The Red Journey Back

by John Keir Cross

  It swung open—the doorway swung open as McGillivray, after the gigantic effort, slithered sideways and collapsed. Within, swaying limply, but moving forward toward us, was the unmistakable figure as so often described to us—as I recognized it from my own “vision” on the plain—of Malu.

  I saw all this in one flashing moment. Then something made me turn, made me swing rapidly around toward the door. MacFarlane, his face twisted in a mingled expression of rage, grief and strange effort, was hurling himself forward toward me, his arms outstretched to grapple. I heard Kalkenbrenner’s voice, suddenly imperative:

  “Hold him—in heaven’s name, Borrowdale! I understand it all!—hold him, hold him!”

  MacFarlane was upon me, struggling desperately. With all my strength I gripped him, fought with him; and even in the instant saw something else in a wild confusion of horror, my ears filled with the shrill terrified screaming of Jacqueline as she too stared beyond MacFarlane through the great glass window in the cabin’s wall.

  Below, Katey and Maggie Sherwood had almost reached the base of the ladder. But all about them the scene was no longer quiet and peaceful. The great menacing Ridge plants seemed convulsed with an unholy life—the swordlike leaves writhed away from the inner stems. Those stems themselves were quivering—the coiling, fernlike tips had unfolded; and out into the air from them poured a thick yellowness, swirling toward our companions on the ground—the Yellow Cloud at last.

  Two things more I saw before all was blotted away. In the thickest part of the forest, straight ahead, in the direction of the gigantic “tail,” the Ridge plants were swaying sideways in a more violent movement. In the depths beyond, in a coiling of steamy vapor, was something vast and white and jellyish—a great shapeless mass, tremulous, loathsome.

  And closer to us, in another parting of the fronds, I saw a group of gigantic egg shapes, squat and hideous, shuffling forward on forked tendrils toward Katey and Maggie. I recognized them also, even before I heard Jackey’s scream again:

  “The Terrible Ones!”

  The Cloud thickened. In a moment all outside was hidden in a thick ochreous swirling. And still I fought with the fanatic figure of the man we had taken as our friend, who was our friend, indeed, but possessed—quite literally possessed—by demons.

  CHAPTER XI. SIR GALAHAD, by A. Keith Borrowdale

  I OVERPOWERED HIM. It was comparatively easy, although I hesitate to imply any undue superiority of strength. MacFarlane was in poor condition—in an unnatural state of nervous exhaustion. His tackle was furious enough, but soon spent; and although it went against the grain—for he was, after all, the man we had come to save—I managed to twist his arm behind him in a judo hold I had learned long before at school. He stayed for a moment perfectly still, his face, close to mine, a mask of bewildered effort; then he slewed sideways with a little moan and I saw that he had fallen insensible.

  “Bind him,” ordered Kalkenbrenner peremptorily. “You, Paul—somebody—find some cords, wires—anything. Bind him, Borrowdale—it’s the only hope.”

  I saw that Kalkenbrenner himself had torn wire from some apparatus in the cabin and was rapidly binding the unconscious figure of Dr. McGillivray. I did not understand—was still dazed and confused from the rapid crowding of events. Besides, I was increasingly aware, bearing in on me, of a curious pressure. Nothing physical—a mental pressure; it is the only way in which I can describe it. A strange languor was in me—it was as if a voice repeated, over and over again, within my mind: “Do nothing, nothing. Do not tie up this man—all is well. Do nothing . . .”

  Our leader was regarding me sharply.

  “Borrowdale,” he said, “pull yourself together, man! Trust me. I cannot explain now—there is little time. But keep hold—keep hold! There are things out there—” and he waved toward the swirling yellow mist outside the windows, “—there are things which can control—which will try everything they can to possess you mentally, as they possessed these two poor devils. There are things with brains out there! Whatever happens, use every ounce of your will power to defeat any attempt they make to control your brain!”

  I saw on the instant what he meant—I felt the truth of what he was saying. A thousand things became clear: why MacFarlane and McGillivray had acted as they had—what, in fact, MacFarlane himself had already hinted at a thousand times in the old Morse messages. My mind was suddenly filled with the image of the great white jellyish shape I had seen in the parting of the Ridge plants, chiming with all the nightmare visions I had had in the past of such a shape. Discophora! It was clear at last: Discophora!

