The Red Journey Back

by John Keir Cross

  I took off the oxygen mask—suffered a moment’s sense of suffocation as my lungs adjusted themselves to breathing in the synthetically air-filled cabin.

  “We’ve done it, Mac,” I gasped—articulating with difficulty at first as my “weightless” tongue seemed to waver helplessly in my mouth. “We’ve done it, heaven be praised!”

  He nodded brightly, maskless himself now; then turned his attention once more to the control panel and pushed forward the lever to shut off all means of mechanical propulsion.

  And instantly there was silence—a silence so intense as for a moment to seem nightmarish. We traveled at a speed far, far beyond that of gravity; yet in the little close cabin of the spaceship it was as if everything was still, more still and tranquil than it is possible to describe. (I have always believed that we, on Earth, even in our quietest moments, are strangely aware, deep within ourselves, of the constant swift movement of the great globe which we inhabit. Now, in the rocket, it was as if that very knowledge had gone, so that the stillness and silence were beyond all comparison to you who have never left your mother world. . . .)

  Behind—there are, of course, no directions in space, and so I use such terms as “before” and “behind” only comparatively—behind, the milky mistiness had resolved and seemingly dispersed. It was as if there hung in the sky above us a gigantic relief map in brilliant color, in startling greens and blues, vivid yellows . . . a map constantly shrinking, elongating, flattening itself out as if reflected in a huge distorting mirror: a map first—recognizably—of Scotland, the ragged West Coast outflung into the green-blue sea, the Lion’s Head of the far north cut off from the main body by the straight silver knife line of the Caledonian Canal . . . then, later, as the whole curving surface seemed to wheel and steady itself, a map of the whole of Britain, the whole of Europe as more and more recognizable outlines came into view: then Norway, the white gleam of Greenland, the brilliant sweep of northern Canada—the immense but shrinking bulk of the United States (New York as a dark vague clustering at the start, growing smaller and smaller to a veritable pin point and lost at last altogether in the whole sparkling panorama of the curving globe) . . . all, all merged and flowed to a blinding, moonlike phosphorescence, a great ball hung in the dark luminous velvet of the void. . . .

  I had seen it all before—have attempted to describe it before; yet I was awed, moved to very tears by the gigantic spectacle all over again. What should such creatures as I do, crawling between heaven and earth? What signified now all human pride and wretchedness?

  Far, far beyond, farther and still farther from the huge stark orb of the ever-burning sun—one little star among the myriads clustering brilliantly against the pall—lay the world we sought to revisit. As we went on into space, all thoughts of Earth herself were gradually left behind—we thought only of the marvels that perhaps were waiting for us, the old friends and enemies from our first brief sojourn whom perhaps we would re-encounter, the new mysteries to be explored in those remoter corners of the Angry Planet we had not had time to reach.

  We remembered the last great battle between the Beautiful People and the Terrible Ones—the slim shapes of the delicate plant people overwhelmed under the brutish attack of their subterranean enemies—who were also a species of plant, according to Dr. McGillivray’s theory, but of a different nature: squat and fungoid—descendants, he believed, of an earlier group of carnivorous plants which had flourished in the long-dead days when Mars had supported animal as well as vegetable life.

  We remembered the violence of the great volcanic eruption and earthquake which had forced us to leave the battlefield ourselves on our first Martian visit, lest the Albatross be swamped by the seething lava, be shattered by the falling red-hot boulders from the blazing mountain above us. . . . We remembered it all indeed—the crumpling, melting domes of the immense glass bubble houses in which the Beautiful People passed the cold Martian nights and long bitter winters; the final mortal duel between the leaders of the two great species—the creature we knew as the Center slicing with his long crystalline sword at the vestigial jaws of the malignant chief of the Terrible Ones; above all, the last heroic gesture of Malu, our first and last friend in all that alien world, as he leaped to save Mike Malone from destruction at the very moment of the take-off.

