The Sands of Mars
by
ARTHUR C. CLARKE


A SIGNET BOOK

NEW AMERICA LIBRARY

Copyright 1952, 1967 by Arthur C. Clarke

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication May be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For
information address Harcourt Brace JOvanovich, Inc."  757 Third Avenue,
New York, New York 10017.

This is an authorized reprint of a hardcover edition Published by
Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.

SIGNET, SIGNET CLASSICS, MENTOR, PLUME, MERIDIAN
AND NAL

BOOKS are published by The New American Library, Inc., 1633 Broadway,
New York, New York 10019

FIRST SIGNET PRINTING, 4WARY, 1974

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FOREWORD

The Sands of Mars, my first full-length novel, was written in the late
1940's--when Mars seemed very much, farther away than it is today.
Reading It again after a lapse of many years, I am agreeably surprised
to find how little It has been dated by the explosive developments of
the Space Age.  True, there are a few technical concepts which are
slightly outmoded (readers may get some amusement trying to spot them);
and there is perhaps rather more explanation of fundamentals than is
strictly necessary in these enlightened times.  But there Is very
little indeed that I would change if I were writing this story today.
'

It was one of the first science-fiction novels about Mars to abandon
the romantic fantasies of Percival Lowell, Edgar Rice Burroughs C S.
Lewis, and Ray Bradbury (four gentlemen I admire greatly, though not
necessarily for the same reasons).  By the 1940's, It was already
certain that the planets atmosphere was far too thin to support higher
Animals of the terrestrial type-and what little there was of it
contained no oxygen.  There could be no Martian princesses, alas; and
when human beings reached the red planet, they would not be able to
walk on Its surface without breathing aids.  The chief problem I faced
in writing this novel was, therefore, that of making Mars interesting
and exciting despite the" limitations.  Or, possible, because of
them.

The brilliantly successful Mariner TV mission has shown that the
atmospheric pressure on Mars is even lower than had been generally
assumed; we may need space suits there, not merely breathing masks
Apart from this-and the unexpected (by everyone except Clyde Tombaugh)
discovery of extensive cratering-there has been no major change in our
picture of the planet.

Above all, the question of Martian life is still entirely open.  In
their well-known paper "A Search for Life on the
Earth at Kilometer Resolution," Carl Sagan and his colleagues used
meteorological satellite photographs to show that Mariner IV could not
possibly have detected life even on the well populated Earth.  Still
less could it do so on Mars, where we do not know what we are looking
for.  We will have to land before we can tell whether there is anyone
at home next door.  - And even then we may not be sure for quite a long
time.  One space scientist has already quoted this book to make
precisely this point.  The land area of Mars is greater than that of
Asia, Africa, and the Americas combined; its exploration will take
decades, if not centuries.

Nevertheless, many of the mysteries that have tantalized generations of
men are now rushing toward their solution.  Before this story is twice
its present age, we will have robot explorers dotted all over Mars.

And a little while later, men will be preparing to join them.

ARTHUR C- CLARKE London, August 1966

"--so this is the first time you've been upstairs?"  said the pilot,
leaning back idly in his seat so that it rocked to and fro in the
gimbals.  He clasped his hands behind his neck in a nonchalant manner
that did nothing to reassure his passenger.

"Yes," said Martin Gibson, never taking his eyes from the chronometer
as it ticked away the seconds.  "I thought so.  You never got it
quite right in your stories-all that nonsense about fainting under the
acceleration.  Why must people write such stuff?  it's bad for
business.

"I'm sorry," Gibson replied..  "But I think you must be referring to my
earlier stories.  Space-travel kadn't got started then, and I had to use
my imagination."

"Maybe," said the pilot grudgingly.  (He wasn't paying the slightest
attention to the instruments, and takeoff was only two minutes away.)
"It must be funny, I suppose, for this to be happening to you, after
writing about it so often!" The adjective, thought Gibson, was hardly
the one he would have used himself, but he saw the others point of view.
Dozens of his heroes--and villains--had  gazed hypnotised by remorseless
second-hands, waiting for the rockets to hurl-them.  into infinity. And
now-as it always did if one waited long enough-the reality had caught
up with the fiction.  The same moment lay only ninety seconds in his
own future Yes, it was funny, a beautiful case of perfect justice.

The pilot glanced at him, read his feelings, and grinned cheerfully.

"Don't let your own stories scare you.  Why, I once took off standing
up, just for a bet, though it was a damn silly thing to do."

"I'm not scared," Gibson replied with unnecessary emphasis.

"Hmmmm," said the pilot, condescending to glance at the
clock.  The second-hand had one more circuit to go.  "Then I shouldn't
hold on to the seat like that It's only beryl manganese you might bend
it."

Sheepishly, Gibson relaxed.  He knew that he was buildIng up synthetic
responses to the situation, but they seemed none the less real for all
that course," said the pilot, still at ease but now, Gibson noticed,
keeping his eyes fixed on the instrument panel, "it wouldn't be very
comfortable if it lasted more than a few minutes--ah, there go the fuel
pumps.  Don't worry when the vertical starts doing funny things, but
let the seat swing where it likes.  Shut your eyes if that helps at
all.  (Hear the igniter jets start then?) We take about ten seconds to
build up to full thrust-there's really nothing to it, apart from the
noise.  You just have to put up with that.  I SAID, YOU JUST HAVE TO
PUT UP With that!"

But Martin Gibson was doing nothing of the sort.  He had already
slipped gracefully into unconsciousness at an, acceleration that had
not yet exceeded that of a high speed elevator.

He revived a few minutes and a thousand kilometres later, feeling quite
ashamed of himself.  A beam of sunlight was shining full on his face,
and he realised that the protective shutter on the outer hull must have
slid aside.  Although brilliant, the light was not as intolerably
fierce as he would have expected; then he saw that only a fraction of
the full intensity was filtering through the deeply tinted glass.

He looked at the pilot, hunched over his instrument board and busily
writing up the log Everything was very quiet, but from time to time
there would come curiously muffled reports-almost miniature
explosions-that Gibson found disconcerting.  He coughed gently to
announce his return to consciousness, and asked -the pilot what they
were.

"Thermal contraction in the motors he replied briefly.  "they've been
running round five thousand degrees and cool mighty fast.  You feeling
all right now?"

* The metric system is used throughout this account of space.  travel.
This decimal system is based upon the metre equalling 39.37 inches.
Thus a kilometre would be slightly over one-half mile (0.62 miles.).

"I'm fine," Gibson answered, and meant it.  "Shall I get up?"

Psychologically, he had hit the bottom and bounced back.  It was a very
unstable position, though he did not realise it.

"If you like," said the pilot doubtfully.  "But be careful-hang on to
something solid."

Gibson felt a wonderful sense of exhilaration.  The moment he had waited
for all his life had come.  He was in space!  It was too bad that he'd
missed the take-off, but he'd gloss that part over when he wrote it
up.

From a thousand kilometres away, Earth was' still very large and
something of a disappointment.  The reason was quickly obvious.  He had
seen so many hundreds of rocket photographs and -films that the
surprise had been spoilt; he knew exactly what to expect.  There were
the inevitable moving bands of cloud on their slow march round the
world.  At the centre of the disc, the divisions between land and sea
were sharply defined, and an infinite amount of minute detail -was
visible, but towards the horizon everything was lost in the thickening
haze.  Even in the cone of clear vision vertically beneath him, most of
the features were unrecognisable and therefore meaningless.  No doubt a
meteorologist would have gone into transports of delight at the
animated weather-map displayed below but most of the meteorologists
were up in the space stations, anyway, where they had an even better
view. Gibson soon grew tired of searching for cities and other works of
man. It was chastening to' think that all the thousands of years of
human civilisation had produced no appreciable change in the panorama
below.

Then Gibson began to look for the stars, and met his second
disappointment.  They were there, hundreds of them, but pale and wan,
mere ghosts of the blinding myriads he had expected to find.  The dark
glass of the port was to blame; in subduing the sun, it had robbed the
stars of all their glory.

Gibson felt a vague annoyance.  Only one thing had turned outt quite
as expected.  The sensation of floating in mid-air, of being able to
propel oneself from wall to wall at the touch of a finger, was just as
delightful as he had hoped-though the quarters were too cramped for
any ambitious experiments.  Weightlessness was an enchanting, a
fairy-like state, now that there were drugs to immobilise the balance
organs and space-sickness was a thing of the past.  He was glad of
that.  How his heroes had suffered, (His heroines too, presumably, but
one never mentioned that.) He remembered Robin Blake's first flight, in
the original version of "Martian Dust."  When he'd written that, he had
been heavily under the influence of D. IL Lawrence.  (It would be
interesting, one day, to make a list of the authors who hadn't
influenced him at one time or another.)

There was no doubt that Lawrence was magnificent at describing physical
sensations, and quite deliberately Gibson had set out to defeat him on
his own ground.  He had devoted a whole chapter to space-sickness,
describing every symptom from the queasy premonitions that could
sometimes be willed aside, the subterranean upheavals not even the most
optimistic could no longer ignore, the Volcanic cataclysms of the final
stages and the ultimate, merciful exhaustion.

The chapter had been a masterpiece of stark realism It was too bad that
his publishers, with an eye on a squeamish Bookof-the-Month Club, had
insisted on removing it.  He had put a lot of work into that chapter;
while he was writing it, he really lived those sensations.  Even now

"It's very puzzling, said the M.O. thoughtfully as the now quiescent
author was propelled through the airlock.  "He's passed his medical
tests O.K."  and of course he had had the usual injections before
leaving Earth.  It must be psychosomatic."

"I don't care what it is," complained the pilot bitterly, as he
followed the cortege into the heart of Space Station One.  "All I want
to know is-who's going to clean up my ship?"

No one seemed inclined to answer this heart-felt question least of all
Martin Gibson, who was only vaguely conscious of white walls drifting
by his field of vision.  Then, slowly, there was a sensation of
increasing weight, and a warm, caressing glow began to steal through
his limbs.  Presently he became fully aware of his surroundings.  He was
in, a hospital ward, and a battery of infrared lamps was bathing him
with a glorious, enervating warmth, that sank through his flesh to the
very bones.  "Well?" said the medical officer presently.

Gibson grinned feebly.

"I'm sorry about this.  Is it going to happen again?"

"I don't know how it happened the first time.  It's very unusual; the
drugs we have now are supposed to be infallible."

