The Angry Planet

by John Keir Cross

  He surveyed them sternly.

  “And whether we like it or not,” he said, “you’re with us now. There’s no sort of hope of turning back—I can’t control the ship properly in empty space going at this speed. My heavens!” he exploded suddenly, “little did I think I’d have three children on this trip with me! Children! You’d think it was a holiday outing to Brighton! And it’s a voyage to Mars, do you understand?—the first in history! You’re on your way to Mars!”

  The children stared at him sheepishly. At least, Paul and Jacqueline did. Mike was behind them, and out of the immediate gaze of the Doctor. And I’ll swear he was grinning—and that I heard, as a gentle whisper in the air of the cabin, the one triumphant word—”Whoopee!”

  We had calculated before leaving earth—or rather, the Doctor had—that if we achieved through his patent fuel the truly incredible initial speed we hoped for, it would take a little under three weeks for the Albatross to reach Mars. As I have said, once we got into outer space, we had no outward notion of time. The Doctor, however, was able, eventually, to calculate day and night by examining the surface of the earth as it came into our view as a globe—he observed the rotation of it on its axis, and from that, allowing for our movement, got a fairly reliable standard of measurement.

  As the journey progressed we settled down to a routine—we grew accustomed to the extraordinary conditions. We all kept diaries of sorts—jotted down something at least of our impressions (the Doctor, of course, as well as a personal notebook, kept a most careful and scientific log which has since proved invaluable to astronomers). Writing at first was very difficult—the merest push of a pencil sent it floating off the paper altogether (we had to write with pencils: ink simply would not flow from the nib of a pen). However, this, like everything else, soon came under control. It is a brief selection of some of the most representative entries in these odd journals and notebooks that makes up the next part of this chapter. Here they are:

  Dr. McGillivray’s Personal Notebook—2nd Day. Everything goes according to plan. The ship travels beautifully—to us on it, by a paradox, almost imperceptibly. There is nothing I can do to steer the Albatross—we can only pray that I did not in any degree miscalculate our direction when leaving earth, and that we shall fall within the gravitational pull of Mars. If we do not, then—heaven help us!—we travel from now to the end of time—lost in space—another meteor, no more. Our food (of which, fortunately, I have enough in store for these unhappy children who have joined us)—our food would give out, our air would exhaust itself—we should die here unmourned in measureless space. No one would know. Centuries hence, if we had not collided with a planet or meteor, we should still be traveling on and on, going nowhere—nowhere! . . .

  But this is pessimism. Useless to dwell on such thoughts—I cannot have miscalculated. I was too careful—I checked and counter-checked everything. . . .

  My days are very full. I make continuous observations—I am well equipped with instruments. The earth is now visible as a vast globe, seemingly over our heads—terrible and beautiful against the darkness of space. Further out, when it is smaller, we shall see it in phases, as it were the moon—in thin crescent and half crescent. It is unbelievably beautiful and fascinating. . . .

  Extract from the Journal of Michael Malone—2nd Day of Journey. This is the most wizard thing that has ever happened to anybody, I bet. It’s terrific, I can tell you. Of course, we’re used to this business of not having any weight by this time, though it wasn’t half funny to begin with. There are only two pairs of magnetic boots for us three, so we’ve got to take it in turns to go into the strap things on the floor. Sometimes, if we feel like it, we have a float around for a lark (ha-ha, but no pun meant—a “lark,” see???). It’s eating and drinking that’s the joke, though. Old Paul had some sandwiches left in his haversack and we had a shot at eating them the first day. Gosh! When you put them up to your mouth they just went floating on out of your hand up to the ceiling! And when Jacky tried taking a drink of lemonade out of a cup, it just came out in a sort of bulb and doddered about in the air—and I had a swipe at it and it didn’t burst or anything—it just sort of oozed and crept over my hand like a sort of queer oil. So the Doctor had to show us how to eat and he’d had a really great idea for that. All those things we thought were tubes of tooth-paste in the cupboard where we hid were really food! There were all sorts of things—vegetables like spinach done up very fine, and meat-paste things, and sorts of thick soups, and concentrated essences and whatnot, all shoved into these toothpaste tubes. You take one, you see, and put the point of it in your mouth, and then you just squeeze. You can’t chew properly or anything—it just goes into your mouth and then you swallow it (you’ve got to learn how to swallow with muscle movements, because there isn’t any weight in this stuff, see, and it won’t go down by itself—but you master that after a time, same as everything else). Drinking’s the same sort of idea—the water is in rubber bag things, like hot water bottles, with a tube at the end, and you put the tube in your mouth and just squirt.

