Marooned on Mars

CHAPTER 14 Welcome Mat

Everyone knew all the details now, and nobody had an explanation. Drugs wouldn’t affect a man in a completely airtight suit, yet Dick had passed out while seemingly wide-awake, and fully aware of what was going on. To make matters worse, he was a hypnotic immune. Chuck had thought of the cricket-like chirping he had heard near the ruins, and had wondered whether it might not account for his sleeping then, and for his indecision at the air lock when Sokolsky was on guard.

But a certified hypnotic immune couldn’t be hypnotized—it was a rare thing, but it had been proved.

Chuck had long since passed out of his depths on this—but he wasn’t alone. There were no theories—the welder was gone, and that was that. There was only one left which was capable of mending the big bottom opening.

That morning they were served minimum rations—the first sign that Vance was giving up hope, and expecting to have to stay on until he could find favorable conditions—or until the expedition died.

Nobody commented on it. Chuck got up slowly, leaving half his food behind, and went out, dragging the last welder behind him. Before, the threat to the men’s lives had been a questionable one, and the matter of food and air might not have mattered. Now, it was almost certain that they would have to stay on indefinitely.

That meant that he would be shortening their lives by one month for each seven months that passed. It was as simple and direct as that. It wouldn’t do any good to fool himself any longer.

He was working at top speed, drawing the edges of the seam together and welding them tight, but his movements were purely mechanical. Yet hardly a minute passed without his looking over his shoulder to make sure some Martian monster wasn’t creeping up on him for this last tool.

He stopped while the winches were installed, and moved inside to complete the work. He was still welding when the ship began to slip backward and to tilt upward. The deeper hole dug by the blasts of the rocket had made the job easier in every way. The ship rose to an angle of forty-five degrees, and he could feel the inch-by-inch drag of the winches pulling it back, and farther back.

Then he was finished with the seam, and the ship was again reasonably airtight. There was a month’s strengthening and reworking of the big girders needed before she would be space-worthy, but there were no holes left for the Martians.

Carefully, while the ship inched back, he stowed the welder away. Then he grabbed onto the nearest supports and hung on.

It had reached the critical level, and began swinging. By rights, there should have been winches on both sides to keep it stable—but it had been impossible. The two on the ship were both needed to drag it back at all.

The ship rose to upright position, and swung over beyond that, to rock back again. It bobbed like a child’s round-bottomed toy. And finally it found itself a position it liked, almost exactly upright, and came to rest.

Chuck let go the supports and staggered down toward the air lock. His stomach was jumping, but he held it down. He’d been wanting to be a man when his age was holding him back from going; he’d wanted to be a man when the ship came crashing down to its unhappy landing. Now he knew he was a man—and it didn’t make him either better or worse—only a little harder and tougher.

He slipped down the ladder to the ground while Vance came running up, protesting that he should have given a warning. He grinned. “It wasn’t much more than a little jouncing around—and it was the only way we could get both jobs done when they had to be done.”

He tamed to look up at the ship, and then down into the hole. The leg-fins weren’t too stable, but the ship was standing on her own feet again.

“She’ll do—well reload her carefully,” Vance said. He should have been completely happy, but his face was unreadable. “And I’m wondering when we’ll lose the other welder.”

“I’ve got a theory—I think the ruins are the hideout,” Chuck told him. “It’s the only place they could be. And since it isn’t on the surface, they must have some way of getting underground. Does that sound reasonable?” Vance brightened. “Maybe. What about it. Doc?” Sokolsky nodded. “They’re nocturnal—we only know of them prowling around at night. And that does sound like an underground form of life. Besides, I’ve heard that screech come from somewhere in the old city.”

Steele hefted a piece of pipe in one hand, while Rothman picked up another.

“How about it, Vance? We’ve got three hours left until night,” the engineer asked. “I don’t like going around killing off other people—even when they’re Martians. But when it comes to kill or die off, I like to live. Anyhow, maybe they won’t fight, if we go in with a good frontal attack.”

“Somebody has to stay,” Vance suggested. “I know they haven’t attacked by day—but I don’t want them to, either. Two men. That way, in broad daylight, the rest of us can make a Search of the city. Chuck, how about you and Dick staying?”

