On a wide plaque in front of him was a series of bars, odd-shaped knobs and round flat keys, and without wasting time Mister set to work, depressing keys and twisting knobs. Sometimes all five hands were engaged; again only one. Brett had no idea what it was for, but as the decapod glanced occasionally at the various throbbing machines, he concluded that this control-board was, in some way, connected with them. If only he could have asked questions!
The monotony of watching those moving hands made the man drowsy. A touch, later, awoke him. Mister and he were surrounded by several machinists, the machines were stilled. Brett was placed on the floor and was commanded by Mister’s tootings to “jump.” This meant turning handsprings, somersaulting without number, making high leaps into the air, flip-flopping and what-not. Brett had always been proud of his muscular control, and Mars’ gravity allowed him feats he could never have accomplished at home. Then, he was picked up, handed around as each monster examined him, texture of skin, hair and clothing.
Placed on the table again, he watched the machines restart, and for several hours Mister worked silently and efficiently at his task. Brett wondered at the activity, but there was nothing to tell him what was being done, since the room was otherwise bare except for the machines. At last, the machines were stopped once more, and there was a general exodus from the building. The work-day was at an end.
Outside, the man was the cynosure of all eyes, and had to show-off again for his master’s fellows. This time, when they climbed into the flying machine, he was prepared for the take-off, managing to hold on to his senses as he watched everything the pilot did, memorizing each process.
He felt better for what little he had accomplished, having forged the first link in the chain that meant escape, but he foresaw that it was not to be as simple as he had hoped. There was the question of the ship’s space-worthiness, of fuel. True, he could see no outlet but the single entrance, which, by its very solidity, pointed to the fact that, once closed, it hermetically sealed the ship. But there was also the question of how he and his companions were to manipulate those giant controls. He could, undoubtedly, reach them from the hanging straps, but were Earth muscles equal to turning them?
His fellows crowded around him the next morning. They had guessed his absence of the previous day had to do with the workings of his plot to escape. He narrated all he had seen, but told only George of his many fears. “We know nothing of the machinery, not even how the ship is fueled. And we’ll be taking a chance on its space-worthiness.”
“You saw nothing that looked like fuel tanks?”
“No. My guess would be that the power is derived either from stored energy in the machines themselves or from solar or cosmic rays . . . .”
“Hum—that is a problem. But say, I tell you what. To-night, let’s sneak out and give these ships a once-over, top to bottom. We can’t wait much longer. Jill died in Dell’s arms yesterday. She’s pretty much broken up over it. Mrs. White-Smythe keeled over, too, and we had a difficult time of it, bringing her around; and several others are mighty sick . . . .” Even as he spoke George was doubled up with a cramp that twisted his face and made him catch at Brett to keep his balance.
“Yes, I realize we’re all in a bad way. Getting many of those spasms, George?”
“Oh, I’m all right, so so, anyway. Yes, we’ve got to get out of here . . . .”
“But what’s puzzling me is how we’re to get out of the towers? Drop from rung to rung? You and I might manage, but how ‘bout the others—the women ....?”
“I’ve got that figured out, Brett. Most of us have leashes now, you see. Here’s what we’ll do,” and George explained his idea. They planned to meet an hour or so after sunset, with the rising of Deimos.
* * * *
CHAPTER VIII
It seemed to Brett that Missis and Mister would never fall asleep, but at last their quiet breathing told him all was well. Tip-toeing more from habit than need, since he knew his nocturnal stirrings never disturbed them, he crept to the open doorway. Deimos was just showing over the rim of the valley leaving the ground still in shadow.
Picking up the long cable of his leash he studied the ladder below him. Luckily, one of the rungs was fastened just five feet beneath the doorway. It was broad and round, jutting out from the building’s side some two feet, its end a broad knob.
Swinging over the door-sill, he felt around with his feet until he found the rung, then balancing himself carefully slid down until he straddled it. Next, he pulled the cable that he held in one hand after him, and draped it over the rung so that its ends hung clear, dangling several feet below the next rung beneath. Taking both sides of the cable in his hands, he went down until his feet met the step.
Chuckling over the simplicity of the thing, he repeated the same performance over and over again, until, at last, the ground was underfoot. For a few moments he stood listening, to discover if his descent had disturbed any of the neighbors, but the decapods were all sound sleepers, nothing stirred in the night. Coiling up the cable, he hastened to his rendezvous.
George was at the landing field before him, since his tower home was nearer. In the moonlight he was inspecting one of the flying machines.
“You’re right,” he told Brett, “these things have no storage tanks of any sort, but look here, what do you make of these?”
He pointed to a mesh-work of wires embedded in the very stuff of which the golden ship was made. In the daylight they would have appeared invisible, but the moon’s rays glinted upon their surfaces, silvering them.
“Antenna! There’s some way of drawing power out of the air. Whether it comes from artificial beams or from the cosmos itself, there’s no telling. Possibly, we’ll never know, but I’d take a chance it’s either solar or cosmic rays—they couldn’t broadcast a beam from here to Earth. Of course, we could tell better if only we could find that big ship that brought us here . . . .”
