Collected Short Fiction, page 114
The machine was undamaged.
BEFORE sunset, Larry had removed the stake ropes, slipped the canvas cover from the motor, turned the plane around, inspected it, and examined the strip of smooth, hard red sand upon which he had landed.
Agnes pointed out the dim band of crimson across the sky, from north to south, slowly rising toward the zenith.
“That’s the red ray,” she said. “We fly into it.”
“And a happy moment when we do,” Larry rejoined.
He roused the motor to life.
As the bar of crimson light neared the zenith, the plane rolled forward across the sand and took off. Climbing steeply, Larry anxiously watched the approach of the red band. The gravitation of the Pygmy Planet seemed to diminish as he gained altitude, until presently he could fly vertically from it, without circling at all. He set the bow toward the scarlet bar across the sky before him.
And suddenly he was flying through ruby flame.
His eyes went to the little scale at the corner of the instrument board. He saw the little ebon needle waver, leave the mark designated “Pygmy Planet Normal” and start toward “Earth Normal.”
For what seemed a long time, he was wheeling down the crimson ray. A few times he looked back at Agnes, in the rear seat. She had gone to sleep.
Then a vast, circular field was below—the crystal platform.
Larry landed the plane upon it, taxied to the center and stopped there, with the motor idling. The laboratory, taking shape in the blue abyss about him, seemed to contract swiftly.
PRESENTLY the plane covered most of the crystal disk. He taxied quickly off, stopped on the floor nearby, and cut the ignition. Agnes woke. Together they clambered from the plane’s cabin and walked back into the crimson ray.
Once more the vast spaces of the room seemed to shrink, until it looked familiar once more. The Pygmy Planet, and the huge machine looming over them, dwindled to natural size.
Agnes, watching a scale on the frame of the mechanism, which Larry had not noticed, leaped suddenly from the red ray, drawing him with her.
“We don’t want to be giants!” she laughed.
Larry drew a deep breath, and looked about him. Once more he was in his own world, and surveying it in his normal size. He became aware of Agnes standing close against him. He suddenly took her in his arms and kissed her.
“Wait a minute,” she objected, slipping quickly from his arms. “What are we going to do about the Pygmy Planet? Those monsters might come again, even if you did wreck their god. And Dr. Whiting, poor fellow—But we mustn’t let those monsters come back!”
Larry doubled up a brown fist and drove it with all his strength against the little globe that spun so steadily between the twin, upright cylinders of crimson and of violet flame. His hand went deep into it. And it swung from its position, hung unsteadily a moment, and then crashed to the laboratory floor. It was crushed like a ball of soft brown mud. It spattered.
“Now I guess they won’t come back,” Agnes said. “A pity to spoil all Dr. Whiting’s work, though.”
Larry was standing motionless, holding up his fist and looking at it oddly. “I smashed a planet! Think of it, I smashed a planet! Just the other—why it was just this evening, at the office, I was wishing for something to happen!”
Red Slag of Mars
Based upon the Sixth Prize ($2.50) winning plot of the Interplanetary Plot Contest submitted by Laurence Schwartzman, 285 Montgomery St., Brooklyn, N.Y.
THE folly of war still pursues the human race, with more and more terrible consequences as new scientific weapons are introduced. Yet, even during these dark days of economic depression, the nations of the world seem unable to get together to take the most elementary steps toward ensuring peace.
But just as people in a nation forget their differences temporarily, when they face a common enemy, so the people of the earth might learn international cooperation if an enemy to the race appeared from out of space. This story, although it deals with that theme, is not a sermon on warfare. It is a thrilling interplanetary adventure; but Mr. Williamson has used a very important problem of today to give a moral to his story.
“Red Slag of Mars” in our opinion, should be read and reread, not only for its sheer entertainment, but for what it tries to teach and tell.
