Netti looked at the chronometer. “We are there, let’s go to my people!” he said.
The spaceship stopped, broad metal doors opened and fresh air streamed in. Over our heads was a clean greenish-blue sky and around us were crowds of people.
Menni and Sterni were the first to leave, carrying in their arms a transparent coffin where lay the frozen body of Letta, their dead comrade.
The others followed after them. Netti and I were the last to leave and hand in hand we made our way through the throngs of people all of whom looked like him…
[End of Part I]
Translated by Leland Fetzer
Alexei Nikolaevich Tolstoy (1883-1945)
___________________
Aelita
[First Contact with Martians. ABRIDGED]
DESCENT
The silvery disc of Mars, at places apparently draped in clouds, had noticeably increased in size. Its southern cap gleamed blindingly. Near it was spread out a curving bank of haze. On the east it extended as far as the equator, while near the prime meridian it rose, bending around to skirt a brighter area and forking to make an extension at Mars’ western edge.
Along the equator five dark round areas could be seen clearly. They were connected by dark lines which formed two equilateral triangles and one acute triangle. The base of the easternmost triangle was enclosed by an arching line. From its center to the extreme western point extended a second semi-circle. Several lines, points, and semi-circles were scattered to the west and east from this equatorial group. Mars’ northern hemisphere was lost in haze.
Los eagerly traced that network of lines—there they were, the phenomena which had driven astronomers to distraction, constantly changing, geometric, the incomprehensible Martian canals. Now Los could distinguish under their precise outline a second system of lines, which were barely visible, as though carelessly erased. He began to make a rough sketch of them in his notebook. Suddenly the disk of Mars shuddered and swam towards the porthole. Los threw himself at the rheostats:
“We’ve made it. Alexei Ivanovich, we’re being drawn closer, we’re falling.”
As the craft turned its base towards the planet, Los reduced the motive force and then turned it off completely. The reduction in speed was now less sickening. But then silence reigned, which was so painful that Gusev placed his face in his hands and covered his ears.
Los lay on the floor to watch the silvery disc increasing in size, growing, becoming ever more convex. As though from out of a black abyss it was flying towards them.
Once more Los advanced the rheostat. The craft shuddered, resisting Mars’ gravitational attraction. The rate of fall declined. Now Mars filled the entire sky, became duller, and its edges curved upward like a bowl.
The final seconds were terrifying—a sickening fall. Mars filled the whole sky. Suddenly, the glass of the portholes was filmed with moisture. The craft was slicing through clouds above a misty plain and then, roaring and rocking it slowly began to descend.
“We’re landing!” Los barely had time to shout and turned off the motor. A sharp blow threw him against the wall and knocked him over. The craft settled heavily and then toppled onto its side.
***
Their knees trembled, their hands shook, their hearts stopped beating. Silently and quickly Los and Gusev repaired the damage to the craft’s interior. Through an opening in one of the portholes they thrust a mouse, only half alive, which they had brought from the earth. The mouse revived somewhat, lifted her nose, twitched her ears, and began to groom herself. The atmosphere would support life.
Then they opened the inner door of the hatch. Los licked his lips and said in a hollow voice:
“Well, Alexei Ivanovich, my congratulations. Let’s get out.”
They threw off their boots and coats. Gusev strapped a Mauser to his belt (for any eventuality), laughed, and threw open the outer door.
MARS
A dark blue sky, like the sea in a storm, blinding, fathomless, was what Gusev and Los saw as they climbed out of their craft.
A flaming shaggy sun stood high over Mars. It was like the sun they had seen in St. Petersburg on a clear March day when a thawing wind had cleansed the whole sky.
“That’s a bright sun they have,” Gusev said and sneezed, so brilliant was the light in the deep blue sky. Their chests pounded and their temples throbbed but it was pleasant to breathe—the air was fine and dry.
The craft lay on a flat plain the color of oranges and apricots. The horizon was near—you could touch it. Under foot the soil was dry and crackling. Everywhere on the plain stood tall cacti like Menorahs casting precise lilac shadows. A light dry wind was blowing.