"I think it was my own fault," said Gibson apologetically.  "You see,
I've got a rather powerful imagination, and I started thinking about
the symptoms of space-sickness-in quite an objective sort of way, of
course-but before I knew what had happened----"

"Well, just stop it!"  ordered the doctor sharply.  "Or we'll have to
send you right back to Earth.  You can't do this sort of thing if
you're going to Mars.  There wouldn't be much left of you after three
months."

A shudder passed through Gibson's tortured frame.  But he was rapidly
recovering, and already the nightmare of the last hour was fading into
the past.

"I'll be O.K.," he said.  "Let me out of this muffle furnace before I
cook."

A little unsteadily, he got to his feet.  It seemed strange, here in
space, to have normal weight again.  Then he remembered that Station
One was spinning on its axis, and the living quarters were built around
the outer walls so that centrifugal force could give the illusion of
gravity.

The great adventure, he thought ruefully, hadn't started at all well.
But he was determined not to be sent home in disgrace.  It was not
merely a question of his own pride: the effect on his public and his
reputation would be deplorable.  He winced as he visualised the
headlines: "GIBSON GROUNDED! SPACE-SICKNESS ROUTS AUTHOR-ASTRONAuT."
Even the staid literary weeklies would pull his leg, and as for
"Time"-no, it was unthinkable! "It's lucky," said the M.O."  "that
we've got twelve hours before the ship leaves.  I'll take you into the
zero gravity section and see how you manage there, before I give you a
clean bill of health."

Gibson also thought that was a good idea.  He had always regarded
himself as fairly fit, and until now it had never seriously occurred to
him that this journey might be not merely uncomfortable but actually
dangerous.  You could laugh at space-sickness--when you'd never
experienced it yourself.  Afterwards, it seemed a very different
matter.

The Inner Station----Space Station One," as it was usually called-was
just over two thousand kilometres from Earth, circling the planet every
two hours.  It had been Man's first stepping-stone to the stars, and
though it was no longer technically necessary for spaceflight, its
presence had a profound effect on the economics of in*rplanetary
travel.  All journeys to the Moon or the planets started from here; the
unwieldy atomic ships floated alongside this outpost of Earth while the
cargoes from the parent world were loaded into their holds.  A ferry
service of chemically fuelled rockets linked the station to the planet
beneath, for by law no atomic drive, unit was allowed to operate within
a thousand kilometres of the Earths surface.  Even this safety margin
was felt by many to be inadequate, for the radioactive blast of a
nuclear propulsion unit could cover that distance in less than a
minute.

Space Station One had grown with the passing years, by a process of
accretion, until its original designers would never have recognised-it.
Around the central spherical core had accumulated observatories,
communications labs with fantastic aerial systems, and mazes of
scientific equipment which only a specialist could identify.  But
despite all these additions the main function of the artificial moon
was still that of refuelling the little ships with which Man was
challenging the immense loneliness of the Solar System

"Quite sure you're feeling O.K. now?"  asked the doctor as Gibson
experimented with his feet.

"I think so," he replied, unwilling to commit himself.

"Then come along to the reception room and we'll get you a drink-a nice
hot drink," he added, to prevent any misunderstanding.  "You can sit
there and read the paper for half an hour before we decide what to do
with you."

It seemed to Gibson that anticlimax was being piled on anticlimax.  He
was two thousand kilometres from Earth, with the stars all around him;
yet here he was forced to sit sipping sweet tea-tea!-in what might have
been an ordinary dentist's waiting-room.  There were no windows,
presumably because the sight of the rapidly revolving heavens might
have undone the good work of the medical staff.  The only way of
passing the time was to skim through piles of magazines which he'd
already seen, and which were difficult to handle as they were
ultra-lightweight editions apparently printed on cigarette paper.
Fortunately he found a very old copy of "Argosy" containing a story he
had written so long ago that he had completely forgotten the ending,
and this kept him happy until the doctor returned.

"Your pulse seems normal," said the M.O. grudgingly.  "We'll take you
along to the zero-gravity chamber.  Just follow me and don't be
surprised at anything that happens."

With this cryptic remark he led Gibson out into a wide, brightly lit
corridor that seemed to curve upwards in both directions away from the
point at which he was standing.  Gibson had no time to examine this
phenomenon, for the doctor slid open a side door and started up a
flight of

-metal stairs.  Gibson followed automatically for a few paces, then
realised just what lay ahead of him and stopped with an involuntary cry
of amazement

Immediately beneath his feet, the slope of the stairway was a
reasonable forty-five degrees, but it rapidly became steeper until only
a dozen metres ahead the steps were -rising vertically.  Thereafter-and
it was a sight that might have unnerved anyone coming across it for the
first time -the increase of gradient continued remorselessly until the
steps began to overhang and at Last passed out of sight above and
behind him.

Hearing his exclamation, the doctor looked back and gave a reassuring
laugh.

"You mustn't always believe your eyes," he said.  "Come along and see
how easy it is."

Reluctantly Gibson followed, and as he, did so he became aware that two
very peculiar things were happening. In the first place he was
gradually becoming lighter; in the second, despite the obvious
steepening of the stairway, the slope beneath his feet remained at a
constant forty-five degrees.  The vertical direction itself, in fact,
was slowly tilting as he moved forward, so that despite its increasing
curvature the gradient of the stairway never altered.

It did not take Gibson long to arrive at the explanation.  AD the
apparent gravity was due to the centrifugal force produced as the
station spun slowly on its axis, and as he approached the centre the
force was diminishing to zero.  The stairway itself was winding in
towards the axis along some sort of spiral-once he'd have known its
mathematical name-so that despite the radial gravity field the slope
underfoot remained constant.  It was the sort of thing that people who
lived in space stations must get accustomed to quickly enough;
presumably when they returned to Earth the sight of a normal
stairway would be equally unsettling.

At the end of the stairs there was no longer any real sense of "up" or
"down."  They were in a long cylindrical room, crisscrossed with ropes
but otherwise empty, and at its far.  end a shaft of sunlight came
blasting through an observation port.  As Gibson watched, the beam moved
steadily across the metal walls like a questing searchlight, was
momentarily eclipsed, then blazed out again from another window.  It
was the first indication Gibson's senses had.  ;iven him of the fact
that the station was really n its axis, and he timed the rotation
roughly by noting how long the sunlight took to return to its original
position.  The "day" of this little artificial world was less than ten
seconds; that was sufficient to give a sensation of normal gravity at
its outer walls.

Gibson felt rather like a spider in its web as he followed the doctor
hand-over-hand along the guide ropes, towing himself effortlessly
through the air until they, came to the observation port.  They were,
he saw, at the end of a sort of chimney jutting out along the axis of
the station, so that they were well clear of its equipment and
apparatus and had an almost unrestricted view of the stars.  I'll leave
you here for a while," said the doctor.  "There's plenty to look at,
and you should be quite happy.  If not-well, remember theres normal
gravity at the bottom of those stairs!"

Yes, thought Gibson; and a return trip to Earth by the next rocket as
well.  But he was determined to pass the test and to get a clean bill
of health.

It was quite impossible to realise that the space station itself was
rotating, and not the framework of sun and stars: to believe otherwise
required an act of faith, a conscious effort of will.  The stars were
moving so quickly that only the brighter ones were clearly visible and
the sun, when Gibson allowed himself to glance at it out of the corner
of his eye, was a golden comet that crossed the sky every five seconds.
With this fantastic speeding up of the natural order of events, it was
easy to see how ancient man had refused to believe that his own solid
earth was rotatin and had attributed all movement to the turning
celestial sphere.

Partly occulted by the bulk of the station, the Earth was a great
crescent spanning half the sky.  It was slowly waxing as the station
raced along on its globe-encircling orbit; in some forty minutes it
would be full, and an hour after that would be totally invisible, a
black shield eclipsing the sun while the station passed through its
cone of shadow.  The Earth would go through all its phases-from new to
full and back again-in just two hours.  The sense of time became
distorted as one thought of these things; the familiar divisions of day
and night, of months and seasons, had no meaning here.

About a kilometre from the station, moving with it in its orbit but
not at the moment connected to it in any way, were the three spaceships
that happened to be "in dock' at the moment.  One was the tiny
arrowhead of the rocket that had brought him, at such expense and such
discomfort, up from Earth an hour ago The second was a lunar-bound
freighter of, he guessed, about a thousand tons gross.  And the dhird, of
course, was the Ares,

almost dazzling in the splendour of her new aluminium paint.

Gibson had never become reconciled to the loss of the sleek,
streamlined spaceships which had been the dream of the early twentieth
century.  The glittering dumb-bell hanging against the stars was not
his idea of a space-liner; though the world had accepted it, he had
not.  Of course, he knew the familiar arguments--there was no need for
streamlining in a ship that never entered an atmosphere, and therefore
the design was dictated-purely by structural and power-plant
considerations.  Since the violently radioactive drive-unit had to be
as far away from the crew quarters as possible, the double-sphere and
long connecting tube was the simplest solution.

It was also, Gibson thought, the ugliest; but that hardly mattered
since the Ares would spend practically all her life in deep space where
the only spectators were the stars.  Presumably she was already fuelled
and merely waiting for the precisely calculated moment when her motors
would burst into life, and she would pull away out of the orbit in
which she was circling and had hitherto spent all her existence to
swing into the long hyperbola that led to Mars.

When that happened, he would be aboard, launched at last upon the
adventure he had never really believed would come to him.



The captain's office aboard the Ares was not designed to hold more than
three men when gravity was acting, but there was plenty of room for six
while the ship was in a free orbit and one could stand on walls or
ceiling according to taste.  All except one of the group clustered at
surrealist angles around Captain Norden had been in space before and
knew what was expected of them, but this was no ordinary Briefing.  The
maiden flight of a new spaceship is always an occasion and the Ares was
the first of her line--the first, indeed, of all spaceships ever to be
built primarily for passengers and not for freight.  When she was fully
commissioned, she would carry a crew of thirty and a hundred and fifty
passengers In somewhat spartan comfort.

On her first voyage however, the proportions were
almost reversed and at the moment her crew of six was waiting for the
single passenger to come aboard.  "I'm  not quite clear," said Owen
Bradley, the electronics officer, "what we are supposed to do with
the fellow when we've got him! Whose bright idea was this, anyway?"

"I was
coming to that," said Captain Norden, running his hands over where his
magnificent blond hair had been only a few days before.  (Spaceships
seldom carry professional barbers, and though there are always plenty
of eager amateurs one prefers to put off the evil day as long as
possible.) "You all know of Mr.  Gibson, of course."

this remark produced a chorus of replies, not all of them respectful.