  I struggled to shake off the sense of oppression; and with a gigantic effort, by concentrating all my powers, succeeded.

  I looked around. Kalkenbrenner had finished binding the still form of Dr. McGillivray. Supported by Mike and Jacky—swaying a little, his slender trunk limp and seemingly out of control of his own efforts—was Malu. I saw from Jacky’s face that something was being conveyed to her mind from his—something which she, more accustomed to conversing with the Beautiful People than I was, could understand, for she nodded seriously. At the same moment Paul came toward me with a coil of thin strong cord he had found, and helped me to bind tightly the still unconscious MacFarlane.

  “What can we do?” I asked as we worked. “In heaven’s name, sir, what can we do?”

  “Nothing here,” said Kalkenbrenner. “We must get outside—we must get beyond the whole influence of these things, whatever they are. You young people—listen to me: you heard what I said just now to Mr. Borrowdale: something in this evil place is trying desperately to make you do what it wants you to do. It made these men behave in the strange way they did behave—so that we could be brought within its sphere of control. The process is plainly gradual, or they would be controlling us already. It—will certainly intensify its effects now—but we may have time to escape. I want you to resist, with every fiber of your beings, whatever thoughts come into your heads which seem opposed to this thought: We must get out of here, and quickly! Keep that firmly implanted in the forefront of your mind. No matter what happens, follow that course of action. It may be that even we—even Borrowdale or myself—will be forced to issue orders to you which seem to contradict that line of action. If we do, pay no attention—it means that we have been duped, as MacFarlane and McGillivray were. Jacqueline, stay beside Malu—help him; for clearly he is less likely to be influenced—that was why MacFarlane and McGillivray were compelled to lock him up. . . . Now, is all understood?”

  We nodded. Yet I was consumed too, even in the moment, by another vision, its implications wringing my heart: the vision of Katey and Maggie as I had seen them before the swirling Cloud hid them from view—with the squat, evil shapes of the Terrible Ones bearing down upon them. Paul plainly had the same thought, for he said quietly, “But the others, sir—the others outside . . . ?”

  Kalkenbrenner’s face twisted for a moment. For all his hardness, all his seeming scientific detachment, there still was the deep, deep core of the man, holding Maggie Sherwood in truest affection.

  “We will do what we can,” he said brusquely. “With heaven’s help, we shall find a way to rescue them, if they have not been overwhelmed utterly. But even in that we can do nothing unless we can get away from here—we must gather our resources, save McGillivray and MacFarlane. Borrowdale, do you remember the messages when MacFarlane was describing his own first venture into the Yellow Cloud in search of McGillivray? He said something about protective clothing—asbestos material not unlike our own, perhaps. . . .”

  Paul and Michael, both familiar with the layout of the spaceship’s interior, set to searching in the various storage lockers and cupboards, and in a few moments had dragged forth two crude asbestos helmets and a pair of shapeless tunics of a similar treated material, together with some rubber hip boots and massive leather gauntlets.

  Working rapidly, we swathed the two helpless men in the clumsy garments, so that no parts of their bodies were
exposed. All the time I was, for my own part, still aware of a constant attempt going on to make me stop the work I was doing. A “voice,” as it were, kept pounding incessantly in my brain: “Do nothing, nothing. What can you achieve? Do nothing, nothing. . . .” I fought with all my will power to defeat it—concentrated all my efforts toward carrying out Kalkenbrenner’s instructions.

  In the intolerable heat from the swamp outside, the sweat was starting on my brow, pouring down my neck within the great asbestos collar. I longed, longed to tear away the helmet encumbering me—yet knew that it would be fatal; but suffered too, as the very thought came into my head, an almost irresistible temptation to undo the fastening and throw the great globe aside—a desire, I understood, with yet another part of my mind, also inspired by the malevolent force outside. . . .

