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                           Message From Mars

                         By CLIFFORD D. SIMAK

            Fifty-five pioneers had died on the "bridge of
           bones" that spanned the Void to the rusty plains
         of Mars. Now the fifty-sixth stood on the red planet,
           his only ship a total wreck--and knew that Earth
        was doomed unless he could send a warning within hours.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                       Planet Stories Fall 1943.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


"You're crazy, man," snapped Steven Alexander, "you can't take off for
Mars alone!"

Scott Nixon thumped the desk in sudden irritation.

"Why not?" he shouted. "One man can run a rocket. Jack Riley's sick and
there are no other pilots here. The rocket blasts in fifteen minutes
and we can't wait. This is the last chance. The only chance we'll have
for months."

Jerry Palmer, sitting in front of the massive radio, reached for a
bottle of Scotch and slopped a drink into the tumbler at his elbow.

"Hell, Doc," he said, "let him go. It won't make any difference. He
won't reach Mars. He's just going out in space to die like all the rest
of them."

Alexander snapped savagely at him. "You don't know what you're saying.
You drink too much."

"Forget it, Doc," said Scott. "He's telling the truth. I won't get to
Mars, of course. You know what they're saying down in the base camp,
don't you? About the bridge of bones. Walking to Mars over a bridge of
bones."

The old man stared at him. "You have lost faith? You don't think you'll
go to Mars?"

Scott shook his head. "I haven't lost my faith. Someone will get
there ... sometime. But it's too soon yet. Look at that tablet, will
you!"

He waved his hand at a bronze plate set into the wall.

"The roll of honor," said Scott, bitterly. "Look at the names. You'll
have to buy another soon. There won't be room enough."

One Nixon already was on that scroll of bronze. Hugh Nixon,
fifty-fourth from the top. And under that the name of Harry Decker,
the man who had gone out with him.

The radio blurted suddenly at them, jabbering, squealing, howling in
anguish.

Scott stiffened, ears tensed as the code sputtered across millions of
miles. But it was the same old routine. The same old message, repeated
over and over again ... the same old warning hurled out from the ruddy
planet.

"_No. No. No come. Danger._"

Scott turned toward the window, started up into the sky at the crimson
eye of Mars.

What was the use of keeping hope alive? Hope that Hugh might have
reached Mars, that someday the Martian code would bring some word of
him.

Hugh had died ... like all the rest of them. Like those whose names
were graven in the bronze there on the wall. The maw of space had
swallowed him. He had flown into the face of silence and the silence
was unbroken.

The door of the office creaked open, letting in a gust of chilly air.
Jimmy Baldwin shut the door behind him and looked at them vacantly.

"Nice night to go to Mars," he said.

"You shouldn't be up here, Jimmy," said Alexander gently. "You should
be down at the base, tending to your flowers."

"There're lots of flowers on Mars," said Jimmy. "Maybe someday I'll go
to Mars and see."

"Wait until somebody else goes first," said Palmer bitterly.

Jimmy turned about, hesitantly, like a man who had a purpose but had
forgotten what it was. He moved slowly toward the door and opened it.

"I got to go," he said.

The door closed heavily but the chill did not vanish from the room.
For it wasn't the chill of the mountain's peak, but another kind of
chill ... a chill that had walked in with Jimmy Baldwin and now refused
to leave.

Palmer tipped the bottle, sloshed the whiskey in the glass.

"The greatest pilot that ever lived," he said. "Now look at him!"

"He still holds the record," Alexander reminded the radio operator.
"Eight times to the Moon and still alive."

The accident had happened as Jimmy's ship was approaching Earth on
that eighth return trip. A tiny meteor had struck the hull, drilling a
sharp-cut hole. It had struck Andy Mason, Jimmy's best friend, squarely
between the eyes.

The cabin had been filled with the scream of escaping air, had turned
cold with the deadly breath of space and frost crystals had danced in
front of Jimmy's eyes.

Somehow Jimmy had patched the hole in the hull, had reached Earth in a
smashing rocket drive, knowing he had little air, that every minute was
a borrowed eternity.

Most pilots would have killed themselves or blown up their ships in
that reckless race for Earth, but Jimmy, ace of all the space-men of
his day, had made it.

But he had walked from the ship with a blank face and babbling lips. He
still lived at the rocket camp because it was home to him. He puttered
among his flowers. He watched the rockets come and go without a flutter
of expression. And everyone was kind to him, for in his face they read
a fate that might be theirs.

"All of us are crazy," said Scott. "Everyone of us. Myself included.
That's why I'm blasting off alone."

"I refuse to let you go," said Alexander firmly.

Scott rested his knuckles on the desk. "You can't stop me. I have my
orders to make the trip. Whether I go alone or with an assistant pilot
makes no difference. That rocket blasts on time, and I'm in it when it
goes."

"But it's foolishness," protested Alexander. "You'll go space-mad.
Think of the loneliness!"

"Think of the coordinates," snapped Scott. "Delay the blast-off and you
have to work out a set of new ones. Days of work and then it'll be too
late. Mars will be too far away."

Alexander spread his hands. "All right then. I hope you make it."

Scott turned away but Alexander called him back.

"You're sure of the routine?"

Scott nodded. He knew the routine by heart. So many hours out to the
Moon, landing on the Moon to take on extra fuel, taking off for Mars at
an exact angle at a certain minute.

"I'll come out and see you off," said Alexander. He heaved himself up
and slid into a heavy coat.

Palmer shouted after Scott. "So long, big boy. It was nice knowing you."

Scott shrugged. Palmer was a little drunk and very bitter. He'd watched
them go too long. His nerves were wearing out.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stars shone like hard, bright jewels in the African sky. A sharp
wind blew over the summit of Mt. Kenya, a wind that whined among the
ice-bound rocks and bit deep into the flesh. Far below blazed the
lights of the base camp, hundreds of feet down the slope from the main
rocket camp here atop the mountain set squarely on the Earth's equator.

The rasping voice of a radio newscaster came from the open door of the
machine shop.

