by John Wyndham
The doctor spoke for the first time since the Russian’s entrance.
‘And we are to suppose that you are free from the bourgeois ideal of Imperialism?’
‘I am not here to annex or conquer, if that is what you mean.’
‘Then just what are you here for?’
‘I am here to prevent conquest; to offer to the citizens of Mars union with the Soviet Socialist Republics in a defensive alliance against the greed of capitalist nations which….’ He broke off abruptly to glare at the journalist.
‘You find something amusing?’ he inquired coldly.
Froud stifled his laughter and wiped his eyes.
‘So will you when you see the “citizens”,’ he said with difficulty. ‘I’m longing to hear you teach one of our friends of last night to sing the “Internationale”. But don’t mind me. Go on.’
The doctor put in: ‘I suppose I’m pretty dense, but the difference between our missions seems to be chiefly in terms. It boils down to their choosing an alliance with the Empire, or an alliance with the Soviets.’
‘If you cannot see the difference between union with us and submission to rule by imperialist and capitalist interests, you must, as you say, be pretty dense.’
The doctor thought for a while.
‘All right, we’ll take it that I’m dense. Now, what do you propose to do about it?’
Dale broke in before Karaminoff could answer:
‘I don’t see that we need to prolong this useless discussion any longer. The facts are quite obvious. I have laid first claim here. The other nations, except the Soviets, will naturally honour it.’
The Russian studied him thoughtfully.
‘That’s just the kind of statement which gets the English a reputation for subtlety. Nobody else can ever believe that such ingenuousness is real. “If the Englishman is as guileless as that, how does he continue to exist?” they ask. One has to confess that it is a mystery and accept it as one accepts other freaks of nature, for I know that you sincerely believe what you say.’
‘You think that other nations will dare to dispute our claim? They’ve no grounds for it whatever.’
‘But, my dear man, what need have they of grounds? Who made the rules of this game? Surely the fact that they want territory here is grounds enough. Really, you know, one of the most disheartening sights for persons of vision and acumen during the last few centuries must have been the spectacle of the English blundering about all over the globe and bringing off coup after coup by combinations of accident and sheer simple faith. It is a wonder that the conception of a planned, intelligent civilisation can still exist in the face of it.
‘And now, just because you arrived here a few hours ahead of us, you quite honestly think yourselves entitled to all the mineral wealth which this planet may contain.’
‘So we are,’ Dale and Dugan said, almost together.
Karaminoff turned to look at his two companions.
‘Did I not tell you how it would be?’ he said, with a smile and a shrug.
One of them answered him rapidly in Russian. Karaminoff said:
‘Comrade Vassiloff is bored. He wishes us to – er – cut the cackle.’
‘Comrade Vassiloff is a sensible man,’ said the doctor. ‘Lead out your horses.’
‘I will. It is this. There are to be no territorial claims on this land by any nation, government or groups of persons. In such useful exchanges as can be made between Earth and Mars, no nation shall receive preferential treatment. Such commerce shall be under direct governmental control and not open to exploitation by individuals. Mars shall retain the right of self government and management of policy both internally and externally. There shall be….’
‘And yet,’ the doctor put in, ‘you intend to invite them into union with the Soviets? That hardly seems compatible.’
‘If by their free choice they elect
‘You, You damned scoundrel,’ Dugan shouted. ‘You know perfectly well that that will mean rule from Moscow. So that is what you call giving them freedom! Of all the infernal nerve!’
Karaminoff spread his hands.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘even your hot young patriot is sure that they would prefer to join us.’
‘Well they won’t have the chance. We claim this territory by right of discovery, and we’re damn’ well going to have it.’
Froud yawned and crossed to the window. He stared out for a few seconds and then beckoned Karaminoff to his side.
‘Don’t you think you’d better open negotiations with the “citizens” before you formulate any more of the constitution? See, there’s a potential comrade lurking in the bushes over there.’
