Stowaway to Mars

by John Wyndham

  ‘And you, Dugan?’ Dale asked.

  Dugan looked round, his hand still on the valve of the oxygen chargers. ‘I don’t care: But I do know one thing: I want to get back to Earth. And I want to tell all those people who laughed at Joan and her father that they were right. Just now it all rather depends, doesn’t it, on whether we’ve any chance of getting back at all?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well, we hadn’t a large margin of spare fuel to begin with, and Joan’s extra weight made us use more than we had reckoned. Have we enough to take us back, and to stop when we get there?’

  All three looked at Dale. He answered slowly:

  ‘I think we have anyway, we’ve more than a sporting chance of making it. You see, whereas six of us came here, it seems that only four will return. Besides, there are quite a number of heavy things such as rifles and ammunition which we can jettison. They’ll be of no further use to us after we leave here.’

  Dugan nodded. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Well, then,

  I’m with Froud and Doc. Let the other rocket people come and look at us if they want to.’

  Several hours later Dale still sat by the window, keeping watch. Occasionally he looked across at one of the others, half enviously. He wished that he too could have lain down to catch up some overdue sleep, but he knew that it would be useless for him to attempt it while the problem of the other ship’s identity remained unsolved.

  It was possible that the ship was native to Mars, but he did not find it easy to swallow such a palatable hope. She was meant for space travel no doubt about that. Other wise she would have had wings, big wings, too, in this thin air. Was she, he wondered, a Martian space ship returning home from another planet, possibly from Earth? Joan’s story seemed to show that this world had sent out at least one messenger successfully. Again he was anxious to think so, but all the time something at the back of his mind was repeating insistently the thing he least wanted to believe: that this ship had followed the Gloria Mundi from Earth.

  That was the fear which would not let him rest. He had been the first to reach Mars, but that was a job only half done. He must be the first to tell Earth about Mars. The leader of the first successful interplanetary journey in the history of the world. Dale Curtance, the Conqueror of Space a name which should never be forgotten. And now he faced the possibility of a rival who might snatch immortality out of his very hands.

  Had he been able, he would have taken off this very moment, heading the Gloria Mundi for Earth with all the speed of which she was capable, but it was impracticable for several reasons, of which the most immediate was that she now lay on her side. Before they could start, they would have to raise her to the perpendicular.

  Dale was not a good loser. He had won too often since that day when he had led the first equatorial dash round the world. The Martian venture was to be the crown of his career. Not for the five million dollars to hell with that, he had spent more than that on building and fuelling the G.M. No, it was for the triumph of being not just the first, but for a time the only man to have linked the planets. It was the thought that this other ship might mean his failure in that which kept him at the window for almost unendurable hours while his companions slept and daylight came again.

  Again he asked himself who could have sent her. The Keuntz people? Had he been misinformed about them after all? Yet who else in the world could have built a ship capable of it?

  Then, on the crest of a rise in the direction of the other ship appeared a few black dots. Machines or men? He found the spare pair of glasses and focused them. Then he crossed hurriedly to the sleepers and shook them.

  ‘Wake up, there!’

  ‘Damn you,’ murmured Froud. ‘Machines back?’

  ‘No, men from the other ship. Coming this way.’

  Chapter 19. Vaygan

  They stopped in a room which led by a short passage off the third balcony level. The man signed to Joan to remain, and she seated herself on a box like stool with a padded top while he disappeared through another doorway.

  As she waited she examined the place by the light which diffused evenly from the entire ceiling. It was a bare, severely simple room. The furnishings consisted of several similar padded stools, one larger cube, presumably for use as a table, and a low, broad seat which might be either couch or bed, set against one of the walls. The side opposite the entrance was completely taken up by a single window through which she could see the great bulks of black buildings silhouetted against the moonlit sky and, between them, a glimpse of the desert stretching coldly away to infinity.

  The floor and the solid walls were coloured a pale green. On the left was the opening through which her guide had gone, to either side of it were set rectangular panels of a smoky grey, glass like substance suggesting more purpose than mere decoration. Here and there in the other walls narrow slits outlined the doors of cupboards or removable panels set flush. To the right, close to the end of the divan like seat, she noticed a control board with a great show of levers and knobs.

  It seemed a bleak place, with something of an institutional air: not unfriendly, but impersonal. It needed furnishing with books, a picture or two and flowers. Then she laughed at herself disapproving of a room here because it was not like a room at home! Books and pictures here and flowers. With a sudden sadness she wondered how many long ages had passed since this weary old planet had grown its last flower…. This room was too hard, too purely utilitarian. Better suited for housing a machine than a human being; one could not feel that it was lived in yet her guide was human enough….

  The warmth of her padded overall became oppressive in the heated building, and the man returned to find her in the process of disentangling herself from it. He placed the two bowls of liquid which he was carrying upon the larger cube and approached with curiosity. Her leather suit seemed to puzzle him; he fingered it, feeling its texture, but could make nothing of it. She thought that he watched her with a faint amusement as she ran a comb through her hair.

