The Space Trilogy (44 page)

“It was early in the morning when we landed. Mimas has a day a bit shorter than Earth’s—it goes round Saturn in twenty-two hours, and as it keeps the same face towards the planet its day and month are the same length—just as they are on the Moon. We’d come down in the northern hemisphere, not far from the Equator, and most of Saturn was above the horizon. It looked quite weird—a huge crescent horn sticking up into the sky, like some impossibly bent mountain thousands of miles high.

“Of course you’ve all seen the films we made—especially the speeded-up colour one showing a complete cycle of Saturn’s phases. But I don’t think they can give you much idea of what it was like to live with that enormous thing always there in the sky. It was so big, you see, that one couldn’t take it in a single view. If you stood facing it and held your arms wide open, you could just imagine your finger tips touching the opposite ends of the rings. We couldn’t see the rings themselves very well, because they were almost edge-on, but you could always tell they were there by the wide, dusky band of shadow they cast on the planet.

“None of us ever got tired of watching it. It’s spinning so fast, you know—the pattern was always changing. The cloud formations, if that’s what they were, used to whip round from one side of the disc to the other in a few hours, changing continually as they moved. And there were the most wonderful colours—greens and browns and yellows chiefly. Now and then there’d be great, slow eruptions, and something as big as Earth would rise up out of the depths and spread itself sluggishly in a huge stain halfway round the planet.

“You could never take your eyes off it for long. Even when it was new and so completely invisible, you could still tell it was there because of the great hole in the stars. And here’s a funny thing which I haven’t reported because I was never quite sure of it. Once or twice, when we were in the planet’s shadow and its disc should have been completely dark, I thought I saw a faint phosphorescent glow coming from the night side. It didn’t last long—if it really happened at all. Perhaps it was some kind of chemical reaction going on down there in that spinning cauldron.

“Are you surprised that I want to go to Saturn again? What I’d like to do is to get
really
close this time—and by that I mean within a thousand kilometres. It should be quite safe and wouldn’t take much power. All you need do is to go into a parabolic orbit and let yourself fall in like a comet going round the Sun. Of course, you’d only spend a few minutes actually close to Saturn, but you could get a lot of records in that time.

“And I want to land on Mimas again, and see that great shining crescent reaching halfway up the sky. It’ll be worth the journey, just to watch Saturn waxing and waning, and to see the storms chasing themselves round his Equator. Yes—it would be worth it, even if
I
didn’t get back this time.”

There were no mock heroics in this closing remark. It was merely a simple statement of fact, and Hilton’s listeners believed him completely. While the spell lasted, every one of them would be willing to strike the same bargain.

Gibson ended the long silence by going to the cabin window and peering out into the night.

“Can we have the lights off?” he called. Complete darkness fell as the pilot obeyed his request. The others joined him at the window.

“Look,” said Gibson. “Up there—you can just see it if you crane your neck.”

The cliff against which they were lying was no longer a wall of absolute and unrelieved darkness. On its very topmost peaks a new light was playing, spilling over the broken crags and filtering down into the valley. Phobos had leapt out of the west and was climbing on its meteoric rise towards the south, racing backwards across the sky.

Minute by minute the light grew stronger, and presently the pilot began to send out his signals. He had barely begun when the pale moonlight was snuffed out so suddenly that Gibson gave a cry of astonishment. Phobos had gone hurtling into the shadow of Mars, and though it was still rising it would cease to shine for almost an hour. There was no way of telling whether or not it would peep over the edge of the great cliff and so be in the right position to receive their signals.

They did not give up hope for almost two hours. Suddenly the light reappeared on the peaks, but shining now from the east. Phobos had emerged from its eclipse, and was now dropping down towards the horizon which it would reach in little more than an hour. The pilot switched off his transmitter in disgust.

“It’s no good,” he said. “We’ll have to try something else.”

“I know!” Gibson exclaimed excitedly. “Can’t we carry the transmitter up the top of the hill?”

“I’d thought of that, but it would be the devil’s own job to get it out without proper tools. The whole thing—aerials and all—is built into the hull.”

“There’s nothing more we can do tonight, anyway,” said Hilton. “I suggest we all get some sleep before dawn. Good night, everybody.”

It was excellent advice, but not easy to follow. Gibson’s mind was still racing ahead, making plans for the morrow. Not until Phobos had at last plunged down into the east, and its light had ceased to play mockingly on the cliff above them, did he finally pass into a fitful slumber.

Even then he dreamed that he was trying to fix a belt-drive from the motors to the tractor undercarriage so that they could taxi the last thousand kilometres to Port Schiaparelli…

Twelve

When Gibson woke it was long after dawn. The sun was invisible behind the cliffs, but its rays reflected from the scarlet crags above them flooded the cabin with an unearthly, even a sinister light. He stretched himself stiffly; these seats had not been designed to sleep in, and he had spent an uncomfortable night.

He looked round for his companions—and realized that Hilton and the pilot had gone. Jimmy was still fast asleep; the others must have awakened first and gone out to explore. Gibson felt a vague annoyance at being left behind, but knew that he would have been still more annoyed if they had interrupted his slumbers.

There was a short message from Hilton pinned prominently on the wall. It said simply: “Went outside at 6.30. Will be gone about an hour. We’ll be hungry when we get back. Fred.”

The hint could hardly be ignored. Besides, Gibson felt hungry himself. He rummaged through the emergency food pack which the aircraft carried for such accidents, wondering as he did so just how long it would have to last them. His attempts to brew a hot drink in the tiny pressure-boiler aroused Jimmy, who looked somewhat sheepish when he realized he was the last to wake.

“Had a good sleep?” asked Gibson, as he searched round for the cups.

