“They’re almost there,” said Natalie unnecessarily.
Wilkinson did not reply. Through his binoculars he watched the landing party make its cautious way along the low wall that faced the ships, obviously looking for some way into the building. Behind him the transceiver crackled and then Titov’s voice said, “Can’t find any openings this side. The building’s made of metal. Odd construction. Seems to be one huge casting — although it could be a really excellent job of welding. In either case, an advanced technology…. It’s relatively warm, too. The snow around its base is melted. There’s the noise of machinery. If I hold my helmet against the wall you might hear it….”
There was a brief pause, and then those in the Control Room heard a steady thump, thump, thump….
“As I said, a pumping station,” went on Titov. Then, “We’re going to investigate the other sides of the shack now. There’s bound to be a doorway somewhere.”
“He should have taken the folplane,” whispered Natalie. “That way he could have made a quick getaway. I don’t like this.”
The two men were out of sight now, but Titov’s voice was still coming in strongly. “Damn it all, the place seems to be hermetically sealed. Guess we’ll have to scramble onto the roof and do a Santa Claus act down their chimney. Whoever these people are, they don’t believe in fresh air….”
And then another voice, Farrell’s: “Look, Boris. A crack in the sheathing.”
“I do believe you’re right, Paddy. Could be a door, a circular door, a very well fitting door. Can’t see any doorbell, so we’d better knock…. Yes, use the butt of your rifle.”
Distinctly the thudding sound drifted from the transceiver.
“Yes, you’re right, it’s opening. Keep well back, Paddy, and have your rifle ready. We don’t know yet if the natives are friendly.”
Then — suddenly, shockingly — there was the sound of a loud report, and another, and the vicious rattle of a pistol fired on the full automatic setting. There was a hoarse shout, almost a scream, and Titov’s voice yelling something.
There was silence.
“What did he say?” Natalie was crying. “What did he say?”
“It sounded like ‘damned tin octopus’,” said the man who had been standing by the transceiver, in a doubtful, frightened voice.
XIII
WILKINSON WAS really on his own now, realizing just how much he had leaned upon Titov in the past. He was on his own, and whatever decisions were to be made he would have to make — and fast. But he realized that to rush things could lead, at best, to delay — and, at the worst, to further disasters. So, while the others stared at him, waiting for him to say something, to do something, he filled his pipe with calm deliberation and slowly went through the ritual of lighting it. By the time he expelled the first fragrant mouthful of blue smoke his plan of campaign was beginning to take shape.
With the stem of his pipe he pointed at one of the physicists who, during the voyage out, had shown considerable interest in astronautics. He said quietly, “You’re appointed Acting Chief Officer, Peter. In my absence, Acting Master.”
“But … but I’m only an amateur.”
“Don’t let that worry you. In any case, I’ll be keeping in touch with the ship by suit radio. But you’ll be in full charge until I get back.” Slowly he surveyed the faces before him. He wanted young men, strong men, and few of the scientists qualified. There was Lefarge, and there was Briggs … but there should be at least two others in the second landing party. Four volunteers …
He must have whispered the words, and he was not surprised when he saw Natalie step forward, and with her Vanessa, with Briggs and Lefarge only a half second behind them. He remembered what Titov had said about the outmoded concern for the safety of women, and what both Vanessa and Natalie had had to say on the same subject. Besides, Vanessa had already fought by his side, and he had no doubt that Natalie would be able to do the same.
“All right,” he snapped. “You’ll do. Now … equipment. Light spacesuits. Snowshoes. I think our armory will be able to afford us a pistol apiece, with ammunition. And we’ll take along a couple of laser projectors; I don’t think much of them as weapons, but they have other uses. And flashlights; it could be dark inside the pumping station.”
Only a few minutes later the members of the landing party, clad in their spacesuits, were waiting by the airlock and, after a lapse of about thirty seconds, the equipment Wilkinson had ordered was brought to them. Swiftly they buckled it on. Wilkinson saw that the others made the necessary adjustments to their suits so that they would be breathing the local atmosphere; there was no sense in using the air from their tanks, and circumstances might arise in which the canned atmosphere would be essential to survival.