  The Doc’s not so bad now. He was a bit sticky at first about us being here, but he’s getting over that. As a matter of fact, I think he’s beginning to like us, though he won’t admit it yet. He likes explaining things and all that. He’s not half a bad stick, really, and I think Uncle Steve’s secretly on our side, so it’ll be all right. Oh boy, the more I think of it—going to Mars! This’ll be something for the chaps at school! Not half it won’t!

  Stephen MacFarlane’s Journal—3rd Day. How can I possibly, possibly describe in any adequate way the wonders that surround us? Sometimes, as I gaze through the port-holes, I find my mind tottering on the edge of things—how can one begin to conceive the incredible vastness of space?

  The sky, surrounding us on all sides, presents a new kind of spectacle—a beautiful one, yet a terrible one too. We see, as it were, with an awful clarity (because, the Doctor has explained, light rays are no longer being reflected or obscured by any kind of atmosphere). The whole wide expanse of space is perpetually a deep bluish black, smooth and velvety, yet luminous too, in a strange and totally indescribable way. The stars (unbelievably brilliant) are always visible, yet the sun shines all the time. And how it shines! It is impossible to look at it without powerful dark glasses. When I do look at it so, I perceive that it seems just a little smaller (Mars is further away from the sun than earth, and so as we travel we recede from it).

  But it is the spectacle of the earth that haunts and fascinates. At first, as we journeyed, we saw it only mistily—a large, greenish-bluish expanse behind us. Then we came to see the outlines—the whole outlines of countries—and even to be able to observe the huge curve of the surface. Think of it—to see the whole of Britain in outline, as we did, surrounded by the deep blue, sparkling, shining sea!—a gigantic relief map in vivid green, with only the largest rivers traceable as silvery thread-like veins in the body of it, and dark vague blobs for the larger cities—London, Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow. As we traveled, the country seemed to flatten out and elongate, as it were the reflection of the relief map in a vast distorting mirror. More and more outlines came into sight—France, then the coastline of Spain—Norway. Then—gradually—the whole sweeping curve of the globe; the stark whiteness of the polar caps—the earth as a gargantuan ball, all of it—an enormous shining sphere, filling the whole of space with its radiance, it seemed at first, then slowly, slowly contracting—and all the time, more and more obviously as we receded, revolving on its axis.

  Now, on the third day, the earth is about ten times the size of the full moon as we would see it from back home in Pitlochry. It shines with a terrible hard brilliance—silvery, seeming cold. Britain is no longer separately visible—it is no more than a little green finger attached to the vague mass of Europe. Only the bigger shapes are recognizable—America, Africa. The seas are a greyish blue (strange how colors still are visible, despite the brightness of the earth: but they are—only, in a sh
rill and luminous way). The two poles are pure, pure white—little caps, they seem—skull caps.

  As we recede the colors grow less distinguishable. Already the green of the continents is becoming only a gentle tint, and a bright, phosphorescent silvery-whiteness is beginning to flood the whole surface. Smaller land masses are beginning to appear only as vague shadows. . . .

  It is awesome and terrible. Yet fascinating—I spend hours at the port-holes, staring and staring. . . .

  A letter from Jacqueline Adam to her Mother—written on the 12th Day. My darling Mummy,—It seems such a strange and silly thing to be doing, sitting up here in space, millions and millions of miles away from you, and yet writing a letter as if you were only a few towns away. And, of course, it’ll never be delivered, because Doctor Mac has explained that even if I dropped it out of the Albatross it wouldn’t fall down home the way that maybe you would think it would—it just wouldn’t drop at all. It has something to do with there not being any gravity—I don’t really understand it, but anyway, that is what Doctor Mac says.

