Worlds Apart

by Alexander Levitsky

  They entered the woods. Gusev bent low and kicked—from out of the dust flew a broken skull in which gleamed gold teeth. The air grew close. The mossy branches cast a thin shade in the windless hot air. Within a few paces they came upon another convex disc which was bolted to the base of a circular metal shaft. At the edge of the woods stood a dwelling in ruins, thick brick walls broken as though by an explosion, piles of debris, and the protruding ends of twisted metal beams.

  “These buildings have been blown up, Mstislav Sergeevich, look here,” said Gusev. “There was some kind of a fight here, the kind we know so well.”

  On a pile of rubble appeared a large spider which ran down the broken edge of a wall. Gusev fired at it. The spider leaped into the air and, spinning, fell. Then a second spider ran behind the building towards the trees, raising brown dust, and collided with the tangle of wires, struggling in it with its legs outstretched.

  From the grove Gusev and Los climbed onto a hill and then descended to a second woods in which from a distance they could see brick structures and one stone building which was higher than the others and had a flat roof. Between the hill and the settlement lay several discs. Pointing at them Los said:

  “Apparently those are the shafts for underground transmission lines. But it’s been abandoned. The whole region’s deserted.”

  They crawled over a tangle of barbed wire, made their way through the woods and came to a courtyard paved with large flagstones. In its midst touching the trees stood a building of strange and somber architecture. Its smooth walls tapered upwards and were topped by a massive cornice constructed of blood-dark stone. In the smooth walls were narrow and deep windows like slits. Two square columns made of the same blood-dark stone which also tapered upwards supported the carved roof of the entryway. Broad steps, as wide as the building, led to a low and massive door. Dried strands of creeping vegetation hung between the slabs of the walls. The building resembled an enormous tomb.

  Gusev leaned his shoulder against a door mounted in bronze. It yielded to him. They passed through a dark vestibule and entered a many-walled high-ceilinged hall. Into it light entered through the glazed windows of an arched cupola. The hall was nearly empty. A few overthrown stools, a table with a cloth turned back on one corner and a dish with the dried remains of food, a few low couches near the walls, and on the stone floor metal containers, broken bottles, some kind of machine or tool of strange form consisting of discs, spheres, and a metal network which stood near the door—everything was covered with a layer of dust.

  Dusty light from the cupola fell onto the yellowed marble-like walls. Near the ceiling, the walls were banded by a broad mosaic frieze. Obviously it represented events from ancient history—a battle between yellow-skinned and red-skinned giants, ocean waves with a human figure emerging above the waist, the same figure flying among the stars, then battle scenes, scenes from the hunt, a herd of shaggy animals driven by shepherds, scenes from domestic life, hunting, dancing, birth and death—this gloomy zone of mosaics, over the door, met a depiction of the construction of a gigantic reservoir.

  “Strange, strange,” repeated Los as he climbed onto the couches the better to see the mosaic, “Alexei Ivanovich, can you see the drawing of a head on those shields, what is it?”

  Gusev in the meantime had found a barely noticeable door which opened to a closed staircase leading into a broad, arched corridor flooded by dusty light. Along the walls in niches stood stone and bronze statues, busts, heads, masks, and fragments of vases. Doors decorated with marble and bronze led to inside rooms.

  Gusev went to inspect the lateral rooms which were low, musty, and dimly lighted. In one of them was a dry basin in which lay a dead spider. In the next was a shattered mirror which covered one of the walls, while on the floor were a pile of rotted cloth, upset furniture and chests containing fragments of clothing.

  In the third room, low, hung with rugs, on a dais under a tall shaft from which streamed light stood a wide bed. From it was draped, half-extended, the skeleton of a Martian. Everywhere were the signs of a bitter struggle. In the corner lay a second skeleton, doubled up. Here in the midst of trash and rags Gusev found several objects made of a hammered heavy metal, apparently gold. They were a woman’s objects, jewelry, coffers, and flasks. He took from the rotting garments on the skeleton great faceted stones which were transparent and as dark as the night, connected by a chain. Not bad loot at all.