I AM an old man, in this year of 2080, and I fear to delay longer the revelation of these events that occurred in my youth. Death may overtake me before it is done, and the Martian race be forever thought the malevolent enemies of man, and the greatest man of this century go down in history with the dark name of traitor to that which he loved above all else. My story follows.
Sidney Tancred
* * * *
The words startlingly upon my ears, from the news-speakers at the street corners. It was a clear, bright morning in the summer of 2035, when the sun shone glad up on the new San Francisco that was rising as miraculously from the ruin of war as it did from the ruin of earthquake. I was hastening along the wide streets of new buildings, to my office in the great tower occupied by Photoscope Communications, when I was stopped by the ringing voice of the announcer.
“Martian flier seen over the Sahara! Half an hour ago a helioplane scout of the Federation fleet sighted a Martian ship above the Sahara Desert, some six hundred miles inland from Cape Blanco. The green, arrow-shaped vessel is said to be identical with those which attacked the earth five years ago.
“The green ship was rising rapidly when first seen, and vanished quickly above the atmosphere.
“It is feared that the incident presages a renewal of the war with——”
The public is urged, however, not to feel undue alarm. Five years of preparation, by the new Federation of Man, and the building of the powerful Federation fleet, which represents the fighting power of all the earth, have placed us, it is believed, on equal terms with our insidious enemies from across the void.”
That message shook the world with a shock of fear. But it did not disorganize our civilization as it might have done five years before, when the ruling motive of our planet was fear instead of confidence. I walked on to the office as if nothing had happened. I was used to the shock of warlike news and the presages of disaster.
Little work, however, did I do that day. That newsflash had awakened my memories of the famous expedition to Mars, with the Princess of Peace, of which I had been a not very important member. Memories of our encounter with an alien civilization, and of the astounding war of two planets that resulted. Early in the afternoon I abandoned all pretense of profitable employment, and hurried home to the comfortable apartment where Joan was waiting—Joan, with whom I had fallen in love on the long voyage out to the red planet.
Late that night came the next news-flash: “Dr. Nyland Eldred captured in Sahara! Was landed in desert by Martian flier. Thought to have been returned to Earth as a spy, to prepare for a renewed attack.
“The aged scientist was captured by helioplane scouts from the Federation fleet, which have been intensively patrolling all North Africa since the ship from Mars was sighted this morning. Arrested near Arawan, he had with him sufficient food and water to last until he could reach civilization.
“Dr. Eldred has refused to make any statement of the reason for his return. It is hoped, however, that some information can be got from him as to the plans and intentions of the Martians.
“Dr. Eldred, as is known to all the world, was head of the Eldred Areological Expedition, which sailed aboard the ionodyne flier, Princess of Peace, from Quito, six years ago, for the planet Mars. The expedition, it will be recalled, returned without him, in the following year. The scientist himself had joined the monstrous beings of Mars, and was already beginning a destructive war on the earth when the Princess of Peace returned.
“While the Martian forces were repulsed by the first fleet of the newly organized Federation, a return of the invaders has been continually expected during the past five years. The appearance of Dr. Eldred, it might seem, marks the opening gun of renewal of interplanetary war.”
Joan and I, who had been companions of the captured man on that memorable expedition across space, could not share the universal hatred for his name, or the savage delight of the public at his capture. We had both admired him—and more, loved him.
THE distress with which we heard of his capture was increased by the bulletins of the following day:
“Spy of Space carried to Lausanne for trial! Dr. Nyland Eldred, captured yesterday where a Martian flier had landed him in the Sahara, has already been carried to Lausanne, where his trial will take place immediately.
“It is expected that no mercy will be shown this blackest of all traitors, this renegade to his own planet, who led the hideous hordes of another world against humanity.
“It is the curious irony of fate that this arch-criminal should be imprisoned in the Federation Tower, at Lausanne, which he himself built. A jest of Fate, indeed, that his trial will be conducted by the Federation of Man, which he himself planned. Paradoxical that he is to be tried for the crime of making war on the planet which, in his younger days, he made such efforts to free from the curse of war.”
