Marooned on Mars Read online

  A sudden shortness of breath warned him that they had found his vulnerable point. He stopped moving, before they shut off the blower intake completely. There was no use fighting when the other side had all the trumps.

  Chuck let them walk him back into the workshop without any attempt to resist them. They chirped busily over the broken cords he had left, and reached a quick decision. Two of them began unfastening the straps of the welder harness, while-three more came up with the unpleasant-looking weapon they had used to threaten him before.

  He held out his hands without protest. The straps tightened on his wrists and were gathered neatly into a knot that he could not hope to work loose. Others took care of his legs.

  This time there would be no breaking away. He’d played his best trick, and they’d beaten him.

  Sptz-Rrll appeared finally, staring mournfully at the empty welder. His eyes were accusing, but the shrug he gave was the same as it had been before. The little Martian turned back to his bench.

  He stopped, staring at the compressor, and a torrent of chirps came from his vocal cords, or whatever he used. Chuck’s eyes narrowed as the Martians gathered around, examining the repaired mechanism. If they felt gratitude…

  Sptz-Rrll put the compressor back on the table while the others returned to their work. The creature moved over to stare at the dial that indicated the charge remaining in Chuck’s battery. A small hand came up over a round mouth, while the chest heaved and contorted, showing every symptom of strangling.

  Then he shrugged and walked casually out the entrance.

  CHAPTER 18

  Martian Gesture

  Chuck pulled his knees up and dropped his helmet against them. In his ears, the faint whir of the blower made a background to his thoughts, reminding him of the minutes ticking away. It seemed that his whole life had been made up of minutes ticking away and reprieves that came to nothing. But this one hurt more than all the others.

  Sptz-Rrll was only a Martian, and Chuck had been wrong in expecting human motivation of him; he knew that now. He’d read too much into mannerisms which might have had nothing to do with the emotions he’d believed them to mean. He’d been almost certain that the Martian would show gratitude in some way; he’d even begun to like the creature, even though he was a captive. To have his death dramatized and then shrugged off as unimportant…

  Rule for understanding alien races: Don’t read human feelings into nonhuman actions!

  Sokolsky could probably have saved him the trouble of learning it the hard way. Sokolsky would have gone off on a long lecture on the subject.

  Sptz-Rrll came back as casually as he had left, carrying a heavy porcelain plate in his hands. The others immediately dropped what they were doing to cluster around, with soft twitting and chirping noises. Then the old Martian came over toward Chuck and bent down to begin unfastening his bonds!

  For the second time in one minute, Chuck cursed his own foolishness. He’d been making up a rule—which he violated while he thought of it; he’d been taking it for granted that the first interpretation of Sptz-Rrll’s shrugging gesture had been the only possible one, because it seemed completely human.

  Or was he still misinterpreting, and not being freed, after all?

  The Martian put an end to that worry almost at once. He squatted on the floor and drew a square, waving his hand around the workshop to indicate that it was being symbolized. A series of zigzag lines followed. At the other end, there was a crude sketch of the space ship.

  Sptz-Rrll stood up then and reached for one of Chuck’s hands. Without more ceremony, he headed for the entrance which opened at once. Five of the other Martians followed as they moved into the darkened tunnels; each of them carried one of the illuminating squares Chuck had seen on the walls.

  The squares gave off only a dim, weak light, but it was enough for him to see. The way was twisting, as they struck down side passages, through straight sections and curves, and seemed to wander aimlessly. It was probably exactly as Sptz-Rrll had drawn it, and he had no reason to doubt that it was the shortest route to the ship.

  He wondered whether they had known of his wanderings around the tunnels before? If they had, why hadn’t they made an earlier effort to capture him? He tried to find some way to ask it of the Martian, but it was too complicated.

  A screech sounded from behind them, and the procession stopped until another Martian could catch up with them. The lamp for Chuck’s helmet was in its hands, and it extended the useless object to him gravely. It was not so useless at that, he realized. There’d be fresh batteries on the ship. He took it with an attempt at equal formality and inserted it into the catches on his helmet.

  They must have known of his stumbling around; the helmet was a giveaway to that. Then be realized that there were seven of the Martians with him—the same number as the crew of the Eros. It might be sheer coincidence, or it might mean they were accompanying him with the idea of meeting more of the crew.

  There would be mysteries for years to come. Man had never been fully able to understand different customs among various groups of his own people. How could complete understanding be achieved with a race which grew up under such utterly different conditions?

  Maybe they were going to act as a formal dickering group to get the best price for the return of the equipment the ship needed—if they’d consent to give them up after having spent so much trouble to accumulate all the gadgets they wanted.

