Marooned on Mars

CHAPTER 8 Crackup Landing

Rothman’s fingers hovered over the controls; his eyes glued to the screen. His voice came out as a hoarse croak. “Watch out for the bumps!”

Surprisingly, Vance laughed, almost casually. Chuck glanced at Lew and saw the same fear in his eyes that he felt seeping through his own body.

The ship slowly came to true vertical. Rothman hit the buttons again, and another savage thrust drove Chuck back against the cushions. The landscape below began swaying, but Rothman held the buttons down. The surface below had stopped expanding, and Mars was receding.

They had lost all forward speed and were taking off toward space again. Rothman was fighting against the uncertain blast from the slightly unbalanced tubes, and the lack of help from the crippled gyroscopes. He lifted still higher, and cut off the power.

. “Number six is the worst,” Vance told him. “Can you synchronize number three with it?”

“No—been trying. Might make it with two and five.” The pilot reached for the controls and played with them delicately. Meters danced on the control board. He hit the buttons for the rockets again. It seemed a little smoother this time—but not much.

Chuck was trying to read the indicator needles. This was his fault—if he’d known a little more theory to couple with Lew’s there might have been some way to avoid this horrible veering and uncertainty. If they ever got down, he was going to make sure he found out where the trouble lay.

The blast stopped, and Rothman shot his glance back toward Vance. “Want to try it? Maybe I’m getting rattled.”

“You’re doing okay,” Vance told him calmly. “I’m a little rattled too Even Foldingchair would be sweating at this. All right, take her down again if you can, Nat.”

They were falling slowly again, with the very thinnest of air around them—die sound couldn’t be heard, but one needle on the panel swung slightly. They must be at the top of the sixty-mile layer of atmosphere that covered Mars.

The ship wobbled, and Rothman had to correct their fall with flicks of the controls that produced only momentary series of bursts from the jets. Then they began picking up downward speed and running into a somewhat more dense atmosphere, where the steering-vanes would help to level it off.

The surface came up closer this time. Rothman waited until they seemed about to crash before he let the rockets blast out. The ship groaned under the force and began to settle to left sharply. He was using more force than was supposed to be safe, but he continued.

Chuck blacked out for a second; the pressure had gone beyond his limits. When he opened his eyes, the ship was shooting upward, the jets were off, and they were being guided by the steering-vanes. Rothman studied the screen until the right moment came and again cut on the rockets, taking them above the sixty-mile limit.

He swung fully around when he cut power. “Miles, I don’t have one chance in ten of making it. If you can do any better, take over.”

Vance shook his head. “You’re the pilot—I can’t do it as well as you. Unless you’re scared. How about it?”

“Too busy—too many worries. No time to be scared.” He was obviously telling the truth.

Vance shrugged. “Then she’s your baby. I’d probably go off the deep end if I had her in my hands. Nat, if you have to crash, crash us. It’s getting worse. Don’t worry about killing us—I’ll give you full authorization to do it, if it makes you feel better. But this time get us onto the surface—whole or in pieces.”

Chuck grimaced, trying to appreciate the hint of humor

in Vance’s words. But he wasn’t sure it was humor. The captain might mean just what he said—that they had to get down, and might as well get down dead as to keep worrying. Personally, Chuck preferred to go on worrying, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew if he opened it he wouldn’t be able to keep from screaming.

Rothman looked down, and back at the screen. “I’ve got a couple minutes. Toss me a cigarette, somebody.” From one of his pockets, Vance drew out a package and a book of matches. He lighted the smoke, and flipped it toward Rothman. The pilot caught it deftly between thumb and forefinger, and Chuck realized that the trick could never be done by any man who wasn’t in complete control of himself.

Rothman drew two deep drags on it, and crushed it out ‘Thanks,” he told Vance. “Okay, boys, here we go. If anyone has a particular spot where he’d like to be buried, let me know.”

There was the sound of air around them again, wailing and shrieking as the ship picked up speed. Chuck tried closing his eyes, but not seeing the screen only made things worse.

The pilot was picking up skill with the steering-vanes now. This time they were coming down as straight as an arrow could fall with the little light-colored spot below centered exactly in the indicator cross lines. As their speed increased, his control of the ship grew firmer, and there was no trace of wobble. If the rockets had been evened, Chuck realized, the man would have made a smoother landing than Jeff Foldingchair could ever make. He was good.

Rothman cut on the jets carefully, but the wobble began at once; it was getting worse each time just as Vance had said. The sixth jet must be half out of control. The rockets stopped firing after a brief trial, and the ship continued on, smoothing out its course as the vanes took over the steering again.