"New York," shrieked the announcer. "Austin Gordon, famous African
explorer, announced this afternoon he will leave soon for the Congo
valley, where he will investigate reports of a strange metallic city
deep in the interior. Natives, bringing reports of the discovery out of
the jungle, claim the city is inhabited by strange metallic insects."

Someone slammed the door and the voice was cut off.

Scott hunched into the wind to light a cigarette.

"The explorers are going crazy, too," he said.

Probably, later on in the program the announcer would have mentioned
Scott Nixon and Jack Riley would blast off in a few minutes in another
attempt to reach Mars. But it would be well along in the program and it
wouldn't take much time. Ten years ago Mars had been big news. Today it
rated small heads in the press, slight mention on the air.

But the newscaster would have been wrong about Jack Riley. Jack Riley
lay in the base camp hospital with an attack of ptomaine. Only an hour
before Jack had clasped Scott's hand and grinned at him and wished him
luck.

He needed luck. For in this business a man didn't have even an inside
chance.

       *       *       *       *       *

Scott walked toward the tilted rocket. He could hear the crunch of
Alexander's feet as the man moved with him.

"It won't be new to you," Alexander was saying, "you've been to the
Moon before."

Yes, he had been to the Moon three times and he was still alive. But,
then, he had been lucky. Your luck just simply didn't hold forever.
There was too much to gamble on in space. Fuel, for one thing. Men had
experimented with fuel for ten years now and still the only thing they
had was a combination of liquid oxygen and gasoline. They had tried
liquid hydrogen but that had proved too cold, too difficult to confine,
treacherous to handle, too bulky because of its low density. Liquid
oxygen could be put under pressure, condensed into little space. It was
safe to handle, safe until it combined with gasoline and then it was
sheer death to anything that got within its reach.

Of course, there had been some improvements. Better handling of the
fuel, for instance. Combustion chambers stood up better now because
they were designed better. Feed lines didn't freeze so readily now
as when the first coffins took to space. Rocket motors were more
efficient, but still cranky.

But there were other things. Meteors, for one, and you couldn't do
much about them. Not until someone designed a screen, and no one had.
Radiations were another. Space was full of radiations and, despite the
insulating jacket of ozone some of them seeped through.

Scott climbed through the rocket valve and turned to close it. He
hesitated for a moment, drinking in the smell and sight of Earth. There
wasn't much that one could see. The anxious face of Alexander, the
huddled shadows that were watching men, the twinkling base camp lights.

With a curse at his own weakness, Scott slammed the valve lock, twirled
it home.

Fitting himself into the shock absorbent chair, he fastened the straps
that held him. His right foot reached out and found the trip that would
fire the rockets. Then he lifted his wrist in front of his eyes and
watched the second hand of the watch.

Ten seconds. Eight. Now five. The hand was creeping up, ticking off
the time. It rested on the zero mark and he slammed down his foot.
Cruel weight smashed down upon him, driving his body back into the
padded chair. His lungs were flattened, the air driven from them. His
heart thumped. Nausea seized him, and black mists swam before his
eyes. He seemed to be slipping into a midnight chasm and he cried out
weakly. His body went limp, sagging in the chair. Twin streams of blood
trickled from his nose and down his lip.

He was far out in space when he struggled back to consciousness. For
a time he did not stir. Lying in the chair, it took long minutes to
realize where he was. Gradually his brain cleared and his eyes focused
and made impressions on his senses. Slowly he became aware of the
lighted instrument board, of the rectangle of quartz that formed the
vision panel. His ears registered the silence that steeped the ship,
the weird, deathly silence of outer space.

Weakly he stirred and sat upright, his eyes automatically studying
the panel. The fuel pressure was all right, atmospheric pressure was
holding, speed was satisfactory.

He leaned back in the chair and waited, resting, storing his strength.
Automatically his hand reached up and wiped the blood from his lips and
chin.


                                  II

He was in space. Headed for the Moon and from there for Mars. But
even the realization of this failed to rouse him from the lethargy of
battered body and tortured brain.

Taking off in a rocket was punishment. Severe, terrible punishment.
Only men who were perfect physical specimens could attempt it. An
imperfect heart would simply stop under the jarring impact of the
blast-off.

Some day rockets would be perfected. Some day rockets would rise gently
from the Earth, shaking off Earth's gravity by gradual application of
power rather than by tremendous thrusts that kicked steel and glass and
men out into space.

But not yet, not for many years. Perhaps not for many generations. For
many years men would risk their lives in blasting projectiles that
ripped loose from the Earth by the sheer savagery of exploding oxygen
and gasoline.

A moan came from the rear of the ship, a stifled pitiful moan that
brought Scott upright in the chair, tearing with nervous hands at the
buckles of his belt.

With belt loosened, body tensed, he waited for a second, hardly
believing he had heard the sound. It came again, a piteous human cry.

Scott leaped to his feet, staggered under the lack of gravitation. The
rocket was coasting on momentum now and, while its forward motion gave
it a simulation of gravity, enough so a man could orient himself, there
was in actuality no positive gravity center in the shell.

A bundle of heavy blankets lay in a corner formed by a lashed down
pile of boxes ... and the bundle was moving feebly. With a cry in his
throat, Scott leaped forward and tore the blankets aside. Under them
lay a battered man, crumpled, with a pool of blood soaking into a
blanket that lay beneath him. Scott lifted the body. The head flopped
over and he stared down into the vacant, blood-streaked face of Jimmy
Baldwin.

Jimmy's eyes fluttered open, then closed again. Scott squatted on his
heels, wild thoughts hammering in his head. Jimmy's eyes opened again
and regarded the pilot. He raised a feeble hand in greeting. The lips
moved, but Jimmy's voice was faint.

"Hello, Scott."

"What are you doing here?" Scott demanded fiercely.

"I don't know," said Jimmy weakly. "I don't know. I meant to do
something, but I forgot."

Scott rose and took a bottle of water from a case. Wetting his
handkerchief, he bathed the bloodied face. His hands ran over Jimmy's
body but found no broken bones. It was a wonder the man hadn't been
killed outright. Some more Baldwin luck!

"Where are we, Scott?" Jimmy asked.

"We're in space," said Scott. "We're going out to Mars." No use of
telling him anything but the truth.