"I think his stories stink," said Dr.  Scott.  "The later ones, anyway.
"Martian Dust' wasn't bad, but of course it's completely dated now."

"Nonsense!" snorted astrogator Mackay.  "The last stories are much the
best now that Gibson's got interested in fundamentals and has cut out
the blood and thunder."

This outburst from the mild little Scott was most
uncharacteristic.  Before anyone else could join in, Captain Norden
interrupted.

"We're not here to discuss literary criticism, if you don't mind.
There'll be plenty of time for that later.  But there are one or two
points the Corporation wants me to make clear before we begin.  Mr.
Gibson is a very important man-a distinguished guest-and he's been
invited to come on this trip so that he can write a book about it
later.  It's not just a publicity stunt."  ("Of course not,"
interjected Bradley, with heavy sarcasm.) "But naturally the
Corporation hopes that future clients won't be discouraged by what
they read.  Apart from that, we are making history; our maiden voyage
ought to be recorded properly.  So try and behave like gentlemen for a
while; Gibson's book will probably sell half a million copies, and your
future reputations may depend on your behaviour in these next three
months!"

That sounds dangerously like blackmail to me," said Bradley.

"Take it that way if you please," continued Norden cheerfully.  "of
course, rU explain to Gibson that he chit expect the service that will
be provided later when we've got stewards and cooks and Lord knows what.
He'll understand that, and won't expect breakfast in bed every
morning."

Will he help with the washing-up?" asked someone with a practical turn
of mind.

Before Norden could deal with this problem in social etiquette a sudden
buzzing came from the communications panel, and a voice began to call
from the grille.

"Station One calling Ares-your passenger's coming over."

Norden flipped a switch and replied, "O.K.-We're ready."  Then he turned
to the crew.  - "With all these hair-cuts around, : I think it's
graduation day at Alcatraz.  Go and meet him, Jimmy, and help him
through the airlock when the tender couples up."

Martin Gibson was still feeling somewhat exhilarated at having
surmounted his first major obstacle-the M.O. at Space Station One.  The
loss of gravity on leaving the station and crossing to the Ares in the
tiny, compressed air driven tender had scarcely bothered him at all,
but the sight that met his eyes when he entered Captain Norden's cabin
caused him a momentary relapse.  Even when there was no gravity, one
liked to pretend that some direction was "down," and it seemed natural
to assume that the surface on which chairs and table were bolted was
the floor.  Unfortunately the majority decision seemed otherwise, for
two members of the crew were hanging like stalactites from the
"ceiling," while two more were relaxed at quite arbitrary angles in
mid-air.  Only the Captain was, according to Gibson's ideas, the right
way up.  To make matters worse, their shaven heads gave these normally
quite presentable men a faintly sinister appearance, so that the whole
tableau looked like a family reunion at Castle Dracula.

There was a brief pause while the crew analysed Gibson.  They all
recognised the novelist at once; his face had been familiar to the
public ever since his first best-seller, Thunder in the Dawn, had
appeared nearly twenty -years ago.  He was a chubby yet sharp-featured
little rnskn- still on the right side of forty-five, and when he spoke-
his voice was surprisingly deep and resonant.

"This," said Captain Norden, working round the cabin from left to right,
"is my engineer, Lieutenant Hilton.  Ilds is Dr.  Mackay, our
navigator-only a Ph.D."  not a real doctor, like Dr.  Scott here.
lieutenant Bradley is Electronics Officer, and Jimmy Spencer, who met
you at the airlock, is our supernumerary and hopes to be Captain when
he grows up."

Gibson looked round the little group with some surprise.  There were so
few of them-five men and a boy! His face must have revealed his
thoughts, for Captain Norden laughed and continued.

"Not many of us, are there?  But you must remember that this ship is
almost automatic-and besides, nothing ever happens in space.  When we
start the regular Passenger run, there'll be a crew of thirty.  On this
trip, were making up the weight in cargo, so we're really travelling as
a fast freighter."

Gibson looked carefully at the men who would be his only companions for
the next three months.  His first reaction (he always distrusted first
reactions, but was at pains to note them) was one of astonishment that
they seemed so ordinary-when one made allowance for such superficial
matters as their odd attitudes and temporary baldness.  There was no
way of guessing that they belonged to a profession more romantic than
any that the world had known since the last cowboys traded in their
broncos for helicopters.

At a signal which Gibson did not intercept, the others took their leave
by launching themselves with fascinatingly effortless precision through
the open doorway.  Captain Norden settled down, in his seat again and
offered Gibson a cigarette.  The author accepted it doubtfully..  "You
don't mind smoking?"  he asked.  "Doesn't it waste oxygen?"

"There'd be a mutiny," laughed Norden, "if I had to ban smoking for
three months.  In any case, the 'oxygen consumption's negligible."

Captain Norden, thought Gibson a little ruefully, was not fitting at
all well into the expected pattern.  The skipper of a space-liner,
according to the best--or at least the most popular literary tradition,
should be a grim led keen-eyed veteran who had spent half his life in
the ether and could navigate across the Solar System by the seat of his
pants, thanks to his uncanny knowledge of the space ways  He must also
be a martinet; when he gave orders, his officers must jump to attention
(not an easy thing under zero gravity), salute smartly, and depart at
the double.

Instead, the captain of the Ares was certainly less than forty, and
might have been taken for a successful business executive.  As for
being a martinet---so far Gibson had detected no signs of discipline
whatsoever.  This impression, he realised later, was not strictly
accurate.  The only discipline aboard the Ares was entirely
self-imposed; that was the only form possible among the type Of men who
composed her crew.

"So you've never been in space before," said Norden, looking
thoughtfully at his passenger.

"I'm afraid not.  I made several attempts to get on the lunar run, but
it's absolutely impossible unless You're on official business.  It's a
pity that space-travel's still so infernally expensive."

Norden smiled.

"We hope the Ares will do something to change that.  I must say he
added, "that you seem to have managed to write quite a lot about the
subject with ah-the Inimimum of practical experience.

"Oh, that," said Gibson airily, With what he hoped was a light laugh.
"It's a common delusion that authors must have experienced everything
they describe in their books.  I read all I could about space-travel
when I was younger and did my best to get the local colour right.  Don't
forget that when my interplanetary novels were written in the early
days-I've hardly touched the subject in the last few years.  It's
rather surprising that people still associate my name with it."

Norden wondered how much of this modesty was assumed.  Gibson must know
perfectly well that it was his space-travel novels that had made him
famous-and had prompted the Corporation to invite him on this trip. The
whole situation, Norden realised, had some highly entertaining
possibilities.  But they would have to wait; in the mean tim he must
explain to this landlubber the routine of life aboard the private world
of the Ares.

"We keep normal Earth-time--Greenwich Meridian-aboard the ship and
everything shuts down at 'night.  There are no watches, as there used to
be in the old days; the instrments- can take over when we're sleeping.
so we aren't on continuous duty.  That's one reason why we can manage
with such a small crew.  On this trip, as theres plenty of space,
we've all got separate cabins.  Yours is a regular passenger stateroom;
the only one that's fitted up, as it happens.  I think you'll find it
comfortable.  Is all your cargo aboard?  How much did they let you
take?" A hundred kilos.  It's in the airlock."

"A hundred kilos?"  Norden managed to repress his amammt The fellow
must be emigrating--taking all his family heirlooms with him.  Norden
had the true astronaut's horror of surplus mass, and did not doubt that
Gibson was carrying a lot of unnecessary rubbish.  However, if the
Corporation had O.K.'d it, and the authorised load wasn't exceeded, he
had nothing to complain about..  I'll get Jimmy to take you to your
room. he's our odd job man for this- trip, working his passage and
learning something about spaceflight.  Most of us start that way,
signing up for the lunar run during college vacations.  Jimmy's quite a
bright lad-lies already got his Bachelor's degree."

By now Gibson was beginning to take it quite for granted that the
cabin-boy would be a college graduate.  He followed Jimmy-who seemed
somewhat overawed by his presence-to the passengers' quarters.

The stateroom was small, but beautifully planned and designed in
excellent taste.  Ingenious lighting and mirror faced walls made it
seem much larger than it really was, and the pivoted bed could be
reversed during the "day- to act as a table.  There were very few
reminders of the absence of gravity; everything had been done to make
the traveller feel at home.

For the next hour Gibson sorted out his belongings and experimented
with the room's gadgets and controls.  The device that pleased him most
was a shaving mirror which, when a button was pressed, transformed
itself into a Porthole looking out on the stars.  He wondered Just how
it was done.

At last everything was stowed away where he could find it; there was
absolutely nothing else for him to do.  He lay down on the bed and
buckled the elastic belts around his chest and thighs.  The illusion of
weight was not very convincing, but it was better than nothing and did
give some sense of a vertical direction.

Lying at peace in the bright little room that would be kis world for
the next hundred days, he could forget the disappointments and petty
annoyances that had marred his departure from Earth.  There was nothing
to worry about now; for the first time in almost as long as he could
remember, he had given his future entirely into the keeping of others.
Engagements, lecture appointments, deadlines-all these things he had
left behind on Earth.  "The sense of blissful relaxation was too good
to last, but he would let his mind savour it while he could.

A series of apologetic knocks on the cabin door roused Gibson from
sleep an indeterminate time later.  For a moment he .  did not realise
where he was; then full consciousness came back; he unclipped the
retaining straps and thrust himself off the bed.  As his movements were
still poorly coordinated he had to make a carom off the nominal ceiling
before reaching the door.  Jimmy Spencer stood there, slightly out of
breath.

"Captain's compliments, sir, and would.  you like to come and see the
take-off?"

"I certainly would," said Gibson.  "Wait until I get my camera."  He
reappeared a moment later carrying a brand-new
Leica XXA, at which Jimmy stared with undisguised envy, and festooned
with auxiliary lenses and exposure meters.  Despite these handicaps,
they quickly reached the observation gallery, which ran like a circular
belt around the body of the Ares.

For the first time Gibson saw the stars in their full glory, no longer
dimmed either by atmosphere or by darkened glass, for he was on the
night side of the ship and the sun-filters had been drawn aside.  The
Ares, unlike the space-station, was not turning on her axis but was
held in the rigid reference system of her gyroscopes so that the stars
were fixed and motionless in her skies.