  Momentous occasions so seldom come up to expectations, she told herself. This was a turning point in history: the people of two planets were meeting for the first time and she was behaving as if she had dropped in to pay a call. It was an occasion which called for one of those undying remarks with which historical characters have greeted the successive crises of the race. Instead, she was combing her hair…. Oh, well, there was no audience here; she could think up the immortal phrase later on probably most of the historical characters had done the same. She smiled again at the Martian and took the bowl he was offering.

  The colourless liquid in it was not water. It had a faint, indeterminable flavour and a greater consistency. Whatever it was, its tonic properties were immense; new strength and a feeling of well being seemed to pour into her. The man nodded as if satisfied with the effect. He opened one of the panels in the right hand wall and withdrew two trays of wax like substance. He scratched the surface of one with a series of characters and handed it to her. The other he kept himself. Joan prepared to give her whole mind to her first lesson in spoken Martian.

  The method of instruction appeared at first to be simple. He would write a word with which she was already familiar, saying it aloud at the same time, while she then attempted to repeat it after him. She had expected that the process of turning her written vocabulary into vocal would present no great difficulties. She saw herself able in a very short time to rattle off the words she held in her mind’s eye. But her disillusionment was rapid. She found herself quite unable to grasp the principles of its expression. To begin with she had it settled in her own mind that the characters were of the nature of phonetic signs that a certain sign, for in stance could be said to represent ‘t’. But she found that though it might represent ‘t’ for the first two or three times she met it, it was just as likely to turn up in a word with no ‘t’ value at all. As in English ‘c’ may be either ‘k’ or ‘s’, and ‘s’ may be either ‘c’ or ‘z’, so, but with much more bewildering
variation, were the Martian characters capable of changing their values. Finer gradations in vowel sounds almost eluded her ear even after constant repetition, but worse still was the discovery of a number of consonants in the form of unfamiliar clicking sounds which utterly defeated her best efforts at imitation. It was no good that her teacher should sit opposite her, mouthing exaggeratedly in encouragement; they were tricks his tongue had learned in early youth, her own refused to perform them.

  She felt a growing sense of desperation. It was ridiculous that she should have worked so hard upon the script only to be baffled by this business of turning it into sound. She had an exasperating feeling that there was a principle somewhere that she had missed; a principle which once grasped would make the whole thing as clear as daylight. But if there was it continued to elude her. The longer the lesson went on, the deeper she got bogged in misunderstanding, and the wilder grew her guesses at the sounds of the words she wrote.

  At the end of two hours she faced her teacher with tears in her eyes. She could identify certain things in the room, the stools, the window, the bowls on the table, and that was almost the limit of her progress. She was both miserable and exasperated. There was so much she wanted to ask about himself, his city and the machines. To write all that would be slow and tedious, moreover, she had quickly discovered the limitations of her own vocabulary. She smoothed over her wax tray and wrote:

  ‘I can’t understand. It is too difficult,’ with a sense that their minds were working by different rules, each incapable of grasping the difficulties which beset the other. Something the same situation might have occurred, she felt, if Alice had tried to teach French to the Mad Hatter. It appeared too, that the stimulating effect of the drink was wearing off, for she again felt tired and sleepy.

  The man took the tray from her and read the message. He looked at her intently again, seeming to examine her from a new angle. After a pause he wrote beneath her own words

  ‘I could, if you like, try….’

  She could not understand the final word: it was new to her, but she agreed almost without hesitation. Disgusted with her own failure to learn, but still more desperately anxious to know his language, she scarcely cared what means he took to achieve it as long as they were successful. His own expression was not entirely confident.

  ‘With us it would be certain,’ he wrote, ‘but your mind may be different. I will try.’

  She allowed him to lead her across to the divan and lay down there as he directed. He drew one of the stools close beside it and sat down, holding her gaze unwaveringly with his own. His eyes seemed to lose all expression. They no longer looked at hers, but through them as though they were exploring the mind behind: compelling and examining with utter impersonality her most secret thoughts. A moment of panic seized her as her feelings revolted against the invasion of her privacy, and she tried to shake his visual hold, but his eyes broke down her resistance, forbidding her even to close her lids. The room began to whirl, becoming unreal and distorted as though it were slipping away. Not only the room, but herself and everything about her was slipping away. Only the eyes in a blurred face remained steady. Her own clung to them as to the only fixtures in a reeling universe.

  It was as though she were waking from sleep, yet with a sense of exhaustion. The eyes were still fixed on her own, but as she watched they lost intensity as if they ‘withdrew from her into themselves. The face about them became clear and then the room beyond. Her sense of time had gone awry: it seemed both long ago and yet only a few minutes since she had lain down, but she could see that outside there was complete darkness and both the moons had set. She turned her head back to face the man on the stool once more.

  ‘I’m so tired,’ she said. ‘I want to sleep.’

  ‘You shall,’ he said. He carefully rearranged the rug which she had not known was covering her. .

  Not until he had gone from the room did she realise that he had understood her, and she, him.

