Red Planet

  “I don't see what we can do until Sutton and Toland get some results.”

  “You can't wait any longer for them, son. We've got to crush out of here anyway. Theoretically a man can live for days in a respirator. Practically, it won't work and that is what Beecher is counting on. You can't keep several hundred people crouching here in the dark and the cold, wearing masks to stay alive, not indefinitely. You're going to have a panic on your hands.”

  Marlowe looked weary, even through his mask. “We can't tunnel out. We can't get out at all, except through the doors. And they've got those doors zeroed. It's suicide.”

  “It's got to be done, son. I'll lead the rush.”

  Marlowe sighed. “No, I will.”

  “In a pig's eye! You've got a wife and kids. I've got nobody and I've been living on borrowed time so long I've lost track.”

  “It's my privilege. That settles it.”

  “We'll see.”

  “I said that settles it, sir!”

  The argument was left unfinished; the inner door to the pressure lock opened again and Mrs. Hartley stumbled inside. She was clutching the tiny crib and sobbing wildly.

  IT WAS THE CASE OF THE POTTLES AND GIBBS ALL OVER AGAIN. When MacRae was able to make something out of her sobs, it appeared that they had been very cautious, had waited, had shouted their intention to surrender, and had displayed a light. There had been no answer, so they had shouted again, then Hartley had stepped off the threshold with his hands up and his wife shining the light on him.

  He had been struck down as soon as he stepped out the door.

  MacRae turned her over to the women, then went out to re-connoiter. He came back in almost at once. “Somebody get me a chair,” he demanded, and looked around. “You, Jim—skedaddle.”

  “What's up?” asked Marlowe.

  “Let you know in a moment. I suspect something.”

  “Be careful.”

  “That's why I want the chair.”

  Jim came back with one; the doctor went through the pressure lock again. He came back in about five minutes later. “It's a booby trap,” he stated.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Beecher didn't try to keep men outdoors all night—at least I don't think so. It's automatic. They've put an electric-eye grid across the door. When you break it, a bolt comes across, right where you'd be if you walked through it.” He displayed half a dozen deep burns through the chair.

  Marlowe examined them. “But that's not the important point,” MacRae went on. “It's automatic but it's inflexible. It hits about two feet above the step and about four feet. A man could crawl through it—if his nerves were steady.”

  Marlowe straightened up. “Show me.”

  They came back, with the chair still more burned, in a few minutes. “Kelly,” Marlowe said briskly, “I want twenty volunteers to make a sortie. Pass the word around.”

  There were at least two hundred volunteers; the problem was to weed them down. Both Frank and Jim tried to get in on it; Jim's father refused to take any but grown, unmarried men— except himself. MacRae he refused.

  The doctor pulled Jim back and whispered to him. “Hold your horses. In a few minutes I'll be boss.”

  The raiding party started into the lock. Marlowe turned to MacRae. “We'll head for the power plant. If we are gone more than two hours, you are on your own.” He went into the lock and closed the door.

  As soon as the door was closed, MacRae said, “Okay, twenty more volunteers.”

  Kelly said, “Aren't you going to wait two hours?”

  “You tend to your knitting! When I'm out of here, you're in charge.” He turned and nodded to Jim and Frank. “You two come along.” MacRae had his party in short order, had apparently selected them in his mind before Marlowe left. They filed into the lock.

  Once the outer door was open MacRae flashed his torch into the street. The Pottles and the unfortunate Joseph Hartley lay where they had fallen, but no other bodies littered the street. MacRae turned around and said, “Gimme that chair. I'll demonstrate the gimmick.” He stuck it out into the door. Instantly two bolts cut across the doorway, parallel to the ground. After they were gone and the eye was still dazzled by their brilliance, two soft violet paths of ionization marked where they had been and then gradually dispersed.

  “You will note,” said the doctor, as if he were lecturing medical students, “that it does not matter where the chair is inserted.” He again shoved the chair into the opening, moved it up and down. The bolts repeated at split-second intervals, but always at the same places, about knee high and chest high.