  Los inspected the statues in the corridor. Among the stone heads with their sharp noses, among the images of tiny monsters, among the painted masks, among the vases made of assembled fragments which in a strange fashion in outline and decoration were reminiscent of ancient Etruscan ware, his attention was captured by a large belted statue. It represented a naked woman with wild hair and a furious twisted face. Her pointed breasts were averted to the sides. Her head was encircled by a crown of stars, which above her brow extended into a delicate parabola, within which were enclosed two spheres: the one ruby and the other brick red ceramic. In the features of that emotional and powerful visage was something disturbingly familiar which arose from his most uncertain memories.

  To one side of the statue was a small dark niche protected by a screen. Los inserted his fingers through the bars but the grating would not yield. Lighting a match, he saw in the niche on a rotted pillow, a golden mask. It was a representation of a broad-cheeked human face with serenely closed eyes. The crescent mouth smiled. The nose was pointed and aquiline. On the forehead between the eyebrows was a protuberance in the shape of a flattened honeycomb.

  Los burned up half his box of matches as with increasing emotion he gazed at the mask. Not long before he left the earth he had seen photographs of masks like it discovered in the ruins of huge cities on the banks of the Niger in those regions of Africa where traces of the culture of a lost race had been found.

  One of the side doors in the corridor was ajar. Los entered a long, very high room with a gallery with a stone balustrade. Below and above on the gallery were flat bookcases and shelves with tiny, thick books. Chased and with golden lettering, their spines stretched in uniform rows lining the gray walls. In some of the cabinets stood metal cylinders and in others great books bound in leather or wood. From the cabinets, from the shelves, from the dark corners of the library gazed with stony eyes the wrinkled bald heads of Martian scholars. In the room were scattered several deep chairs and cabinets on slender legs to the sides of which were attached circular screens.

  Holding his breath, Los surveyed this treasure house with its odor of rot and must where spoke the wisdom of thousands of years of the Martian past with the mute tongues of books.

  With soft steps he walked over to a shelf and began to open the books. Their paper was greenish, the writing angular and of a soft brownish color. One of the books with diagrams of hoisting machinery Los shoved into his pocket to be inspected at his leisure. Inserted into the metal cylinders he found yellowish rollers, hollow to the touch like bones, which were similar to phonograph cylinders, but whose outer surfaces were smooth like glass. One of these cylinders lay on the cabinet with a screen, apparently ready to be used but abandoned at the time of the destruction of the house.

  Then Los opened a black bookcase and at random selected a light, puffy volume bound in leather eaten by worms and with his sleeve brushed the dust off it. Its yellow ancient pages folded fan-wise top to bottom with a continuous band of marks in zig-zag form. The pages one after another were covered with colored triangles the size of a finger-nail. They ran from left to right and the reverse in uneven lines which fell or merged. They changed in outline and color. Several pages later, among the triangles appeared colored circles which changed form and color like creatures. The triangles began to appear in figures. The merging and transformation of these colored triangular, circular, rectangular, and complex figures ran from page to page. Slowly, in Los’s ears began to play an elusive, subtle, piercingly plaintive music.

  He closed the book, covered his eyes with
his hand and stood for a long time leaning against the book shelves, stirred and enchanted by a novel wonder—a singing book.

  “Mstislav Sergeevich,” Gusev’s voice echoed through the house, “Come here, quick.”

  Los went into the corridor. At its end in a doorway Gusev stood with a frightened smile on his lips.

  “Come and see what’s happening.”

  He led Los into a narrow semi-lighted room on the far wall of which was a large square clouded mirror before which stood several stools and chairs.

  “See that ball hanging on the cord, well, I thought it was gold, so I tried to pull it off, and look what happens.”

  Gusev pulled on the ball, the mirror became light and there appeared great terraced buildings, windows gleaming in the sunset, the waving branches of trees, and the hollow roar of a crowd filled the dark room. Over the mirror from top down advanced a winged shadow which enveloped the outlines of the city. Suddenly a fiery explosion filled the screen, a sharp crack resounded under the floor, and the clouded mirror faded.