As he gazed on the Story he had so often, and so vainly, tried to
describe in his books, Gibson found it very hard to analyse his
emotions-and he hated to waste an emotion that might profitably be
employed in print.  Oddly enough neither the brightness not the sheer
numbers of the stars made the greatest impression an his mind.  He had
seen skies little inferior to this from the tops of mountains on Earth,
or from the observation decks of strato liners but never before had he
felt so vividly the sense that the stars were all around him, down to
the horizon he no longer Possessed.  and even below, under his very
feet.

Space Station One was a complicated, brightly polished toy floating in
nothingness a few metres beyond the port.  There was no way in which
its distance or size could be judged, for there was nothing familiar
about its sham and the sense of perspective seemed to have failed.
Earth and Sun were both invisible, hidden behind the body of the
ship.

Startlingly close, a disembodied voice came suddenly from a hidden
speaker.

"One hundred seconds to Bring.  Please take your positions."

Gibson automatically tensed himself and turned to Jimmy for advice.
Before he could frame any questions, his guide said hastily, "I must
get back on duty," and disappeared in a graceful power-dive, leaving
Gibson alone with his thoughts.

he next minute and a half passed with remarkable slowness, punctuated
though it was with frequent time checks from the speakers.  Gibson
wondered who the announcer was; it did not sound like Norden's voice,
and probably it was merely a recording, operated by the au- 3

toniatic circuit which must now have taken over control of the ship.

"Twenty seconds to go.  Thrust will take about ten seconds to build
up."

"Ten seconds to go."

"Five seconds, four, three, two,

Very gently, something took hold of Gibson and slid him down the
curving side of the porthole-studded wall on to what had suddenly
become the floor.  It was hard to realise that up and down had returned
once more, harder still to connect their reappearance with that-
distant, attenuated thunder that had broken in upon the silence of the
ship.  Far away in the, second sphere that was the other half of the
Ares, in that mysterious, forbidden world of dying atoms and automatic
machines which no man could ever enter and live, the forces that
powered the stars themselves were being unleashed.  Yet there was none
of that sense of mounting, pitiless acceleration that always
accompanies the take-off of a chemically propelled rocket The Ares had
unlimited space in which to manauvre; she could take as long as she
pleased to break free from her present orbit and crawl slowly out into
the transfer hyperbola that would lead her to Mars.  In any case, the
utmost power of the atomic drive could move her two thousand-ton mass
with an acceleration of only a tenth of a gravity; at the moment it was
throttled back to less than half of this small value.

It did not take Gibson long to re-orientate himself.  The ship's
acceleration was so low-it gave him, he calculated, an effective weight
of less than four kilogrammes-that his movements were still
practically unrestricted.  Space Station One had not moved from its
apparent position, and he had to wait almost a minute before he could
detect that the Ares was, in fact, slowly drawing away from it.  Then
he belatedly remembered his camera, and began to record the departure.
When he had finally settled (he hoped) the tricky problem of the right
exposure to give a small, brilliantly lit object against a jet black
background, the station was already appreciably more distant In lea
than ten minutes, it had dwindled to a distant point of light that was
hard to distinguish from the stars.

When Space Station One had vanished completely, Gibson went round to
the day side of the ship to take some photographs of the receding
Earth.  It was a huge, thin crescent when he first saw it, far too
large for the eye to take in at a single glance.  As he watched, he
could see that it was slowly waxing, for the A res must make at least
one more circuit before she could break away and spiral out towards
Mars.  It would he a good hour before the Earth was appreciably smaller
and in that time it would pass again from new to full.

Well, this is it, thought Gibson.  Down there is all my past life, and
the lives of all my ancestors back to the first blob of jelly in the
first primeval sea.  No colonist or explorer setting sail from his
native land ever 'left so much behind as I am leaving now.  Down
beneath those clouds lies the whole of human history; soon I shall be
able to eclipse with my little finger what was, until a lifetime ago,
all of Mans'dominion and everything that his art had saved from time.

This inexorable drawing away from the known into the unknown had almost
the finality of death.  Thus must the naked soul, leaving all its
treasures behind it, go out at List into the darkness and the night.

Gibson was still watching at the observation post when, more than an
hour later, the Ares finally reached escape velocity and was free from
Earth.  There was no way of telling that this moment had come and
passed, for "Earth still dominated the sky and the motors still
maintained their muffled, distant thunder.  Another ten hours of
continuous operation would be needed before they had completed their
task and could be-closed down for the rest of the voyage.

Gibson was sleeping when that moment came.  The sudden silence, the
complete loss of even the slight gravity the ship had enjoyed these
last few hours, brought him back to a twilight sense of awareness.  He
looked dreamily around the darkened room until his eye found the little
pattern of stars framed in the porthole.  They were, of 'course,
utterly motionless.  It was impossible to believe that the A res was
now racing out from the Earth's orbit at a speed so great that even the
Sun could never bold her back.

Sleepily, he tightened the fastenings of his bedclothes to prevent
himself drifting out into the room.  It would be nearly a hundred days
before he had any sense of weight gain.



The same pattern of stars filled the porthole when a series of
bell-like notes tolling from the ship's public address system woke
Gibson from a comparatively'dreamless sleep.  He dressed in some haste
and hurried out to the observation deck, wondering what had happened to
Earth overnight.

It is very disconcerting, at least to an inhabitant of Earth, to see
two moons in the sky at once.  But there they were, side by side, both
in their first quarter, and one about twice as large as the other.  It
was several seconds before Gibson realised that he was looking at Moon
and Earth together-and several seconds more before he finally grasped
the fact that the smaller and more distant crescent was his own
world.

The Ares was not, unfortunately, passing very close to the Moon, but
even so it was more than ten times as large as Gibson had ever seen it
from the Earth.  The interlocking chains of crater-rings were clearly
visible along the ragged line separating day from night, and the still
uniffurninated disc could be faintly seen by the reflected earthlight
falling upon it.  And surely-43ibson bent suddenly forward, wondering
if his eyes had tricked him.  Yet there was no doubt of it: down in the
midst of that cold and faintly gleaming land, waiting for the dawn that
was still many days away, minute sparks of light were burning like
fireflies in the dusk.  They had not been there fifty years ago; they
were the lights of the first lunar cities, telling the stars that life
had come at last to the Moon after a billion years of waiting.

A discreet cough from nowhere in particular interrupted Gibson's
reverie.  "Men a slightly overamplified voice remarked in a
conversational tone:

"If Mr.  Gibson will kindly come to the mess-room, he will find some
tepid coffee and a few flakes of cereal still left on the table."  He
glanced hurriedly at his watch.  He had completely forgotten about
breakfast-an unprecedented phenomenon.  No doubt someone had gone to
look for him in his cabin and, failing to find him there, was paging
him through the ships public address system.

When he burst apologetically into the mess-room he found the crew
engaged in technical controversy concerning the merits of various types
of spaceships.

While he ate, Gibson watched the little group of arguing men, fixing
them in his mind and noting their behaviour and characteristics.
Norden's introduction had merely served to give them labels; as yet
they were not definite personalities to him.  It was curious to think
that before the voyage had ended, he would probably know every one of
them better than most of his acquaintances back on Earth.  There could
be no secrets and no masks aboard the tiny world of the Ares.  I

At the moment, Dr.  Scott was talking.  (Later, Gibson would re aWe
that there was nothing very, unusual about this.) He seemed a somewhat
excitable character, inclined to lay down.  the law at a momenea
provocation on subjects about which he could not possibly be qualified
to speak.  His most successful interrupter was Bradley, the electronics
and communications expert-a dryly cynical person who seemed to take a
sardonic pleasure in verbal sabotage.  From time to time he would throw
a small bombshell Into the conversation which would halt Scott for a
moment, though never for long.  Mackay, the little Scots mathematician,
also entered the battle from time to time, speaking rather quickly in a
precise, almost pedantic fashion.  He would, Gibson thought have been
more at home in a university common-room than on a spaceship.

Captain Norden appeared to be acting as a not entirely disinterested
umpire, supporting first one side and then the other in an effort to
prevent any conclusive victory.  Young Spencer was already at work, and
Hilton, the only remaining member of the crew, had taken no part in the
discussion.  The engineer was sitting quietly watching the others with
a detached amusement, and his face was hauntingly familiar to Gibson.
Where had they met before?  Why, of course-what a fool he was not to
have realised this was the Hilton.  Gibson swung round in his chair so
that he could see the other more clearly.  His half-finished meal was
forgotten as he looked with awe and envy at the man who had brought the
Arcturus back to Mars after the greatest adventure in the history of
spaceflight.  Only six men had ever reached Saturn; and only three of
them were still alive.  Hilton had stood, with his lost companions, on
those far-off moons whose, very names were magic-Titan, Encladus,
Tethys, Rhea, Dione .. . He had seen the incomparable splendour of the
great rings spanning the sky in symmetry that seemed too perfect for
natures contriving.  He had been into that Ultima Thule in which
circled the cold outer giants of the St&s scattered family, and he had
returned again to the light and warmth of the inner worlds.  Yes,
thought Gibson, there are a good many things I want to talk to you
about before this trip's over.

he discussion group was breaking up as the various officers
drifted-literally-away to their posts, but Gib.  son's thoughts were
still circling Saturn as Captain Norden came across to him and broke
into his reverie.

"I don't know what sort of schedule you've planned," he said, "but I
suppose you'd like to look over our ship.  After all, that's whit
usually happens around this stage in one of your stories."  Gibson
smiled, somewhat mechanically.  He feared it was going to be some time
before he lived down his past.  "I'm afraid you're quite right there.
It's the easiest way, of course, of letting the reader know how things
work, and sketching in the locate of the plot.  Lucidly it's not so
important now that everyone knows exactly what a spaceship is like
inside.  One can take the technical details for granted, and get on
with the story.  But when I started writing about astronautics, back in
the '60's, one had to hold up the plot for thousands of words to
explain how the spacesuits worked, how the atomic drive operated, and
dear up anything else that might come into the story."

"Man I can take it," said Norden, with the most disarming of smiles,
'that there's not a great deal we can teach you about the Ares."

Gibson managed to summon up a blush.

"I'd appreciate it very much if you'd show me round whether you do it
according to the standard literary pattern or not."

"Very well," grinned Norden.  "Well start at the control room.  Come
along."

For the next two hours they floated along the labyrinth of corridors
that crossed and crisscrossed like arteries in the spherical body of
the Ares.  Soon, Gibson knew, the interior of the ship would be so
familiar to him that he could find his way blindfold from one end to
the other; ut he had already lost his way once and would do so again
before he had learned his way around.