  “I think it is best,” continued the doctor, “to maintain the attack. Then you can see where you are. First man!”

  Jim gulped and stepped forward—or was shoved, he was not sure which. He eyed the deadly fence, stooped over, and with awkward and infinite care stepped through. He went on out into the street.”Get moving!” the doctor ordered. “Spread out.”

  Jim ran up the street, feeling very much alone but terribly excited. He paused short of the end of the building and cautiously looked around the corner. Nothing either way—he stopped and waited in the darkness, ready to blast anything that moved.

  Ahead of him and to the left he could see the curious structure which had almost cost him the top of his head many hours before. It was clear now that the bolts were coming from it.

  Someone came up behind him. He whirled and heard a voice yelp, “Don't shoot! It's me—Frank.”

  “How about the others?”

  “They're coming—I think.”

  A light flashed at the building ahead, beyond the shield from which the bolts came. Frank said, “I think somebody came out there.”

  “Can you see him? Do you think we ought to shoot?”

  “I don't know.”

  Someone else was pounding up the street behind them. Up ahead, from near the spot where Frank had thought he had seen a man a heater flashed out in the darkness; the beam passed them.

  Jim's gun answered by pure reflex; he nailed the spot from which the flash had come. “You got him,” said Frank. “Good boy!”

  “I did?” said Jim. “How about the guy behind me?” He found that he was trembling.

  “Here he is now.”

  “Who shot at me?” the newcomer said. “Where are they?”

  “Nowhere at the moment,” Frank answered. “Jim nailed him.” Frank tried to peer into the mask; the night was too dark. “Who is it?”

  “Smitty”

  Both Frank and Jim gave exclamations of surprise—it was Smythe, the practical man. “Don't look at me like that,” Smythe said defensively. “I came along at the last minute—to protect my investment. You guys owe me money.”

  “I think Jim just paid it off,” suggested Frank.

  “Not on your life! That's another matter entirely.”

  “Later, later,” said Frank. Others were coming up. Presently MacRae came puffing up and roared, “I told you bird-brains to spread out!” He caught his breath and said, “We tackle the Company main offices. Dogtrot—and don't bunch together.”

  “Doc,” said Jim, “there are some in that building up ahead.”

  “Some what?”

  “Somebody that shoots at us, that's what.”

  “Oh. Hold it, everybody.” MacRae gave them hoarse instructions, then said, “Got it, everybody?”

  “Doc,” asked Frank, “how about the gun over there? Why don't we wreck it first?”

  “I must be getting old,” said MacRae. “Anybody here enough of a technician to sneak up on it and pull its teeth?”

  A faceless figure in the darkness volunteered. “Go ahead,” Doc told him. “We'll cover you from here.” The colonial trotted ahead, swung around behind the shield covering the stationary automatic blaster, and stopped. He worked away for several minutes, then there was a white flash, intensely bright. He trotted back. “Shorted it out. Bet I blew every overload breaker in the power house.”

  “Sure you f
ixed it?”

  “You couldn't dot an ‘i’ with it now.”

  “Okay. You—” MacRae grabbed one of his squad by the arm. “—tear back and tell Kelly that allee allee out's in free. You—” He indicated the chap who had wrecked the gun.”—go around in back and see what you can do with the setup back there. You two guys cover him. The rest of you follow me—the building ahead, according to plan.”

  Jim's assignment called for sneaking along the face of the building and taking a covering position about twenty feet short of the doorway. His way led him over the ground where the man had been at whom he had shot. There was no body on the pavement; he wondered if he had missed. It was too dark to look for blood.

  MacRae gave his covering troops time to reach their stations, then made a frontal assault with six to back him up, among them Frank. The doctor himself walked up to the building entrance, tried the outer door. It opened. Motioning the assault group to join him, he went in. The outer door of the building's lock closed on them.

  Jim huddled against the icy wall, eyes wide, ready to shoot. It seemed a cold eternity that he waited; he began to fancy that he could see some traces of dawn in the east. At last he saw silhouettes ahead, raised his gun, then identified one as Doc's portly figure.