"Space," said Jimmy. "I use to go out in space. Then something
happened." He shook his head wearily. Mercifully, the memory of that
_something_ had been wiped from his brain.

Half dragging, half carrying, Scott got him to the assistant pilot's
seat, strapped him in, gave him a drink of water. Jimmy's eyes closed
and he sank back into the cushions. Scott resumed his chair, leaned
forward to look out into space.

There was little to see. Space, viewed from any angle, unless one was
near a large body, looked pretty much the same. The Moon was still out
of his range of vision. It would be hours before it would move upward
to intersect the path of the rocket's flight.

       *       *       *       *       *

Scott leaned back and looked at Jimmy. Apparently the man had sneaked
aboard just before the take-off. No one paid much attention to him.
Everyone was kind to him and he was allowed to do as he pleased. For
he was not insane. The tragedy of those few minutes years before had
merely wiped out his memory, given him the outlook of a child.

Perhaps when he had gotten into the ship he had held some reason for
his action, but now even that purpose had escaped him. Once again Jimmy
Baldwin was a bewildered child's brain in the body of a man.

"Anyway," said Scott, half speaking to himself, half to the silent
form, "you're the first rocket stowaway."

They would miss Jimmy back at the camp, would wonder what had happened
to him. Perhaps they'd organize a posse and search for him. The
possibility was they would never know what happened, for there was
slight chance, Scott told himself, that he or Jimmy or the ship would
ever get back to Earth again.

Someone else would have to tend Jimmy's flowers now, but probably no
one would, for his flowers were the Martian lilies. And Martian lilies
no longer were a novelty.

It had been the lilies that started the whole thing, this crazy parade
of men who went into space and died.

Slightly over twelve years ago, Dr. Steven Alexander reported that,
from his observatory on Mt. Kenya, he had communicated with Mars by
ultrashort wave radio. It had been a long and arduous process. First
the signals from Earth, repeated in definite series, at definite
intervals. And then, finally, the answer from the Red Planet. After
months of labor slow understanding came.

"_We send you_," signalled the Martians. "_We send you._" Over and over
again. A meaningless phrase. What were they sending? Slowly Alexander
untangled the simple skein of thought. Mars finally messaged: "_We send
you token!_" That word "token" had been hard. It represented thought,
an abstract thought.

The world waited breathlessly for the token. Finally it came, a rocket
winging its way across space, a rocket that flashed and glinted in the
depth of space as it neared Earth. Kept informed of its location by the
Martians, Earth's telescopes watched it come. It landed near Mt. Kenya,
a roaring, screaming streak of light that flashed across the midnight
sky.

Dug up, it yielded an inner container, well-insulated against heat and
cold, against radiation and shock. Opened, it was found to contain
seeds. Planted, jealously guarded, carefully tended, the seeds grew,
were the Martian lilies. They multiplied rapidly, spread quickly over
the Earth.

Back on Earth today the Martian lilies grew in every hamlet, clogged
the fence rows of every farm. Relieved of whatever natural enemies and
checks they might have had on their native planet, they flourished and
spread, became a weed that every farmer cursed whole-heartedly.

Their root structure probed deep into the soil. Drought could not kill
them. They grew rapidly, springing to full growth almost overnight.
They went to unkillable seed. Which was what might have been expected
of any plant nurtured on the stubborn soil of Mars. Earth, to the
Martian lilies, was a paradise of air and water and sunlight.

And, as if that first token-load had not been enough, the Martians kept
on sending rocket loads of seeds. At each opposition the rockets came,
each announced by the messages from the Martian transmitter. And each
of them landed almost precisely on the spot where the first had landed.

That took mathematics! Mathematics and a superb knowledge of rocketry.
The rockets apparently were automatic. There was no intelligence to
guide them once they were shot into space. Their courses must have been
plotted to the finest detail, with every factor determined in advance.
For the Martian rockets were not aimed at Earth as one broad target but
at a certain spot on Earth and so far every one of them had hit that
mark!

At the rocket camp each Martian rocket was waited anxiously, with the
hope it would bring some new pay load. But the rockets never brought
anything but seeds ... more Martian lily seeds.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jimmy stirred restlessly, opened his eyes and looked out the vision
plate. But there was no terror in his eyes, no surprise nor regret.

"Space?" he asked.

Scott nodded.

"We're going to the Moon?"

"To the Moon first," said Scott. "From there we go to Mars."

Jimmy lapsed into silence. There was no change upon his face. There
never was any change upon his face.

I hope he doesn't make any trouble, Scott told himself. It was
bad enough just to have him along. Bad enough to have this added
responsibility.

For space flight was a dangerous job. Ever since the International Mars
Communication Center had been formed, with Alexander in charge, space
had flung men aside. Ship after ship, pilot after pilot. The task,
alone, of reaching the Moon had taken terrible toll.

Men had died. Some had died before they reached the Moon, some had
died on the Moon but mostly they had died heading back for Earth. For
landing on Earth, jockeying a rocket through Earth's dense atmosphere,
is a tricky job. Others had died enroute to Mars, ships flaring in
space or simply disappearing, going on and on, never coming back. That
was the way it had been with Hugh.

And now his brother, Scott, was following the trail that Hugh had
blazed, the trail to the Moon and out beyond. Following in a bomb of
potential death, with a blank-faced stowaway in the chair beside him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Half way to Mars and the ship was still intact. Running true to course,
running on schedule, flashing through space under the thrust of
momentum built up during the blast-out from the Moon.

Half way to Mars and still alive! But too early yet to hope. Perhaps
other men had gotten as far as this and then something had happened.

Scott watched the depths of space, the leering, jeering emptiness of
star-studded velvet that stretched on and on.

There had been days of waiting and of watching. More days of waiting
and of watching loomed ahead.

Waiting for that warning flicker on the instrument panel, that split
second warning before red ruin struck as cranky fuel went haywire.

Waiting for the "tick" of a tiny meteor against the ship's steel
wall ... the tiny, ringing sound that would be the prelude to disaster.

Waiting for something else ... for that unknown factor of accident that
would spatter the ship and the two men in it through many empty miles.