  His “voice” had come to us through the raging din of conflict—that thin strange “sound” we heard within our very minds as a manifestation of the telepathic communication we had formed with the Martians (so that creatures of all languages, or even none, could understand each other on the dying planet—the very static plants on the red sandy plains themselves, in some primitive measure).

  “Farewell, strangers!” So Malu’s thoughts had come into us in that last moment. “Farewell—and good journey! Remember Malu the Warrior—Malu the Tall, Prince of the Beautiful People. . . .”

  His slender shape had fallen back then—back to the edge of the saucer which seethed with the lava. He had moved swiftly around on the long rootlike tendrils at the base of his trunk by which the plant people achieved movement—had swung up in his side tendrils the great silica sword which that day had wrought such havoc in the ranks of the Terrible Ones. Our last glimpse of him had been of two more of the monsters advancing toward him, their great white crouching shapes aglow from the flames surrounding.

  Had he survived? Would we see him again?—now?—at the end of our new journey?

  So we wondered as the days sped on—and yet there were no “days” only such calculations of days as we were able to make from the revolutions of the rapidly diminishing sphere which had been our world and on which, hard as it was to believe, our friends, our enemies, our millions of human brothers and sisters labored, fought, died, were happy or miserable—ate, drank and were merry (at least we knew that that was what the indomitable young Mike Malone was doing—eating and being merry!).

  Throughout the journey, as we came so closely into contact in the small cabin of the Albatross, I found myself nearer to Andrew McGillivray as a person than I had ever been before. We had shared much adventure in the past, it is true; but then we had been accompanied by Jacky and the others. Now, in our joint sense of exile so many millions of miles away from all we had ever counted as home, we came to know each other in a way that few men do. He still was young, for one who had achieved so much. His mind was swift and alert, but gentle and with much wisdom in it. He was brave: a man of action and decision when the occasion required, yet reserved and modest—a dreamer as well as a warrior. And I choose the word quite deliberately: he was indeed a warrior—a veritable crusader, his lofty ambitions realized as we sped across the void. He was a leader indeed for such an enterprise as we were now engaged in—the stuff of which great discoverers have always been made.

  So we traveled. The world receded—grew to as tiny a pin point of light as Mars had been at the journey’s beginning. The smaller planet, in its turn, waxed as Earth waned—grew to a diminutive red disc, then recognizably became a sphere. As we drew closer, we saw the two small moons, Phobos and Deimos, each barely more than ten miles in diameter, circling rapidly around it, Phobos in some seven hours, Deimos in a little over thirty—and Phobos, the closer of the two, busily engaged in its circuit in an opposite direction from its twin, so that it rose in the west and set in the east.

  One by one the familiar outlines grew clearer: we saw the two brilliant polar caps, the great red patches of the continents, the splashes of darker green we had taken before to be seas or sea beds. On this occasion, it seemed, we were approaching at a slightly different angle to the planet’s axis—our view of the dark green areas was subtly different: they seemed less concentrated—ran occasionally in long straight narrow lines—broke off—began again—continued . . . until, at one moment, as we neared the atmosphere belt, they formed a perfect intertwining network, strangely symmetrical in its design.

  Mac, as he watched, his hand poised over the controls which would force the nose tuyères into life and
so brake our fall ready for a landing, breathed quietly, “The Canals, Steve—great glory, the famous Martian Canals themselves! We saw nothing of them on the last trip—I had meant to try to find out the reason for the old legend—if there was anything at all in it. . . . This time we will find out!”

  “But surely the old Canal theory has been exploded long ago.” I smiled, thinking he was joking.

  “Ah, not quite! In its original form, yes. It was Schiaparelli the Italian who first proclaimed the Canals in the 1870’s. He called them ‘canals,’ meaning only channels—lines, in his own tongue. But the idea caught the popular fancy—the suggestion that if there were Canals there was active intelligent life. Lowell, the American, developed the whole notion—he drew fantastic maps of the Canals and showed them to be sometimes single, sometimes double—he even claimed that the positioning of them changed from time to time. Other observers who saw the marks declared that they were only marks—they were optical illusions, because of the imperfect conditions under which Mars is ever observed from earth. Then the theory was advanced that at least they might be waterways—but narrow waterways; and what we saw as straight shadowy lines were not the ‘Canals’ themselves, but the belts of vegetation on each side of the Canals. . . . No one has ever known the truth; but, by heaven, we will before we’re much older!”