Los and Gusev spent much time looking around and then set off across the plain. It was extraordinarily easy to walk, although their feet sank to their ankles in the crumbling soil. As he made his way around a stout tall cactus, Los brushed it with his hand. The plant, as soon as he touched it, trembled as though in a violent wind and its brown fleshy branches reached for his hand. Gusev kicked it at the ground level and—unexpectedly—the cactus fell, driving its spines into the sand.
They walked on for half an hour or so. Before their eyes stretched the same orange plain—cacti, lilac shadows, cracked soil. Then they turned to the south and the sun stood to one side—Los had begun to look around closely, as though he was puzzled—he suddenly stopped, squatted, and pounded his knee:
“Alexei Ivanovich, this ground has been ploughed.”
“What?”
In fact ploughed crumbling furrows could plainly be seen and it was obvious the cacti were growing in rows. A few steps later Gusev stumbled over a stone slab into which had been set a large bronze ring with part of a cable. Los rubbed his chin firmly and his eyes gleamed.
“Alexei Ivanovich, do you understand now?”
“I can see we’re in a cultivated field.”
“And what’s the ring for?”
“The devil knows why they put the ring here.”
“So they can moor buoys. You can see mussel shells. We’re on the bottom of a canal.”
Gusev placed a finger to his nostril and blew his nose. They turned to the west at right angles to the furrows. Far away above the field a large bird took to the air, its wings convulsively flapping, its body hanging like a wasp. Gusev paused, his hand on the revolver. But the bird circled, gleaming in the dark blue sky, and disappeared over the near horizon.
The cacti became taller, thicker, and more stalwart. They had to pick their way through the living, thorny grove that they formed. From under their feet darted animals which resembled common lizards, but bright orange with serrated crests. Several times in dense palmate thickets some kind of brush balls slid underfoot and threw themselves to the side. Here they walked carefully.
The cacti ceased at a sloping embankment as white as chalk. It was lined, apparently, with ancient dressed stone slabs. In cracks and between the slabs hung desiccated filaments of moss. Into one of the slabs was set the same kind of ring as had been on the field. The crested lizards basked in the warm sun.
Los and Gusev climbed the slope. From its summit they could see an undulating plain of the same apricot color, but of a lessened intensity. Here and there were scattered the crests of spreading trees like mountain pines. Here and there were piles of white stones, the marks of ruins. Far away to the northwest was a lilac range of mountains, jagged and uneven like frozen tongues of flame. On their summits snow glistened.
“We’ve got to go back to eat and rest,” said Gusev. “We’re tired out, and there’s not a living soul here.”
They stood for a while longer. The plain was empty and sad—their hearts sank. “Yes, let’s get going,” said Gusev.
Suddenly Gusev stopped:
“Look at him!”
With a practiced gesture he unfastened his holster and took out the revolver.
“Hey! you! there by the craft, you! I’ll shoot!”
“Who are you shouting at, Alexei
Ivanovich?”
“See there where the ship is shining.”
“Yes, I see it.”
“Well there, he’s sitting to the right of it.”
Los finally made him out and they ran stumbling towards the craft. The creature sitting next to the craft moved to one side leaping between the cacti, then he jumped into the air and opening long, webbed wings with a crackling noise, lifted off, and describing a semi-circle, soared over the men. It was the same creature which at a distance they had taken for a bird. Gusev took aim, hoping to cut down the winged animal in its flight. But Los suddenly knocked the weapon from his hand shouting:
“You’re insane, it’s a man!”
Starting, his mouth open, Gusev looked at the astonishing creature describing circles in the vast blue sky. Los took out his handkerchief and waved at the bird:
“Mstislav Sergeevich, be careful he doesn’t drop something on us.”
“Put away your revolver.”