The news-flash that came later in the day was even more astonishing:
“Traitor refuses to defend himself! Dr. Eldred stated this afternoon, in his cell in the Federation Tower, that he will make no defense or explanation of his treason.
“Conviction, it is thought, will be swift and certain, if the scientist persists in his refusal. The death penalty is expected. The trial is set to begin day after tomorrow.” Agitation filled me, with the news that my old friend intended to make no attempt to clear himself.
“Can’t you do something, dear?” Joan demanded.
“I don’t know. We could hire a lawyer for him, if that would help. But if he won’t explain—”
“You could see him. Make him talk! I know he can’t be what they say—he always seemed so generous and kind!”
“It’s a long way to Lausanne.”
“But the ionodyne flier can get you there in time. You might make it easier for him, anyhow. It must be terrible to have the whole world against you!” Pity was in her tones; her eyes glistened.
“I’ll go,” I said; and she smiled.
“I couldn’t bear for a man like him to die as a traitor!” she said tremulously. “You must save him, Sidney!” The following afternoon I stepped from the great, silvery hemisphere of the ionodyne flier, at Lausanne, head of the Federation of Man. The Federation Tower stood beside me, its argent walls soaring up to the colossal, white-robed statue of Peace that crowns it. Calm Lake Geneva stretched away below, sapphire, supernally brilliant. The Alps were white and majestic in the distance.
Amid this lovely tranquillity, a dreadful deed was about to be done in the name of Peace, a deed that I must prevent!
At length I found the level upon which Dr. Eldred was confined, and a guard took me to Mr. Holly, the warden.
“Your business, sir?”
“I must see Dr. Eldred.”
“The traitor?” Holly seemed mildly surprised.
“Yes, the man accused of treason.”
“Impossible, I’m afraid. My orders are to keep him strictly secluded.”
“But I must see him! He’s an old friend of mine. And I was with him on Mars. I want to persuade him to defend himself at the trial. I know he can’t be guilty of what he’s charged with! There must be extenuating circumstances.”
“You say you were with him on Mars?”
“Yes. I’m Tancred. Sidney Tancred. Photoscope operator on the Princess of Peace.
“Oh, Tancred?” He smiled. “I’m glad to meet you. And I suppose you might see the prisoner, if he is willing.”
The cell proved to be a long room, rather narrow, furnished with a couch, a few chairs, and a heavy table. In the end of the room was a broad window, barred with the bright blue pencils of the barrier-ray. The pellucidly blue, sparkling expanse of the lake, was spread below, flecked with the scarlet sails of pleasure craft. The azure sky above it was specked with white wings of freedom, that it must have been maddening to watch through the brilliant ray-bars.
Dr. Eldred rose from the couch at my entrance, and came quickly to meet me with a glad smile on his worn and haggard face.
“Sidney, my boy, I’m glad you’ve come!
As I shook his thin hand, the warden withdrew. I heard bolts click, saw the blue net of alarm rays flung across the door. With tears in his eyes, Dr. Eldred waved me to a chair.
Was it possible that this man was about to die a traitor’s death? In his clear, calm blue eyes was nothing of the defiant, hunted stare with which most prisoners face the world. Generous nobility was evident in every line of his erect old body, in the firmness of his lined face, in the upright majesty of his grey head.
“I’m mighty glad you came, Sidney,” he repeated, as he sat down facing me. “A long time since I’ve been with human beings very much. A lonely business, to be away from one’s kind, alone on an alien planet. But how has life been serving you, my boy?”
“Oh, well enough. The photoscope has turned out a pretty good thing for me. And I’ve married Joan—Miss Lenwick. You remember—”
“Certainly. A fine girl! Accept my congratulations.” I put the vital question delicately. “Dr. Eldred, you—I understand that you aren’t preparing to defend yourself. I want—well what money I have is available. A few able attorneys—”
Re stopped me with a wave of his thin hand; his voice choked.