And then they were out of the airlock, stepping down the short ladder, clumsy in their snowshoes, treading cautiously and slowly, until they had mastered the technique, over the snow. The air, in spite of the filters through which it had passed, was cold and crisp, with the tang of frost. The light of the sun, low in the southern sky, was reflected blindingly from the smooth surface. Wilkinson used the polarizer in his helmet to cut down the glare, and told the others to do the same.
In the lead, he followed the trail left by Titov and Farrell. It was easier going. Ahead of him loomed the low, black building. It had looked sinister enough before the vanishment of Titov and Farrell; now it was doubly so. As he plodded on he pondered the significance of Titov’s words. Damned tin octopus. … A robot, he decided. A maintenance robot, or a mechanical watchdog with built-in instructions to dispose of any potential source of danger to the station. He imagined what he might find, and wished that he had not allowed the women to come along, Natalie especially.
Then he was walking along the thawing snow at the base of the wall, rounding the corner. He could see the disturbed area of the snow surface, the evidence of the struggle that had taken place. As he reached it a brassy glint caught his attention. It was an empty shell, expelled from an automatic pistol.
“There’s the crack that Paddy was talking about,” said Lefarge.
“I see it,” Wilkinson told him.
It was hair-thin, almost invisible, outlining a circular door — a door, decided Wilkinson, on which he would not be knocking. He would open it himself; he would not knock and then wait for whoever or whatever was inside to come out for him. It would be simpler if he knew where the hinges were, but it did not much matter.
He hefted the hand laser projector by its pistol grip, motioning with his other hand for his companions to stand well back. He said, “Calling the ship. Calling Discovery.”
“I hear you, Captain.”
“We’re burning our way in.”
The invisible beam played along and around the crack, tracing the circle. Metal flared to blue heat and then, smoking and sizzling, dribbled to the bare, wet earth at the base of the wall, exploding the moisture into steam. Again Wilkinson traced the circle, and again. In the widening fissure he thought he could see guttering projections that could be the remains of catch or hinges. He gave these a few seconds of concentrated attention and then — cautiously, cautiously — advanced to make a closer inspection. He retreated again, returning the laser projector to its holster, drawing in its stead his automatic. He loosed off a full clip at the base of the circular door.
As he had hoped, the impact of the heavy slugs finished the job. Slowly, deliberately, knocked off balance, the heavy valve toppled outwards, slamming down onto the snow, sending up a flurry of ice crystals and a puff of steam.
Through the opening so revealed there was a passageway — a tunnel, rather, circular in section. It seemed to be unlit; its far end was shrouded in darkness. From it, louder now, frighteningly loud, came the thump, thump, thump of the pumping machinery.
Wilkinson flicked the switch of the flashlight at his belt. He said, “Come on. We’re going in. But you, Natalie and Vanessa, wait outside. Did you hear that, Discovery?”
And c
oincidental with the acknowledgment from the ship came the protest of the two girls: “Like hell we will!”
Wilkinson shrugged. An argument, now, would waste too much time. Carefully, he kicked off his snowshoes, then stepped into the tunnel, his reloaded pistol ready in his right hand. He found it hard, in his metal-soled boots, to keep his footing on the curved, slippery surface, and had to use his left hand to steady himself. He heard at least one of the others scrabbling desperately behind him.
He said, “Calling Discovery. We are now inside the building.”
There was no reply. Apparently this metal structure inhibited radio communication. That might be why nothing further had been heard from Titov and Farrell. So, Wilkinson thought with relief, they could still be living. He said sharply, “Vanessa, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Chris.”
And so communication was still possible between the members of the landing party. So far, not too bad. Yet.