  Our salvation lay in the increased lightness of all objects upon Mars. Between us, Kalkenbrenner and I were able to carry both McGillivray and MacFarlane. Mike and Jacqueline still supported Malu—and I saw, with a sudden apprehension, that he alone was now exposed and naked, wore no kind of protective covering from the swirling Cloud. It was as if Jacky had read my thoughts. “He doesn’t need it,” she said rapidly. “He has told me—and you remember Uncle Steve said so too in the messages. The spores have no effect on him.”

  At Dr. Kalkenbrenner’s instructions we switched on the oxygen breathing apparatus inside our helmets. Then our leader nodded to Paul, who swung open the great entrance door. Instantly we were surrounded by the swirling yellow mist—saw clearly, as it wreathed about us, that indeed it was composed of trillions upon trillions of diminutive seed shapes. And my whole being was filled with a sense of unutterable hatred—as if (and I recalled MacFarlane’s own memorable phrase) as if these tiny creatures, the spores, were wishing us ill . . .

  We struggled forward—somehow we struggled forward. We could not see—had to feel helplessly for the steps beneath and, when we reached the ground, grope vaguely in the direction in which we believed the tractor lay. Our terror was that a group of the Terrible Ones would somehow know of our efforts and move to frustrate us. But the journey was short—a few paces only. In a momentary parting of the Cloud we saw the dim outline of the tractor; and an instant later had heaved our burdens aboard and, ourselves, were clambering into position.

  The young people and Malu were in the trailer, Paul and Jacky struggling to pull the asbestos tent covering into position. Kalkenbrenner and I were in the tractor, with the two rescued explorers; and, as the Doctor pressed the engine starter, I set to adjusting the kalspex cabin over our heads.

  The engine spluttered for a moment, then roared into life. Kalkenbrenner swung the wheel, so that we might move around in our tracks, retreat in the direction from which we had entered the enclosure. The tossing, writhing fronds of the gigantic Ridge plants were all about us, glimpsed dimly through the mist. We jerked uncomfortably, slithering in the marshy soil; then plunged forward toward safety.

  But in that one instant there was a high wild cry from the trailer behind. I swung around. Paul and Jacky had succeeded in hoisting the tent covering halfway into position. But Michael, the incorrigible, the undefeatable, was on his feet, staring into the forest we were rapidly leaving.

  I glanced in the direction in which he gestured. The Yellow Cloud had parted in a vast swathe. Clearly visible in the green depths of the Ridge plants were the two figures of Katey and Maggie Sherwood. Surrounding them were some half dozen of the Terrible Ones—beyond, glimpsed imperfectly for one fleeting moment, the great white shapeless mass of one of the Vivores—of Discophora. Maggie and Katey were held in the tendrils of two of the largest of the Terrible Ones—held spread-eagled against the trunks of two gigantic Ridge plants. They struggled—were plainly alive.

  I instinctively started to leap to my feet. But the kalspex cabin was in position. Michael, behind, repeated his great war cry; and leaped out and away from the trailer, in a huge curving arc, before the tent fell finally into position. His superior Martian strength carried him twenty feet at the least; and when he had recovered his balance he went forward in a series of gigantic jumps toward the captives. He flourished a revolver—but we knew, from the experiences of the previous expedition, that guns were of little use against the yielding plant-flesh of the Terrible Ones.

  So we glimpsed him for one brief moment, a diminutive, impossible Galahad. Then the cloud swirled over all the alien scene again as the tractor gathered speed. Thirty seconds more and we were in the free open air, heading across the plain in a glimmer of startling sunshine, the Ridge, a tumultuous seething of dark green and yellow, far behind us.

  CHAPTER XII. DISCOPHORA, by A. Keith Borrowdale being a transcription of a new theory, by Dr. Andrew McGillivray

  LOOKING BACK on our adventure, now that all is done, the scene I recollect as most unreal, somehow, in the whole long dreamlike sequence of our story’s tragic climax, is that in the trailer a mile or more from the great menacing bulk of the Ridge.

