So everything was somehow arranged at last. For the last few days before the take-off we all moved out of Chicago altogether—went to live in the workmen’s huts miles out in the open country, close to where the rocket itself was.
I ought to say at this stage who exactly was going, I suppose.
Well, naturally, there was Dr. K.—that was an absolute must. And ourselves—another must, because of Uncle Steve’s last message, the whole reason for the voyage at all (I mean Jacky and Mike and Yours Truly, of course). Then there was Katey—Katey Hogarth; for our parents had made her promise to go, to look after us (as if it made a pennyworth of difference!). Dr. K. wasn’t very keen on the idea—quite charming and all that, full of old-world courtesy and such; but you could see that women in spaceships just wasn’t his idea of what was what—it wasn’t, as he put it, “a true feminine occupation, my dear.” But when Mike’s mother and father joined in, and said that they wanted Katey to go too, or they’d hold back on permission for Mike to go, well, there was nothing else for it, and Dr. K. had to give in.
We wanted one more. Dr. K. half considered taking one of his assistants; but most of them were married men, with vast families, and besides, if anything did happen to us in space, someone had to be about who could carry on Dr. K.’s research work back home in Chicago.
Of course, there was only one answer, and that was—
Archie Borrowdale!
He was exactly right—had all the technical qualifications because of his work with Mr. Mackellar, and so would be a great help to Dr. K. on the journey. And he was an expert shot, as it happened—he’d spent his student holidays in the Scottish Highlands after the stags, and was terrific with a gun; and you never knew, maybe the Vivores would have to be dealt with by guns—maybe they were different from the old Terrible Ones, which weren’t in the least affected by bullets.
And to crown all, of course, he was Katey’s fiancé, which was a bit of all right for her, and for him too, for he wouldn’t have liked her to go tearing off forty or fifty millions of miles away while he stayed biting his fingernails at home. Besides, we three—Jacky and Mike and me—we thought he was all right as well!
So there we were. In the last two days there was an odd sort of “slowing up” of things. We had lived at such a pace for so long that when everything was virtually over except the shouting we hardly knew what to do with ourselves.
Dr. K. had gone off somewhere or other to make some last-minute contacts and arrangements. All the work on the rocket had been done—the fuels were loaded, all the stores were packed aboard. We had plenty of food, of course, for we had to consider that Doctor Mac and Uncle Steve would be with us on the return journey—and besides, Dr. K. was a very careful man, and had loaded up plenty of additional supplies for “unforeseen emergencies,” as he put it.
So it only remained to wait for the moment of the set-off as it had been fixed according to certain weather conditions and other technical whatnots by Dr. K.—and that moment was still two days ahead (and at something like five o’clock in the morning—brrrr!).
So—we moped; we simply moped and moped. We were, in fact, nearly bored stiff—if you can believe that—on the very eve of setting off on a trip to Mars! Every now and again, of course, if we stopped to think of it, we’d get a queasy kind of falling-away feeling in the pits of our stomachs, like going down in an elevator suddenly; but for the most part we just didn’t think of it, somehow—there was a queer kind of numbness in us and even (in Jacky, I mean) a hint of tears. . . . Ah well! the way of the world, you know. Nothing ever does work out quite the way you think it will. . . .
What really saved the situation—kept us going in those last two strange days of suspense and waiting—was Miss Maggie Sherwood. Maybe I should say a word or two about her—Dr. K.’s niece, you know, as Mike has already mentioned.
She had come out to the launching site with us and was living in one of the huts, same as we were. She and Mike were as thick as thieves—they’d struck up a real friendship as soon as they had met in Chicago, and I must say they suited each other well. Maggie was about the same age as Mike, and her hair had a tinge of red in it (his was bright carrot). She was a big strong kind of girl, always leaping about—never still for a moment; tremendous fun, really—plenty of energy about her. Not very pretty—I can’t say that; but a nice sort of squashed-in face[2] that looked just swell when she smiled—and she was nearly always smiling.
Anyway, that was Maggie more or less, and as I say, she pulled us through those last two days. She was as lively as a cricket—always hatching up some scheme or other to amuse us. When she wasn’t in the thick like that she was off for hours on end with the bold Mike, the pair of them with their heads close together, and whispering, as if they were planning something. Once, I remember, they both were missing for several hours—nobody had any idea where they were. We searched everywhere—all over the camp; and it was Archie who spotted them at last, clambering stealthily down the long metal ladder that led up to the tiny entrance hatch in the side of the Comet.
When we asked Mike what the pair of them had been doing for so long in the rocket’s cabin, when it was strictly speaking out of bounds till we went into it on business as it were, he just shrugged.
“Oh, nothing. Just taking a last look around, you know—at least Maggie was. Don’t forget she mightn’t ever see it again—or her uncle either for that matter—or even any of us. You never know. We might blow up before we ever leave Earth at all—or we might be hit by a meteor in space—or there are always the Vivores when we do touch down on Mars, whatever they might be.”
“Cheerful, aren’t you,” sniffed Jacky (but there was just a little shake in her voice—for any of these things could easily happen to us on a job like this: it’s no simple trip to the seaside, shooting off to Mars, you know . . .).