“How ‘bout trying this one out? We might as well learn if we can handle it ... .”
Brett thoughtfully paused to consider the question before giving an answer when they both grew aware of the fact that they were not the only ones abroad in the city. Across the plaza loomed the figure of a huge decapod. In one hand it carried a long metal bar. “A night watchman . . . .” breathed George.
Luckily, they were unseen as the beast was gazing in an opposite direction. Hastily they dodged under cover among the massed machines, watching breathlessly until the police guard turned back among the towers.
“Whee—that was close! Wonder what these things have to guard against? They haven’t anything for anyone to steal!”
“No telling, no more than we cannot explain lots of things about them. I guess this ends our chance at trying out the ship. No use giving our hand away yet. We’ve got to make the break en masse, and take the consequences . . . .”
They went in one of the ships to study the controls, but there seemed no connecting links between them and the motors. They were as much in the dark as before.
A paling of the stars in the east warned them that morning was at hand. Separating, they hurried to their respective towers. On the way Brett all but ran into a second guard, moving between the buildings. Again luck was with him, and he slipped out of sight. Reaching his own tower, Brett was faced with the monumental task of reclimbing the glassy wall.
A running jump carried him high enough to grasp the first of the ladder rungs, but from there on it was a gruelling job of lassoing each succeeding rung, standing upright and hooking the cable over the rung above his head. The sun was showing above the valley rim as he swung his foot over the sill of his chamber. In a few moments the beasts had begun to awaken.
That same morning Brett apprised their fellows of the details of the plot that George and he had carefully worked out between them. Looking around he realized that there was no time to lose. They were all sallow, pathetically thin. Everyone had a cough, sneezing and wheezing. A few had to hold their chests when coughing spas
ms seized them. And they were all sick from the rich, unnatural food of their captors. Even Dell who had been the most uncomplaining showed a peaked, wan face in which the blue eyes seemed over large and bright. Only the little dog, Jock, did not seem to have suffered any. Each day he had friskily re-greeted the new friends he had made.
“I’m not going to conceal any facts from you,” Brett explained. “We’ve possibly one chance in a thousand to get home. For one thing, these flying machines may not be hermetically sealed, and once we’re out in Space, we’ll suffocate—even so we don’t know how long our air will suffice without renewal—not very long, anyway. Secondly, we’re taking a chance on fuel. Then, again, we don’t know, when once in Space, if we can find Mother Earth. None of us know a thing about spatial navigation, we’re none of us astronomers, and we may miss Earth entirely—and fall into the Sun. In fact, I’m afraid that a thousand to one chance is a small margin ....
“But we do know one thing, and that is, if we remain here much longer, none of us’ll live to tell the tale anyway. We’re dying on our feet, so it’s up to each of you to decide for yourself. You must come willingly . . .
* * * *
He did not know whether it was the “hope that springs eternal” or whether it was a fatalistic courage that caused them to give a unanimous consent, but there was not a single nay in the little gathering. Even, Mattie who had insisted right along that this was “Gawd’s jedgement” found it in herself to let loose a wild Hallelujah.
Each member of the party was told just what he or she was to do as Brett warned them that the first step toward escape depended largely upon themselves, illustrating how the descent from the towers was to be accomplished. A count showed that three or four of their masters had neglected to provide their “pets” with leashes, and therefore, it fell upon several of the stronger men to help those unfortunates. The hour set for the exodus was at Deimos’ rising.
As Brett flung his leg over the sill of his doorway, he saw the dark shadow on the neighboring tower that he knew to be the big negro, Jeff. Almost at the same time both reached the ground and, as pre-scheduled, hurried to the building that had housed the Militant Matron. They saw her peering out the third story chamber, waiting for them. She had a leash, but the nearest ladder rung was ten feet below her.
The negro, to Brett’s surprise, insisted upon going up after her, explaining that besides being a “champeen” riveter who knew his scaffolds, he had also served on a western ranch as a cow-puncher. And true to his word he lassoed the rung above Mrs. White-Smythe’s head, carefully paying out the cable until its other end swung to the woman’s waiting hand.
Bravely the heavy matron dared put her weight upon it, carrying the negro on the other end aloft, until she reached the rung from which he had been lifted, hanging on until he could join her on the single support. When, at last, they reached the ground she had something to say to the darky. “Boy,” said she, “if you’re ever out of a job you come see me. I never believed I’d get out of that place alive!”
Proceeding on their way the three picked up Jerry Ware the reporter who had with him the little school-girl, Cleone, and Mrs. Burton, impatient over any delay that might keep her longer from “John” and little “Jacky.” The rest of the Earthlings were housed on opposite sides of the plaza, and were to meet them later.