  MacRae had the situation in hand. There were four disarmed prisoners; one was being half carried by two others. “Take ‘em back to the school,” Doc ordered one of his group. “Shoot the first one of them who makes a funny move. And tell whoever is in charge back there now to lock ‘em up. Come on, men. We've got our real job ahead.”

  There came a shout behind them; MacRae turned. Kelly's voice called, “Doc! Wait for baby!” He came running up and demanded, “What are the plans?” Behind him, men were pouring out of the school and up the street.

  MacRae took a few minutes to recast things on the basis of more guns. One of the platoon leaders, a civil engineer named Alvarez, was left in charge at the school with orders to maintain a guard outside the building and to patrol the neighborhood with scouts. Kelly was assigned the task of capturing the communications building which lay between the settlement and the space port. It was an important key to control of the whole situation, since it housed not only the local telephone exchange but also the radio link to Deimos and thence to all other outposts on Mars— and also the radar beacons and other aids for incoming ships from Earth.

  MacRae reserved for himself the job of taking the planet office—the main offices on Mars of the Company, Beecher's own headquarters. The Resident Agent General's personal apartment was part of the same building; the doctor expected to come to grips with Beecher himself.

  MacRae sent a squad of men to reinforce Marlowe at the power house, then called out, “Let's go, before we all freeze to death. Chop, chop!” He led the way at a ponderous trot.

  Jim located Frank in the group and joined him. “What took you guys so long in that building?” he asked. “Was there a fight?”

  “Took so long?” said Frank. “We weren't inside two minutes.”

  “But you must have—”

  “Cut out that chatter back there!” called out Doc. Jim shut up and pondered it.

  MacRae had them cross the main canal on ice, avoiding the arching bridge as a possible trap. They crossed in pairs, those behind covering those crossing; in turn they who had crossed spread out and covered those yet to come. The crossing held a nightmarish, slow-motion quality; while on the ice a man was a perfect target—yet it was impossible to hurry. Jim longed for his skates.

  On the far side the doctor gathered them together in the shadow of a warehouse. “We'll swing around to the east and avoid the dwellings,” he told them in a hoarse whisper. “From here on, quiet!—for your life. We won't split up because I don't want you shooting each other in the dark.” He set forth a plan to surround the building and cover all exits, while MacRae himself and about half their numbers tried to force an entrance at the main door.

  “When you get around in back and make contact,” MacRae warned the two who were to lead the flanking and covering moves, “you may have one deuce of a time telling friend from foe. Be careful. The word is ‘Mars’; the answer is ‘Freedom.’ “

  Jim was in the assault party. Doc stationed six of them in fan shape around the door, at an easy twenty-five yards range, and had them take cover where available. Three of them were on the open ramp in front of the door, he had them lie down and steady their guns. “In case of doubt—shoot,” he instructed them. “Come on, the rest of you.”

  Jim was included in the last order. MacRae walked up to the outer door and tried it; it was locked. He pressed the signal switch and waited.

  Nothing happened. MacRae pressed the switch again and called out mildly to the speaker grille, “Let me in. I have an important message for the Resident.”

  Still nothing happened. MacRae changed his tone to pretended exasperation. “Hurry up, please! I'm freezing to death out here.”

  The door remained dark and silent. MacRae changed his manner to belligerence. “Okay, Beecher, open up! We've got the place surrounded and we're ready to blast in the door. You have thirty seconds till we set off the charge.”

  The seconds ticked away. Doc muttered to Jim, “I wish it were the truth,” then raised his voice and said, “Time's up, Beecher. This is it.”

  The door hissed as the compressed air in the lock began to escape to the outside; the lock was starting to cycle. MacRae motioned them back a little; they waited, not breathing, all guns drawn and aimed at the point where the door would begin to open.

  Then it was open and a single figure stood in it, the lock's light shining behind him.”Don't shoot!” said a firm, pleasant voice.”It's all right. It's all over.”

  MacRae peered at the figure. “Why, Doctor Rawlings!” he said. “Bless your ugly face.”

  “ITS AN ULTIMATUM.”