Endless hours of watching and of waiting, hastily snatched cat-naps
in the chair, hastily snatched meals. Listening to the babbling Jimmy
Baldwin who wondered how his flowers were getting on, speculated on
what the boys were doing back in the rocket camp on Earth.

One thing hammered at Scott Nixon's brain ... the message of the
Martian radio, the message that had been coming now for many years.
"_No. No. No come. Danger._" Always that and little else. No
explanation of what the danger was. No suggestion for circumventing or
correcting that danger. No helpfulness in Earthmen's struggle to cross
the miles of space between two neighboring planets.

Almost as if the Martians didn't want Earthmen to come. Almost as if
they were trying to discourage space travel. But that would hardly be
the case, for the Martians had readily co-operated in establishing
communications, had exhibited real intelligence and earnestness in
working out the code that flashed words and thoughts across millions of
miles.

Without a doubt, had they wished, the Martians could have helped. For
it was with seemingly little effort that they sent their own rockets to
earth.

And why had each Martian rocket carried the same load each time? Could
there be some significance in those Martian lily seeds? Some hidden
meaning the Earth had failed to grasp? Some meaning that the things
from Mars hoped would be read with each new rocket-load?

Why hadn't the Martians come themselves? If they could shoot automatic
rockets across the miles of space, certainly they could navigate
rockets carrying themselves.

The Martian rockets had been closely studied back on Earth but had
yielded no secrets. The fuel always was exhausted. More than likely the
Martians knew, to the last drop, how much was needed. The construction
was not unlike Earth rockets, but fashioned of a steel that was
hardened and toughened beyond anything Earth could produce.

So for ten years Earthmen had worked unaided to cross the bridge of
space, launching ships from the Earth's most favored take-off point,
from the top of Mt. Kenya, heading out eastward into space, taking
advantage of the mountain's three mile height, the Earth's rotation
speed of 500 yards per second at the equator.

Scott reviewed his flight, checked the clocklike routine he had
followed. Blast-off from Earth. Landing in the drear, desolate Mare
Serenitatis on the Moon, refueling the ship from the buried storage
tanks, using the caterpillar tractor from the underground garage to
haul the rocket onto the great turn-table cradle. Setting the cradle
at the correct angle and direction, blasting off again at the precise
second, carrying a full load of fuel, something impossible to do
and still take off from Earth. Taking advantage of the Moon's lower
gravity, its lack of atmosphere. Using the Moon as a stepping stone to
outer space.

Now he was headed for Mars. If he landed there safely, he could spend
two days, no more, no less, before he blasted off for Earth again.

But probably he wouldn't reach Mars. Probably he and Jimmy Baldwin, in
the end, would be just a few more bones to pave the road to Mars.


                                  III

A gigantic building, rising to several hundred feet in height, domed,
without door or window, stood lonely in the vastness of the red plain
that stretched to the far-off black horizon.

The building and nothing more. No other single sign of habitation. No
other evidence of intelligent life.

The Martian lilies were everywhere, great fields of them, bright
scarlet against the redness of the sand. But in its native soil the
Martian lily was a sorry thing, a poor apology for the kind of flower
that grew on Earth. Stunted, low-growing, with smaller and less
brilliant flowers.

The sand gritted under Scott's boots as he took a slow step forward.

So this was Mars! Here, at the North pole ... the single building ...
the only evidence of intelligence on the entire planet. As the ship had
circled the planet, cutting down its tremendous speed, he had studied
the surface in the telescopic glass and this building had been the only
habitation he had seen.

It stood there, made of shimmering metal, glinting in the pale sunlight.

"Bugs," said Jimmy, at Scott's elbow.

"What do you mean, bugs?" asked Scott.

"Bugs in the air," said Jimmy. "Flying bugs."

Scott saw them then. Things that looked like streaks of light in the
feeble sunshine. Swarms of them hovered about the great building and
others darted busily about.

"Bees," suggested Jimmy.

But Scott shook his head. They weren't bees. They glinted and flashed
when the sun's light struck them and they seemed more mechanical than
life-like.

"Where are the Martians?" Jimmy demanded.

"I don't know, Jimmy," declared Scott. "Damned if I do."

He had envisioned the first Earthmen reaching Mars as receiving
thunderous ovation, a mighty welcome from the Martians. But there
weren't any Martians. Nothing stirred except the shining bugs and the
lilies that nodded in a thin, cold breeze.

There was no sound, no movement. Like a quiet summer afternoon back on
Earth, with a veil of quietness drawn over the flaming desert and the
shimmering building.

He took another step, walking toward the great building. The sand
grated protestingly beneath his boot-heels.

Slowly he approached the building, alert, watching, ready for some
evidence that he and Jimmy had been seen. But no sign came. The bugs
droned overhead, the lilies nodded sleepily. That was all.

Scott looked at the thermometer strapped to the wrist of his oxygen
suit. The needle registered 10 above, Centigrade. Warm enough, but
the suits were necessary, for the air was far too thin for human
consumption.

Deep shadow lay at the base of the building and as he neared it, Scott
made out something that gleamed whitely in the shadow. Something that
struck a chord of remembrance in his brain, something he had seen back
on Earth.

As he hurried forward he saw it was a cross. A white cross thrust into
the sand.

With a cry he broke into a run.

Before the cross he dropped to his knees and read the crudely carved
inscription on the wood. Just two words. The name of a man, carven with
a jack-knife:

                             HARRY DECKER

Harry Decker! Scott felt his brain swimming crazily.

Harry Decker here! Harry Decker under the red sand of Mars! But that
couldn't be. Harry Decker's name couldn't be here. It was back on
Earth, graven on that scroll of bronze. Graven there directly beneath
the name of Hugh Nixon.

He staggered to his feet and stood swaying for a moment.

From somewhere far away he heard a shout and swinging around, ran
toward the corner of the building.

Rounding it, he stopped in amazement.

There, in the shelter of the building, lay a rusted space ship and
running across the sand toward him was a space-suited figure, a figure
that yelled as it ran and carried a bag over its shoulder, the bag
bouncing at every leap.

"Hugh!" yelled Scott.

And the grotesque figure bellowed back.