Karaminoff followed the direction of his finger. He could just make out something which moved among the branches and he saw the shine of sunlight upon metal. At that moment one of the three Russians who had remained outside the Gloria Mundi came running to the window. He was pointing excitedly in the same direction. Karaminoff nodded and turned back to the rest.
‘Very well, we will go now. I will let you know the outcome of my negotiations, but whatever they are, believe me that this is one time that the English are not going to get away with their land grabbing.’
Nobody answered him. The three Russians put on their oxygen masks and passed one by one out of the airlock. The Gloria Mundi’s crew watched them rejoin their companions. There was much excited conversation and frequent indications of the bushes, and the party began to move off in that direction. It paused beside Dale’s post. They saw Karaminoff look up at the flag and then back at the ship. The breathing mask hid his features, but they could guess at the smile beneath it. One of the Russians crouched and then launched himself in what would have been an impossible leap on Earth. His outstretched hand caught the flag and tore it free from the pole as he dropped.
‘Damned swine!’ Dugan shouted. Before the rest could stop him he was across the room and into the airlock.
Karaminoff was reaching up to tie a red flag with a white hammer and sickle upon it to the bare pole when the man beside him suddenly clutched his arm and spun round. One of the others swivelled, firing from his hip at the entrance port. Karaminoff, apparently unmoved, finished fixing his flag and stepped back, waving a hand to the occupants of the ship, but only Froud was at the window to watch him. Dale and the doctor were at the airlock waiting anxiously till the pressures should equalise. The door swung open to reveal Dugan sitting on the floor. His face was purple, and blood was trickling down his leg.
‘Silly young fool,’ said the doctor.
‘Ricochet off the outer door,’ Dugan panted. ‘In the leg.’
‘Lucky for you it isn’t asphyxiation. Let me look at it.’
‘Missed the swine, too,’ Dugan gasped.
‘He couldn’t reach very high, so his flag’s only flying at half mast, if that’s any consolation to you,’ said Froud from the window. ‘Karaminoff’s splitting the gang. The bloke you pipped is going home with another. He himself and the other three are making for the bushes.’ He suddenly left the window and dashed across the room. ‘Where’s that damned telephoto got to? Here, Dale, help me get this thing rigged up. What a chance I must get a shot of Karaminoff greeting the animated tinware. That’s it, right up to the window. What’ll we call it? Look I Look, there’s Comrade Clockwork coming out of the bushes now. Oh, boy!’
A mechanical voice chattering urgently cut across all other sounds. Its speed and harshness made it impossible for Joan to catch the words, but she thought it was saying something about a rocket. Vaygan flipped over a switch and the interior of the Gloria Mundi faded from the screen, simultaneously her crew’s voices were cut off.
‘Where?’ Vaygan asked sharply.
The voice gabbled a string of unintelligible directions which started him readjusting his dials and switches. The screen lost its opaqueness once more and took on a uniform purple tinge. Until a wisp of tenuous cloud drifted across Joan did not realise that it was showing the Martian
sky. Vaygan was watching it intently, slowly turning his dials. Presently a bright spark slid in from one side, and he gave a grunt. Evidently he had found what he wanted. He manipulated the controls to keep it in the middle of the screen.
‘What is it?’ Joan asked.
‘Another rocket like yours.’
‘Another?’ She remembered what the Russian had said about an American rocket.
‘Can’t you get a closer view of it?’ she asked.
‘Not yet. It’s too far away.’
They watched for a time in silence. Swiftly the spark grew from a mere dot to a flaring mass as the rocket dived lower and closer. The tubes were working furiously to break her long fall, belching out vivid gushes of white hot fire which was carried back along her sides to die in tattered banners of flame in her wake. Nearer and nearer she came, falling like a meteor wrapped in her own inferno of flame. It seemed impossible that in such a blast the ship herself should not be incandescent. Yet she was not out of control. Perceptibly she was slowing. But Vaygan murmured:
‘She’s coming in too fast far too fast.’
