He managed to get in front of Vanessa, and Titov and Farrell joined him to form a feeble barrier about the girl.
And then the riders were clattering past, their leader dipping his lance in salutation. Riding pillion behind him was a man — a man in a spacesuit!
Slowly, dazedly, the fugitives turned around, watching their rescuers deal with the mob. They were rough — they had to be — but they were as gentle as possible, using their shortened lances as batons, forcing the crowd back, slowly, by the weight and the bulk of their superbly handled steeds.
From behind them snapped an angry female voice. “So there you are! If you’d had any sense at all you’d have stayed in one place, and then I’d have been able to find you!” It was Natalie, sitting in the folplane, the little aircraft that had drifted silently down to the street. “Don’t stand there gawking!” she went on. “Two of you sit on the wings of this damned thing so I can get out. No, Boris, not you….”
The others, tactfully, watched Tars Tarkas and his people playing at mounted policemen while she flung her arms about Titov.
XXIV
AND SO IT was over, or almost over, and Wilkinson and Vanessa were sitting very close together on the deck of the boat that was carrying them north along the canal. Titov and Natalie were not with them, having returned to the ship in the folplane, and Farrell was forward, taking an interest in the human-operable controls that had been fitted to the craft by one of Discovery’s technicians. They sat together, nested snugly in the pile of warm furs that Bill Carter had given them. Reluctantly, the tribal chief had declined to come with them, explaining that there was still mopping up to be done in the city, complaining that if left to themselves his people would slaughter all the Tame Humans out of hand — which, since these slaves knew a little about the operation of their late Masters’ mechanical devices, would be a pity. And Tars Tarkas, too, had decided to remain in charge of his own handful of green-skinned warriors. Without him at their head there would be far too much looting and senseless destruction.
“But we must stay to help them, Chris,” Vanessa said firmly. “There are the other cities, where the Overlords haven’t yet been overthrown. There are the so-called Tame Humans — and some of them, as well we know, are even worse than their Owners …” She paused. “And they’re such decent people at heart — the Wild Ones, I mean. They looked after us when we first stumbled upon them — and with our plummy accents, our whole appearance, they’d have been justified in killing us on sight. And there are the Green Martians, Tars Tarkas’ people. And they and Bill’s crowd cooperated with Natalie from the very start, right from the time when she made her forced landing among them.” She went on, warming to her theme, “The Green Martians we must help. After all, they are the real natives. This is their planet. They should at least have some say in the ruling of it.”
Wilkinson laughed briefly. “I don’t think we need worry about them. They can look after themselves very well, very well indeed. And I think that after the recent fun and games Tars Tarkas will have no trouble in convincing his tribal elders that the two races must work together to defeat, and destroy, the Overlords.”
“But what are we doing about it?” she demanded.
“Discovery is not a warship,” he told her.
“I know she isn’t, Chris, but she’s a flying ship as well as a spaceship — she can fly higher than the Overlords’ airships, and she’s far more maneuverable than their rockets.”
“But we can’t outrun their laser.”
“It seems to have a very limited range, Chris. Natalie was telling me that she flew right over what looked to her like a big projector, and all she felt was a mild warmth. And surely our technicians can make us laser guns that will outrange the Overlords’. And we already know that they can make bombs.”
He said, “I’m civilian. I was brought up as one. If I’d wanted fighting I’d have joined the Navy instead of the Interplanetary Transport Commission.”
“I’m a civilian too,” she told him. “But I was brought up in a hard school. In the Underground we didn’t worry about whether or not we had commissions, uniforms, ranks and ratings and all the rest of it. We just fought when we had to.” Her manner softened. “Just as you’ve always fought when you’ve had to.”
“But Discovery isn’t my ship. I’m not the owner; I’m only the Captain.”
“And her owners are in Science City, on a Venus that doesn’t exist on this Coil of Time. Tell me, pray, how you propose to get instructions from them.”