They were less than ten miles high. Then they were lower. Rothman was calculating under his breath. He held their course down until the ground seemed to surround them. Then his lips tightened. “Here goes!” he shouted.

Again, the jets went on with their absolute maximum, bringing a screech of tortured metal from the ship. Chuck couldn’t faint—the tension was too great, even against the impossible pressure. His eyes remained glued to the screen that was now only a hazy blur.

The rockets stuttered and cut on again as Rothman’s fingers moved. Something jarred, jerking the ship. One of the leg-fins had hit ground with the rockets still blasting.

Once more, the cut-off came with an almost impossible short burst of sound following it.

But the scene on the screen showed they wouldn’t make it. The last burst had just missed, and they were coming down at an angle. They hit, and bounced, to hit again, with shocks like hammers hitting the pit of Chuck’s stomach.

For a flickering moment, they teetered on one leg-fin, and almost righted. But luck was against them. The ship tilted back, hesitated, and broke like a tree, to fall on its side.

Something seemed to explode, and Chuck lost consciousness.

Chuck was first conscious of a wet cloth against his forehead. Dick Steele stood over him, watching while Doc Sokolsky was running gentle hands over his body. “No broken bones. I guess he’ll be all right.”

Steele’s face was covered with blood from an ugly wound across his forehead, but he grinned down at Chuck. “We had it easier farther back—you took the worst up here. Can you move?”

It hurt with every move of a muscle, as Chuck slowly came to his feet, more surprised than pleased. He’d been sure the fall would kill them. Vance and Lew were already standing up, and Rothman came to a minute later.

“All alive, all sound of limb—by some miracle,” Sokolsky told them. “The nylon cords on the mattresses took up the shock for us. But the ship isn’t in such good condition.”

From what he could see, none of them were in good condition. Chuck decided. All were limping, bruised, and obviously hurting with every step. But the pleasure at being alive made up for any other troubles. “What about the ship?” Vance asked. Steele answered. “She’s pretty badly cracked up. And we’re leaking air from a big crack in one of the gardens. It’s near the top, hard to get at. The doors won’t close, and we’ve got to fix that at once if we want to live. Chuck, Nat, Miles—you’ve all had machining experience. Let’s get to it.”

In such an emergency, the man who knew the most was automatically the boss. The others fell in behind him, traveling along the central well. Evidences of the crash were all over. Part of a supply room had been smashed through, and goods bad spilled an over, making it hard to pass.

“Most of the food is okay, I think,” Steele told them. “We lost one water tank—unless we can mop it up somehow—and the plants have been ripped loose in a few places. But the motors seem to be sound, and I don’t think the rocket tubes were hurt; they’re at the tail, where the fall didn’t amount to much. I haven’t had a chance to look at the fuel, but I haven’t noticed any smell of it in the air, and that stuff’s strong. Here, you can see the damage.”

He pointed upward, along the “deck” of the gardens toward a gaping rent in the metal above them. One seam bad sprung open as if it were a ripe melon bursting. There was something over it, though.

“Some of our tent doth,” Steele explained. “I got it up on poles. Stuff holds back most of the air, though it doesn’t seal completely.”

Vance studied the situation. “Looks as if you’ve been busy, Dick. Well, we’ve got plates enough for a temporary patch—we can use thin stuff for that. But how’ll we get it up there?”

Take the sheets outside, and climb up the hull we can throw a rope over it and pull a couple of ladders up.” Vance nodded, and they turned into the supply room where the heavy sheets were stored. It would probably take about five of the thinner ones to cover the hole properly. Dick picked up two of them, and each of the others grabbed one, together with equipment that might be needed. They headed for the air lock as rapidly as they could.

The inner door came open easily enough—apparently it had withstood the shock. The outer one was more trouble. It refused to open until Dick and Vance combined their strength, using their legs across it and heaving up together. Then it groaned and folded inward slowly.

Underneath it lay reddish sand, packed down firmly into the shape it had taken from the door. Dick groaned.

Chuck reached for a sheet to shove the sand away, and then he realized what had happened. The air lock lay exactly at the bottom of the ship now—the Eros had fallen over on its side, putting its whole weight on the door.

“We’ll have to dig out—” he began. But Vance cut him off.

“We will—but not right now. We’ve probably sunk five feet deep in this soft stuff, and we’d have to dig a tunnel up and around. It isn’t like honest dirt—look how dry it is—and we’d have to build supports as we went, to keep it from drifting back. Sure, we’ll have to dig out—when we’ve got a couple free days to give to the job. How about the door to the gardens?”