The beam of his flashlight, together with the beams from the others, was reflected confusingly from the curved, polished walls. But the imbalance of his body told him that the tunnel had a downward trend, slight at first, then increasing. Ahead of him was what he took to be a blank wall, and then, as he approached it, he could see that this was a bend, the first of many bends. The path that they were treading, down which they were slipping and stumbling, was a spiral ramp, leading down, down….
Down to the machine room, perhaps, the pump room. The mechanical thumping was loud and louder, so that they had to shout to be heard on the suit radios. And there was a taint in the air that they were breathing — hot metal and hot oil, and oddly mingling with it a chilly dankness.
Down, and down….
Down the steep, slippery spiral, sliding and stumbling, fighting to retain balance, with no retreat — or, at any rate, no hasty retreat — possible.
Down — as though being sucked down by the great, clangorous pumps.
Down — until they almost fell onto a level platform, a deck of smooth, slippery metal.
There was light here, of a sort. There were red-glowing tubes set in the low, arched ceiling. Turning around, letting the beam from his flashlight fall on every inch of the compartment, Wilkinson satisfied himself that there was no sign of life, no sign of hostile movement, then gave the order to switch off the belt lights to conserve the power packs. Nothing stirred except the black, sullen water rushing by the platform, impelled by the noisy pumps, driving south to the canals, to the low latitudes, to the cultivated areas and to the cities.
Briggs was saying something. Wilkinson heard, “This can’t be the main thawing center. That must be somewhere else — at the Pole itself, perhaps. These pumps are just boosters.”
All very interesting, thought Wilkinson, but before he could put a stop to the man’s idle speculations Natalie broke in, her voice sharp and strained. “Where’s Boris?”
I should never have let her come, thought Wilkinson again. But where was Boris? Where was Farrell? Where was the “tin octopus” that had, presumably, captured them?
He walked to the edge of the wharf. There was nothing alongside it, but, several feet away, moored to the curving wall of the tunnel, there was a boat, an ungraceful contraption, decked over, little more than a rectangular box. It seemed to Wilkinson to be a remarkably unhandy way of doing things, especially as there were mooring cleats along the wharf stringer. But perhaps the craft could be brought alongside by remote control, or perhaps … He had a vision of the “tin octopus” extending a long, long tentacle, fumbling with the lines, casting them off and then drawing the boat alongside the working platform. Meanwhile, it was well out of the way, leaving the berth clear for any incoming traffic.
In any case, it was obvious that a boat would be necessary for any rescue operations. The prisoners (or the specimens?) must have been removed by water. But how to get to it? A spacesuit could be used as a diving suit of sorts … but, without weights, could a man cross this swiftly flowing current without being swept away? Wilkinson doubted it.
There was one way of getting across that black water. It would not be an impossibly long jump even on Earth; here on Mars it was well within the capabilities of the average non-athletic spaceman. But the spacesuit and the assorted ironmongery with which it was hung would have to come off. Wilkinson told the others of his intentions, then removed his helmet and was helped out of his suit by Briggs. He took off his uniform jacket, and then his shoes and socks. The air was warm enough, but damp. Now that his helmet was off, the thumping of the pumps, the machinery behind the low archway through which the water was gushing, was deafening.
He walked back as far as he could from the wharf edge, back until the curvature of the tunnel wall forced him to crouch. Then he ran forward and jumped. His bare feet came down onto the metal deck with a thud and the boat rocked violently. He put his hands out to the wall against which it was moored to steady it. He cursed as the boat rocked again, as he felt hands clutching his shoulder. He turned, angry words on his lips, then saw that he was looking into the face of Vanessa. She shouted, “I thought you might need a hand!”
“I might,” admitted Wilkinson.
He studied the situation. The boat was moored at its forward end only, with a short length of what looked like very flexible wire rope cast around cleats set into the curved tunnel wall. But coiled down on the metal deck was another length of wire, ample for Wilkinson’s requirements. He picked it up, ran it through his hands. There were no kinks, no entanglements; it would run free. He shouted to the wharf, hoping that his voice would carry above the noise of the pumps, through the helmet diaphragms: “I’m throwing you a heaving line!” One of the men raised a hand in acknowledgment.