  RAWLINGS HIMSELF HAD SPENT HALF THE NIGHT LOCKED UP, along with half a dozen other prominent citizens who had attempted to reason with Beecher. As the story got around, especially the matter of the deaths of the Pottles, Beecher found himself with no support at all, save from his own clique of sycophants and toadies and the professional, largely disinterested support of the Company's police.

  Even Kruger cracked up under the strain, tried to get Beecher to reverse himself—and was stuffed in with the other dissidents, which by then included the chief engineer of the power plant. But it was Doctor Rawlings who talked the guard placed over them into risking his job and letting them go—the doctor was treating the guard's wife.

  “I don't think Beecher would ever stand trial, even if we had him back on Earth,” MacRae remarked about the matter to Rawlings and Marlowe. “What do you think, Doctor?” The three were seated in the outer offices of the planet office building. Marlowe had come there after getting word at the power house from MacRae and had gotten busy at once, writing dispatches to the Project camps and the other outlying activities, including North Colony itself, trying to round up boats. He had then tried, red-eyed and uncertain from lack of sleep, to compose a suitable report to Earth, until MacRae had interrupted him and insisted that he rest.

  “Paranoia?” said Rawlings.

  “A clear case.”

  “My opinion, too. I've seen suggestive indications of it, but the case was not fully developed until his will was crossed. He must be hospitalized—and restrained.” Doctor Rawlings glanced over his shoulder at a closed door. Behind it was Beecher.

  “Certainly, certainly,” agreed MacRae, “but speaking nonpro-fessionally, I'd rather see the no-good so-and-so hang. Paranoia is a disorder contracted only by those of fundamentally bad character.”

  “Now, Doctor,” protested Rawlings.

  “That's my opinion,” insisted MacRae, “and I've seen a lot of cases, in and out of hospitals.”

  Marlowe put down his coffee cup and wiped his mouth. “All that is as may be. I think I'll stretch out on one of these desks for a couple of hours. Doc, will you see that someon
e wakes me?”

  “Certainly,” agreed MacRae, having no intention of allowing the man to be disturbed until he was fully rested. “Don't worry.”

  Jim and the others were back at the school where they were to remain until boats could be gotten to take them to Copais. Mrs. Palmer was bustling around with her assistants, getting a mammoth breakfast for weary men and boys. Jim himself was dead tired and hungry but much too excited to think about sleeping, even though dawn had broken outside.

  He had just received a cup of coffee and was blowing on it when Smythe showed up. “Say, I understand you really did kill that cop that took a pot shot at me.”

  “No,” Jim denied, “he's in the infirmary now, just wounded. I've seen him.”

  Smythe looked troubled. “Oh, shucks,” he said finally, “it won't happen more than once in a lifetime. Here's your I.O.U.”

  Jim stared at him. “Smitty you're sick.”

  “Probably. Better take it.”

  Jim reached back into his subconscious memory and quoted his father. “No, thanks. Marlowes pay their debts.”

  Smythe looked at him, then said, “Oh, the heck with you, you ungracious twerp!” He tore the I.O.U. into small pieces and stalked away.

  Jim looked wonderingly after him. “Now what was he sore about?” He decided to look up Frank and tell him about it.

  He found Frank but had no time to tell him about it; a shout came through the crowd: “Marlowe! Jim Marlowe!”

  “Captain Marlowe's at the planet office,” someone answered.

  “Not him, the kid,” the first voice replied. “Jimmy Marlowe! You're wanted up front, right away.”

  “Coming,” yelled Jim. “What for?” He pushed his way toward the entrance, Frank behind him.

  The man who had paged him let him get close before he answered, “You won't believe it—I don't myself. Martians.”

  Jim and Frank hurried outside. Gathered in front of the school door were more than a dozen Martians. Gekko was there, and G'kuro, but not K'boomch. Nor could Jim make out the old one whom he thought of as “head man” of Gekko's tribe. Gekko spotted them and said in his own speech, “Greetings, Jim-Marlowe, greetings, Frank-Sutton, friends sealed with water.”