  They passed an open door, and an arm slipped out, quickly dropping Chuck’s knife into his hand. That arm had been covered with a silvery coating of fur, totally unlike those of all the Martians Chuck had seen.

  There were too many unsettled things to worry about such mysteries, or to let him feel particularly happy. Strangely, his deepest pleasure was not at being returned safely to the ship, but at finding that Sptz-Rrll had been all that he had believed.

  They were on an inclined ramp now, moving upward. Chuck couldn’t tell whether it was the one on which he had come down, but there was something vaguely familiar about it He kept looking around for something familiar, but there was nothing he could identify.

  Sptz-Rrll reached for one of the illuminating squares and moved it close to the floor, pointing. There were the dim prints of Chuck’s boots there. Apparently the Martian had interpreted his glances correctly and was reassuring him.

  They came up through the same mosaic pattern that had first shown Chuck the way down, into late afternoon sunlight. The boy realized that less than twenty-four hours had gone by.

  The seven Martians dropped back to let him lead the way. He stopped, though, for another look at the mosaic. The silhouettes of the humanoids on if were crudely done, but they gave enough details, if all were studied, to show that the race had changed very little since the floor was laid. Chuck wondered if there were records or legends that went back to the time when they had lived on the surface, before they found a refuge from the extremes of Martian temperature by going underground?

  Sptz-Rrll tugged at his hand, pointing to the indicator that showed the charge of the blower battery was almost exhausted.

  Chuck shook himself. The Martian was right—he had no business lingering here while his battery ran down. He began a quick lope toward the ship. He’d have to go ahead and warn the ship that the Martians were coming if he could make Sptz-Rrll understand that it would be better to wait.

  The Martian caught his hand again, and pointed to the blower. He made a fast whirl of his hand in a roughly circular motion, then went slower and slower to follow it with his strangling gestures.

  The sprint had taken more out of Chuck than it should have done. But he had to make it to the ship.

  Two of the Martians gravely reached for his legs, two more tried to take his arms, and another pair were linking hands around his middle. Sptz-Rrll was motioning toward the helmet. With a quick, well-coordinated motion, they had him stretched out horizontally, and were carrying him—giving him a chance to rest and get by with the smal
ler amount of air the motor could pump in now.

  They came over the top of the dune toward the ship and into full view of the whole ship’s crew. Chuck could barely see them, at the angle of his head. He tried to wave an arm, but it was securely held by one of the Martians.

  The men were facing toward the procession now. Vance’s hand went for his automatic, and the metal of it flashed bluely in the sunlight. Chuck groaned. But the little form of Sokolsky had leaped in the way of the shot, motioning frantically.

  A second later, the doctor was running toward them, his face a picture of misery. Then his eyes fell on Chuck’s smile, and his own expression underwent a lightning change. His mouth opened and shut, shouting out the news over the radio to those who were watching.

  Sptz-Rrll motioned to the indicator as the doctor bent over, and Sokolsky fell into a trot beside them, touching helmets. “We thought they’d captured you and killed you—that this was some kind of funeral procession. But I had to be sure before we gummed up the works. What gives?”

  “They’re friendly—they let me go.”

  Steele came bounding toward them, waving a new battery, and Chuck motioned his bearers to put him down. He changed batteries quickly, then touched helmets. “Get me a radio,” he explained tersely, and headed for the ship.

  It was a sloppy job of installation, but a quick one. He came out again, to find the Martians waiting quietly, while the men stared at them. Only Sokolsky seemed happy about having the Martians around; the others were filled with the worry and suspicion they had picked up from sad experience.

  One of the younger ones was watching Sokolsky apparently trying to burrow into the sand. Suddenly, the young Martian made a wiggling dive and began to melt from sight. There was a little ripple on the surface, and he came up at Sokolsky’s back, chirping busily. The doctor laughed as the Martian shook himself, sending a cloud of dust flying.

  Vance cut through the chatter. “We’ll hear your story later. Chuck—I gather you’re in their good graces. But how can we trust them? And is there any chance we can get back the stuff they stole from us?”

  “Your answer is already coming up the dune,” Sokolsky told him quickly.

  They turned to see a procession of more than fifty Martians drawing near. Some were carrying the welders, others were burdened with a miscellaneous collection. One, Chuck noticed, held four cans—the missing corned beef, including the can that had been dropped in the tunnel. Sptz-Rrll tapped the welding tanks and made an elaborate ritual of the gesture which Chuck had considered a shrug. From one of the Martians, he took a small handful of bits of broken copper and offered them to the boy.

  “Take them,” Sokolsky advised. “This seems to be a typical culture of its kind; formality and high-dignity are the big things. And we’d all better start thinking of them as men or Martians, if we’re going to get along well—no more of this ‘humanoid’ business, or we’ll find ourselves looking down on them, and that won’t go.”