Steele frowned. “All three doors are stuck. If we could shut the outer one only and seal it, we’d still lose most of our air. Anyway, it wouldn’t do any good to save ourselves and let the plants die in the stuff Mars calls atmosphere. We have to have them.”

They moved back to the gardens, leaving the equipment beside the useless air lock. Vance stopped to close the inner seal since the air would gradually seep out, even through the bone-dry sand.

The tent cloth covering looked thin and transparent over die sprung seam, but it was holding the pressure. It was designed to be used in the Martian deserts, and to keep an atmosphere during twenty-four hours. But it hadn’t pressed itself down smoothly—it couldn’t, against the uneven tear. And there was a current in the air that showed a continual loss.

Chuck tried to imagine how Dick had managed to get it up, light and manageable as it was. The poles he used had been normal aluminum pipes, hastily tied together to a length of some fifty feet. Probably the man couldn’t tell himself how he’d done it; it had been strictly an emergency reaction.

“Have we still got any power?” he asked the engineer. The big man nodded, and Chuck studied the cloth again. “And we have a good supply of paint that’s supposed to dry in five minutes. How about pumping it through the hoses and squirting it up?”

“Might work,” Vance agreed.

The hose and pump arrived quickly, and the others began dragging up five-gallon cans of paint. Some was trick plastic, and some had an acetone base. “What’s the tent cloth made of?” Chuck asked. “Will acetone soften it?”

“I don’t know—it may dissolve it completely. But we’ll have to try.”

They poured the acetone-base lacquer into the pump tank first, and tested the motor. It was working. Dick and Nat took the nozzle of the pump in their hands, aimed it, and nodded. Chuck opened the valve.

A thin stream leaped upward to wash against the metal overhead. The two men directed it carefully against the edge of the tent cloth, until a gray smear appeared. Then

Chuck closed the valve. They watched, holding their breaths.

At first, nothing happened. Then the cloth that had been wrinkled at the edges seemed to sag upward, tighter against the metal. It was working—if only it didn’t work too well, and simply eat a hole through the cloth. Another five minutes passed, and Vance sighed.

“Good idea Chuck. It’s working. Stuff dries before it hurts the cloth, and it still softens the cloth enough to let the pressure seal it. Go ahead.”

They were almost out of lacquer when they came to the last section of seam. But the cloth behind them was smooth against the metal and the draft was slowing down to a faint whisper of air movement.

They repeated the maneuver with the plastic paint, but it seemed to have no effect on the cloth. It obviously wasn’t a solvent for tent cloth. It didn’t matter. They were using it to dose the pores in the cloth completely, and it was effective for that. Little by little, they sprayed over it until the last bit of clear cloth was covered.

“Should hold for at least a week,” Dick approved. Then he glanced down at the plant tanks along the deck. “The paint isn’t helping them any.”

“They’ll grow back—or new ones will replace them. We’re lucky none of the food plants caught the spray.” Rothman’s voice was approving. “I feel a little better about the mess I got you fellows in now.”

Doc Sokolsky finally caught up with Steele long enough to begin dressing the cut. He nodded his agreement with Rothman, but showed little approval.

“Fine. If we have to live here the rest of our lives, I guess it’s better to have air. But I’m not sure. Did any of you notice that we’ve cracked one of the main girders that run down the ship?”

Pain that was almost physical showed in Steele’s eyes. “We couldn’t—those things carry the entire rocket thrust.”

“Sidewise?”

“No-o. No, I suppose they buckle better when they’re slapped down on their side. But we can weld and reinforce it somehow.”

They turned to Vance, looking for his opinion, as they followed Sokolsky back to where the big girder lay almost in two pieces. But the captain hardly looked at it He went on toward the control room to come back a moment later with the course chart in his hands.

Everyone was assembled by then. He addressed them all: “We can get off Mars all right. It may take time, but apparently we’ve got enough supplies—we’ll check later—and I haven’t seen any damage that can’t be fixed; there may be some we don’t know of, but let’s say there isn’t. The real question is, how soon can it all be fixed?”

Steele looked at the others, trying to figure the damage. “Five, six months. Captain.”

“Exactly.” Vance held out the course toward them. “And we used extra fuel in landing. Once Mars and Earth get out of step, we keep losing ground—we’ll need more fuel to return for every month we stay. Either we get off here within ninety days—or we’ll have to wait a few years until the two planets decide to get into a favorable position again!”

He passed the course chart to them. “It’s up to you. You’d better work a miracle, because nobody ever needed one more.”