"Scott, you old devil! I knew you'd do it! I knew it was you the minute
I heard the rocket blasts!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"It's nice and warm here now," said Hugh, "but you'd ought to spend
a winter here. An Arctic blizzard is a gentle breeze compared with
the Martian pole in winter time. You don't see the Sun for almost ten
months and the mercury goes down to 100 below, Centigrade. Hoar frost
piles up three and four feet thick and a man can't stir out of the
ship."

He gestured at the bag.

"I was getting ready for another winter. Just like a squirrel. My
supplies got low before this spring and I had to find something to
store up against another season. I found a half dozen different kinds
of bulbs and roots and some berries. I've been gathering them all
summer, storing them away."

"But the Martians?" protested Scott. "Wouldn't the Martians help you?"

His brother looked at him curiously.

"The Martians?" he asked.

"Yes, the Martians."

"Scott," Hugh said, "I haven't found the Martians."

Scott stared at him. "Let's get this straight now. You mean you don't
know who the Martians are?"

Hugh nodded. "That's exactly it. I tried to find them hard enough.
I did all sorts of screwy things to contact that intelligence which
talked with the Earth and sent the rockets full of seed, but I've
gotten exactly nowhere. I've finally given up."

"Those bugs," suggested Scott. "The shining bugs."

Hugh shook his head. "No soap. I got the same idea and managed to
bat down a couple of them. But they're mechanical. That's all. Just
machines. Operated by radium.

"It almost drove me nuts at first. Those bugs flying around and the
building standing there and the Martian lilies all around, but no signs
of any intelligence. I tried to get into the building but there aren't
any doors or windows. Just little holes the bugs fly in and out of.

"I couldn't understand a thing. Nothing seemed right. No purpose to any
of it. No apparent reason. Only one thing I could understand. Over on
the other side of the building I found the cradle that is used to shoot
the rockets to Earth. I've watched that done."

"But what happened?" asked Scott. "Why didn't you come back? What
happened to the ship?"

"We had no fuel," said Hugh.

Scott nodded his head.

"A meteor in space."

"Not that," Hugh told him, "Harry simply turned the petcocks, let our
gasoline run into the sand."

"Good Lord! Was he crazy?"

"That's exactly what he was," Hugh declared. "Batty as a bedbug. Touch
of space madness. I felt sorry for him. He cowered like a mad animal,
beaten by the sense of loneliness and space. He was afraid of shadows.
He got so he didn't act like a man. I was glad for him when he died."

"But even a crazy man would want to get back to Earth!" protested Scott.

"It wasn't Harry," Hugh explained. "It was the Martians, I am sure.
Whatever or wherever they are, they probably have intelligences greater
than ours. It would be no feat for them, perhaps, to gain control of
the brain of a demented man. They might not be able to dominate us,
but a man whose thought processes were all tangled up by space madness
would be an easy mark for them. They could make him do and think
whatever they wanted him to think or do. It wasn't Harry who opened
those petcocks, Scott. It was the Martians."

He leaned against the pitted side of the ship and stared up at the
massive building.

"I was plenty sore at him when I caught him at it," he said. "I gave
him one hell of a beating. I've always been sorry for that."

"What finally happened to him?" asked Scott.

"He ran out of the airlock without his suit," Hugh explained. "It took
me half an hour to run him down and bring him back. He took pneumonia.
You have to be careful here. Exposure to the Martian atmosphere plays
hell with a man's lung tissues. You can breathe it all right ... might
even be able to live in it for a few hours, but it's deadly just the
same."

"Well, it's all over now," declared Scott. "We'll get my ship squared
around and we'll blast off for Earth. We made it here and we can make
it back. And you'll be the first man who ever set his foot on Mars."

Hugh grinned. "That will be something, won't it, Scott? But somehow I'm
not satisfied. I haven't accomplished a thing. I haven't even found the
Martians. I know they're here. An intelligance that's at least capable
of thinking along parallel lines with us although its thought processes
may not be parallel with ours."

"We'll talk it over later," said Scott. "After we get a cup of coffee
into you. I bet you haven't had one in weeks."

"Weeks," jeered Hugh. "Man, it's been ten months."

"Okay, then," said Scott. "Let's round up Jimmy. He must be around here
somewhere. I don't like to let him get out of my sight too much."

       *       *       *       *       *

The silence of the dreaming red deserts was shattered by a smashing
report that drummed with a mighty clap against the sky above. A gush of
red flame spouted over the domed top of the mighty building and metal
shards hammered spitefully against the sides, setting up a metallic
undertone to the ear-shattering explosion.

Sick with dread, Scott plunged to the corner of the building and felt
the sick dread deepen.

Where his space ship had lain a mighty hole was blasted in the sand.
The ship was gone. No part of it was left. It had been torn into tiny
fragments and hurled across the desert. Wisps of smoke crept slowly
from the pit in the sand, twisting in the air currents that still
swirled from the blast.

Scott knew what had happened. There was no need to guess. Only one
thing could have happened. The liquid oxygen had united with the
gasoline, making an explosive that was sheer death itself. A single
tremor, a thrown stone, a vibration ... anything would set it off.

Across the space between himself and the ship came the tattered figure
of a man. A man whose clothes were torn. A man covered with blood,
weaving, head down, feet dragging.

"Jimmy!" yelled Scott.

He sprinted forward but before he could reach his side, Jimmy had
collapsed.

Kneeling beside him, Scott lifted the man's head.

The eyes rolled open and the lips twitched. Slow, tortured words oozed
out.

"I'm sorry ... Scott. I don't know why...."

The eyes closed but opened again, a faint flutter, and more words
bubbled from the bloody lips.

"_I wonder why I did it!_"

Scott looked up and saw his brother standing in front of him.

Hugh nodded. "The Martians again, Scott. They could use Jimmy's mind.
They could get hold of him. That blasted brain of his...."

Scott looked down at the man in his arms. The head had fallen back, the
eyes were staring, blood was dripping on the sand.

"Hugh," he whispered, "Jimmy's dead."

Hugh stared across the sand at the little glimmer of white in the
shadow of the building.

"We'll make another cross," he said.


                                  IV

The Martians hadn't wanted them to to come. That much, at least, was
clear. But having gotten here, the Martians had no intention of letting
them return to Earth again. They didn't want them to carry back the
word that it was possible to navigate across space to the outer planet.