As the ship was spherical, it had been divided into zones of latitude
like the Earth.  The resulting nomenclature was very useful, since it
at once gave a mental picture of the liners geography.  To go "North"
meant that one was heading for the control cabin and the crew's
quarters.  A trip to the Equator suggested that one was visiting either
the great dining-hall occupying most of the central plane of the ship,
or the observation gallery which completely encircled the liner The
Southern hemisphere was almost entirely fuel tank, with a few storage
holds and miscellaneous machinery.  Now that the Ares was no longer
using her motors, she had been swung round in space so that the
Northern Hemisphere was in perpetuil sunlight and the "uninhabited!"
Southern one in darkness.  At the South Pole itself was a small metal door
bearing a set of impressive official seals and the notice: "To be
Opened only under the Express Orders of the Captain or his Deputy."
Behind it lay the long, narrow tube connecting the main body of the
ship with the smaller sphere, a hundred metres away, which held the
power plant and drive units.  Gibson wondered what was the point of
having a door at all if no one could ever go through it; then he
remembered that there must be some provision to enable the servicing
robots of the Atomic Energy Commission to reach their work.

Strangely enough, Gibson received one of his strongest Impressions not
from the scientific and technical wonders of the ship, which Ike had
expected to see in any me, but from the empty passenger quarters-a
honeycomb of closely packed cells that occupied most of the North
Temperate Zone.  The impression was rather a disagreeable one.  A house
so new that no one has ever lived in it can be more lonely than an old,
deserted ruin that has once known life and may still be peopled by
ghosts.  The sense of desolate emptiness was very strong here in the
echoing, brightly lit corridors which would one day be crowded with
life, but which now lay bleak and lonely in the sunlight piped through
the walls--a sunlight much bluer than on Earth and therefore hard and
cold.

Gibson was quite exhausted, mentally and physically, when he got back
to his room.  Norden had been an altogether too conscientious guide,
and Gibson suspected that he had been getting some of his own back, and
thoroughly enjoying it.  He wondered exactly what his companions
thought of his literary activities; probably he would not be left in
ignorance for long.

He was lying in his bunk, sorting out his impressions, when there came
a modest knock on the door.

"Damn," said Gibson, quietly.  "Who's that?"  he continued, a little
louder.

"It's Jim-Spencer, Mr.  Gibson.  I've got a radiogram for YOU.

Young Jimmy floated into the room, bearing an envelope with the Signals
Officer's stamp.  It was sealed, but Gibson surmised that he was the
only person on the ship who didn't know its contents.  He had a shrewd
idea of what they would be, and groaned inwardly.  There was really
no-way of escape from Earth; it could catch you wherever you went.

The message was brief and contained only one redtilldant word:

NEW YORKER, REVUE DES QUATRE MON DES LIFE INTERPLANETARY WANT FIVE

THOUSAND WORDS EACEL

PLEASE RADIO BY NEXT SUNDAY.  LOVIL RU'M

Gibson sighed.  He had left Earth in such a rush that there had been no
time .  for a final consultation with his agent, Ruth Goldstein, apart
from a hurried phono-call half-way around the world.  But hold told her
quite clearly that he wanted to be left alone for a fortnight.  It
never made any difference, of course.  Ruth always went happily ahead,
confident that he would deliver the goods On time.  Well, for once he
wouldn't be bullied and she could darned well wait; he'd earned this
holiday.

He grabbed his scribbling pad and, while Jimmy gazed ostentatiously
elsewhere, wrote quickly:

SORRY.  EXCLusrvE RIGHTS ALREADY PROMISED TO SOUTH

ALABAMA PIG KEEPER AND POULTRY FANCIER.  WILL SEND

DETAILS ANY MONTH NOW.  WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO

POISON HARRY?  LOVE.  MART.

Harry was the literary, as opposed to the business, half of Goldstein
and Co.  He had been happily married to Ruth for over twenty years,
during the last fifteen of which Gibson had never ceased to remind them
both that they were getting in a rut and needed a change and that the
whole thing couldn't possibly last much longer.

Goggling slightly, Jimmy Spencer disappeared with this unusual message,
leaving Gibson alone with his thoughts.  Of course, he would have to
start work some time, but meanwhile his typewriter was buried down in
the hold where he couldn't see it.  He had even felt like.  attaching
one of those "NoT wANTEd iN SPACE-MAY BE SIXIWED iN vAcuum" labels, but
had manfully resisted the temptation.  Like most writers who had never
had to rely solely on their literary earnings, Gibson hated starting to
write.  Once he had begun, it was different ... sometimes.

His holiday lasted a full week.  At the end of that time, Earth was
merely the most brilliant of the stars and would soon be lost in the
glare of the Sun.  It was hard to believe that he had ever known any
life but that of the little, self-contained universe that was the Ares.
And its crew no longer consisted of Norden, Hilton, Mackay, Bradley,
and Scott-but of John, Fred, Angus, Owen, and Bob.

He had grown to know them all, though Hilton and Bradley had a curious
reserve that he had been unable to penetrate.  Each man was a definite
and sharply contrasted character; almost the only thing they had in
common was intelligence.  Gibson doubted if any of them had an- IQ.  of
less than 120, and he sometimes wriggled with embarrassment as he
remembered the crews he had imagined for some of his fictional
spaceships.  He -recalled Master Pilot Graham, from "Five Moons Too
Many"--one of his favourite characters.  Graham had been tough
(had he not once survived half a minute in vacuum before being able to
get to his spacesuit?) and he regularly disposed of a bottle of whisky
a day.  He was a distinct contrast to Dr.  Angus -Mackay, Ph.D.
(Astron.), F.R.A.S."  who was now sitting quietly in a corner reading a
much annotated copy of The Canterbury Tales" and taking an occasional
squirt from a bulbful of milk.

The mistake that Gibson had made, along with so many other writers back
in the '50's and '60's, was the assumption that there would be no
fundamental difference between ships of space and ships of the sea--or
between the men who manned them.  There were parallels, it was true,
but they were far outnumbered by the contrasts.  The reason was purely
technical, and should have been foreseen, but the popular writers of
the mid-century had taken the lazy course and had tried to use the
traditions of Herman Melville and Frank Dana in a medium for which they
were grotesquely unfitted.

A ship of space was much more like a stratosphere liner than anything
that had ever moved on the face of the ocean, and the technical
training of its crew was at much' higher level even than that required
in aviation.  A man like Norden had spent five years at college, three
years in space, and another two back at college on advanced
astronautical theory before qualifying for his present position.

Gibson was having a quiet game of darts with Dr.  Scott when the first
excitement of the voyage burst unexpectedly upon them.  There are not
many games of skill that can be played in space; for a long time cards
and chess had been the classical standbys until some ingenious
Englishman had decided that a flight of darts would perform very well
in the absence of gravity.  "The distance between thrower and board had
been increased to ten metres, but otherwise the game still obeyed the
rules that had been formulated over the centuries amid an atmosphere of
beer and tobacco smoke in English pubs.

Gibson had been delighted to find that he was quite good at the game.
He almost always managed to beat Scott, despite--or because of-the
other's elaborate technique.  This consisted of placing the "arrow"
carefully in mid-air, and then going back a couple of metres to squint
along it before smacking it smartly on its way.

Scott was optimistically aiming for a treble twenty when Bradley
drifted into the room bearing a signals form in his hand.

"Don't look now," he said in his soft, carefully modulated voice, "but
we're being followed."

Everyone gaped at him as he relaxed in the doorwaY.  Mackay was the
first to recover.  "Please elucidate," he said primly.

"Theres a Mark III carrier missile coming after us hell bent for leather.
Its just been launched from the Outer Station and should pass us in
four days.  They want me to catch it with our radio control as it goes
by, but with the dispersion it will have at this range that's asking a
lot.  I doubt if it will go within a hundred thousand kilometres Of
us."

"What's it in aid of?  Someone left their toothbrush behind?"

It seems to be carrying urgent medical supplies.  Here, Doc, you have a
look."

Dr.  Scott examined the message carefully.  "This is interesting.  They
think they've got an antidote for Martian fever.  It's a serum of some
kind; the Pasteur Institutes made It They must be pretty sure of the
stuff if they've gone to all this trouble to catch us."

"What, for heaven's sake, is a Mark III missile-not to mention Martian
fever?"  exploded Gibson at last

Dr.  Scott answered before anyone else could Set a word in.

"Martian fever isn't really a Martian disease.  It seems to be caused
by a terrestrial organism that we carried there and which Eked the new
climate more than the old one.  It has the same sort of affect as
malaria: people aren't often killed by it, but its economic effects are
very serious.  In any one year the percentage of man-hours lost----"

"Thank you very much.  I remember all about it now.  And the missile?"

Hilton slid smoothly into the conversation.

That's simply a little automatic rocket with radio control and a very
high terminal speed.  It's used to carry cargoes between the
space-stations, or to chase after space.  ships when they've left
anything behind.  When it gets into radio range It will pick up our
transmitter and home on to'us.  Key, Bob," he said itiddenly, turning
to Scott, "Why haven't they sent it direct .  to Mars?  It could get
there long before we do."

"Because its little passengers wouldn't like It.  I'll have to it up some
cultures for them to live in, and look after them like a nursemaid. Not
my usual line of business, but I think I can remember some of the stuff
I did at St.  T lomas .

"Wouldn't it be appropriate," said Mackay with one of his rare
attempts.  at humour, "if someone went and painted the Red Cross
outside?"

Gibson was thinking deeply.  "I was under the impression," he said
after a pause, "that life on Mars was very healthy, both physically and
psychologically."

"You mustn't believe all you read in books," drawled Bradley.  "Why
anyone should ever want to go to Mars I can't imagine.  It's flat, it's
cold, and it's full of miserable half-starved plants looking like
something out of Edgar Allan Poe.  We've sunk millions into the place
and haven't got a penny back.  Anyone who goes there of his own free
will should have his head exam med  Meamng no offence, of course."

Gibson only smiled amicably.  He had learned to discount Bradley's
cynicism by about ninety per cent; but he was never quite sure how far
the other was only pretending to be Insulting.  For once, kowever,
Captain Norden asserted his authority; not merely to stop Bradley from
getting away with it but to prevent such alarm and despondency from
spreading into prmL He gave his electronic officer an angry Sure.