He grinned ruefully. “That’s out of the question. But I suppose that, legally speaking, we’d have to put the question of intervention to the vote of the Science City personnel.”
“And Boris will vote for intervention. And Natalie. And Paddy Farrell. And all the others who actually took part in the raid on the city.” She stated flatly, “It looks like we intervene.”
“And that looks like the ice barrier,” said Wilkinson, staring ahead. He could see the white, glittering wall, the black mouth of the tunnel. Soon, he thought, he would be aboard his ship again. From what he had been told by Natalie and some others, the repairs on the Inertial Drive and Henshaw’s apparatus were well in hand. It should be possible, soon, for Discovery to return to her own civilized, well ordered Coil of Time, for her to leave forever this crazy world somehow half remembered by Wells and Burroughs — and over-glamorized by the latter. And if there were any crusading to be done, the Government, with all the wealth and forces at its disposal, was far better equipped than any private individual. (But nobody in the Government had watched an Overlord enjoying the pleasures of the table — and he, Wilkinson, had. Suddenly he realized that he was considering ways and means, working out how bomb bays could be installed without impairing the efficiency of the ship, envisioning the fitting of externally mounted, remotely controlled laser projectors.)
The barge was in the tunnel now, making good speed against the strong outflow. She was in the tunnel, sliding smoothly along beneath the dim overhead lights and then, at last, was coming in to the wharf in the terminal chamber. There were men there, people from the ship, to take the lines that were thrown to them, to shout good wishes and congratulations to Wilkinson and Vanessa and Farrell, to help the three ex-captives on with their spacesuits. It would be cold outside the pumping station, on the short walk back to Discovery.
The pumps were still working, the steady rhythm of their thump, thump, thump unbroken. But for how long? wondered Wilkinson. For how much longer? With the Masters overthrown — and what Montgomery had said about their decadence, their unreadiness to face an emergency, was true; only the slightest push was needed to topple them from their thrones — who would tend the pumps? And who would look after the atmosphere machines?
“We can’t leave,” muttered Wilkinson. “Not yet …”
“What was that, sir?” asked one of the technicians.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
“We can’t leave,” whispered Vanessa, very softly.
And then they were making their way up the slippery spiral ramp. Handholds had been tack-welded to the walls since that first day here, but even so, the party was out of breath when it halted to rest in the open doorway (the door now crudely repaired) looking out over the snowfield that gleamed golden in the sunset.
When they were breathing more easily Wilkinson led the way back to the vessel, feeling a great relief when, rounding the corner of the pumping station, he saw that she was still there, a shining ovoid, bright silver against the whiteness.
He was first through the airlock door and, with hardly a pause, made his way directly to the familiar Control Room, Vanessa following a short step behind. Here he found Titov and Natalie. He was hurt when they gave him no word of welcome, almost ignored him. The biologist was staring through the big, mounted binoculars; he had them trained on a point just above the southern horizon. He looked away from the instrument, his face worried. Then he saw Wilkinson. “Company,” he said briefly.
“Company?”
“Yes. Three of their blasted gasbags heading this way. And the folplane’s had it — temporarily, at least. The little brute developed a leak on the way back north.”
“But how did they know where to find us?”
“What does it matter? My guess is that the Overlords have some sort of telegraphic or telephonic communication between their cities, and no doubt the Chief Slaves have access to it. Our late friend Mr. Montgomery must have told some of his cobbers about us, and where he thought we came from. And then, when the news came through about the destruction of the city where we were prisoners, those Chief Slaves must have blabbed to their Owners.”
“I did hear that they had radio….” said Wilkinson absently. He had his own eyes to the instrument. He watched the three roughly spherical blobs, saw that their apparent diameter was rapidly increasing.
So much for all his plans for the conversion of Discovery into a warship. She wasn’t one yet. She was just a sitting duck, unarmed and immobilized. The Overlords could bomb her, if they had bombs, or could melt her down with their laser beams. These might well be, as Natalie had said, only short range weapons — but when there was no defensive fire from Discovery, the pilots of the airships would decide that they could safely descend.