  “A short circuit, a connection has burned out,” said Gusev, “And anyway, it’s time to leave, Mstislav Sergeevich, soon it’ll be night.”

  SUNDOWN

  Throwing out narrow hazy wings, the blazing sun was declining.

  Los and Gusev ran across the twilight expanse, now even more desolate and wild, towards the banks of the canal. The sun was rapidly departing over the distant edge of the plain and then it disappeared. A blinding scarlet glow spread from where the sun had gone down. Its sharp rays lighted up half the sky and then rapidly, rapidly it was covered by gray ash—the fire was extinguished. The sky grew dense.

  In the gray sundown low on the horizon arose a great red star. It stood like an angry eye. For a few moments the darkness was full of only its gloomy rays.

  But then over all the limitless sky stars began to appear, gleaming, greenish constellations—their icy rays pierced the eyes. The gloomy star as it rose blazed forth.

  When they reached the embankment, Los paused and pointing at the red star said:

  “The earth.”

  Gusev removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. His head back, he looked at his distant homeland soaring among the constellations. His face was sad and pale.

  And so they stood for a long time in the faint light of the stars on the canal’s ancient embankment.

  But then from behind the dark and precise line of the horizon appeared a bright sickle, smaller than the earth’s moon, which rose over the cactused plain.

  Long shadows fell from the palmate vegetation.

  Gusev touched Los.

  “Look behind us.”

  Behind them over the undulating plain above the groves and ruins stood Mars’ second satellite. Its round, yellowish disc, also smaller than the earth’s moon, inclined towards the ragged mountains. On the ground the metallic discs gleamed towards the hills.

  “Well, night is here,” whispered Gusev, “And it’s like a dream.”

  They carefully descended from the embankment into the dark growths of cactus. From under their feet darted a shadow. A shaggy mass dashed through the patches of moonlight. There were crackling noises. Something whined, piercingly, unbearably keen. In the dead light, the leaves of the cactus stirred and gleamed. Spider webs as tough as nets touched their faces.

  Suddenly, without warning a horrifying and excruciating roar split the night. Then it broke off. Everything was calm. Gusev and Los with great leaps, trembling in loathing and terror, ran across the plain through the quivering vegetation.

  Finally, in the light of the ascending sickle gleamed the craft’s steel skin. They had arrived. Panting, they sat down.

  “Well, I’m not one for these spidery places,” said Gusev, opening the hatch and crawling into the craft.

  Los paused for a moment. He listened and watched. Then he saw it—between the stars soared a black, fantastic silhouette, the winged shadow of an aircraft.

  LOS LOOKS AT THE EARTH

  The shadow of the aircraft disappeared. Los climbed onto the exterior of his craft, lighted up a pipe, and gazed at the stars. A slight chill touched his body.

  Gusev was busy inside the craft, mumbling, inspecting and hiding the objects he had found. Then he stuck his head out of the hatch:

  “What do you think, Mstislav Sergeevich, it’s all gold, and the gems are priceless. When I sell those things in Petersburg I’ll get a barrel of money. My dimwit will sure be happy.”

  His head disappeared and soon he was completely silent. He was a happy man, Gusev was.

  Los could not sleep, but sat blinking at the stars and sucking at his pipe. What did it all mean? How had the African masks with that separate honeycomb third eye come to Mars? And the mosaics? And the giants drowning in the sea and flying through the stars? And the sphinx heads on the shields? And the signs on the parabola—was the ruby sphere the earth and the ceramic one Mars? The sign of power over two worlds. It was incomprehensible. And the singing book? And the strange city which appeared on the clouded mirror? And then—why was this entire region desolate and deserted?

  Los knocked the ash out of his pipe on his heel and once more filled it with tobacco. He wished day would come. Obviously the Martian aircraft would be spreading the word somewhere in some populated area.

  Maybe they were already searching for them and the aircraft which had flown under the stars had been sent with the purpose of getting them.

  Los looked at the sky. The light from the reddish star had turned pale as it was approaching the zenith, and a ray from it touched his very heart.