Maybe the Martians were committed to a policy of isolation. Maybe there
was a "Hands Off" sign set up on Mars. Maybe a "No trespassing" sign.

But if that had been the case, why had the Martians answered the radio
calls from Earth? Why had they co-operated with Dr. Alexander in
working out the code that made communication possible? And why did they
continue sending messages and rockets to the Earth? Why didn't they
sever diplomatic relationship entirely, retire into their isolation?

If they didn't want Earthmen to come to Mars why hadn't they trained
guns on the two ships as they came down to the scarlet sand, wiped
them out without compunction? Why did they resort to the expedient of
forcing Earthmen to bring about their own destruction? And why, now
that Harry Decker and Jimmy Baldwin were dead, didn't the Martians wipe
out the remaining two of the unwanted race?

Perhaps the Martians were merely efficient, not vindictive. Maybe they
realized that the remaining two Earthmen constituted no menace? And
maybe, on the other hand, the Martians had no weapons. Perhaps they
never had held a need for weapons. It might be they had never had to
fight for self preservation.

And above and beyond all ... what and where were the Martians? In that
huge building? Invisible? In caverns beneath the surface? At some point
far away?

Maybe ... perhaps ... why? Speculation and wonderment.

But there was no answer. Not even the slightest hint. Just the building
shimmering in the unsetting Sun, the metallic bugs buzzing in the air,
the lilies nodding in the breeze that blew across the desert.

       *       *       *       *       *

Scott Nixon reached the rim of the plateau and lowered the bag of
roots from his shoulder, resting and waiting for Hugh to toil up the
remaining few yards of the slope.

Before him, slightly over four miles across the plain, loomed the
Martian building. Squatting at its base was the battered, pitted space
ship. There was too much ozone in the atmosphere here for the steel in
the ship to stand up. Before many years had passed it would fall to
pieces, would rust away. But that made little difference, for by that
time they probably wouldn't need it. By that time another ship would
have arrived or they would be dead.

Scott grinned grimly. A hard way to look at things. But the only way.
One had to be realistic here. Hard-headed planning was the only thing
that would carry them through. The food supply was short and while
they'd probably be able to gather enough for the coming winter, there
was always the possibility that the next season would find them short.

But there was hope to cling to. Always hope. Hope that the summer would
bring another ship winging out of space ... that this time, armed by
past experience, they could prevent its destruction.

Hugh came up with Scott, slid the bag of roots to the ground and sat
upon it.

He nodded at the building across the desert.

"That's the nerve center of the whole business," he declared. "If we
could get into it...." His voice trailed away.

"But we can't," Scott reminded him. "We've tried and we can't. There
are no doors. No openings. Just those little holes the bugs fly in and
out of."

"There's a door somewhere," said Hugh. "A hidden door. The bugs use it
to bring out machines to do the work when they shoot a rocket out for
Earth. I've seen the machines. Screwy looking things. Work units pure
and simple but so efficient you'd swear they possessed intelligence.
I've tried to find the door but I never could and the bugs always
waited until I wasn't around before they moved the machines in or out
of the building."

He chuckled, scrubbing his bearded face with a horny hand.

"That rocket business saved my life," he said. "If the power lead
running out of the building to the cradle hadn't been there I'd been
sunk. But there it was, full of good, old electricity. So I just tapped
the thing and that gave me plenty of power ... power for heat, for
electrolysis, for atmospheric condensation."

Scott sank down heavily on his sack.

"It's enough to drive a man nuts," he declared. "We can reach out
and touch the building with our hand. Just a few feet away from the
explanation of all this screwiness. Inside that building we'd find
things we'd be able to use. Machines, tools...."

Hugh hummed under his breath.

"Maybe," he said, "maybe not. Maybe we couldn't recognize the machines,
fathom the tools. Mechanical and technical development here probably
wasn't any more parallel to ours than intelligence development."

"There's the rocket cradle," retorted Scott. "Same principle as we use
on Earth. And they must have a radio in there. And a telescope. We'd
be able to figure them out. Might even be able to send Doc Alexander a
message."

"Yeah," agreed Hugh, "I thought of that, too. But we can't get in the
building and that settles it."

"The bugs get under my skin," Scott complained. "Always buzzing around.
Always busy. But busy at what? Like a bunch of hornets."

"They're the straw bosses of the outfit," declared Hugh. "Carrying out
the orders of the Martians. The Martians' hands and eyes you might
say."

He dug at the sand with the toe of his space boot.

"Another swarm of them took off just before we started out on this
trip," he said. "While you were in the ship. I watched them until they
disappeared. Straight up and out until you couldn't see them. Just like
they were taking off for space."

He kicked savagely at the sand.

"I sure as hell would like to know where they go," he said.

"There've been quite a few of them leaving lately," said Scott. "As
if the building were a hive and they were new swarms of bees. Maybe
they're going out to start new living centers. Maybe they're going to
build more buildings...."

       *       *       *       *       *

He stopped and stared straight ahead of him, his eyes unseeing. Going
out to start new living centers! Going out to build new buildings!
Shining metallic buildings!

Like a cold wind from the past it came to him, a picture of that last
night on Earth. He heard the whining wind on Mt. Kenya once again,
the blaring of the radio from the machine shop door, the voice of the
newscaster.

"_Austin Gordon ... Congo Valley ... strange metallic city ...
inhabited by strange metallic insects!_"

The memory shook him from head to foot, left him cold and shivery with
his knowledge.

"Hugh!" he croaked. "Hugh, I know what it's all about!"

His brother stared at him: "Take it easy, kid. Don't let it get you.
Stick with me, kid. We're going to make it all right."

"But, Hugh," Scott yelled, "there's nothing wrong with me. Don't you
see, I know the answer to all this Martian business now. The lilies
are the Martians! Those bugs are migrating to Earth. They're machines.
Don't you see ... they could cross space and the lilies would be there
to direct them."

He jumped to his feet.

"They're already building cities in the Congo!" he yelled. "Lord knows
how many other places. They're taking over the Earth! The Martians are
invading the Earth, but Earth doesn't know it!"

