Before The Golden Age - A SF Anthology of the 1930s

by Edited By Isaac Asimov

  Jerry Ware, the reporter, was almost as cheerful, his mind centered only upon the scoop that should be his, when they got back “home.”

  And more and more Brett realized that that home-coming had to be soon. The conditions under which they were living were already telling upon the majority. Not only was the little boy, Tad, dying, but Jill was running a fever, and everyone could complain of indigestion, headaches, nausea and colds. None of them knew what it was to be comfortable, thinly clad as they were, with what clothing they possessed rewetted each day; the nights reaching almost freezing temperatures. The fact that the kitten and horse were first to sicken, with the younger children coming down with fever, proved that the food was altogether too rich for their constitutions, and it would be only a matter of days before the adults would become feverish as well.

  Considering this, on the third day, Brett suggested to those who listened the necessity of vigorous exercise to offset the ill-effects of the food. The younger members of the party were willing enough, but under the leadership of the Militant Matron, who was really a Mrs. Joshua White-Smythe, the others had other plans. She explained. “We’re going to follow the canal out of this place—and walk home, if necessary. The canal must lead to a river, and rivers always go to the sea . . . .”

  Brett heard and objected. “Good heavens, can’t you people realize yet that you’re not on Earth any longer? That it’s not a matter of ‘walking home’?”

  There was a tense moment, then Mrs. White-Smythe swung a pair of supercilious eyes upon him. “I suppose you think we’re on the moon. Silly idea. As if anyone could live on the moon—or stars!”

  “I’m afraid we’re a lot further away than the moon, madam. Earth is far enough away to appear as a star to us now.” Brett was certain he had picked Earth from among the celestial bodies the previous night.

  Congressman Howell laughed at that. “Of course we’re on Earth. I know we are. We’re in the Gobi desert!”

  “Why, of course. Haven’t scientists been finding large bones here, and calling them dinosaur bones?” sniffed Miss Snowden.

  “But these creatures haven’t bones—ugh—they don’t feel like they have them, anyway,” spoke up Cleone.

  “The next thing you’ll be saying,” said Howell severely, “is that we’re on Mars...”

  “We are on Mars!”

  “Mars!” It was a bombshell.

  Dell who had been nursing Jill in her arms came to Brett’s side. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Gee—I knew it,” cried Forrest. “Those moons, they’re Phobos and Deimos, aren’t they, Mr. Rand?” (So much for his voracious study.)

  Brett explained his reasons for his contention, pointing out the lessened gravity force, the red-dust atmosphere, the lessened warmth of the sun’s rays, the presence of the twin moons, even now showing in the daytime sky.

  George nodded. “Sounds logical, Brett. I’ve considered the same possibilities myself, but look here—scientists claim there isn’t sufficient oxygen on Mars to sustain human life. This air is thin, but breathable . . .

  Brett agreed. “I thought of that too, but it’s my conviction that this city lies in a deep depression in the surface. From my tower, I can see a distant line of cliffs on the horizon—either a mountain chain, or the rim of this valley. If it’s the latter, we’re on some ancient sea-bottom. That would explain why astronomers have never detected oxygen in the atmosphere— because it lies below the surface!”

  “Gosh, that sounds reasonable.”

  “Say, you know astronomers have plotted out some ‘marshy areas’ that show seasonal changes,” put in Forrest, “they usually show up at the end of a canal. I guess we’re in one of those areas, huh?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Yes, but what of those seasonal changes, Brett? Observers have seen green spots, you know, following the dissolving of the icecaps.”

  “This, I imagine is the dry-season. I stumbled over some dried-up roots this morning. Wouldn’t be surprised, if at certain seasons, some sort of vegetation grows here . . . .”

  “Glory be. Let it come right away. Prince and I need it,” McCarthy put in.

  Suddenly there was a sobbing in the crowd. It came from Mrs. Burton, the young matron who was rocking Tad in her arms. “If what you say is true,” she murmured through her tears, “then—I’ll never see my John or little Jacky again . . . .”

  Cleone added her tear-filled voice. “Oh, I’ll never disobey Mama again. She warned me not to go to the Point to see that awful ship. Oh, I wish I was dead!”

  “Hit’s de punishment ob de Lawd.”

  No one noticed that, led by Howell and Mrs. White-Smythe, Miss Snowden, Moore, Kent, and the mulatto, Harris, were leaving the circle. Even their mistresses did not notice as they moved slowly along the lake shore toward the place where the canal joined the lake.

  “You’ll save us, won’t you, Brett?” asked Dell. “You’ll find a ship and get us home—before it’s too late ....?” She looked down at Jill lying in her arms, a tear spilling on the child’s cheek. Brett noticed that her voice held a slight strain of hysteria.

  He drew George aside to tell him of his plan. “I’ve not been idle. I’ve been making a play for that big brute of mine, been jumping all over him when he gets home nights, turning hand-springs—anything and everything to make him notice me . . . .”

  “Good idea, and yet . . . .”