The great bird came closer. Now they could plainly see a man-like creature sitting in a saddle on the flying machine. He sat freely, his upper body in the open air. At the level of his shoulders flapped two pointed flexible wings. Below and in front of him spun a blurred disc—apparently a propeller. Behind the saddle was a forked tail with rudders. The entire craft was as mobile and flexible as a living creature.
Then he dove, approaching close to the ground with one wing dropped and the other lifted. They could see The Martian’s head topped by a tight fitting hat with a tall peak. Over his eyes were glasses. His face was the color of brick, narrow, wrinkled, with a sharp nose. He opened his wide mouth and shouted something. Faster, faster, the wings flapped as he dropped, ran along the ground, and leaped from his saddle thirty paces from the men.
The Martian was as tall as a man of average height, dressed in a dark, broad jacket. His meager legs to a point above his knees were enclosed in woven sandals. With fervor he began to point at the fallen cacti. But when Los and Gusev approached closer, with agility he leaped into the saddle, shook a long warning finger at them, rose easily, hovered briefly without movement, and then once more settled onto the ground, continuing to exclaim in a piping thin voice, meanwhile pointing at the broken vegetation.
“He’s crazy, he’s got his feelings hurt,” said Gusev, shouting at the Martian: “The hell with your damn cactus, keep shouting, and I’ll settle you.”
“Alexei Ivanovich, stop abusing him, he doesn’t understand Russian. Sit down, otherwise he won’t come any closer.”
Los and Gusev sat down on the scorching ground. Los tried to show that they wanted to drink and eat. Gusev lit up and spat. For a time the Martian watched them, ceasing to shout but still threatening them with a finger as long as a pencil. Finally, he loosened a bag from his saddle, threw it in the men’s direction, rose in circles to a great height, and rapidly left for the north, disappearing behind the horizon.
In the bag turned out to be two metal boxes and a wicker-bottle with some kind of beverage. Gusev opened the boxes with his knife and found in one a powerfully fragrant jelly and in the other lumps resembling Turkish Delight. Gusev smelled them.
“Ugh, the bastards eat that.”
He brought food in a basket from the ship, collected dry cactus branches and lit them. A light stream of yellow smoke and the cactus turned to embers, but still gave off considerable heat. They heated a pan with corned beef and spread their food on a clean cloth. They devoured their food, only now feeling an overwhelming hunger.
The sun stood overhead, the wind fell, and it was hot. A lizard ran over the orange hummocks. Gusev threw a bit of dry bread at it. Rising onto its front legs, it lifted its triangular crowned head and froze as still as a stone.
Los asked for a cigarette, lay down, resting his cheek on his hand, lit up an, and smiled.
“Do you know, Alexei Ivanovich, how long it’s been since we ate?”
“Since last evening, Mstislav Sergeevich, before take-off, when I filled up on potatoes.”
“Well, my friend, we haven’t eaten for twenty-three or twenty-four days.”
“How long?”
“Yesterday in St. Petersburg it was August 18,” said Los, “But today in St. Petersburg it’s September 11; that’s what I call a miracle.”
“No matter what you do to me, Mstislav Sergeevich, I can’t understand that.”