Brett led the way to the great dining hall, now empty; keeping his eyes open the while for “police men,” but not a single decapod showed up to halt their progress. The moonlight shone on the long high counter behind which stood the large vats of Martian food ready for the morning horde. Bad as the food was for them, part of the plan was to carry off a few casks to sustain them upon their homeward journey, for the Earthlings had no way of knowing how long that trip was to be.
However, since there was no opening in the counter, they had to devise a way of getting the casks over it. The decapods simply stepped over the barrier, but not so the Earthlings. Jeff, the tallest and huskiest of the men was made the under-stander, and Ware climbed to his shoulders. He was slenderer than Brett, and Brett knew that the reporter could never haul either himself or Jeff to the counter’s top, so it became necessary for Brett to climb up first. Standing on Jerry’s shoulders, that threatened collapse, he swung himself to the edge of the counter, and managed to draw himself upon it.
Uncoiling his leash that was slung around his shoulders he dropped its end into Jerry’s hand and quickly hauled him to his side. Together they drew Jeff to the counter top. It was Jeff who held the cable for Jerry and Brett to slide down to the floor on the other side where stood the vats.
The vats were great open containers, but stored to one side were dozens of tubs, six feet high and four in diameter. Turning six of them on their sides the men rolled them in position below Jeff. The cable end was tied securely around the first, and Brett skinned up the leash to stand beside Jeff and help in drawing the heavy cask to the counter top. That done, they rolled it to the other side, and slung it to the floor where the women there untied the noose. One by one the other tubs were lifted over the counter.
As they toiled more of the party made their appearance as scheduled, then the heavy tubs were rolled out of the hall toward the machine the Earthlings had chosen for their escape. When the containers were inside Brett counted noses. Everyone was there—except McCarthy.
The boy, Forrest, remembered having seen McCarthy that night. “I called him,” he said, “but he was going the other way. He just waved and called back that he’d be along directly . . . .”
“Hum—I guess he’s gone to the grave of his horse to say good-bye. He took Prince’s death hard,” observed George.
“Here he comes now!”
McCarthy was coming on a run, something white clutched under his arm. It was Jock, the wire-haired terrier. “Glory be,” said the man as he caught his breath. “I just couldn’t leave this little feller behind, even if he is only a dog . . . .” He had climbed half way up a tower to get the animal.
“Well, come on. It’ll be light soon. Inside everyone!”
The fifty-foot ship held them all, and the heavy door was swung closed. Then Brett and George climbed the straps until they were opposite the control plaque.
With his heart in his throat Brett tentatively touched the octagonal lever that he had watched Mister depress, after warning everyone to beware of the take-off. He was astonished at the ease with which the lever reacted under his hand. A light touch depressed it. But it was more difficult with the three knobs. It took both George and him with all their combined strength to turn them. Then, they waited for the roar of the take-off.
It DID NOT COME!
* * * *
CHAPTER IX
Brett and George stared at each other. They could feel a slight pulsation throughout the ship, but that was all.
“Maybe we didn’t twist the knobs far enough . . . .” whispered George. Brett nodded. Again they worked on them. They found they could turn them still farther; yet nothing happened!
Again the pair looked at each other, neither daring to voice his thoughts. Below them, their companions grew restive, wondering at the delay. It was Forrest who had a suggestion.
“Maybe—it’s because the sun’s not up—that it depends on the sun’s rays . . . .”
Brett glanced thoughtfully at the boy. Perhaps he was right. One guess was as good as another. Lifting his eyes to the east, he saw that the sun would rise shortly.
A bright red was already tinting the sky. Then—gradually, so slowly it seemed it would never break the mist on the horizon, a slender sliver of blood red cut the gloom.
“THE SUN!”
Never had sun worshipers greeted that orb with more fervor, but their exultation was of short duration.
With a roar that was like a dozen claps of thunder, the ship sprang into action, mounting the sky so rapidly no one within witnessed the take-off. Thrown to the floor by the terrific pressure, they lost all consciousness and the machine was a wild thin
g climbing straight into the heavens.
Out of the blackness of oblivion Brett, at last, opened his eyes. He found himself on the floor below the strap to which he had been clinging. Beside him lay George, not yet stirring. Here and there someone moaned, tried to get up. And it was only by concentrating all his will that Brett was able to lift a hand, then his head, and lastly his body. It was as if a thousand-pound weight held him down.
He realized that the copper-sky was already losing some of its color, that Mars was dwindling rapidly beneath him.
Panting, he strove to reclimb the straps, to reach the controls. Fighting the pressure was like fighting a monster. He got to his knees, bringing one foot forward to jack up his body. A hanging strap came within reach of a hand, and that helped. His climb upward was a bitter thing to watch, so slow, so painful as one dragging hand followed the other, like something out of a nightmare, or a slow-motion camera.
Opposite the controls at last, he was uncertain of what to do. Should he twist the red lever as Mister had done to level off the flight? Or twist the dials to starting point? Sluggishly his mind milled over the question, then he decided first to start the oscillating bar.
Before The Golden Age - A SF Anthology of the 1930s Page 110