  Dick Steele came over. “And somebody might offer some food to Chuck—it’s considered good manners in our society. Come on, kid. We’ve been on short rations, but I think we can rustle up some decent food for you.”

  Sokolsky waved them off, and turned back to the young Martian. Chuck looked doubtfully at Sptz-Rrll, but he knew the Martians had been on board the ship without invitation. He gestured, and the three of them headed through the air lock. There was no sign that the heavy air or high temperature bothered the Martian, except that his coat suddenly flattened down against his skin.

  “It isn’t so good. Chuck,” Dick told the boy as he began pulling food out of the galley and setting it out in the mess hall. “Even Vance has had to admit that with everything, we can’t make the return trip. We can’t do it, even with all the stuff returned to us. Even getting the winches back— which we can’t, naturally—wouldn’t help much. We’re stuck—and we’re down to two meals a day, without much then.”

  The engineer held out some of the food toward the Martian, who shoved it aside politely. “Anybody who expects to survive better learn to eat sand. Go ahead and eat—you need it. None of us wanted to eat much since you disappeared,”

  He took out a pencil and some paper and began drawing a diagram of the solar system. Then he tossed it aside. “It’s easier to do this outside, where I can point the sun out I might as well let your friend know where we’re from.”

  Sptz-Rrll reached out inquiringly for the pencil and paper. He chattered his teeth together as he saw the marks that it made, and began drawing busily, while Chuck tried to tell about the things that had happened to him. The Martian interrupted, offering the pad to Chuck. Crude as all Martian drawing seemed to be, it was easy enough to follow. The first showed a diagram of the Martians turning the space ship over, with another below it showing them pouring acid over the winches. Sptz-Rrll again went through his shrugging gesture, which apparently had something to do with an apology. He turned the page over.

  This time the ship was drawn part way toward the vertical, with ropes leading back toward a whole horde of the Martians. Other Martians were busily digging out a hole for it, and still others were swarming all over the ship while seven rather strange-looking humans stood by and watched.

  He handed it to Dick, who looked it over quickly, with a surprised expression that gradually changed to a wide smile. The engineer picked up the pencil and made a series of rapid strokes beside the big picture; in almost exact imitation of the style the Martian had used, there was a procession of Martians going back from the ship, carrying goods of various kinds.

  “Well have to get Vance’s okay,” he told Chuck quietly. “But it would work. With unlimited labor, even unskilled labor that can’t speak our language, we could make it with time to spare. And we have plenty of things they can use.”

  That night, the floodlights had been brought out from the ship and were directed at a wide spot on the sand near by. Seven men from Earth and seven others from Mars were busily at work, tracing patterns in the sand and wiping them out. They were also using signs which increased as they went along; there was no attempt to organize a common language yet, but one was growing into existence there, all the same.

  Vance grinned at Chuck, who sat across from Sptz-Rrll. “I guess I’ll get used to the fact that you’re acting captain, Chuck, while they’re around. I’m not sure but what I like it—you’ll have to do all the settling of disagreements between the two groups.”

  “He won’t have any trouble from the Martians,” Sokolsky said. “Not until we get them so civilized that their own natural culture goes to pieces, and not then, if we go at it right. These people regard friendship as an absolute, all-out thing.”

  Chuck nodded. They’d already proved that. Once Chuck had helped them with the welding, they were compelled to risk their lives, if necessary, for him and for his people, according to their codes.

  It would require constant vigilance to make sure that only the highest type people from Earth came in contact with them, but the United Nations was set up now to handle such situations, even in cases of national trusteeships and planets beyond the Earth.

  Things would work out, he was sure. Earth could give Mars the metal and the power needed, and some of the Martian plants would pay for all the trouble, with more than equal value. Both cultures could become richer because of the relationship. Men from Earth and men from Mars could rise together—some day even to the stars that filled the sky overhead.

  But all that was in the background of his mind. In the foreground, he knew that he was no longer worried about having been a seventh man on the ship. He’d finally earned his way. He no longer cared whether he was a man or a boy—and maybe that was what being a man meant.

  He leaned back on the sands, looking up at the Eros, which would soon be going back to the Moon. There’d be more trips after that return. Discovery of life and intelligence here had made that certain.

  On the next trip there’d be no trouble. He was eighteen now, and he was
experienced. He knew he’d be back.

  Copyright

  PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION

  First Printing: February, 1967

  Copyright © 1952 by Lester del Rey

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 52-5497.

  This Paperback Library Edition is published by arrangement with Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc.

  Paperback Library books are published by Paperback Library, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Paperback Library” and associated distinctive design, is registered in the United States Patent Office. Paperback Library, Inc., 260 Park Avenue South, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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