  At her second waking he was beside her again, offering her a bowl of the same colourless liquid that she had drunk the night before. The sun was shining into the room from the clear, purplish sky. She did not speak until she had handed the empty bowl back to him.

  ‘Your name is Vaygan?’ she asked, but before he could answer she added: ‘Of course it is. I know it is, but I don’t understand how I know it. It’s strange I’m speaking your language now, but I feel as if it were my own. I don’t have to think about it. You hypnotised me?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he agreed, ‘but more complex. I put you into a trance and taught you. It is difficult to explain simply. One can in certain circumstances and for certain purposes alter the mind. No, “alter” is the wrong word. It is more as if one inserted a new section of knowledge in the mind. Tell me, how do you feel now?’

  ‘Rather bewildered,’ Joan smiled.

  ‘Of course. But no more than puzzled?’

  ‘No.’ a sudden misgiving took her. ‘You haven’t done anything to my mind. Not done anything which will make me not me I mean, make me think differently?’

  ‘I hope not, in fact, I think not. I was most careful. It was very difficult. Your mind seems less clear than ours. There are overlaps between unconnected subjects and impediments to a proper balance of judgment so that it works differently. Its logical processes are slow, its illogical conclusions very frequent, but also slow. I took a long time: it would have been no good to either of us if I had spoilt it.’

  ‘I don’t think I quite understand that.’

  ‘Shall I say that your mind has more vitality but poorer control than ours?’

  ‘All right, we’ll let it go at that for the moment. As long as I’m sure that I’m still me, I don’t mind.’

  And, surprisingly, she found that she did not mind. She did not in the least resent his violation of her most secret thoughts now that it was an accomplished fact, though she knew that she would have shrunk from the prospect had she fully understood his intentions the previous night. Subsequently she wondered more than once whether he had not seen the likelihood of resentment and taken means to prevent it. For the present her delight at the annihilation of the language obstacle easily swept away other considerations.

  She demanded to know more of the machines, of life on Mars, of himself and his people. The questions poured out in a string, making him smile.

  ‘You are so eager,’ he said, as if in apology. ‘So anxious to learn. We must have been like that once long ago.’

  ‘Long ago?’

  ‘I meant when our race was young. We are old now: our planet is old: we are born old compared with the oldest of you. Had you come just a few centuries later, you might have found no men; our long history would have ended. You ask of life on Mars. I scarcely know how to answer you for life, to you, is a thing of promise, whereas for us but I shall show you. This city you are in was called is called Hanno. It is the biggest of the seven cities which are still inhabited, yet there are no more than three thousand men and women in it now. Fewer and fewer children are born to us. Perhaps that is well. Each generation only prolongs our decay. We have had a glorious past but a glorious past is bitterness for a child with a hopeless future. For you who think of life as striving, it will be difficult to understand.’

  ‘But can you do nothing?’ Joan asked. ‘You must know so much. Can’t you find out why less children are born, and cure it?’

  ‘We could, perhaps, but is it worth it? Would you wish to bear a child for a life of imprisonment able to live only in our artificial conditions such as this? We have tried all we can. We have even created monsters; scarcely human creatures which were able to live in the thin air. But it needs more than mere physical strength to survive on a planet such as this where nothing useful as food can grow. Our monsters were too unintelligent to survive we ourselves, too, unadapted physically. Life as you see it means very little to us now. Quite soon we shall be gone and there will be only the machines.’

  ‘The Machines?’ Joan
repeated. ‘What are the Machines? They are the puzzle which brought me here.’ She told him of the machine which had somehow reached Earth.

  ‘I felt nervous of it,’ she owned, ‘and I felt nervous of your machines last night. I think that is the first reaction of all of us to our own machines. Some never get beyond it, others get used to it, but when we think of machines we feel that in spite of all they have given us and all they do for us there is something malignant about them. Their very presence forces us down ways we do not want to go. We have felt that since we first had them; there have been books, plays, pictures with the malevolence of the Machine for their theme. The idea persists of the eventual conquest of man by the Machine. You don’t seem to see them like that.’

  ‘We don’t. But I told you that our minds work differently in many ways. Our first, simple machines were designed to help us over difficulties, and they were successful.’

  ‘But so were ours, weren’t they?’

  ‘Well, were they? I learned quite a lot of your history when I looked into your mind last night, and it seemed to me that they were not. Machines have come early into your race history. They were not necessary. They were thrust suddenly upon a race with no great problems, a race, moreover, so primitive that it was still is still full of superstition. We did not invent the machine until it was necessary for our survival. You invented the machine and caused it to be necessary for your survival. It saved us, but you thrust it upon a world not yet ready it, and you have failed to adapt to it.’

  ‘But we have changed. We’ve changed enormously. Our whole outlook is utterly different from that of our great grandfathers and even of our grandfathers. We recognise that in the modern world one must move with the times.’

  ‘You have changed, perhaps, but very little and that under continual protest. In you, and I take it that you are typical of your race, the sentimental resistance to change is immense.’ He paused, looking at her with a slight frown. ‘On Mars,’ he continued, ‘man has been the most adaptable of all the animal creations.’