"Hold on," Hugh yelled back at him. "How could flowers build cities?"

"They can't," said Scott breathlessly. "But the bugs can. Back on Earth
they are wondering why the Martians don't use their rockets to come to
Earth. And that's exactly what the Martians are doing. Those rockets
full of seeds aren't tokens at all. They're colonization parties!"

"Wait a minute. Slow down," Hugh pleaded. "Tell me this. If the lilies
are the Martians and they sent seeds to Earth twelve years ago, why
hadn't they sent them before?"

"Because before that it would have been useless," Scott told him. "They
had to have someone to open the rockets and plant the seeds for them.
We did that. They tricked us into it.

"They may have sent rockets of seeds before but if they did, nothing
came of it. For the seeds would have been useless if they weren't taken
from the rocket. The rocket probably would have weathered away in time,
releasing the seeds but by that time the seeds would have lost their
germinating power."

Hugh shook his head.

"It seems impossible," he declared. "Impossible that plants could have
real intelligence ... that flowers could hold the mastery of a planet.
I'm ready to accept almost any theory but that one...."

"Your mind sticks on parallel evolution," Scott argued. "There's no
premise for it. On Earth animals took the spotlight, pushing the plants
into a subordinate position. Animals got the head start, jumped the gun
on the plants. But there's absolutely no reason why plants should not
develop along precisely the same lines here that animals developed on
Earth."

       *       *       *       *       *

"But the Martian lily lives only one season ... ten months ... and then
it dies," Hugh protested. "The next season's growth comes from seed.
How could plants build intelligence? Each new crop would have to start
all over again."

"Not necessarily," declared Scott. "Animals are born with instinct,
which is nothing more or less than inherited intelligence. In mankind
there are strange evidences of racial memory. Why couldn't the plants
do the same thing with their seed ... progress even a step further?
Why couldn't the seed carry, along with its other attributes, all the
intelligence and knowledge of the preceding generation? That way the
new plant wouldn't have to start from scratch, but would start with all
the accumulated knowledge of its immediate ancestor ... and would add
to that knowledge and pass the sum total on to the generation that was
to follow."

Hugh kicked absent-mindedly at the sand.

"There would be advantages in that sort of development," he agreed. "It
might even be the logical course of survival on a planet like Mars.
Some old Martian race, for all we know, might deliberately have shaped
their development toward a plant existence when they realized the
conditions toward which the planet was headed."

"A plant society would be a strange one," said Scott. "A sort of
totalitarian society. Not the kind of a society animals would
build ... for an animal is an individual and a plant is not. In a plant
race individuality would count for nothing, the race would count for
everything. The driving force would be the preservation and advancement
of the race as a whole. That would make a difference."

Hugh glanced up sharply.

"You're damned right that would make a difference," he said. "They
would be a deadly race. Once they got started, nothing could stop that
singleness of purpose."

His face seemed to blanch under the tan.

"Do you realize what's happening?" he shouted. "For millions of years
these plants have fought for bare existence on Mars. Every ounce of
their effort has been toward race preservation. Every fall the bugs
carefully gather all the seeds and carry them inside the building,
bring them out and plant them in the spring. If it hadn't been for some
arrangement like that they probably would have died out years ago. Only
a few scattered patches of them left now...."

"But on Earth...." said Scott.

And the two of them, white-faced, stared at one another. On Earth the
Martian lilies would not have to carry on a desperate fight for their
very existence. On Earth they had plenty of water, plenty of sunlight,
plenty of good, rich soil. On Earth they grew larger and stronger and
straighter. Under such conditions what would be the limit of their
alien powers?

With the lilies multiplying each year, growing in every fence row,
every garden, crowding out the farmers' crops, lining every stream,
clogging every forest ... with swarm after swarm of the metallic bugs
driving out into space, heading for the Earth ... what would happen?

How long would the lilies wait? How would they attack? Would they
simply crowd out every other living thing, conquering by a sort of
population pressure? Or would they develop more fully those powers of
forcing animal minds to do their bidding? Or did they have, perhaps,
even stronger weapons?

"Hugh," Scott rasped, "we have to warn Earth. Somehow we have to let
them know."

"Yes," Hugh agreed, "but how?"

Together, limned against the harsh horizon, they stood, looking across
the desert toward the Martian building.

Tiny figures, dimmed by distance, scurried about the building.

Scott squinted his eyes against the desert glare.

"What are those?" he asked.

Hugh seemed to jerk out of a trance.

"The machines again," he said wearily. "They're getting ready to shoot
another rocket out to Earth. It'll be the last one of the season. Earth
is drawing away again."

"More seeds," said Scott.

Hugh nodded. "More seeds. And more bugs going out. And the worst of it
is that Earth doesn't know. No man in his right mind on Earth could
even dimly speculate upon the possibility of high intelligence in plant
life. There's no reason to. No precedent upon which to base such a
speculation. Earth plants have never had intelligence."

"A message is all we need," declared Scott. "Just get word to the
Earth. They'd root up every plant on the face of the entire globe.
They'd...."

He stopped abruptly and stared out across the desert.

"The rocket," he whispered. "The rocket is going to Earth!"

Hugh swung on him fiercely.

"What are you...."

"We could send a message by the rocket!" yelled Scott. "They always
watch for them ... always hoping each one will carry something new.
Some new thing from Mars. It's the only way we can get a message back
to Earth."

"But they won't let us near," protested Hugh. "I've tried to get up
close to the cradle when they were launching one and those machines
always drove me away. Didn't hurt me ... but threatened."

"We have guns," said Scott.

"Guns," said Hugh, "wouldn't be worth a damn against them. The bullets
would just glance off. Even explosive bullets wouldn't harm them."

"Sledges then," said Scott. "We'll make junk out of the damn things.
We've got a couple of sledges in the ship."

Hugh looked at him levelly.

"Okay, kid, let's get going."


                                   V

The machines paid them no attention. No higher than a man's waist, they
curiously resembled grotesque spiders. Gangling rods and arms sprouted
out all over them and from their trunks sprouted waving, steel antennae.

Overhead hung a swarm of the metallic bugs evidently directing the work
of making the rocket ready.