But there was still the Inertial Drive. Perhaps.
Wilkinson went to the engineroom telephone. He dared not hope that anybody would answer the buzzer. But someone did. It was Clavering. “So ye’re back, Skipper,” he growled.
“Yes. I’m back. How soon can you get this crate upstairs?”
“Three minutes. Normal warm-up procedure. Ah’ve had nae interruptions, an’ peace an’ quiet tae dae ma worrk, sae …”
“Never mind that. Warm her up. Let me know as soon as you’re ready.”
He went to the pilot’s seat, sat down and flipped the necessary switches on the console. He stared at the indicator lights, willing them to change from amber to green. And then he looked up. The airships were almost overhead now, high, dark spots against the blue sky. Said Titov, his voice mildly amused, “Our friends have opened fire. The outside air temperature just jumped two whole degrees.”
“Wish we had something to fire back with,” muttered Wilkinson, transferring his attention to the sweep second hand of the Control Room clock.
“They’re dropping. But slowly….”
Would that damned Clavering never be ready?
Suddenly it was very hot in the compartment — and Titov commented drily, “Looks like the thaw’s setting in outside.” Then, in a thoughtful voice: “Three beams, at least three beams, focused on the same target …”
A buzzer sounded. All the lights on the console changed to green. Wilkinson, his decisions already made — a lift to lateral ratio of 1:4 — rapidly punched buttons. The ship lurched.
And something was wrong; something was very wrong. She lurched, shuddering to the unsynchronized vibrations that seemed to be twisting her very framework. She lurched, and she shuddered, and suddenly it was very cold and light streaming through the viewports was bleak and harsh, all the sunset mellowness gone, and the sky overhead was so deep a blue as to be almost black.
Wearily, Wilkinson cut the Drive and slammed his hand down on the Finished With Engines button. Through the port he could see the red blinker beacons that had been installed (how long ago?) to mark Discovery’s landing site, could see the area of disturbed snow — furrowed by the ski landing gear, melted by rocket blast, refrozen — where the rocket from Marsala had been landing and taking off.
But what had gone wrong? Was there some sort of rubber band effect inherent in this time travel, in his jumping from Time Coil to Time Coil? Had the band snapped?
Or …?
Slowly he got up and he made his way from the Control Room. The others followed him, saying nothing. But the ship was not silent. From the Main Saloon drifted the sound of angry voices.
Henshaw was there, with his assistants, staring at the smoking, fused wreckage of the Time Twister.
“Day and night,” said the physicist. “Day and night we work to repair the apparatus. And then, just as we run our first test, some moron starts up the Inertial Drive.” He added, glaring at Wilkinson, “I would have thought that you’d have learned by now.”
“It was that or be roasted,” Wilkinson told him. He asked urgently, “How soon can you get it fixed?”
“Don’t bother me with silly questions, young man. We have used the last of the spares. There are no facilities on Mars for making fresh ones. It will have to wait until I get back to my own laboratory in Science City.”
“How long?” repeated Wilkinson.
“Months. A year, perhaps. Over a year.”
And while you’re pottering, thought Wilkinson bitterly, what about Bill Carter, and Tars Tarkas, and the others? How will they make out without our help? How can they make out?
“So that’s that,” muttered Titov flatly.
“And you never even got to meet Dejah Thoris …” murmured Natalie, with the sorry sense of humor that women so often display in times of stress.
“You didn’t miss much,” said Wilkinson, and immediately regretted the words. Delia Doris had been scrawny to un-loveliness, and sour — but she had been far more than a storybook princess. She had been tough, as had all her people.
And they’ll need all their toughness, Wilkinson thought, and the close presence of Vanessa by his side did not make him feel any less of a Judas.
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Text copyright © 1965 by Ace Books, Inc.
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eISBN 10: 1-4405-5311-4
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The Alternate Martians Page 12