The two men exchanged glances, and Vance nodded. “All right, then it’s settled. We’ll get what weapons we can, but we’ll leave the automatic with you. And if anything turns up, let out a yell—there’ll be no talking on the common channel unless it’s an emergency.”

Any form of action was better than nothing. The men ran off to select their clubs and were back almost at once. Then the five headed toward the city, leaving Dick and Chuck beside the ship. Dick was wearing his oxygen tanks, and Chuck had on the blower device; whatever method was used by the Martians should be hampered by having to deal with both styles of equipment at once.

By day, the sandy waste offered no hiding place, but Dick and Chuck had lost faith in good ideas. By common consent, they dropped down beside the ladder leading up to the rocket, back to back, so that they could cover all approaches.

If anything should be safe, the ship should. Chuck sighed, and leaned back so his helmet touched that of the big engineer.

“If I see even a bit of sand blowing, I’ll sing out and you shoot,” he planned. “You can do the same.”

Should have kept guard this way long ago,” Dick said. “The trouble with us is that we’ve been so pressed for time that we’ve wasted most of what we have.”

They settled back against each other, leaving just enough room at one side for Chuck’s faintly humming blower. There would be no talking—from now on, any sound that went out over the radio would be for warning to those in the ruins. Chuck felt for the switch again to make sure that it was on; it was easy to forget and leave it off once it was cut for helmet speech.

Nothing moved. The shadow of the ship crept forward as the sun neared the horizon. Once Chuck felt something stir in the sand, and jumped, but it was only Dick shifting position. There was a slight wind and it touched the piled up sand around the rocket ship, sending little rivulets downward.

He shifted slightly, and Dick jumped. They glanced around and grinned at each other, then quickly jerked back to watch ahead for any activity. It was like sitting quietly with a rattlesnake asleep on one’s lap.

Sound rattled in their earphones. “There’s one! There—he slipped behind that big house!”

A babble of confusion followed. Chuck frowned and waited. Finally Dick’s voice came over the phones. “What gives, Miles?”

“Don’t know—must be somebody’s imagination. Probably one of us saw the shadow of another. Nothing to it. And no sign of any entrance underground. How’s it there?”

“Quiet!” Chuck answered, and heard Dick’s laugh.

Then it was quiet again. They shifted from time to time as the sand slipped from under them, and the space suits proved less comfortable than they might have been. But they were used to that now, and paid no attention to it.

Chuck yawned, and realized that sheer boredom was their biggest danger. He yawned again, and it seemed to make the sound of the little blower a trifle louder; but it was so quiet that his ears had to strain to hear it anyway. Maybe the yawn had cleared his ear passages—inner ear passages… . He’d be glad when Vance got back. No wonder the watch got sleepy. He’d be less disgusted with them now…

Something in the back of his mind whispered to him. He felt that the suit was getting damp and that the air was impossible to breathe. Must be the blower but it was still running—or was it…

He opened his mouth to shout into the radio. But it was too much effort. Too much…

Vance’s voice was ringing in his ears. He muttered in disgust and some of the blackness went away. He’d been about to do something—but it was hard to remember. Then his head cleared slowly and words began to penetrate.

“Dick! Chuck! Chuck!”

“Yeah.” It was hard to get the first word out, but the effort cleared the last of the fog from his mind. “Vance! What happened?”

“That’s what I want to know! Wait, we’re coming now. Good Lord!”

Chuck swung around slowly, to see Dick sprawled out on the ground beside him. He bent over, shaking the big figure, and the engineer sat up groggily. Then some of the babble in the phones registered, and Chuck swung toward the ship.

It lay on its side again, though this time the entrance was just above the surface. Its fall had left part of the hole, but had filled in under it, where the digging had been necessary. And probably there were new cracks now releasing the air.

Chuck staggered toward it, only half-conscious of what he was doing. But now Vance and the others were coming up over the final rise of the sand and pouring down. They stopped at the side of the ship, staring at it without comprehension.

Finally, Vance turned back, shaking his head. “All right, I guess it wasn’t too bad—unless we’ve cracked the hull some more. And it looks more as if someone lowered it that as if it fell. We can blast and dig out the pit tomorrow. I’d rather have that than lose the last welder.”