"I ought to tell you, Martin," be said, "that although Mr.  Bradley
doesn't like Mars, he takes an equally poor view of Earth and Venus. So
don't let his opinions do press you.99

"I won't," laughed Gibson.  "But theres one thing I'd like to ask."

"What's that?"  said Norden anxiously.

"Does Mr.  Bradley take as 'poor a view," as you Put of Mr.  Bradley as
he does of everything else?"

"Oddly enough, he does," admitted Norden.  "that shows that one at
least of his Judgments is accurate."  "TotwU," murmured Bradley, for
once at a loss.  "I will retire in high dudgeon and compose a suitable
reply.  Meanwhile-" "Mac, will you get the missile's co-ordinates and
let me know when it should come into range?"

"All right," said Mackay absently.  He was deep in Chaucer



During the next few days Gibson was too busy with his own affairs to
take much part in the somewhat limited social life of the Ares.  His
conscience had smitten him, as it always did when he rested for more
than a week, and he was hard at work again.

The typewriter had been disentangled from his belongings and now
occupied the place of honour in the little cabin.  Sheets of manuscript
lay everywhere-Gibson was an untidy worker-and had to be prevented from
escaping by elastic bands.  There had been a lot, of trouble with the
flunsy carbon paper, which had a habit of getting into the airflow and
gluoing itself against the ventilator, but Gibson had now mastered the
minor techniques of Ufa under zero gravity It was amazing how quickly
one learned them, and how soon they became a part of everyday life.

Gibson had found it very hard to get his impressions of space down on
paper; one could not very well say "space is awfully big' and leave it
at that.  The take-off from Earth had taxed his skill to the utmost. He
had not actually lied, but anyone who read his dramatic description of
the Earth falling away beneath the blast of the rocket would certainly
never get the impression that the writer had then been in a state of
blissful unconsciousness, swiftly followed by a state of far from
blissful consciousness.

As soon as he had produced a couple of articles which would keep Ruth
happy for a while (she had meanwhile sent three further radiograms of
increasing asperity) he went Northwards to the Signals Office.  Bradley
received the sheets of MSS.  with marked lack of enthusiasm.

"I suppose this is going to happen every day from now on," he said
glumly.

"I hope so-but I'm afraid not.  It depends on my inspiration."

"There's a split infinitive right here on the top of page 2."

"Excellent; nothing like 'em."

"You've put "centrifugal" on page 3 where you mean "centripetal."

"Since I get paid by the word, don't you think it's generous of me to
use such long ones?"

"Here are two successive sentences on page 4 beginning with "And."

"Look here, are you going to send the damned stuff, or do I have to do
it myself?"

Bradley grinned.  -I'd like to see you try.  Seriously, though, I
should have warned you to use a black ribbon.  Contrast isn't so good
with blue, and though the facsimile sender win be able to handle it all
right at this range, when we get farther away from Earth it's important
to have a nice, clean signal."

As he spoke, Bradley was slipping the quarto sheets into the tray of
the automatic transmitter.  Gibson watched, fascinated, as they
disappeared one by one into the maw of the machine and emerged five
seconds later into the wire collecting-basket.  It was strange to think
that his words were now racing out through space in a continuous
stream, getting a million kilometres farther away every three
seconds.

He was just collecting his MSS.  sheets again when a buzzer sounded
somewhere in the jungle of dials, switches and meter panels that
covered practically the entire wall of the little office.  Bradley shot
across to one of his receivers and proceeded to do incomprehensible
things with great rapidity.  A piercing whistle started to come from a
loudspeaker.

"The carriers in range at last," said Bradley, "but its a long way
off-at a guess I'd say it will miss us by a hundred thousand
kilometres."

"What can we do about that?"

"Very little.  I've got our own beacon switched on, and if it picks up
our signals it will home on to us automatically and navigate itself to
within a few kilometres of us."

"And if it doesn't pick us up?"

"Then it will just go shooting on out of the Solar System.  It's
travelling fast enough to escape from the Sun; so are we, for that
matter."  "That's a cheerful thought.  How long would it take us?"

"To do what?"  "To leave the system."

"A couple of years, perhaps.  Better ask Mackay.  I don't know all the
answers-I'm not like one of the characters in your books!"

"You may be one yet," said Gibson darkly, and withdrew.

The approach of the missile had added an unexpected-and welcome-element
of excitement to life aboard the Ares.  Once the first fine careless
rapture had worn off, space-travel could become exceedingly monotonous.
It would be different in future days, when the liner was crowded with
life, but there were times when her present loneliness could be very
depressing.

The missile sweepstake had been organised by Dr.  Scott, but the prizes
were held firmly by Captain Norden.  Some calculations of Mackay's
indicated that the projectile would miss the Ares by a hundred and
twenty-five thousand kilometres, with an uncertainty of plus or minus
thirty thousand.  Most of the bets had been placed near the most
probable value, but some pessimists, mistrusting Mackay completely, had
gone out to a quarter of a million kilometres.  The bets weren't in
cash, but in far more useful commodities such as cigarettes, candies,
and other luxuries.  Since the crew's personal weight allowance was
strictly limited, these were far more valuable than pieces of paper
with marks on them.  Mackay had even thrown a half-bottle of whisky
into the pool, and had thereby staked a claim to a volume of space
about twenty thousand kilometres across.  He never drank the stuff
himself, he explained, but was taking some to a compatriot on Mars, who
couldn't get the genuine article and was unable to afford the passage
back to Scotland.  No one believed him, which, as the story was more or
less true, was a little unfair.

"jimmy?" "Yes, Captain Norden."  "Have you finished checking the oxygen
ga ups  "Yes, sir.  All O.K."

"What about that automatic recording gear those physicists have put in
the hold?  Does it look as if it's still working?"

"Well, it's making the same sort of noises as it did when we
started."

"Good.  You've cleaned up that mess in the kitchen where Mr.  Hilton
let the milk boil over?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Then you've really finished everything?"

"I suppose so, but I was hoping-"

"That's fine.  I've got a rather interesting job for you something
quite out of the usual run of things.  Mr.  Gibson wants to start
polishing up his astronautics.  Of course, any of us could tell him all
he wants to know, but---you're the last one to come from college and
maybe you could put things across better.  You've not forgotten the
beginners difficulties-we'd tend to take too much for granted.  It
won't take much of your time-just go along when he asks and deal with
his questions.  I'm sure you can manage."

Exit Jimmy, glumly.

"Come in," said Gibson, without bothering to look up from his
typewriter.  The door opened behind him and Jimmy Spencer came floating
into the room.

"Here's the book, Mr.  Gibson.  I think it will give you everything you
want.  It's Richardson's "Elements of Astronautics," special
light-weight edition."

He laid the volume in front of Gibson, who turned over the thin sheets
with an interest that rapidly evaporated as he saw how quickly the
proportion of words per page diminished.  He finally gave up halfway
through the book after coming across a page where the only sentence was
"Substituting for the value of perihelion distance from Equation 15.3,
we obtain ... " All else was mathematics.

"Are you quite sure this is the most elementary book in the ship?"  he
asked doubtfully, not wishing to disappoint Jimmy.  He had been a
little surprised when Spencer had been appointed as his unofficial
tutor, but had been shrewd enough to guess the reason.  Whenever there
was a job that no one else wanted to do, it had a curious tendency to
devolve upon Jimmy.

"Oh yes, it really Is elementary.  It manages with aut vector notation
and doe sift touch perturbation theory.  You should see some of the
books Mackay has in his room.  Each equation takes a couple of pages of
print."

"Well, thanks anyway.  I'll give you a shout when I get stuck.  It's
about twenty years since I did any maths, though I used to be quite hot
at it once.  Let me know when you want the book back."

"There's no hurry, Mr.  Gibson.  I don't very often use it now I've got
on to the advanced stuff."

"Oh, before you go, maybe you can answer a point that's just cropped
up.  A lot of people are still worried about meteors, it seems, and
I've been asked to give the latest information on the subject.  Just
how dangerous are they?"

Jimmy pondered for a moment.

"I could tell you, roughly," he said, "but if I were you I'd see Mr.
Mackay.  He's got tables giving the exact figures."

"Right, I'll do that."

Gibson could quite easily have rung Mackay but any excuse to leave his
work was too good to be missed.  He found the little astrogator playing
tunes on the big electronic calculating machine.

"Meteors," said Mackay.  "Ah, yes, a very interesting subject.  I'm
afraid, though, that a great deal of highly misleading information has
been published about them.  It wasn't so long ago that people believed
a spaceship would be riddled as soon as it left atmosphere."

"Some of them still do," replied Gibson.  "At least, they think that
large-scale passenger travel won't be safe."

Mackay gave a snort of disgust.

"Meteors are considerably less dangerous than lightning and the biggest
normal one is a lot smaller than a pea."

"But, after all, one ship has been damaged by them!"

"You mean the Star Queen?  One serious accident in the last five years
is quite a satisfactory record.  No ship has ever actually been lost
through meteors."

"What about the Palls?"

"No one knows what happened to her.  That's only the popular theory.
It's not at all popular among the experts."

"So I can tell the public to forget all about the matter?"

"Yes.  Of course, there is the question of dust.

"Well, if by meteors you mean fairly large particles, from a couple of
millimetres upwards, you needn't worry.  But dust is a nuisance,
particularly on space-stations.  Every few years someone has to go over
the skin to locate the punctures.  They're usually far too small to be
visible to the eye, but a bit of dust moving at fifty kilometres a
second can get through a surprising thickness of metal."  This sounded
faintly alarming to Gibson, and Mackay hastened to reassure him.

"There really isn't the slightest need to worry," he repeated.  There's
always a certain hull leakage taking place; the air supply simply takes
it in its stride."

However busy Gibson might be, or pretend to be, he always found time to
wander restlessly around the echoing labyrinths of the ship, or to sit
looking at the stars from the equatorial observation galley.  He had
formed a habit of going there during the daily concert.  At 15:00 hours
precisely the ship public address system would burst into life and for
an hour the music of Earth would whisper or roar through the empty
passageways of the Ares.  Every day a different person would choose the
programmes, so one never knew what was coming though after a while it
was easy to guess the identity of the arranger.  Norden played light
classics and opera; Hilton practically nothing but Beethoven and
Tchaikovsky.  They were regarded as hopeless lowbrows by Mackay and
Bradley, who indulged in astringent chamber music and atonal
cacophonies of which no one' else could make head or tail, or indeed
particularly desired to.  The ships micro-library of books and music
was so extensive that it would outlast a lifetime in space.  It held,
in fact, the equivalent of a quarter of a million books and some
thousands of orchestral works, all recorded in electronic patterns,
awaiting the orders that would bring them into life.