  As he spoke, he threw over the lever; and within a few moments, as we rushed toward the surface, there was a brief return of the old black-out sensation—but, as I have said, this time less potent because of the smaller gravity pull of the Angry Planet itself. My last conscious thought as I sank into the throbbing pain of the moment was that the surface toward which we raced at such appalling speed was less red after all than I remembered it—was a deep misty yellowish color, almost sinister . . . then I swam deep into the blackness of utter insensibility. I remembered one thing more through the moment’s sharp pain: the quiet gentleness of our previous landing—the twilight of the early Martian dawn—the soft cool breeze which had assailed us as we opened the rocket entrance port—the peaceful glory at last of the bright clear sunlight as we stepped for the first time in all human experience on the alien soil. . . .

  We were confident: too confident!

  We landed on Mars indeed—as successfully as on the previous occasion. The two stocky landing wings shot out from the back of the rocket at a point near the nose, and with their help we coasted gently through the sparse atmosphere to a final standstill.

  Again, as on the first occasion, there was a deep twilight in the little cabin as we struggled to our feet, adjusting ourselves to the sensation of having weight once more—less weight than on Earth, but still weight.

  “The dawn,” breathed Mac triumphantly. “The dawn, Steve! Exactly as it was last time. Home again—home!”

  He stumbled blithely toward the double air-lock door in the cabin’s side. I stood unsteadily for a moment, aware once more—and uneasily, for some reason—of the strange yellow tinge which intershot the dusk surrounding. I recalled a conversation with an astronomer friend back on Earth, who had asked me half-jokingly (for he was one of the doubters who plagued us after the first trip) if, during our sojourn on the Angry Planet, we had encountered any of the strange phenomena known to Earth observers as the “Yellow Clouds”—great blankets of some kind of yellowish mist sweeping rapidly across the Martian surface, plainly visible even on photographs taken in infra-red light.

  An instinctive fear made me raise my hand to restrain my adventuresome companion. But with the memory of our previous successful landing still bright in him, he was already at the double doors and tugging them open.

  The first door swung back with a metallic crash—Mac, in his enthusiasm, had forgotten his increased Martian strength. An instant later the second door also swung open—outward; and even allowing for Mac’s strength it was as if it had been ripped away from the rocket’s side by a giant swift hand the instant the lock was released. . . .

  We landed on Mars—but not quietly and serenely as we had landed last time!

  For one moment—one nightmare moment—I saw my dear friend Andrew McGillivray outlined against a thick swirling screen of brilliant yellow. He screamed—I heard him scream. I rushed forward in a panic. As I approached the door I felt my lungs bursting, my eyes smarting, my whole skin in a violent irritation from the few wisps of the raging Yellow Cloud which penetrated the double doors.

  I stretched out my hands desperately to assist my poor friend, in the midst of the typhoon while I was at its bitter edges only. But it was as if he too had been snatched by giant hands—he seemed veritably to fly, to soar into the bright yellow horror swirling all about our ship.

  It was as if he too had been snatched by giant hands.

  “Mac—Mac!” I cried, my eyes streaming.

  But the monstrous pall was silent. I realized that all was lost—we were both lost—if I made any attempt as yet to follow and save my friend. Somehow, almost maddened as I was by the violent pain of the cloud’s irritation, I fought to close the inner door—did close it at last and fell back gasping, weeping, helpless into the cabin.

  I recovered from the first pain—staggered to my feet and crossed to one of the portholes. From within, the cloud was darker—and I realized bitterly that the dusk had been caused by a thin deposit of it on the glass of the portholes as we had raced through the Martian atmosphere. Outside was no night, as on the previous occasion, but bright day; yet a bright day filled with the monstrous silent menace of that hideous Cloud!