“Vance!” Rothman’s voice jerked them around, and they turned toward him. He was standing over the two winches, pointing at them.

It was a sorry mess. A tank of the rocket fuel had been poured over the winch. The corrosive acid had eaten the cables through, stripped off the cogs of the gears, and generally ruined them completely. They wouldn’t be safe to support their own weight now.

The funny thing was that there was no blame on any of the men’s faces. They had learned not to blame the failure of any of them, apparently. Chuck stood there, holding back the bitter sobs that wanted to come, and he knew it would have turned on him in a body.

Yeah, he was a man. He knew what it meant. Maybe he did. But he wasn’t one when the chips were down. He wanted to go into a corner somewhere and cry.

Then he turned in stunned surprise as the sound of genuine crying hit his ears—a choking, horrible sound, worse than he could remember from childhood. Dick Steele stood over the winches, seeing the final failure of the machinery that had become a part of his life, and knowing that he had been somehow responsible for its destruction. There was nothing weak about that crying—it was a release of rage and futility, but there was no weakness.

Chuck stood frozen for a second longer. Then he turned with unsteady steps toward the fallen rocket ship. They’d never raise it now, he told himself. He’d failed them—it had all been his idea. He’d nailed the lids on their coffins as surely as the inscription in that early dream of his had indicated.

Vance’s voice was tired and numb. “Never mind. There’s scrap metal, and we’ve got good welders; if I have to, I can weld new cogs, and cut down pipe to make die new winches. It’ll take time, but we can do it. There’s still one welding machine on the ship.”

Chuck went on into the air lock and down the passage. He’d stored the welder away carefully. He’d done everything carefully. He’d been proving he was a man with the right to work with men.

He opened the cabinet The welder was gone!

His steps were steadier as he came back down the passage and entered the air lock again. They were frozen as he stepped but onto the surface. He turned his face toward the ruins of the city and began walking, one foot ahead of the other, the other after the one.

Vance came after him, but he went on walking until the man held him back by physical force.

“You don’t have a welder. Captain. They got the last one. They came out and let the ship down, burned up the winches, and walked off with the welder.”

“I know it.” Vance turned him around and led him back into the group. “Everyone here knew it when you came out. We must be getting psychic about such things—or experienced. We’ll weld everything with the electric torch, and we’ll dig a deeper hole, deep enough for the Eros to slide into it. You’ll fix the controls so they balance out— the instrument readings will let you do that—and it won’t matter if we do take off at an angle. We’ll last until we can make it on our fuel, or we’ll take off for Earth and tell them to ship out fuel to us on the little rockets, or well crash right into Moon City!”

He stopped for breath and turned to face the rest of them. “You don’t believe it—and I don’t believe it any more. But we are going to do it because we’re men, and there isn’t enough trickery on Mars to keep us from doing it!”

Chuck looked from one to another. They didn’t believe it could be done. Nobody was fooling himself any more. But they were going to go right ahead and try it.

“Let’s get in and see what damage was done to the ship,” Dick suggested, and his voice was quiet now.

They trooped in, one by one, and began moving up and down, searching with the smoke candles. But there was no sign that there were any new holes. A few tiny leaks along the seams remained, but so slow that they hardly mattered. The Eros had been let down gently, with the winches. That was why the cables were still on, instead of having been snapped out of their holds by the force of the shock.

“They took a look at her right-side-up and decided it didn’t look the way it should, so they put her back,” Ginger said. ,

“Why?” Rothman asked. “It doesn’t make sense. If they wanted to kill us, they could have waited until night and let her down with a rush. Why this way?”

Sokolsky shrugged. “It seems fairly obvious. They’re trying to make us stay, not to kill us. This is sort of a welcome mat. ‘Welcome, Earthmen.’ As far as they’re concerned, we can stay as long as we like—longer. They could have killed us all off by now. But they like us.”

“Why?” Rothman repeated.

“Because we have so many nice toys that they want. We bring them presents—but presents they don’t know how to use. They hang around in the sand—I think I mean that literally, buried in the sand where we won’t see them. They watch us use the toys. And then, when they find out what the pretty toys will do, they come and take them away. Why should they kill us when they can keep us here to show them the use of more things? Gentlemen, we’re being domesticated!”