  But you see, I’m not really writing to you thinking this letter will ever reach you—it’s only a sort of imaginary letter, because I want to put down my thoughts to somebody, and can’t speak to you the way I would really like to.

  Oh, mummy, I get so frightened! I can’t help it, and I try not to show it, but I do all the same. And there is no one to turn to—not even Uncle Steve, though I am sure he understands inside the way I am feeling. It is so terribly lonely out here, although there are the five of us, and we are all quite cheery. But it is not that—it is a different kind of loneliness—not the loneliness of not having people. When I look at the earth (and it is very tiny now—not so big as the moon—just a sort of large star), I think of you there on it, and Aunt Marian, and old Mrs. Delaware next door, and the milk-boy, and the little red mail box at the corner of the street. And it is all very queer and far away and like a dream, and I can’t help crying a little bit inside for it all being so lost and strange. You see, it is all so terrible and so big and so cold-looking here, and it is always the same—always, always, always. And I think of things like you and Paul and me on the sands at Bournemouth, or the little cottage in Cornwall last year, and old Mrs. Tregerthen, do you remember, and the strange way she talked, and bathing in the sea, and going down the old tin mine—and Tibby, her cat that had only one eye and was lame in one leg. Oh mummy!

  But it won’t be long—the Doctor says it won’t be long. And we shall all be back again. And you will be better by that time, and we shall be able to sit round the fire and have toast and roast chestnuts (Mrs. Duthie in Scotland was showing me how to make soda scones on a “girdle,” and Scotch pancakes, so I shall make some of those for us in the winter, and we shall have them hot with butter).

  I shall never forget all this—never, never, never. But secretly I shall never want to come again, no matter how wonderful it may be on Mars. The boys are wonderful—Mike is enjoying himself no end, and so is Paul, but I think that sometimes in his bones Paul is a little bit worried about us, because he is the oldest, lest anything should happen to us, and then he would feel responsible.

  Well, this is silly. But it has done me good to write it all down. Perhaps we shall never come back—oh mummy, I couldn’t bear it! Well, I won’t think of it, that’s all.

  Mike and Paul are having a floating game up near the ceiling, so I shall go and join them and that will cheer me up. I am sure the Doctor likes us now—he was angry at first, but that is all past. He is a darling, very gentle and kind.

  A floating game near the ceiling

  Good-bye for now, darling mummy. I think of you all the time, and so does Paul, I know, in his heart. Get well soon. All, all my love. Your affectionate daughter, Jacqueline. . . .

  A Note by Paul Adam made on the 16th Day. A week ago we saw Mars as a very big star. It has got larger and larger. Now it is almost the size of the moon on a clear night on earth. We are almost there!

  We are terribly excited. We can hardly believe it. Doctor Mac says there is no danger now of missing the gravity belt—we shall land on Mars—we shall be the first human beings from earth to land on Mars!

  We wonder and wonder what we shall find. Will the air be breathable? Will there be food? Will there be water? Will there be people?

  We crowd to the port-holes and stare all the time. To think we have actually done it! We have actually done it! . . .

  So I end the quotations from our notebooks. The journey was fantastic, beautiful. The conditions on it were such that no human beings had ever experienced before. Yet so adaptable is man, that after the first few days we accepted those conditions as normal. There was no mystery any more—we grew accustomed to weightlessness—we grew accustomed to taking our turns of sleep strapped to the beds—to eating—to everything. So that, towards the end, we were even—yes, I must say it, in all honesty—a little bored and tired, and anxious for the long, long journey to end.

  Our minds were full of speculation. As we neared our goal—the red planet—the Angry Planet, as I had referred to it so many days before in Scotland—we talked among ourselves endlessly, imagining, dreaming. At first, as we approached, the planet appeared to the naked eye as a small red disc. As it got larger, we gradually perceived vague dark outlines. There were, as on earth, two polar caps—unmistakably—and therefore, to our joy, moisture on this new world of ours—and an atmosphere.