“As soon as they have the line,” Wilkinson told Vanessa, “let go. They’ll pull us across to the wharf.”
She nodded.
Getting the line across to the wharf was easy. Catching it should have been as easy, but Briggs fumbled it badly, dropping it to the deck. He had to go down on his knees — even a light spacesuit inhibited free movement — to pick it up. And then he had it, standing there, legs well apart, waiting to take the strain.
“Let go!” Wilkinson shouted to Vanessa.
The boat swung out from the tunnel wall, into midstream. The weight came onto the heaving line. “Catch a turn around your wrist!” yelled Wilkinson to Briggs but he was too late. The smooth wire slipped through the awkward gloved hands, then dangled uselessly from the ringbolt in the bows of the boat.
The current had the boat, and before Wilkinson or Vanessa could do anything they were swept into the tunnel.
XIV
THE TUNNEL was a long one, and their passage through it seemed to take hours. There was clearance enough — but the question of headroom had not been among Wilkinson’s worries. The wharf, with its mooring arrangements, and the boat itself had been evidence that it was a thoroughfare for waterborne transport as well as an artery of the irrigation system. There was clearance enough, and it was lit after a fashion, dull-glowing tubes being set in the roof at widely spaced intervals. There was enough light for Wilkinson to be able to see Vanessa’s pale face, the outlines of her bare arms and legs, but that was all. He tried, working by touch, to find out something about the boat. He was certain that it was a powered craft, and if he could somehow get the engine started he would be able to get back to the subterranean wharf.
There was a depression in the plating of the foredeck, a shallow bowl. There were slots in it, too thin for him to insert even a little finger. And his pockets were empty; he had deemed it prudent to remove from them all hard and sharp objects, to avoid chafe, before putting on his spacesuit. Vanessa could not help him.
And so, in the near-darkness, they were swept on, past smooth metal walls utterly innocent of any projections, in a craft that did not possess so much as a boathook to catch such projections if they ever did appear. They huddled together for warmth, and when they were thirsty they scooped up water from overside wi
th their hands. There was nothing that they could do about their growing hunger.
They talked, of course. They wondered if the rest of the party had succeeded in making their way up the spiral ramp and, if they had done so, what action they would take. It was probable that the canal ran due south, underground, from the pumping station, and that it would emerge somewhere beyond the southern limits of the snowcap. It should not be beyond the capabilities of the amateur navigators remaining in the ship to find the point of emergence. After all, they had the folplane at their disposal.
They talked — and then, made drowsy by the darkness and the monotonous susurration of the water, they slept a little. But it was an uneasy sleep. They were lightly clad, and they were cold, and the metal deck was unyielding. They awoke with a start when bright daylight hit their closed eyelids like a blow.
Astern of them, black against a wall of ice and snow, was the circular mouth of the tunnel from which they had been spilled. Ahead of them and all around them was a vast lake, extending to the horizon. Their speed had diminished but the current still carried them along at a good seven knots; they were keeping to what must be a deep water channel, marked by long, straight, parallel lines of pile beacons.
The time of day seemed to be late afternoon. The sun was close to the western horizon, sinking almost visibly, and a shimmering golden path ran from its ruddy disc, across the calm water, to the boat. And around the setting sun were the towering castellations of gilded cumulus clouds. It was wrong, all wrong — but the water was real enough and so was the air, the air that carried the faint scent of vegetation, the subtle hint of wood smoke, that they were breathing.
While the light lasted, Wilkinson and Vanessa made a careful inspection of the boat. But of loose gear there was none. There was only the short painter of intricately braided wire by which she had been moored, and the longer one that he had used as a heaving line. And there was that odd depression, that shallow bowl with the peculiar yet regular arrangement of slots. A pilot’s seat? Possibly … but for no human or humanoid pilot.
The Alternate Martians Page 6