Dumb Martian

by John Wyndham

  Even if Lellie were to spill over later about the Whint busi­ness what of it? He was sure enough that she did not know how it had been done. It would only be the word of a Mart against his own. Very likely they'd put her down as space-crazed.

  ... All the same, some of the mud might stick; it would be better to settle with her here and now — besides, the cylinder idea was risky; only to be con­sider­ed in the last extre­mity. There were other ways to be tried first.

  Duncan reflected a few minutes longer, then he jetted him­self over to the smaller dome. In there, he threw out the switches on the lines which brought power down from the main batteries charged by the sun-motor. He sat down to wait for a bit. The insu­lated dome would take some time to lose all its heat, but not very long for a drop in the tempe­rature to become percep­tible, and visible on the thermo­meters, once the heat was off. The small capa­city, low voltage batteries that were in the place wouldn't be much good to her, even if she did think of lining them up.

  He waited an hour, while the far­away sun set, and the arc of Callisto began to show over the hori­zon. Then he went back to the dome's window to observe results. He arrived just in time to see Lellie fastening her­self into her space-suit by the light of a couple of emer­gency lamps.

  He swore. A simple freezing out process wasn't going to work, then. Not only would the heated suit protect her, but her air supply would last longer than his — and there were plenty of spare bottles in there even if the free air in the dome should freeze solid.

  He waited until she had put on the helmet, and then switched on the radio in his own. He saw her pause at the sound of his voice, but she did not reply. Presently she deli­be­rately switched off her receiver. He did not; he kept his open to be ready for the mo­ment when she should come to her senses.

  Duncan returned to the apron, and reconsidered. It had been his intention to force his way into the dome without damag­ing it, if he could. But if she wasn't to be frozen out, that looked diffi­cult. She had the advan­tage of him in air —and though it was true that in her space-suit she could neither eat nor drink, the same, unfor­tunately, was true for him. The only way seemed to be to tackle the dome itself.

  Reluctantly, he went back to the small dome again, and connec­ted up the elec­trical cutter. Its cable looped behind him as he jetted across to the main dome once more. Beside the curv­ing metal wall, he paused to think out the job — and the con­sequen­ces. Once he was through the outer shell there would be a space; then the insu­lating material — that was okay, it would melt away like butter, and with­out oxy­gen it could not catch fire. The more awk­ward part was going to come with the inner metal skin. It would be wisest to start with a few small cuts to let the air-pressure down —and stand clear of it: if it were all to come out with a whoosh he would stand a good chance in his weight­less state of being blown a con­sider­able distance by it. And what would she do? Well, she'd very likely try cover­ing up the holes as he made them — a bit awk­ward if she had the sense to use asbestos packing: it'd have to be the whoosh then ... Both shells could be welded up again before he re-aerated the place from cylinders ... The small loss of insu­lating material wouldn't matter... Okay, better get down to it, then...

  He made his connec­tions, and contrived to anchor him­self enough to give some pur­chase. He brought the cutter up, and pressed the trigger-switch. He pressed again, and then swore, remembering that he had shut off the power.

  He pulled himself back along the cable, and pushed the switches in again. Light from the dome's windows suddenly illu­mi­nated the rocks. He wondered if the resto­ration of power would let Lellie know what he was doing. What if it did? She'd know soon enough, anyway.

  He settled himself down beside the dome once more. This time the cutter worked. It took only a few minutes to slice out a rough, two-foot-circle. He pulled the piece out of the way, and inspected the opening. Then, as he levelled the cutter again, there came a click in his receiver: Lellie's voice spoke in his ear:

  “Better not try to break in. I'm ready for that.”

  He hesitated, checking himself with his finger on the switch, won­der­ing what counter-move she could have thought up. The threat in her voice made him uneasy. He decided to go round to the window, and see what her game was, if she had one.

  She was standing by the table, still dressed in her space-suit, fiddling with some apparatus she had set up there. For a moment or two he did not grasp the purpose of it.

  There was a plastic food-bag, half-inflated, and attached in some way to the table top. She was adjusting a melt plate over it to a small clearance. There was a wire, scotch-taped to the upper side of the bag. Duncan's eye ran back along the wire to a battery, a coil and on to a detonator attached to a bundle of half a dozen blasting-sticks...

  He was uncom­fort­ably enlightened. It was very simple —ought to be perfectly effective. If the air-pressure in the room should fall, the bag would expand; the wire would make contact with the plate: up would go the dome...

  Lellie finished her adjust­ment, and connected the second wire to the battery. She turned to look at him through the window. It was infu­riatingly difficult to believe that behind that silly surprise frozen on her face she could be properly aware what she was doing.

  Duncan tried to speak to her, but she had switched off, and made no attempt to switch on again. She simply stood looking steadily back at him as he blustered and raged. After some minutes she moved across to a chair, fastened the spring-cover across herself and sat waiting.-

  “All right then,” Duncan shouted inside his helmet. “But you'll go up with it, damn you!” Which was, of course, non­sense since he had no inten­tion whatever of destroy­ing either the dome or himself.

  He had never learnt to tell what went on behind that silly face — she might be coldly deter­mined, or she might not. If it had been a matter of a switch which she must press to destroy the place he might have risked her nerve failing her. But this way, it would be he who operated the switch, just as soon as he should make a hole to let the air out.