  Nearer and nearer. We could see, revolving in the sky round the planet, its two satellites—its twin moons. The shapes on the surface resolved themselves. There were large reddish patches now, tinted and luminous, as the earth had been. And then, vaguely at first, a creeping green. The globe grew larger—grew immense. And, unmistakably, the outlines of countries—of countries!—came into view. The green patches spread and changed in color to a steely blue—they were, we saw, huge seas. And the red patches—which changed to orange and then to a strange mottled brown—were vast land masses. They were enormous—bigger than even America and Asia had seemed on earth at a similar distance.

  There are no words to describe the Doctor’s excitement when he was able to announce to us that we were entering the planet’s gravity belt and falling rapidly towards it. There was no question at first of any cessation of the sense of weightlessness, for we still traveled faster than the gravity pull on Mars. But he warned us that as we entered the atmosphere, and he set in motion the rocket motors in the front and sides of the Albatross to impede our fall, we would experience a return of the terrible pressure we had felt on leaving earth—but not, he believed, so powerfully, since Mars was so much smaller than our own home planet, and the gravity pull weaker.

  In my mind, as I look back now, the impressions of the last few hours of our journey are muddled and confused. We were all, I think, a little hysterical—I remember we laughed and chatted inordinately—we talked the wildest nonsense, we hugged each other and danced stupidly and clumsily in our magnetic boots. The shining surface of Mars grew enormous—it filled the whole space beneath us. We were still many thousands of miles from it—there was no hope of distinguishing any detail in the vast land masses below. All we could see, before we entered the outer stratosphere, and so were enveloped in the milky mist we had seen on first leaving earth, was that the seas were after all comparatively small, and that they extended, as it seemed, symmetrically, in broad well-cut channels towards the two poles. The whole center part beneath us was land—there was no danger that we should fall in water.

  I saw the Doctor adjust his breathing mask. He stood now, in a sort of icy calm, at the control panel. I and the children lay down on the mattresses, strapping ourselves down. (We had given the other breathing mask to Jacky, so that things would be as comfortable for her as possible.) There was, among us, an awed, incredulous silence.

  The Doctor pressed a switch. There was a long quivering tremor throughout the Albatross. The motors in the nose were working—we were slowing down. In a moment or two the Doct
or would touch the lever that would cause to shoot out the two stocky wings on the back of the Albatross near the nose. So the ship, mechanically adjusted for this part of the flight, would flatten out automatically in a long steep dive, so as to land right side up. The Doctor’s calculations were such that if there were a brief spell of unconsciousness for the travelers in the last stages of the journey, the tremendous deceleration would slow the Albatross sufficiently for the body to adjust itself before the last few miles had been traversed. Thus the operator would have recovered, and be able to work the control panel for a comfortable landing.

  There came now, suddenly, in our ears, a high-pitched persistent rushing sound. And gradually our sense of weight returned. I felt myself swimming in the head—there was a repeat of the sensation that someone had bound my chest with iron chains. I looked at Mike, beside me, and at Paul and Jacky on the other mattress. The two boys were white and sick-looking, fighting for breath. I looked at the Doctor. He still stood at the control panel, but he was gripping the hand-rail tightly and swaying a little. He, because of his mask (he wore it as a slight measure to keep himself conscious for the landing) was experiencing the awful weight sensation rather less than we were. The last thing I saw before my senses left me altogether, under the terrible pressure and the maddening rushing sound that filled my ears, was the unsteady, wavering movement of his hand as he raised it to touch one of the controls. . . .

  I came to myself gradually, swimming up through blackness. I felt slightly sick. I lay for a moment perfectly still, collecting my powers. Then, as a sort of icy shock, I realized that the darkness was not only in my head—the whole cabin was dark—not pitch dark, but full of a grey, heavy twilight.

  “Mac,” I cried, “what is it? What’s wrong—for heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?”