He could alter the angle of view now so that they seemed to look down on her as they followed her course. The Martian landscape streamed below her in an approaching blur. For a second she slipped out of the picture. Vaygan spun a control and picked her up again. She was dropping fast. Her rockets were erupting like miniature volcanoes, but still her speed was prodigious. The sand hills below her hurtled past indistinguishably. Joan’s fists clenched as she watched, and she found herself holding her breath.
‘They can’t they can’t land at that speed,’ she cried. ‘Oh!’
Vaygan put his free hand over hers, he said nothing.
She wanted to shut out the sight, but her eyes refused to leave the screen.
The rocket was nearly down now. A few hundred feet only above the desert, still going a thousand miles an hour. Joan gave a little moan. It was too late now. They could never get up again; they would have to land. The rocket sank lower, skimming the tops of the sand hills. Then the inevitable end began.
She touched and sprang, twirling and twisting, end over end a hundred feet into the air, as though the planet had tried to hurl her back into the sky. She dropped. Again she was flung up like a huge spinning shuttle gleaming with flame and reflected sunlight. She fell for the third time into a belt of bushes, firing them as she bounced, bumped and slithered towards the canal beyond.
The embankment almost saved her. For an uncertain moment she teetered on the edge. Then she tilted and half rolled, half slid into the water. A huge frothy column rose into the purple sky and two hundred yards of the bank went out of existence as she blew up.
Vaygan watched the water pouring out over the desert and the flame racing along the line of dry bushes. But Joan saw nothing of this, for she had fainted.
Chapter 21. Hanno
Joan recovered to find Vaygan’s arm supporting her while with his other hand he held a bowl for her to drink from. At the same time he was talking loudly, issuing instructions for the repair of the broken embankment and warning of the fire spreading through the bushes, apparently to the empty room.
As her eyes opened his tone changed and he looked at her anxiously. ‘You’re all right now?’
‘I think so. It was silly of me to faint. I’m sorry.’
‘Does it often happen?’
She shook her head. ‘No. It was seeing that terrible crash.’
He looked at her as though he were puzzled. ‘Emotion? Can emotion do that to you?’ he said wonderingly.
‘Do you mean to say that you’ve never seen anyone faint before?’
‘Never. We don’t.’
Joan looked over his shoulder at the wall beyond. The vision panel had resumed its customary smoky grey appearance.
‘That’s a very wonderful instrument,’ she said. ‘But I don’t like it. It spies on people.’ He seemed surprised that it was new to her, and amused when she told him that television on Earth needed a transmitter.
‘But how primitive! This is much easier. Two beams are directed at once. The point where they meet is focused on the screen. By narrowing the beams their intensity is increased in a smaller field bringing the subject up to life size if necessary. It is quite simple.’
Joan shook her head. ‘It sounds complicated to me. I’m afraid I’m not very good at understanding things like that.’
He looked at her, and smiled. ‘You say that, but what you really mean is: “I don’t want to understand things like that.” Why?’
‘It’s true,’ she admitted. ‘But why, I can’t tell you. It’s an instinct, I suppose. Perhaps I feel that if I understood too much of things I should become part of a thing myself, instead of a person. I’m afraid of losing something, but I don’t know quite what. Or do you think that’s merely the rationalisation of a lazy mind?’
‘No. You’re mind is not lazy. But I don’t understand you. What can you lose by knowing more? Surely, the more you know of things the more you master them?’
‘Yes. I know that’s sensible, but my instinct is against it. Perhaps I inherit it from primitive ancestors. They thought it dangerous to know too much, so they just worshipped or accepted. Perhaps we shall outgrow it. In fact, when it concerns something I really want to know about, like your running machines, I don’t feel any of that reluctance to learn.’
‘You shall see more of them soon. But first, won’t you tell me what they were saying in your rocket? What was it all about, and why did they have those pieces of coloured cloth?’
‘Coloured cloth? Oh, flags. Those are national emblems; they were put up to claim the territory.’