  That sleepless night when he stood in the doorway of the shed, Los, just as now, with chill melancholy had watched Mars rise over the horizon. That was only two nights ago. Only one night separated him from the earth and its tormenting ghosts. But what a night!

  The earth, the green earth, now in clouds, now in passing light, luxuriant, many-watered, so wastefully cruel to its children, drenched in hot blood, but still so beloved, his homeland …

  Icy cold swept over him; Los saw himself clearly, sitting in the midst of an alien plain on an iron box, like a solitary devil, cast out, by the Spirit of the earth. A thousand years of the past and a thousand of the future—wasn’t that the unbroken life of one body liberating itself from chaos? Perhaps that reddish sphere which was the earth soaring in stellar space—was it merely the carnal heart of the great Spirit, cast out into the millennia? A man, ephemeral, awakes for a moment of life, he, Los, alone, by his insane will had absented himself from the great Spirit, and now, like a despondent devil, despised and accursed, he sat alone in the wilderness.

  It was enough to chill the heart. Solitude, solitude. Los leaped from the craft and crawled into the hatch next to the snoring Gusev. He felt better. This simple man had not betrayed his homeland, he had only flown over hill and dale to this seventh heaven where his only concern was what he could seize to take home to Masha. He slept calmly, his conscience clear.

  From the heat and fatigue Los began to drowse. In his sleep he found consolation. He saw the bank of a terrestrial river, birches rustling in the wind, clouds, the sun sparkling on the water, and on the opposite shore someone in white was waving, calling, summoning him.

  The powerful roar of propellers woke Los and Gusev.

  THE MARTIANS

  Blinding pink lines of clouds like skeins of yarn strewn from east to west filled the morning sky. Now appearing in the dark blue patches of sky, now disappearing behind the pink lines of clouds, descended, gleaming in the sun, an airship. The outline of its three masted fuselage resembled that of a Carthagenian galley. Three pairs of tapered, flexible wings extended from its sides.

  The ship cut through the clouds, and dripping moisture silver, gleaming, hung over the cacti. On its stubby masts roared three vertical propellers which held it in the air. Stairways dropped from its sides and the ship came to rest on them. The propellers ceased turning.

  Down the stairs ran the slight
figures of the Martians. They all wore the same egg-shaped helmets and silver, loose jackets with thick collars which concealed their necks and the lower parts of their faces. In the arms of each of them was a weapon resembling a stubby rifle with a disc at the midsection.

  Gusev, his head down, stood near the craft. His hand on his Mauser, he watched as the Martians fell into two ranks. Their weapons rested with their muzzles in their crooked arms.

  “The bastards hold their weapons like old women,” he muttered.

  His arms crossed on his chest, Los stood smiling. The last to leave the ship was a Martian dressed in a black gown falling in broad folds. His bared head was bald and knobby. His beardless narrow face was sky-blue.

  Wading with effort through the loose soil, he passed before the two rows of soldiers. His protruding light and cold eyes fastened on Gusev. Then he shifted his attention exclusively to Los. Coming close to the men, he lifted a puny hand in its wide sleeve and speaking in a thin brittle voice, uttered a bird-like call:

  “Taltsetl.”

  He opened yet wider his eyes alight with cool surmise. He repeated the bird-like word and pointed commandingly at the sky. Los said:

  “The earth.”

  “The earth,” the Martians repeated with difficulty, the skin on his brow wrinkling. The knobs on his head darkened. Gusev stood, his legs apart, coughed, and said angrily:

  “From Russia, we’re Russians, that is, we’ve come to visit you, hello,” he touched his cap, “Don’t harm us and we won’t harm you … Mstislav Sergeevich, he doesn’t understand a thing.”

  The Martian’s intelligent blue face was immobile, only on his bulging forehead between his eyebrows emerged a reddish spot, the result of his intellectual effort. With an easy movement of his hand he pointed at the sun and said what was to him a familiar word with its strange sound:

  “Soatsr.”

  He pointed at the ground, opened wide his arms, as though holding a ball:

  “Tuma.”

  He pointed at one of the soldiers standing in a semi-circle behind him, pointed at Gusev, at himself, and at Los: