glowed red and mauve in the long light of the dying sun. Beyond her spear-point tip the two little moons of Mars went circling, small Phobos joyous in her haste, contrasting strangely with the stillness of the scene confronting us.

  The Canals converged to form one dense central enclosure around the Comet’s gigantic tripod. There were eight of them—eight Vivores, therefore, lurking close, to control and paralyze us with their concerted power. More, more perhaps were already on their silent creeping way across the plain.

  The woods have come up and are standing round in deadly crescent . . .

  Deadly indeed. Even more deadly-seeming in their patient stillness and silence. They waited—they only waited.

  There was no hint of Cloud. The Vivores knew by now that we were impervious to its effect. There was no need even to attempt to use the yellow weapon: the combined intelligence of so many of those vast and living Brains was enough. There was no sign either in all the scene of any groups of the Terrible Ones. Perhaps the Vivores had had no opportunity in their rapid journey across the plains to collect within their orbit any of those ponderous slaves—again, in any case, they must have known that we could deal with the Terrible Ones with the flame-throwing weapons. They had nothing—nothing with which to combat us: except . . . themselves; immobile, bodiless, blind, deaf; but kn
owing everything and possessing an incalculable hypnotic power.

  It was Michael who, at the thought of the flame throwers, suggested their possible use against the Vivores. But a moment’s reflection showed us their uselessness.

  “They might suffice indeed.” said Dr. Kalkenbrenner drily. “They would destroy those living Brains, shrivel them up, if once—if once—we could get close enough to use them! A bullet from a revolver might at least incapacitate—but you know yourself, Michael, that your own guns were useless when you confronted Discophora. They were in your hands all the time—yet what could you do with them?”

  “The cannon, then,” said Mike desperately, “the little cannon on the tractor—or even the machine gun?”

  “I reckon,” our leader answered very quietly, “I reckon, my friends, that where we stand now is as close as we can venture to the rocket without coming under the influence of those gathered Discophora. A quarter of a mile. There are so many of them—their orbit is immense, and their control will be less gradual than from a single Vivore. Tell me if the cannon would be effective at that distance, Michael, even if we knew where the Vivores are in those forests. Tell me if the machine gun could help us from here. We need larger weapons—larger than we have—larger than we could ever have carried. . . . As we approach to within firing range, so also do we approach within their range; and our fingers would refuse to obey us when we tried to fire!”

  His tone was detached and cool. Its very calmness sent a shiver through us all as we realized fully, for the first time fully, exactly what we faced.

  “It might even be worse than that, much worse,” he added a moment later. “Our very guns might be used against ourselves! Who knows, Jacqueline, but that as we go through that forest there, a power beyond your control might make you snatch your brother’s revolver and turn it against him? Miss Hogarth is her own fiancé’s deadliest danger—my own niece might aim at me! No—no. Our first step of all is to throw aside our weapons—to leave them here before we advance one further step.”