But at last the time did pass, and it was the final night of all. Dr. K. had returned from his trip into Chicago and we all had a kind of solemn supper together before going to an early bed. Mike’s mother and father were there, of course, and J.K.C., and all of us who were going—us three and Katey and Archie. And—needless to say—the inevitable Maggie.
We’d meant to have speeches—some kind of celebration, almost; but you know, when the time came it just couldn’t be done—just couldn’t. Even Maggie was subdued; and for the first time, just before we all parted for bed, I saw that she wasn’t all just bounce and energy after all—there was a softer side.
She went close up to Dr. K., and her eyes were very wide and a little bit starry, the way Jacky’s always go when tears aren’t all that far away. And she whispered—perhaps I shouldn’t really have been listening, but I couldn’t help it, I was so close to Dr. K. myself.
“Berkeley,” said Maggie, very softly (it was the ridiculous name she always called him), “Berkeley, I wish you’d say right now that I could come with you tomorrow—I wish I could have your permission.”
He shook his head.
“You’re all I have in the world, Berkeley,” she went on, “and I’m all you have. We really ought to be together. There’s plenty of food in the rocket—and plenty of spare air from the breathing apparatus—and you’re well under the weight complement, even allowing for Mr. MacFarlane and Dr. McGillivray on the way back. . . . Won’t you say yes?”
“I can’t, my dear,” he answered, with a saddish kind of smile. And she shrugged.
“Oh well. I gave you the chance at least. In that case I guess I won’t be around tomorrow morning—you know I don’t like partings, even for a little time; I always hated railway stations. I’ll just stay out of sight somewhere. . . .”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. And his eyes were a bit starry too—in fact, all our eyes were when she came around us one by one and told us she wasn’t coming out in the morning.
“I’ll say my so-longs now,” she said, “and we’ll leave it at that. O.K.? Be seeing you. . . .”
And that was it. We al
l trooped to bed, feeling very subdued. I remember, after I’d undressed and put the lamp out, standing for a long, long time by the window of my bedroom, looking out to the tall slim shape of the Comet, almost a mile away. It gleamed a little in the moonlight—gleamed silver; like the strange far spire of some cathedral of the future, maybe, in a shadowy city all huddled in the drifting ground-mist which wreathed the tripod base.
I looked beyond—into the star-clustered sky. In a few hours we ourselves would be up there too—hurtling into the unknown—or, at least, to some of us, the partly known. Would we ever find Steve and Doctor Mac even if we did reach Mars? Would they be alive if we did find them? Would we ourselves ever return?
My gaze came back to Earth, attracted by a slight movement around the corner of one of the encampment huts. A small figure was moving stealthily forward in the direction of the rocket; and I recognized the unmistakable features, in a sudden glint of moonshine, of Maggie Sherwood.
I thought I understood her feelings. She, who was being left behind—left alone, separated from her friends, her only relative—was going out across the silent field for one last forlorn look at the great rearing structure of the Comet. Then, in the small hours, perhaps, she would creep back desolately to bed—would waken in the morning to the great explosive roar which would tell of our departure—would see the vast, silvery cigar shape rise slowly, spouting fire, gaining speed, more and more speed, until at the last, when it was no more than a tiny pencil against the pale blue of the morning sky, it would disappear suddenly in one last little spurt of drifting smoke . . . and she would cry a little, perhaps, and then leave the encampment for Chicago, to take up normal life in the boarding school there, as had been arranged.
I felt very sorry for her as I crept into bed; and so lay for a long time, just thinking and dreaming—and waiting; until, in spite of everything, I dozed off to sleep. . . . (I hope you’ll forgive this bit of “fine writing,” by the way, as J.K.C. calls it: I did feel it all rather strangely that night. Ah well.)
It was cold—terribly cold—when we drove next morning to the ship. We shivered, in spite of the warm clothing we wore. We assembled in the reinforced concrete hut close beside the base of the gigantic machine that was to be our only home for so many, many weeks.
We said our farewells—to Mike’s mother and father, to Dr. K.’s assistants, to dear old J.K.C., who was in a pale kind of awe at last, and silent for once, now that the moment of climax had come.
One by one we mounted the long swaying ladder and went through the little dark entrance hatch in the Comet’s gleaming side. We took our places—still in silence, following out the instructions that had been dinned into us at a dozen conferences.
Katey was very white—her lip trembled a little. I saw Jacky take her hand and squeeze it comfortingly—after all, she had been through it all before. . . .
Archie took up his position beside Dr. Kalkenbrenner at the control panel. The Doctor looked around inquiringly and we all nodded from the bunks in which we lay—to which, indeed, we were strapped, in readiness for the tremendous impact when the Comet’s own jets should come into use after the release of the booster.
Twisting my head around on the sorbo pillow, I could see J.K.C. and some half-dozen assistants on the ground, close to the door of the concrete hut. J.K.C. waved once, then he and the others trooped inside for shelter from the terrific blast there would be.
A long silence. I heard Dr. K. counting slowly to himself: “Seven—six—five—four—three—two—ZERO!”