“Well, its true that I don’t understand it too well, but it’s so. We took off at 7 o’clock. You can see it’s two in the afternoon now. Nineteen hours ago we left the earth—according to this watch. But according to the clock which is still in my workshop about a month has passed. You’ve noticed that when you travel in a train, and you’re asleep and the train stops, you either wake up from the unpleasant sensation or you get nauseated in your sleep. That’s because when the car stops your whole body is subject to deceleration. When you lie in a moving car both your beating heart and your watch are going faster than if you were in a car which is stationary. The difference can’t be measured because the rate of movement is so insignificant. But our flight is a different matter. We made half our journey at a speed close to that of light. Now that is considerably different. The beating of our hearts, the rate of movement within our watches and the movement of particles in our body cells did not change in relation to each other while we were flying through airless space—we were now in the craft, and everything within it moved in one rhythm. But, if the speed of the craft exceeded by five hundred thousand times the normal speed of a body moving on earth, then my heart rate—one beat per second, if you measure it by the clock in the craft—has increased by five hundred thousand times, that is, my heart during the flight was beating at a rate of five hundred thousand times per second, according to a clock which remained behind in St. Petersburg. Judging from my heartbeats, the movement of the hands on the watch in my pocket, and the feelings in my body, during our journey ten hours and forty minutes passed. And in fact it was ten hours and forty minutes. But judging from the heart of a St. Petersburg inhabitant and according to the movements of the hands on the clock on Peter and Paul Cathedral more than three weeks has passed from the day of our departure. As a result we will be able to build a large craft, provide for it enough food, oxygen, and Ultra-lyddite to last six months, and then to suggest to some eccentrics—‘So you don’t want to live in our age with wars, revolutions, and rebellions—a chaos. So you want to live a hundred years in the future? All you have to do is wait for half a year in this box, but then, what will life be like? You’ll leap over a century.’ And they’ll have to be sent with the speed of light for a half a year into interstellar space. They’ll be bored, their beards will grow, and they’ll return to earth to find a golden age. And school boys will learn that a hundred years ago all Europe was shaken by wars and revolutions. The capitals of the world fell into anarchy. No one could believe in anyone or anything. The earth had never seen such misfortunes. But then in every country there came to be a core of courageous and hardy men, who called themselves “The Just.” They took power and began to build a world on different new principles—justice, mercy, and the official recognition of the desire for happiness—that’s particularly important, Alexei Ivanovich—happiness. And that’s the way it will all be, someday.”
Gusev said “Ah!”, clicked his tongue, and was astonished:
“Mstislav Sergeevich, what do you think about this food—is it poisonous?” With his teeth he pulled the stopper out of the Martian’s wicker bottle, tested the liquid on his tongue, and spat: “We can drink it,” he swallowed and cleared his throat. “It’s like Madeira, try it.”
Los tasted it: the liquid was thick and sweetish with a strong nutmeg bouquet. With misgivings they drank half a bottle. He felt warmth and a peculiar buoyant energy spread through his body. But his head remained clear.
Los rose and stretched expansively. It was good, exciting, and strange to stand under another sky—unheard of, a wonder. It was as though he had been cast upon the shore of a stella
r ocean, reborn into an unknown and novel life.
Gusev stowed the basket with the food in the craft, tightened down the hatch firmly, and pushed his cap to the back of his head:
“Good, Mstislav Sergeevich, I’m not sorry I came.”
They decided to return once more to the embankment and walk until evening over the hilly plain. Talking spiritedly, they walked through the cacti, sometimes jumping over them with long springing leaps. The stones of the sloping embankment soon appeared white through the vegetation.
Suddenly Los stopped walking. A chill ran down his spine. Three paces away, close to the ground from out of the succulent vegetation, peered two great horse’s eyes half veiled by red lids. They stared at him with demented animosity.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gusev and then he also saw the eyes. Without hesitation he fired at them as the dust rose. The eyes disappeared.
“There it is!” Gusev turned and fired once more close to the ground at a creature running wildly—eight angular legs, a reddish, finely striped and stout body. It was a huge spider-like creature which on the earth is found only at the bottom of the sea. It fled into the vegetation.
AN ABANDONED HOUSE
From the embankment to the nearest grove of trees Los and Gusev made their way over reddish burned cinders, leaping across collapsing narrow canals and rounding dry ponds. Here and there in the drifted channels protruded the rusty frameworks of barges. Here and there on the dead melancholy plain gleamed convex discs, apparently hatches. They tried to lift them, but they turned out to be bolted down. The bright points of these discs stretched from the ragged mountains along the hills toward the woods and toward the ruins.
Between two hills stood the nearest woods, a grove of low-growing reddish trees with spreading flat-topped branches. Their branches were gnarled and stout, while their leaves were like fine moss and their trunks were sinewy and knotted. In a clearing between the trees hung rusted strands of barbed wire.
Worlds Apart Page 78