Gibson was sitting in the observation gallery, trying to see how many
of the Pleiades he could resolve with the naked eye, when a small
projectile whispered past his ear and attached itself with a "thwackl"
to the glass of the port, where it bung vibrating like an arrow.  At
first sight, indeed, this seemed exactly what it was and for a moment
Gibson wondered if the Cherokee were on the warpath again.  Then he saw
that a large rubber sucker had replaced the head, while from the base,
just behind the feathers, a long, thin thread trailed away into the
distance.  At the end of the thread was Dr.  Robert Scott, M.D.,
hauling himself briskly along like an energetic spider.

Gibson was still composing some suitably pungent remark when, as usual,
the doctor got there first.

"Don't you think its cute?"  he said.  "It's got a range of twenty
metres---only weighs half a kilo, and I'm going to patent it as soon as
I get back to Earth."

"Why?"  said Gibson, in tones of resignation.

"Good gracious, can't you see?  Suppose you want to get from one place
to another inside a space-station where there's no rotational gravity.
All you've got to do is to fire at any flat surface near your
destination, and reel in the cord.  It gives you a perfect anchor until
you release the sucker."

"And just what's wrong with the usual way of getting around?"

"When you've been in space as long as I have," said Scott smugly,
"you'll know what's wrong.  There are plenty of handholds for you to
grab in a ship like this.  But suppose you want to go over to a blank
wall at the other side of a room, and you launch yourself through the
air from wherever you're standing.  What happens?  Well, you've got to
break your fall somehow, usually with your hands, unless you can twist
round on the way.  Incidentally, do you know the commonest complaint a
spaceship M.O. has to deal with?  It's sprained wrists, and that's why.
Anyway, even when you get to your target you'll bounce back unless you
can grab hold of something.  You might even get stranded in mid-air.  I
did that once in Space Station Three, in one of the big hangars.  The
nearest wall was fifteen metres away and I couldn't reach

"Couldn't you spit your way towards it?"  said Gibson solemnly.  "I
thought that was the approved way out of the difficulty."

"You try it someday and see how far it gets you.  Anyway, it's not
hygienic.  Do you know what I had to do?  It was most embarrassing.  I
was only wearing shorts and vest, as usual, and I calculated that they
had about a hundredth of my mass.  If I could throw them away at thirty
metres a second, I could reach the wall in about a minute."

"And did you?"

"Yes.  But the Director was showing his wife round the Station that
afternoon, so now you know why I'm reduced to earning my living on an
old hulk like this, working my way from port to port when I'm not
running a shady surgery down by the docks."

"I think you've missed your vocation," said Gibson admiringly.  "You
should be in my line of business."

"I don't think you believe me," complained Scott bitterly

"That's putting it mildly.  Let's look at your toy."

Scott handed it over.  It was a modified air pistol, with a
spring-loaded reel of nylon thread attached to the butt.

"It looks

"If you say it's like a ray-gun I'll certify you as infectious.  Three
people have made that crack already."

"Then it's a good job you interrupted me," said Gibson, handing the
weapon back to the proud inventor.  "By the way, how's Owen getting on?
Has he contacted that missile yet?"

"No, and it doesn't look as if he's going to.  Mac says it will pass
about a hundred and forty-five thousand kilometres away-certainly out
of range.  It's a damn shame; theres not another ship going to Mars
for months, which is why they were so anxious to catch us."

"Owen's a queer bird, isn't he?" said Gibson with some inconsequence.

"Oh, he's not so bad when you get to know him.  It's quite untrue what
they say about him poisoning his wife.  She drank herself to death of
her own free will," replied Scott with relish.

Owen Bradley, Ph.D."  M.I.E.R, MIRE."  was very annoyed with life. Like
every man aboard the Ares, he took his job with a passionate
seriousness, however much he might pretend to joke about it.  For the
last twelve hours he had scarcely left the communications cabin, hoping
that the continuous carrier wave from the missile would break into the
modulation that would tell him it was receiving his signals and would
begin to steer itself towards the Ares.  But it was completely
indifferent, and he had no right to expect otherwise.  The little
auxiliary beacon which was intended to call such projectiles had a
reliable range of only twenty thousand kilometres; though that was
ample for all normal purposes, it was quite inadequate now.

Bradley dialled the astrogation office on the ship's intercom, and
Mackay answered almost at once.

"What's the latest, Mac?"

"It won't come much closer.  We just reduced the last bearing and
smoothed out the errors.  It's now a hundred and fifty thousand
kilometres away, travelling on an almost parallel course.  Nearest
point will be a hundred and forty-four thousand, in about three hours.
So Ive lost the sweep--and I suppose we lose the missile."

"Looks like it, I'm afraid," grunted Bradley, 'but we'll see.  I'm going down to the workshop."

"Whatever for?"

"To make a one-man rocket and go after the blasted thing, of course.
That wouldn't take more than half an hour in one of Martin's stories.
Come down and help me."  Mackay was nearer the ship's equator than
Bradley, consequently he had reached the workshop at the South Pole
first and was waiting in mild perplexity when Bradley arrived,
festooned with lengths of coaxial cable he had collected from stores.
He outlined his plan briefly.

"I should have done this before, but it will make rather a mess and
I'm. one of those people who always go on hoping till the last moment
The trouble with our beacon Is that it radiates in all directions-it
had to, of course, since we never know where a carrier's coming from.
I'm going to build a beam array and squirt all the power I'Ve got after
our runaway."

He produced a rough sketch of a simple Yagi  aerial and explained it
swiftly to Mackay.  This dipoles the actual radiator-the others are
directors and reflector Antique, but it's easy to make and it should do
the Job.  Call Hilton if You want any help.  How long will it take?"

Mackay, who for a man of his tastes and interests had a positively
atavistic skill witk his hands, glanced at the drawings and the little
pile of materials Bradley had gathered.

"About an hour," he said, already at WO& "Where arG you going now?"

"I've got to go out on the hull and disconnect the plumbing from the
beacon transmitter.  Bring the array round to the airlock when you're
ready, wi I you?"

Mackay knew little about radio, but he understood dearly enough what
Bradley was trying to do.  At the moment the tiny beacon on the Ares
was broadcasting its power over the entire sphere of space.  Bradley
was about to disconnect it from its present aerial system and Rim its
whole output accurately towards the fleeing projectile, thus increasing
its range manyfold.

It was about an hour later that Gibson met Mackay hurrying through the
ship behind a flimsy structure of parallel wires, spaced apart by
plastic rods.  He gaped at it in amazement as he followed Mackay to the
lock, where Bradley was already waiting impatiently in his cumbersome
spacesuit, the helmet open beside him.

"What's the nearest star to the missiles Bradley asked.

Mackay thought rapidly.

"It's nowhere near the ecliptic now," he mused.  "The last figures I
got were-let's see-declination fifteen something north, right ascension
about fourteen hours.  I suppose that will be-I never can remember
these things!  somewhere in 116otes.  Oh yes-it won't be far from
Arcturus: not more than ten degrees away, I'd say at a guess.  I'll
work out the exact figures in a minute."  "That's good enough to start
with.  I'll swing the be around, anyway.  Who's in the Signals Cabin
nowr "The Skipper and Fred.  I've rung them up and they're listening to
the monitor.  I'll keep in touch with you through the bull
transmitter."

Bradley snapped the helmet shut and disappeared through the airlock.
Gibson watched him go with some envy.  He had always wanted to wear a
spacesuit, but though he had raised the matter on several occasions
Norden had told him it was strictly against the rules.  Spacesuits were
very complex mechanisms and he might make a mistake in one-and then
there would be hell to pay and perhaps a funeral to be arranged under
rather novel circumstances.

Bradley wasted no time admiring the stars once he had launched himself
through the outer door.  He jetted slowly over the gleaming expanse of
hull with his reaction units until he came to the section of plating he
had already removed.  Underneath it a network of cables and wires laY
nakedly exposed to the blinding sunlight, and one of the cables had
already been cut.  He made a quick temporary connection, shaking his
head sadly at the horrible mismatch that would certainly reflect half
the power right back to the transmitter.  Then he found Arcturus and
aimed the beam towards it.  After waving it around hopefully for a
while, he switched on his suit radio.  "Any luck?" he asked
anxiously.

Mackay's despondent voice came through the loudspeaker.

"Nothing at all.  I'll switch you through to communications."

Norden confirmed the news.

"The signal's still coming in, but it hasn't acknowledged us yet."

Bradley was taken aback.  He had been quite sure that this would do the
trick; at the very least, he must have increased the beacon's range by
a factor of ten in this one direction.  He waved the beam around for a
few more minutes, then gave it up.  Already he could visualise the
little missile with its strange but precious cargo slipping silently
out of his grasp, out towards the unknown limits of the Solar
System-and beyond.

He called Mackay again.

"Listen, Mae," he said urgently, "I want you to check those coordinates
again and then come out here and have a shot your selL I'm going in to
doctor the transmitters

When Mackay had relieved him, Bradley hurried back to his cabin.  He
found Gibson and the rest of the crew gathered glumly round the monitor
receiver from which the unbroken whistle from the distant, and now
receding, missile was coming with a maddening indifference.

There were very few traces of his normally languid, almost feline
movements as Bradley pulled out circuit diagrams by the dozen and tore-
into the communications rack.  It took him only a moment to run a pair
of wires into the heart of the beacon transmitter.  As he worked, he
fired a series of questions at Hilton.

"You, know something about these carrier missiles.  How long must it
receive our signal to give it time to home accurately on to us?"

"that depends, of course, on its relative speed and several other
factors.  In this case, since it's a low-acceleration job, a good ten
minutes, I should say."

"And then it doesn't matter even if our beacon fails?"

"No.  As soon as the carrier's vectored itself towards you, you can go
off the air again.  Of course, yo-have to send it another signal when
it passes right by you, but that should be easy."

How long will it take to get here if I do, catch it?"  "A couple of
days, maybe less.  What are you trying out now?"

"The power amplifiers of this transmitter run at seven hundred and
fifty volts.  I'm taking a thousand-volt line from another supply,
that's all.  It will be a short life and a merry one, but we'll double
or treble the output while the tubes last."