And instantly there was an immense explosion, seeming almost to shatter our eardrums. Far beneath, the ground seemed to rock and tilt—then the concrete hut seemed to reel and steady itself—receded—grew smaller, smaller and smaller . . . and with the danger from the blast now gone, J.K.C. and the others—tiny, tiny black figures—rushed out once more, waving ecstatically after us as, in full triumph, the Comet rose higher and higher into the pale sky. . . .
the Comet rose higher and higher into the pale sky
The speed of our ascent increased—the figures, the hut itself—all were lost to view. Dr. Kalkenbrenner, by the instrument panel, cried out to us in warning as he prepared to release the booster and set the Comet’s own jets into action.
A second explosion—even more gigantic-seeming than the first. An immense hand seeming to press me down and down into the soft mattress . . . and everything swam before my eyes and went black. . . .
When I came back to consciousness—slowly at first—all was quiet. We were in full flight—were already many, many hundreds of miles away from Earth, heading toward the Angry Planet we knew so well—and yet so slightly too.
I looked around. Some of the others had already recovered also—others were still blacked out. In the confusion of the moment it was as if we were still in the dear old Albatross; and I remembered with a chuckle the bewilderment we had seen then on the faces of Doctor Mac and Uncle Steve when the door of the store cupboard had wavered open and we three stowaways had floated out to confront them.
I set to loosening the straps that held me, so that, for old times’ sake, I could sail off the bed in the old weightless way. As I twisted around to reach the buckle, my eyes fell on the metal door of one of the storage cupboards in the Comet’s cabin, not unlike the old storage cupboard on board the Albatross.
For an instant I thought I was dreaming—that I was still in a mist from the black-out and so had confused the two journeys.
But I was not dreaming! Not by a long chalk! The door of the Comet’s storage cupboard was wavering open—someone was floating out toward us, as we had floated on that other occasion!
I cursed myself for feeling so sentimental about Maggie Sherwood the evening before—for wasting all my good sympathy on her. I knew now why she had crept out from the encampment in the moonlight to steal toward the rocket!
She even had the nerve to wink at me now as she floated silently past my bunk and drifted on to give a patronizing flying kiss to an utterly bewildered Dr. Kalkenbrenner!
And Mike, the scoundrel, was winking too!
CHAPTER VII. THE THIRD MARTIAN EXPEDITION
A Personal Impression by Catherine W. Hogarth,
with a Technical Note by Dr. M. B. Kalkenbrenner
1. A Personal Impression by Catherine W. Hogarth
Up in a balloon, boys,
Up in a balloon. . .
HELLO, FOLKS!
Don’t pay any attention to the way I write—it’s just me, can’t help it after years and years in show business.
I think it was Eddie Wheeler put up the money for that old show I was in—sure it was, for he’d just sold his new Roses number for a wad, so he and dear old Freddie Salmon took the Princess. It was called Stardust Follies of Whatever-it-was (was it ’48 or 49?) —anyway it was a few years ago. It was the year that Danny Kaye was playing the London Palladium—or was it Sinatra? Anyway, it was sometime about then), and Billy Billiter and I were the stars, and the whole show was all about space flight and so on, with the girls all as Martians and Venusians and such. (Not the real thing, of course, just Eddie’s idea—plenty of spangles all over their tights, and Iris Morley was a Moon maiden in one number, all over silver.) Anyway, what I was really building up to was that there was one spot that I had myself where we began way back in Victorian times—huge cycling bloomers and straw hats and everything—and I sang that old-time number:
Up in a balloon, boys,
Up in a balloon!
and then there was a marvelous transformation scene, and the balloon changed into a rocket, you see, and I did a quick change in the wings and came on again in the cutest little space suit, and we changed the words to:
Who’ll come up
In a rocket to Venus
With me, with me, with me?
and the girls did a ballet all over the solar system, with everything whirling around and around and around, you know, and the sun in the middle, and suddenly the sun burst open and there was Ir
is again, this time as a sun maiden. . . .
What a pity that show never ran! Came off after two weeks. Just lets you see. Public never knows, does it? “All a bit too futuristic,” was what the press said, but of course they don’t know much either, ’cos here I was in a real rocket after all, so it wasn’t all that futuristic—in fact, that show must have been running, now I think of it, just about the time when Stephen Mac Whatsit and the poor old Doctor were off for the first time in the Albatross (or was that the year Bing Crosby was at the Palladium?).
Of course, I don’t want you for a moment to think the real thing was anything like that show of dear old Eddie’s, I mean it simply wasn’t in it, the show wasn’t—couldn’t hold a candle to the real thing. What a set! What a back cloth! What lighting! You’ve got to hand it to old Mother Nature when it comes to decor. It’s no use poor little me even trying to tell you what it was like, for I’m no script writer, no sir—and besides, it’s all been done already in this book. There was all the stuff I took down in shorthand by the airstrip and then typed out (it just lets you see again, doesn’t it?—I’m not really as dumb as you’d think, not from all this, but it’s the way I go on when I’m just being myself, and it can’t be helped).
The Red Journey Back Page 7