  I peered into its depths. Somewhere in the thick of it was the friend who had traveled so far and dared so much with me—lost now, at the height of his triumph, in the yellow nightmare.

  CHAPTER III. MacFARLANE’S NARRATIVE CONTINUED

  I FOUND HIM. There is little point in delaying the announcement of the fact, in building an atmosphere of suspense for the sake of creating a cheap dramatic effect. You know full well, from the messages we have already exchanged, that he is by my side now—and therefore I found him.

  But I did not find him without difficulty. And there was a bittersweetness in the success of my long search.

  Andrew McGillivray, by a desperate stroke of irony, has seen none of the marvels of the new world he traveled so far to explore. From that day to this he has been blind.

  And worse—much worse. The great clear mind which had brought us so far, achieved so much, has been shadowed over a little from the agonies of that moment when he was snatched into the Cloud.

  As I sit here now, in the small enclosure near the approaching Canal from which we do not dare to remove ourselves, it is to see him at some slight distance away from me, quietly staring with his unseeing eyes toward the great dark swamps which contain (to me, who have seen) so much nightmare. He sways a little—forms his lips occasionally in silent words and phrases.

  There are moments—many, many moments—when his mind is as clear as it ever was, when he is normal and healthy; almost the old Doctor Mac I knew in the Pitlochry days. But there are other moments when he seems to sink into a deep indifference—to forget where he is and even who he is.

  And it goes deeper—much deeper. There is even a fear in me that I too . . . but no—not yet—and a thought not to be faced. But if once I do yield to the strange, awesome creature now confronting us, whom yet I have to describe—

  But not yet; there is much else to be recounted. . . .

  On that first hopeless morning of our landing I stayed for a long time by the porthole staring out into the swirling yellow fog. I saw now, clearly, that it was no ordinary mist as we might know it upon Earth, but a great seething mass of diminutive scurrying particles, seed shapes—million upon million of them, hurtling forward in one direction. And I had the impression too, recollecting the period when the door had been open, that they were not wind-borne; there had been no sound of hurricane—no shrill scream—as one again might have heard it on Earth; the spores (I use the word now, since we established later that they were
indeed a kind of spore) traveled nightmarishly of their own volition!—and silently, devilishly silently, as all else on Mars. . . .

  And also—can I confess it?—it was as if there came to me, even through the thick perspex of the window, an emanation of unutterable wickedness. In the strange Martian telepathic medium of communication it was as if the very spores were wishing us ill. There were no articulate words from them in my mind—no definable thoughts as such; no more than a deep uneasiness—a malevolent hypnotic sense from those trillions of rushing particles of living dust.

  The Cloud swept on—for hours and many hours. But at last I had an impression that it was thinning a little—the very lessening of the pressure of the evil thoughts was an indication that the storm was passing.

  Rapidly I set to exploring our clothing store for some kind of protective garments. I found waterproofs and thick hip-boots—an asbestos helmet, even, and a complete suit of a similar fireproof material packed by Mac in case we should ever encounter another volcanic eruption on the Angry Planet.

  I swathed myself—wore also my oxygen mask with the gas itself switched off from the cylinder—found fireproof gloves and bound my head around with cloths.

  And by this time, indeed, the yellowness outside had almost gone. I was able to distinguish, beyond the slight saucer in which the spaceship lay, a vast extending plain of the Martian type familiar to us: a great level stretch of reddish sandy soil with distant mountain ranges beyond—high, conelike mountains, since in their formation in the far depths of Martian history the planet’s gravity pull was less than Earth’s, and so threw the ranges more narrowly upward.

  I saw even the tall clustering shapes of the old familiar cactuslike plants, in their groups of varying sizes, the long fleshy fingers upstretched to the sky; and at the spectacle much of my fear departed. They were veritably like a glimpse of home.