"It takes just three minutes or thereabouts from the time they finally
have her ready until she blasts," said Hugh. "Whatever we are going to
do has to be done in those three minutes. And we've got to hold them
off until the rocket blasts. They'll suspect there's something wrong
and will try to stop it but if we can hold them off...."

"They must already have radioed Earth the rocket is coming," said
Scott. "We always got word days in advance. Probably they won't follow
up with their location messages but Doc will be watching for it anyhow."

They stood tensed, waiting, each grasping a heavy hammer.

The space about the cradle was a scene of intense, but efficient
activity. Last minute adjustments were made. Readings and settings were
checked. Each machine seemed to act by rote, while overhead hung the
cloud of humming bugs.

"We know what we're to do," said Hugh. "We've simply got to do it."

Scott nodded.

Hugh shot a glance at him.

"Think you can hold them off, kid? It'll take a while to unscrew the
inner and outer caps and we have got to get that message inside the
inner container or it'll burn when the rocket hits atmosphere."

"You just get that message in and the caps back on," said Scott. "I'll
hold them off for you."

Suddenly the machines scurried back from the cradle leaving a clear
space of several yards around it.

"Now!" Hugh shouted and the two men charged.

The attack was a surprise. Their rush carried the line of machines
between them and the cradle.

One machine barred Scott's way and he smashed at it savagely with the
heavy hammer. The blow flung it aside, crippled, dented, half-smashed.

Hugh was already at the cradle, clambering up the superstructure.

A machine rushed at Scott, steel arms flailing. Ducking a murderous
swipe, the Earthman brought his sledge into play. It sheared through
the arms, smashed into the body of the machine. The stricken mechanism
seemed to reel, staggered erratically, then collapsed upon the sand.

In two leaps Scott gained the superstructure, scaled it and straddled
the cradle. His sledge smashed savagely upon a climbing mechanism,
flung it to the ground. But others were swarming up the steel lattice
work. Tentacles snaked out, seeking to entrap him. A wicked blow on the
leg almost brought him down.

His sledge worked steadily and at the foot of the cradle broken
mechanisms bore testimony to its execution.

[Illustration: _The spider-machines attacked in a grim deadly silence._]

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Hugh had inserted the envelope
carrying the message in the inner container with the seeds, was
tightening the screwcap. All that remained was to screw on the larger,
heavier outer cap.

But only seconds must remain, precious seconds before the rocket
blasted. And before that happened they had to be away from the cradle,
for the backlash of flames would burn them to a cinder.

Scott felt perspiration streaming over his body, running off his
eyelids, blearing his sight, trickling down his nose. He heard the rasp
of metal as Hugh drove home the cap with savage thrusts of the wrench.

A machine rushed up the lattice at him and he smashed at it with
unreasoning fury. The head of the sledge bit deep into the metal body.

A tentacle wrapped about his leg and jerked. He felt himself losing
his balance, tumbling off the cradle into the melee of threshing metal
things beneath him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then he was on the ground, buffeted and pounded by the maddened
metal creatures. He fought savagely, blindly staggering forward. The
shatterproof glass in his vision plate had been "broken," its texture
smashed into a million tiny crisscross lines, until it was like frosted
glass.

He heard the tough fabric of his suit rip with a screeching sound. The
bugs still were hammering against him.

The thin, acrid atmosphere of Mars burned into his nose and his lungs
labored.

Unseeingly, he swung his sledge in swathlike circles. Shrieking like a
wild Indian, he felt it smash and slam into the bodies of his metallic
opponents.

Then the world was blotted out by a resounding roar, a Niagara of sound
that beat in waves against one's body.

That was the rocket leaving.

"Hugh!" he yelled insanely. "Hugh, we did it!"

The attack had fallen away and he stood unsteadily on his feet,
panting, stiff from punishment, but filled with exultation.

They had won. He and Hugh had sent the message. Earth would be warned
and Mars would lose its hope of conquering a new and younger world.
Whatever dreams of conquest this old red planet may have nurtured would
never come to be.

He put his hands up and ripped the helmet from his head, flinging it on
the ground.

The metallic machines were ringed around him, motionless, almost as if
they were looking at him. Almost as if they were waiting for his next
move.

Wildly he whooped at them. "Start something, damn you! Just start
something!"

But the line in front of him parted and he saw the blackened thing that
lay upon the sand. The twisted, blasted, crumpled thing that huddled
there.

Scott dropped his sledge and a sob rose in his throat. His hands
clenched at his side and he tottered slowly forward.

He stood above the body of his brother, flung there on the sand by the
searing backlash of the rocket blast.

"Hugh!" he cried, "Hugh!"

But the blackened bundle didn't stir. Hugh Nixon was dead.

Eyes bleared, Scott stared around at the machines. They were breaking
up, scattering, moving away.

"Damn you," he screamed, "don't you even care?"

       *       *       *       *       *

But even as he spoke, he knew they didn't care. The plant civilization
of Mars was an unemotional society. It knew no love, no triumph, no
defeat, no revenge. It was mechanistic, cold, logical. It did only
those things which aimed at a definite end. So long as there was a
chance of protecting the rocket, so long as there was hope of halting
its flight after it had been tampered with, that civilization would
act. But now that it was in space, now that it could not be recalled,
the incident was over. There would be no further action.

Scott looked down at the man at his feet.

Harry Decker and Jimmy Baldwin and now Hugh Nixon. Three men had died
here on Mars. He was the only one left. And he probably would die, too,
for no man could for long breathe that Martian air and live.

What was it Hugh had said that first day?

"_It plays hell with the tissues of your lungs._"

He stared around him, saw the interminable red deserts and the scarlet
patches of Martian lilies, nodding in the breeze. Saw the humming bugs
flashing in the pale sunlight. Saw the shimmer of the mighty building
that had no doors or windows.

His lungs were aching now and his throat was raw. It was harder and
harder to breathe.

He knelt in the sand and lifted the blackened body. Cradling it in his
arms, he staggered along.

"I have to make another cross," he said.

Far overhead, in the depths of space, twinkled the blue planet whose
life would never know the slavery of the emotionless race of a dying
world.