  “Oh, I know there’s plenty of objections. Still it’s better than no plan at all . . . .”

  “Sure, Brett, I’ll do the same thing—perhaps one of us’ll succeed.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER VI

  That night when Mister came home, true to his word, Brett literally flung himself on the monster, doing everything in his power to make the big fellow notice him. He had already discovered that the audibility of his voice-tones was below the sound range of the decapods; that partly accounted for the fact that the Earth people had failed in making the beasts realize their mental rating. He could roar at the top of his voice and the creatures paid no heed, no more than they heard his stirrings around in the night. Their voice-range, on the other hand, was often above his own sound-range, their lowest key was either a high “d” or “e”. He could see their mouths move without hearing their voices, and the male’s tones were even higher than those of the female.

  Hence his only way of attracting attention was by his antics, and by taking a flying leap, with the aid of the lessened gravity, he would land high on Mister’s body, clinging there until, perforce, the beast would put out a hand to steady him, or pluck him off. And the creature appeared to like these attentions. On the fourth morning he even deigned to give Brett a scoop of food from his plate.

  That same night Brett found himself the recipient of a new piece of attire. It consisted of a heavy metal girdle fastened to a forty-foot long metal cable. He had seen one of the seal-things wearing a similar belt and leash, nor did he like its implication, not guessing that later it was to prove his salvation.

  In the middle of the night he became horribly sick. He was cramped, and had a dizzy headache. And like most of his companions he was suffering from a bad head-cold, that the bath of the following morning did not help.

  And to make matters worse, on leaving the dining hall, Missis made use of the leash, snapping the belt around his middle and placing him on the ground. He was forced to run top-speed to keep up with her. Reaching the “air-port,” he examined the girdle’s buckle, but it was of an intricate mechanism that he could not unfasten. It angered him, because he had intended to run after Mister, make him understand that he wanted to spend the day with him. But the leash foiled him.

  He was, of consequence, the most despondent of those gathered on the lake shore that day, eyeing his bedraggled, ailing fellows with jaundiced eye, realizing more fully how very bad they all looked, wan, listless. Then he gave a start. He almost chuckled. Nothing could be more ludicrous than the sight before him. The Militant Matron was
sporting a black-eye!

  Studying her further, he discovered that she had somehow in twenty-four hours been subjected to considerable mauling. Her face bore other bruises beside the shiner, and her clothes were almost in tatters. Also she was limping ....

  She, however, was not the only one who appeared to have sustained maltreatment. The Congressman, although he did not have a black-eye, looked equally as bad as she, all semblance of neatness gone, his face scratched and bruised, while one trouser leg was ripped from knee to cuff.

  Glancing quickly around Brett found others in the same pitiful condition, Miss Snowden, Moore, Kent and Harris were likewise in a ragged, bruised state. And all looked rather hang-dog about it.

  Shortly, he learned what had taken place when the six had wandered away from their fellows the previous day, intent upon finding their way back to civilization. Hurrying along the canal, it seemed, they had made good progress. The canal had widened out, the towers growing more sparse, when they found themselves stalked on all sides by strange decapods. Then they had been surrounded.

  At first the curious creatures had been content with poking at them, pinching them; but tiring of that, one had plucked Kent up. From one beast to another he had passed. The others struggled, but were each plucked from the ground. Then had come squabbling among the ever increasing number of monsters, those on the outskirts resenting the slowness with which their fellows examined the curiosities. Fights started here and there, until it was a wonder the Earthlings were not torn limb from limb. Only the timely intervention of a troop of decapods wielding club-like metal rods had saved them. Taken to a massive tower-building they had been turned over to creatures of some authority who examined them thoroughly. Later, they had been returned to their own mistresses, much the worse for the experience.

  So ended the first break for liberty.

  Howell kept away from the others the remainder of the morning, but when he could catch Brett’s eye, he motioned him to come to his side. “Young man,” said he, “I do not believe this—er—story of yours about our being upon Mars—but—er—a—you strike me as a man to be depended upon. I heard you making plans with your young friend. Now, listen to me. You—er—get me out of here, and I’ll pay you well—er—ten thousand dollars. No—I’ll pay fifteen—twenty, whatever you say. Only save me. I’m sick—I’ll die unless I get medical attention—but for God’s sake get me home . . . .”

  Brett listened quietly enough, though with every word his gorge was rising, but he managed to keep his voice under control as he asked, “And what about the others, Congressman ....?”

  The man hemmed and hawed a moment, then: “What of them? Let them get out as best they can. After all, I am needed in Washington, I have my duty to perform. Two of us have a much better chance— whereas . . .

  Had the man been younger Brett would have struck him down. He had much he would have liked to say, but he knew he could not trust himself if he let himself go, so he turned on his heel, after one scathing look. It was the last and only time Howell approached him, but he did, later, draw George aside. That young man, however, saw fit to give him a piece of his mind, telling Brett about it later.

  “The dirty-so-in-so. Thank God, he’s only one out of the rest of them. It’s men like him that . . . .”