“Awful,” said Jimmy, running his hands through his hair. “I feel I haven’t slept for a week. Where are the others?”

His question was promptly answered by the sounds of someone entering the airlock. A moment later Hilton appeared, followed by the pilot. They divested themselves of masks and heating equipment—it was still around freezing point outside—and advanced eagerly on the pieces of chocolate and compressed meat which Gibson had portioned out with impeccable fairness.

“Well,” said Gibson anxiously, “what’s the verdict?”

“I can tell you one thing right away,” said Hilton between mouthfuls. “We’re damn lucky to be alive.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t know the half of it—you haven’t seen just where we landed. We came down parallel to this cliff for almost a kilometre before we stopped. If we’d swerved a couple of degrees to starboard—bang! When we touched down we did swing inwards a bit, but not enough to do any damage.

“We’re in a long valley, running east and west. It looks like a geological fault rather than an old river bed, though that was my first guess. The cliff opposite us is a good hundred meters high, and practically vertical—in fact, it’s got a bit of overhang near the top. Maybe it can be climbed farther along, but we didn’t try. There’s no need to, anyway—if we want Phobos to see us we’ve only got to walk a little way to the north, until the cliff doesn’t block the view. In fact, I think that may be the answer—if we can push this ship out into the open. It’ll mean we can use the radio, and will give the telescopes and air search a better chance of spotting us.”

“How much does this thing weigh?” said Gibson doubtfully.

“About thirty tons with full load. There’s a lot of stuff we can take out, of course.”

“No there isn’t!” said the pilot. “That would mean letting down our pressure, and we can’t afford to waste air.”

“Oh Lord, I’d forgotten that. Still, the ground’s fairly smooth and the undercart’s perfectly OK.”

Gibson made noises indicating extreme doubt. Even under a third of Earth’s gravity, moving the aircraft was not going to be an easy proposition.

For the next few minutes his attention was diverted to the coffee, which he had tried to pour out before it had cooled sufficiently.

Releasing the pressure on the boiler immediately filled the room with steam, so that for a moment it looked as if everyone was going to inhale their liquid refreshment. Making hot drinks on Mars was always a nuisance, since water under normal pressure boiled at around sixty degrees Centigrade, and cooks who forgot this elementary fact usually met with disaster.

The dull but nourishing meal was finished in silence, as the castaways pondered their pet plans for rescue. They were not really worried; they knew that an intensive search would now be in progress, and it could only be a matter of time before they were located. But that time could be reduced to a few hours if they could get some kind of signal to Phobos.

After breakfast they tried to move the ship. By dint of much pushing and pulling they managed to shift it a good five meters. Then the caterpillar tracks sank into soft ground, and as far as their combined efforts were concerned the machine might have been completely bogged. They retired, panting, into the cabin to discuss the next move.

“Have we anything white which we could spread out over a large area?” asked Gibson.

This excellent idea came to nothing when an intensive search of the cabin revealed six handkerchiefs and a few pieces of grimy rag. It was agreed that, even under the most favourable conditions, these would not be visible from Phobos.

“There’s only one thing for it,” said Hilton. “We’ll have to rip out the landing lights, run them out on a cable until they’re clear of the cliff, and aim them at Phobos. I didn’t want to do this if it could be avoided; it might make a mess of the wing and it’s a pity to break up a good aeroplane.”

By his glum expression, it was obvious that the pilot agreed with these sentiments.

Jimmy was suddenly struck with an idea.

“Why not fix up a heliograph?” he asked. “If we flashed a mirror on Phobos they ought to be able to see that.”

“Across six thousand kilometres?” said Gibson doubtfully.

“Why not? They’ve got telescopes that magnify more than a thousand up there. Couldn’t you see a mirror flashing in the sun if it was only six kilometres away?”

“I’m sure there’s something wrong with that calculation, though I don’t know what,” said Gibson. “Things never work out as simply as that. But I agree with the general idea. Now who’s got a mirror?”

After a quarter hour’s search, Jimmy’s scheme had to be abandoned. There simply was no such thing as a mirror on the ship.

“We could cut out a piece of the wing and polish that up,” said Hilton thoughtfully. “That would be almost as good.”

“This magnesium alloy won’t take much of a polish,” said the pilot, still determined to defend his machine to the last.

Gibson suddenly shot to his feet.

“Will someone kick me three times round the cabin?” he announced to the assembly.

“With pleasure,” grinned Hilton, “but tell us why.”

Without answering, Gibson went to the rear of the ship and began rummaging among his luggage, keeping his back to the interested spectators. It took him only a moment to find what he wanted; then he swung quickly round.

“Here’s the answer,” he said triumphantly.

A flash of intolerable light suddenly filled the cabin, flooding every corner with a harsh brilliance and throwing distorted shadows on the wall. It was as if lightning had struck the ship, and for several minutes everyone was half-blinded, still carrying on their retinas a frozen picture of the cabin as seen in that moment of searing incandescence.

“I’m sorry,” said Gibson contritely. “I’ve never used it at full power indoors before—that was intended for night work in the open.”

“Phew!” said Hilton, rubbing his eyes. “I thought you’d let off an atomic bomb. Must you scare everyone to death when you photograph them?”

“It’s only like
this
for normal indoor use,” said Gibson, demonstrating. Everyone flinched again, but this time the flash seemed scarcely noticeable. “It’s a special job I had made for me before I left Earth. I wanted to be quite sure I could do colour photography at night if I wanted to. So far I haven’t had a real chance of using it.”

“Let’s have a look at the thing,” said Hilton.

Gibson handed over the flash-gun and explained its operation.

“It’s built round a super-capacity condenser. There’s enough for about a hundred flashes on one charge, and it’s practically full.”