  Once more he retreated to anchor him­self on the apron. There must be some way round, some way of getting into the dome without letting the pressure down ... He thought hard for some minutes, but if there was such a way, he could not find it — besides, there was no guarantee that she'd not set the explosive off herself if she got scared...

  No — there was no way that he could think of. It would have to be the cylinder-crate to Callisto.

  He looked up at Callisto, hanging huge in the sky now, with Jupiter smaller, but brighter, beyond. It wasn't so much the flight, it was the landing there. Perhaps if he were to cram it with all the padding he could find ... Later on, he could get the Callisto fellows to ferry him back, and they'd find some way to get into the dome, and Lellie would be a mighty sorry girl — mighty sorry...

  Across the levelling there were three cylinders lined up, charged and ready for use-He didn't mind admit­ting he was scared of that landing: but, scared or not, if she wouldn't even turn on her radio to listen to him, that would be his only chance. And delay would do nothing for him but narrow the margin of his air-supply.

  He made up his mind, and stepped off the metal apron. A touch on the jets sent him floating across the level­ling towards the cylinders. Practice made it an easy thing for him to manoeuvre the nearest one on to the ramp. Another glance at Callisto's incli­nation helped to reassure him; at least he would reach it all right. If their beacon there was not switched on to bring him in, he ought to be able to call them on the com­muni­ca­tion radio in his suit when he got closer.

  There was not a lot of padding in the cylinder. He fetched more from the others, and packed the stuff in. It was while he paused to figure out a way of triggering the thing off with him­self inside, that he realized he was beginning to feel cold. As he turned the knob up a notch, he glanced down at the meter on his chest — in an instant he knew ... She had known that he would fit fresh air-bott
les and test them; so it had been the battery, or more likely, the circuit, she had tampered with. The voltage was down to a point where the needle barely kicked. The suit must have been losing heat for some time already.

  He knew that he would not be able to last long — perhaps not more than a few minutes. After its first stab, the fear abruptly left him, giving way to an impotent fury. She'd tricked him out of his last chance, but, by God, he could make sure she didn't get away with it. He'd be going, but just one small hole in the dome, and he'd not be going alone...

  The cold was creeping into him, it seemed to come lapping at him icily through the suit. He pressed the jet control, and sent himself scudding back towards the dome. The cold was gnawing in at him. His feet and fingers were going first. Only by an immense effort was he able to operate the jet which stopped him by the side of the dome. But it needed one more effort, for he hung there, a yard or so above the ground. The cutter lay where he had left it, a few feet beyond his reach. He struggled desperately to press the control that would let him down to it, but his fingers would no longer move. He wept and gasped at the attempt to make them work, and with the anguish of the cold creeping up his arms. Of a sudden, there was an agonizing, searing pain in his chest. It made him cry out. He gasped — and the unheated air rushed into his lungs, and froze them...

  In the dome's living-room Lellie stood waiting. She had seen the space-suited figure come sweeping across the levelling at an abnormal speed. She understood what it meant. Her explosive device was already disconnected; now she stood alert, with a thick rubber mat in her hand, ready to clap it over any hole that might appear. She waited one minute, two minutes ... When five minutes had passed she went to the window. By putting her face close to the pane and looking sideways she was able to see the whole of one space-suited leg and part of another. They hung there horizontally, a few feet off the ground. She watched them for several minutes. Their gradual downward drift was barely perceptible.

  She left the window, and pushed the mat out of her hand so that it floated away across the room. For a moment or two she stood thinking. Then she went to the bookshelves and pulled out the last volume of the encyclopaedia. She turned the pages, and satisfied herself on the exact status and claims which are connoted by the word 'widow'.

  She found a pad of paper and a pencil. For a minute she hesitated, trying to remember the method she had been taught, then she started to write down figures, and became absorbed in them. At last she lifted her head, and contemplated the result: £5,000 per annum for five years, at 6 per cent compound interest, worked out at a nice little sum —quite a small fortune for a Martian.

  But then she hesitated again. Very likely a face that was not set for ever in a mould of slightly surprised innocence would have frowned a little at that point, because, of course, there was a deduction that had to be made — a matter of £2,360.

  BOOK INFORMATION

  THE BEST OF JOHN WYNDHAM

  SPHERE BOOKS LIMITED

  30/32 Gray's Inn Road, London WCIX 8JL

  First published in Great Britain by Sphere Books Ltd 1973

  Copyright © The Executors of the Estate of the late John Wyndham 1973

  Anthology copyright © Sphere Books Ltd 1973

  Introduction copyright © Leslie Flood 1973

  Bibliography copyright © Gerald Bishop 1973

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Lost Machine: Amazing Stories, 1932

  The Man from Beyond: Wonder Stories, 1934

  Perfect Creature: Tales of Wonder, 1937

  The Trojan Beam: Fantasy, 1939

  Vengeance by Proxy: Strange Stories, 1940

  Adaptation: Astounding Science Fiction, 1949

  Pawley's Peepholes: Science Fantasy, 1951

  The Red Stuff: Marvel Science Stories, 1951

  And the Walls Came Tumbling Down: Startling Stories, 1951

  Dumb Martian: Galaxy Science Fiction, 1952

  Close Behind Him: Fantastic, 1953

  The Emptiness of Space: New Worlds, 1960

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circu­lated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Set in Linotype Times

  Printed in Great Britain by

  Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk.

  ISBN 0 7221 9369 6