  But Brett waved aside his denunciations. “Forget about him. Listen, we’ve got to do something. Understand? We’re all sick, dying on our feet. We’ve got to have some setting-up exercises to offset the richness of our food, and general conditions here. Mosey around and see if you can’t start something.”

  “Yeah, I know. The kid, Tad, didn’t show up this morning. We’re afraid he’s dead, and the baby Jill is getting worse. It won’t help that her kitten died last night, either . . . .”

  Brett’s proposal was received in various ways. Howell positively refused to join the group, the negroes grumbled and refused point-blank to do anything for themselves, the three of them forming a praying bee around Mattie whose high hysterical voice was beginning to color all their dreams. Surprisingly it was the Militant Matron that jumped at the idea, organizing the group, wading in after slackers, leading the calisthenics. It was the outlet that she had needed to adjust herself. Brett grinned secretly. He bet with himself that the mayor, as well as all the worth-while people of her home-town, usually toed the mark when she was about.

  The next day Brett had his piece of luck. Jumping at the end of his long leash, trying to make Mister understand he wanted to accompany him to the office that day the catch on his belt suddenly gave way, freeing him. It took him but a moment to realize his advantage, and without a backward glance at Missis, he started on a run after the departing male, about to board his ship. Making a flying leap, he landed on one of the beast’s five legs, clung there for dear life.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER VII

  Mister halted in his tracks, Missis came running up, but reaching down for the man. Brett clung to the male, refusing to be pried off. With much shrill tooting the pair conferred. The female appeared to object to leaving her pet to Mister’s care, but his careful groundwork seemed about to bear fruit. The beast hesitated.

  Then to his chagrin, at a word from Missis, the male held him out to her. Shrieking at the top of his voice and digging his fingers into the leathery tentacle, Brett again refused to be freed. Missis gave him a long glance. He took it for reproach, but didn’t care. Then she said something to Mister that made that worthy chuckle. Thereupon, she turned away, leaving Brett in full possession!

  With beating heart he rode his master’s arm. They entered the waiting machine. It contained two compartments, the first holding the controls and two queer motors, the second bare, but for a mat and a few hanging straps. High on the wall of the control room was a huge plaque studded with dials, levers and buttons, and before it hung a series of straps in which Mister slung himself.

  Carefully the man, squatting on an arm, watched the decapod manipulate the controls. One small hand depressed an octagonal-shaped lever, a second hand turning, in quick succession, three knobs, each of different form. At the touch of the lever the ship was filled with a terrific roar, and with the twisting of the dials came such pressure that Brett lost consciousness.

  But the spasm was of short duration, for when he reopened his eyes, they were just leaving the sanded floor of the port. Unaffected by the contusion of the take-off, the beast was twisting a long red bar, which, after he took his hand away, began to oscillate jerkily, continuing to do so all through the trip that followed.

  Since the ship was made of the golden transparent metal of the decapods Brett could look in every direction. He saw that they had risen above the tower city, a thousand feet or so, and were now moving away in a straight line. Looking through the floor he could see the plan of the city, a mass of towers, intersected by two canals, dotted with plazas, an occasional monster tower rising high above its fellows. The city had more length than breadth, and he discovered that, true to his supposition, it lay in a deep depression in the planet’s surface. Far away, on either side, was the rim of the valley, great dark cliffs.

  They were following one of the two canals, and when the city ended abruptly, strips of some growing stuff of bright unnatural green took its place. Here and there monster gardeners tended the plants, keeping a steady flow of water in the ditches from the canal.

  Where the canal made a great bend they deserted it, rising over the valley rim into a land that was naught but sand, silent dunes that lay supine, or swirled under wind-eddies. Shortly, a second city came to view, standing beside a second canal. The towers here were twice the circumference of those left behind, but much lower, none rising more than seventy-five feet. Interposed among them were other strange shapes of structures, some tall and slender, others squat and flat, or many sided. Then, there were cone-shaped edifices with the cone’s point toward the ground, the wide, flat plane at the top, upheld by interlaced girders. An evil-looking, green smoke rose from many of the buildings, sho
wing why the decapods set their factories far from their residential cities.

  Between this conglomeration were wide plazas in which flying machines were already parked, or just arriving. Other machines had preceded them or trailed them from the city of towers, while more approached from opposite directions. As soon as they landed, their pilots hurried into one or another of the various shaped piles.

  Realizing they were about to land, Brett clung tightly to Mister’s muscular arm, trying to keep his eyes open to watch how the landing was made. A touch halted the oscillating bar, the three knobs were twisted to their original position, and the ship was floating to a landing as lightly as a feather.

  * * * *

  They entered a round building filled with activity, monsters moving among queer machines that covered most of the floor space. At one end of the long chamber stood a high counter, and it was to this desk that Mister hastened. Climbing to his hanging “chair,” the decapod placed Brett on a clear space on the counter itself, pushing him down to indicate that he was to stay where he was put.