“Mighty good of you, Sidney. But I’m not making any defense.”
His quiet statement astonished me. “But you must!” I protested. “You don’t realize the public sentiment. You don’t understand that you—that you—”
“I do understand, Sidney,” he said slowly. “I understand that I am a traitor—the supreme traitor—in the eyes of men. But I can’t make any defense.”
“Surely you can explain. The Martians must have captured you, forced you—”
“I can’t give any public explanation.”
“Why?” I pleaded. “Will you tell me why?”
“I might tell you the story, Sidney,” he said, after a moment’s reflection. “It would be an injustice to the Martians if I didn’t tell it to someone, before—Anyhow, it can’t be published now. But after a few years it might do no harm.”
“Injustice to the Martians!” I exclaimed. “Those things?”
“We are very much indebted to them, Sidney—mankind is. But you promise to keep my story secret for the time being? Promise not to use it in any attempt to save my life?”
It was a hard promise to make, but he would agree to nothing else.
Then he told me of his part in the Martian War. But I must preface what he said with an account of our expedition to Mars, and of the incidents that led to that strange conflict.
CHAPTER II
Red Slag
IT was Dr. Eldred’s own discovery, in 1998, that made space travel possible. In that year he patented the ionodyne screen or gravity-deflector, which is a film of ions that reflects the radiation we know as gravitation, making its force one of repulsion instead of attraction.
His first trial ship, which rose upon her maiden flight on the following year, had much the same aspect as the modern ionodyne flier. It was composed of a flat, circular ionodyne screen, with a dome-shaped superstructure covering pilot and generators.
In the first year of the new century, Dr. Eldred abandoned his experimental science to begin the great undertaking that occupied the rest of his life, and the first interplanetary flights were left for other men to make.
Only five years later Tamberlyn was able to fly around the moon. He made a successful landing on the following year, having designed crude space suits and made certain improvements in his ship. He was hardly more than back from the moon before he began preparing for the voyage to Mars.
Three vessels, including that of the intrepid Tamberlyn, had visited the red planet when our expedition was organized at Quito, Ecuador, in 2029. Tamberlyn, having landed on a plain of barren red lava in the northern hemisphere, near the edge of that dark, arid sea-floor that the areographers term Syrtis Major, found no living thing. He reported the atmosphere unbreathable, almost totally lacking both water and free oxygen.
Priestly was next, three years later. His famous Atom IV was badly damaged in an unfortunate landing near the marking known as Thoth, upon the same curious red lava that Tamberlyn had observed. Since the entire efforts of the party were directed toward the repair of the flier, little scientific work was accomplished. Samples of red lava, however, were brought back, to mystify terrestrial chemists.
The Smith-Montgomery party spent nearly two months on Mars in 2027, completing a rough survey of the surface. They returned with news of astounding discoveries.
They found that nearly all Mars was covered with the strange lava which is commonly known as “red slag.” That curious rock containing no oxygen, was a puzzling fact, since oxygen makes up nearly half the rock on the earth’s surface.
They found remains of life. Of intelligent, civilized life.
Hulls of queer ships, lying upon dry ocean floors. Wrecks of enigmatic machines. Ruins of colossal metal buildings. Fragments of metal, bearing strange inscriptions, which proved that the lost race had possessed a written language.”
“It is significant,” Smith-Montgomery remarked in his published monograph, “that only metal objects remain to tell the story of the Martians. All else has been burned to red slag. We are convinced that some unknown cataclysm devastated the planet, obliterating the civilized race, leaving only objects of metal unharmed.
“This catastrophe occurred perhaps hundreds of thousands of years ago. The atmosphere (being—like the red slag—curiously devoid of oxygen, free or in the form of water) has little or no corroding action upon metal.”
This account created a sensation, and another and larger expedition was immediately planned, to investigate fully the relics of the lost race, and to discover, if possible, the nature of the catastrophe that had blotted it out.