  We had come to rest there, at a distance judged by Dr. Kalkenbrenner to be relatively safe, if only for a moment or two. We knew, from what we had heard of the Cloud—from what we had seen of it within the forest itself—that it could sweep across the intervening desert in a matter of seconds to encompass us. We had half expected, indeed, that it would pursue us—would swirl about us as we traveled, impotent though it was to harm us through the treated materials of our coverings. But the air was clear and bright as we went forward; and when we did halt and peered back toward the forest, it was to see no more than a lingering yellow nimbus in the atmosphere above it. The long stretch of the Ridge was silent again, the massive fronds swaying slightly as if in a gentle breeze, although on that whole vast plain there was no breeze.

  So we halted, and set to reviving the two unconscious men we had carried so strangely with us. We were able to breathe freely now, through the air valves in our helmets—yet, on Dr. Kalkenbrenner’s strict command, were prepared at a second’s notice to reconnect the oxygen apparatus and retire to shelter if we should see any sign of attack.

  At one moment, as we toiled, it was as if danger did loom. There was a cry from Paul and we saw his pointing arm outflung along the line of the Ridge’s long straight “tail.” Far, far to the south and west (as we calculated it in later recollection), an immense convulsion seemed to shake the straight forest wall; and out across the sky, at a terrifying velocity even at so remote a distance, there went a great yellow arrowhead, as it were, of the poisonous mist. It seemed for an instant to writhe toward us, and we prepared our defenses; but then it turned and swept obliquely across our path, a seething and awesome spectacle, the vast Cloud itself in full flight, as McGillivray and MacFarlane must have seen it at the moment of their landing—as, imperfectly, it has been glimpsed and recorded in motion across the far-off Martian surface by terrestrial astronomers: as we have veritably seen it ourselves since our return, through Earth’s most powerful telescopes.[5]

  We worked on, transferring our helpless comrades to the trailer and fitting them with suits and helmets like our own. And there enclosed, when weakly they spoke to us as their own true selves at last after all their nightmare experiences, we heard the truth—as much of the truth as could be deduced from what MacFarlane had seen and McGillivray and Malu had instinctively comprehended.

  A mile away, in the green depths of the Ridge, were Katey, Maggie and the indomitable Michael. Our deepest desire was to help them—somehow to help them, if it was not too late for any help. But it was only wise, as our leader quietly assured us, to know something at least of our enemy’s nature before we made any further efforts toward rescue.

  So we lingered then, in the last long lull before the climax: we lingered there on the plain, in silence, confronting the two men who had suffered so much since they had set out across limitless space in search of adventure on the Angry Planet—and, most bitterly, had found it. They spoke hesitantly, almost incoherently at the outset, until they were able, after
so long, to marshal their troubled thoughts. I cannot attempt to reproduce their conversation in its original form, and so I transcribe here only a continuous version of it. If it seems that we lingered unduly with our companions in such danger to hear the history of the Vivores, reflect that that is partly due to the way in which I must set down the facts on paper. In its actual progress the scene in the trailer took little time enough. But reflect also on the wisdom of Dr. Kalkenbrenner’s utterance—that it was indeed well for us to learn something of our enemy’s nature; otherwise, as I must assure you, our own tragic attempt at escape might never have been possible.

  And even the facts, as I array them here, are imperfect and fragmentary: we still know little enough, in all conscience, of the true nature of the Creeping Canals—Discophora remains a half-glimpsed nightmare to all of us; and will continue so until, with the help of Providence, we once more set out on a voyage of scientific discovery. . . .

  “They control,” began Dr. McGillivray. “These creatures can control. They controlled us, against every instinct in us. They made us welcome you as we did, with no hint of danger to you. We tried—God knows we tried to warn you! But we were bewitched—the old word is the best one. We were possessed by them—the Martian telepathic principle was carried to its last conclusion.”

  “Yet you broke the spell at last,” said Kalkenbrenner quietly—and I saw that he realized to the full, from his own instinctive guess at the nature of the enemy, exactly how much effort of will power it had cost.

  McGillivray nodded and smiled a little ruefully, his blind eyes turned slightly away.

  “We had to. We simply had to. I fought with every ounce of control until I could make that one short speech as myself and tell you to pay no heed to all we had said, to restrain us somehow, to bind us—destroy us if necessary.”