‘You still have nations! How strange. We had nations long ago. Our children sometimes play at nations even now: it is a phase they go through. But tell me what they were saying.’
He listened with amusement as she took him in as much detail as she could remember through the exchanges between her companions and the Russians, but when she had finished, there was something wistful in his expression. For a time he did not speak, but sat with his eyes on the window, gazing unseeingly over the desert.
‘What are you going to do? Do you think your people will ally with them?’ she asked.
‘That? Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that. It was of men in your rocket and in the other: such men as we used to have here. The other is for the machines to decide, it is their world now.’
“Their world”,’ Joan repeated. ‘Then the machines do rule you.’
‘In a sense the machine must rule from the moment it is put to work. One surrenders to its higher efficiency that is why it was made. But it is really truer to say that we co-exist.’
Joan got up. ‘Won’t you show me your machines? Let me see them at work whatever it is that they do then, perhaps, I shall understand better. I’m still not at home with the idea of an individual, independent machine.’
‘It may help you to understand both of us and the machines,’ Vaygan agreed.
They left the building together by way of the airlock which she had used the previous night. On Vaygan’s insistence she was wearing a Martian space suit, a smaller edition of the one he wore himself. It was far less cumbersome than the overall from the ship, but the thin, silvery material of which it was made insulated her from the outer temperature completely, and the glasslike globe covering her head was far less tedious to wear than an oxygen mask. Thin diaphragms set in the globe could transmit her own voice and pick up external noises, and as she crossed the threshold of the outer doors she became aware of sounds of movement all about her.
No individual or particular noise predominated. The effect was rather a compound murmur, faint hummings, continuous clickings and scutterings mingling with the subdued harshness of dehumanised voices. It was not the steady rhythm of a machine shop with its mechanical purr and rattle, nor the hubbub of a crowded street on Earth, yet it seemed to hold something of the two.
Joan watched the six legged machine
s scurrying across the open space in front of her. Some were carrying burdens in the tentacles, others held the tentacles coiled to their sides. Most of them moved at a similar constant speed, though now and then one obviously in a hurry would scamper past, skilfully weaving its way through the lines at twice the average pace. The sight of the interweaving streams of traffic and the kaleidoscopic shifting of bright moving parts had a dazzling, dizzying effect on her. She waited for the confusion which a collision must bring, but there were no entanglements.
No two machines even touched, for though there was no mass control the precise judgment of each appeared to be infallible. For the first time she felt an inkling of what Vaygan had tried to tell her.
These were not machines as she knew them. They were not the advanced counterparts of anything on Earth, but something altogether new. They did not live, in her sense of the word, yet they were not inert metal. They were a queer hybrid between the sentient and the insentient.
And she could not quell a rising sense of misgiving and outrage; she was unable to silence the voice of prejudice and self defence which, to crush the suspicion that these monsters might be better fitted to survive than were her own kind, insisted that they should not exist and that they were in some ill defined, superstitious sense wrong.
An idea more fantastic, yet more acceptable to her prejudices, occurred to her.
‘They haven’t brains inside those cases?’ she asked Vaygan beside her.
‘Yes. Oh, I see what you mean. No, we’ve never been able to transplant a human brain into a machine, though it has been tried. It would not have been very useful if it had succeeded. For instance, you would have seen a dozen collisions by now if human brains had been in charge. Our responses are not quick enough. You are wasting time by thinking anthropomorphically. The machines are the machines.’
He led her across the open space (once, he told her, a garden which their utmost efforts had failed to preserve; now a waste, as aridly depressing as a parade ground) and turned into one of the wider streets which ran from it. Joan kept closely beside him, overcoming with difficulty the fear that the rushing mechanisms about them would trample them to death by a misjudgement. To the end she could never fully believe that their control was superior to her own, but she grew easier as she noticed how the traffic divided for them and that danger was never really imminent. After a short time she had recovered enough equanimity to listen to Vaygan’s talk.