He switched on the intercom and called Mackay, who, not knowing the
transmitter had been switched off for some time, was still carefully
holding the array lined up on Arcturus, like an armour-plated William
Tell aiming a crossbow.

"Hello, Mac, you all set?"

"I am practically ossified," said Mackay with dignity.  "How much
longer------"

"We're just starting now.  Here goes."

Bradley threw the switch.  Gibson, who had been expecting sparks to
start flying, was disappointed.  Everything seemed exactly as before;
but Bradley, who knew better, looked at his meters and bit his lips
savagely.

It would take radio waves only half a second to bridge the gap to that
tiny, far-off rocket with its wonderful automatic mechanisms that must
remain forever lifeless unless this signal could reach them.  The
half-second passed, and the next.  There had been time for the reply,
but still that maddening heterodyne whistle came unbroken from the
speaker.  Then, suddenly, it stopped.  For an age there was absolute
silence.  A hundred and fifty thousand kilometres away, the robot was
investigating this new phenomenon.  It took perhaps five seconds to
make up its mind-and the carrier wave broke through again, but now
modulated into an endless string of "beep-beep-beeps."

Bradley checked the enthusiasm in the cabin.

"We're not out of the wood yet," he said.  "Remember it's got to hold
our signal for ten minutes before it can complete its course
alterations."  He looked anxiously at his meters and wondered how long
it would be before the output tubes gave up the unequal battle.

They lasted seven minutes, but Bradley had spares ready and was on the
air again in twenty seconds.  The replacements were still operating
when the missile carrier wave changed its modulation once more, and
with a sigh of relief Bradley shut down the maltreated beacon.

"You can come indoors now, Mac," he called into the microphone.  "We
made it."  "Thank heavens for that.  I've nearly got sunstroke, as well
as calcification of the joints, doing this Cupid's bow act out here."
"When you've finished celebrating," complained Gibson, who had been an
interested but baffled spectator, "perhaps you'll tell me in a few
short, well-chosen phrases just how you managed to pull this particular
rabbit out of the hat."  "By beaming our beacon signal and then
overloading the transmitter, of course."  "Yes, I know that.  What I
don't understand is why you've switched it off again."  "The
controlling gear in the missile has done its job," explained Bradley,
with the air of a professor of philosophy talking to a mentally
retarded child. "That first signal indicated that it had detected our
wave; we knew then that it was automatically vectoring on to us.  That
took it several minutes, and when it had finished it shut off its
motors, and sent us the second signal.  It's still at almost the same
distance, of course, but its heading towards us now and should be
passing in a couple of days.  I'll have the beacon running again then.
That will bring it to within a kilometre or less."  there was a gentle
cough at the back of the room.  "I hate to remind you, sir .. ."  began
Jimmy.  Norden laughed.  "O.K.-I'll pay up.  Here are the keys-locker
26.  What are you going to do with that bottle of whisky?"  "I was
thinking of selling it back to Dr.  Mackay."  "Surely," said Scott,
looking severely at Jimmy, 'this moment demands a general celebration,
at which a toast .. ."  But Jimmy didn't stop to hear the rest.  He had
Red to collect his loot.



"An hour ago we had only one passenger," said Dr.  SCOM nursing the
long metal case delicately through the airlock.  "Now we've got several
billion."

"How do you think they've stood the journey?"  asked Gibson.  "The
thermostats seemed to be working well, so they should be all right. I'll
transfer them to the cultures I've got ready, and then they should be
quite happy until we get to Mars, gorging themselves to their little
hearts' content."

Gibson moved over to the nearest observation port.  He could see the
stubby, white-painted shape of the missile lying alongside the airlock,
with the slack mooring cables drifting away from it like the tentacles
of some deep-sea creature.  When the rocket had been brought almost to
rest a few kilometres away by its automatic radio equipment, its final
capture had been achieved by much less sophisticated techniques. Hilton
and Bradley had gone out with cables and lassoed the missile as it
slowly drifted by.  Then the electric winches on the Ares had hauled it
in.  "What's going to happen to the carrier now?"  Gibson asked Captain
Norden, who was also watching the proceedings.

"We'll salvage the drive and control assembly and leave the carcase in
space.  It wouldn't be worth the fuel to carry it all back to Mars.  So
until we start accelerating again, well have a little moon of our
own."

"Like the dog in Jules Verne's story."  "What, "From the Earth to the
Moon'?  Ive never read At least, I tried once, but couldn't be
bothered.  That's the trouble with all those old stories.  Nothing is
deader than yesterday's science fiction-and Verne belongs to the day
before yesterday."  Gibson felt it necessary to defend his
profession.

"So you don't consider that science-fiction can ever have any permanent
literary value?"

"I don't think so.  It may sometimes have a social value when its
written, but to the next generation it must always seem quaint and
archaic."  Just look what happened, for example, to the space-travil
story."

"Go on.  Don't mind my feelings--as if you would."  Norden was dearly
warming to the subject, a fact which did not surprise Gibson in the
least.  If one of his companions had suddenly been revealed as an
expert on re afforestation Sanskrit, or bimetallism, Gibson would now
have taken it in his stride.  In any case, he knew that science-fiction
was widely-sometimes bilariously-pop aJar among professional
astronauts.

"Very well," said Norden.  "Ut's see what happened there.  Up to
1960--maybe 1970-people were still writing stories about the first
journey to the Moon.  They're all quite unreadable now.  When the Moon
was reached, it was safe to write about Mars and Venus for another few
years.  Now those stories are dead too; no one would read them except
to get a laugh.  -I suppose the outer planets will be a good investment
for another generation; but the interplanetary romances our
grandfathers knew really came to an end in the late 1970s."

"But the theme of space-travel is still as popular as ever."

"Yes, but it's no longer science-fiction.  It's either purely
factual-the sort of thing you are beaming back to Earth now-or else
it's pure fantasy.  The stories have to go right outside the Solar
System and so they might just as well be fairy tales.  Which is an that
most of them am"

Norden had been speaking with great seriousness, but there was a
mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Toontest your argument on two points," said Gibson.  "First of all
people--lots of people-still read Wells!  yars, though they're a
century old.  And, to come from the sublime to the ridiculous, they
still read my early books, like "Martian Dust" although facts have
caught up with them and left them a long way in the rear."

"Wells wrote literature," answered Norden, "but even so, I think I can
prove my point.  Which of his stories are most popular?  Why, the
straight novels like Tipps' and "Mr.  Polly."  When the fantasies are
read at all, his In spite of their hopelessly dated prophecies, not
because of them.  Only "The Time Machine Is still at all popular,
simply because it's set so far in the future that it's not outmoded-and
because it contains Wells' best writing."

There was a slight pause.  Gibson wondered if Norden was going to take
up his second point.  Finally he said:

"When did you write Martian Dust?"

Gibson did some rapid mental arithmetic.

"In'73 or'74."

"I didn't know it was as early as that.  But that's part of the
explanation.  Space-travel was just about to begin then, and everybody
knew it.  You had already began to make a name with conventional
fiction, and "Martian Dust' caught the rising tide very nicely."

"That only explains why it sold then.  It doesn't answer my other
point.  It's still quite popular, and I believe the Martian colony has
taken several copies, despite the fact that it describes a Mars that
never existed outside my imagination."

"I attribute that to the unscrupulous advertising of your publisher,
the careful way you've managed to keep in the public eye, and-just
possibly-to the fact that it was the best thing you ever wrote.
Moreover, as Mac would say, it managed to capture the Zeitgeist of the
'70's, and that gives it a curiosity value now."

"Hmm," said Gibson, thinking matters over.

He remained silent for a moment; then his face creased into a smile and
he began to laugh.

"Well, share the joke.  What's so funny?"

"Our earlier conversation.  I was wondering what H. G. Wells would
have thought if he had known that day couple of men would be
discussing his stories, halfway between Earth and Mars."

"Don't exaggerate," grinned Norden.  "We're only a third of the way so
far."

It was long after midnight when Gibson suddenly awoke from a dreamless
sleep.  Something had disturbed him some noise like a distant
explosion, far away in the bowels of the ship.  He sat up in the
darkness, tensing as the broad elastic bands that held him to his bed.
Only a glimmer of starlight came from the porthole-mirror, for his
cabin was on the night side of the liner.  He listened, mouth half
opened, checking his breath to catch the faintest murmur of sound.

There were many voices in the Ares at night, and Gibson knew them all.
The ship was alive, and silence would have meant the death of all
aboard her.  Infinitely reassuring was the un resting unhurried
suspiration of the air-pumps, driving the man-made trade winds of this
tiny planet.  Against that faint but continuous background were other
intermittent noises: the occasional "whine' of hidden motors carrying
out some mysterious and automatic task, the "tick," every thirty
seconds precisely, of the electric clock, and sometimes the sound of
water racing through the pressurised plumbing system.  Certainly none
of these could have roused him, for they were as familiar as the
beating of his own heart.

Still only half awake, Gibson went to the cabin door and listened for a
while in the corridor.  Everything was perfectly normal; he knew that
he must be the only man awake.  For a moment he wondered if he should
call Norden, then thought better of it.  He might only have been
dreaming, or the noise might have been produced by some equipment that
had not gone into action before.

He was already back in bed when a thought suddenly occurred to him. Had
the noise, after all, been so far away?  That was merely his first
impression; it might have been quite near.  Anyway, he was tired, and
it didn't matter.  Gibson had a complete and touching faith in the
ship's instrumentation.  If anything had really gone wrong, the
automatic alarms would have alerted everyone.  They had been tested
several times on the voyage, and were enough to awaken the dead.  He
could go to sleep, confident that they were watching over him.  with un
resting vigilance.

He was perfectly correct, though he was never to know it; and by the
morning he had forgotten the whole affair.

The camera swept out of the stricken council chamber, following the
funeral cortege up the endlessly twining stairs, and on to the windy
battlements above the see.  The music sobbed into silence, for a
moment, the lonely figures with their tragic burden were silhouetted
against the setting sun, motionless upon the ramparts of Elsinore.
"Good night, sweet prince .. ."  The play was ended.  The lights in the
tiny theatre came on abruptly, and the State of Denmark was four
centuries and fifty million kilometres away.  Reluctantly, Gibson
brought his mind back to the present, tearing himself free from the
magic that had held him captive.  What, he wondered, would Shakespeare
have made of this interpretation, already a lifetime old, yet as
untouched by time as the still older splendours of the immortal poetry?
And what, above all, would he have made of this fantastic theatre, with
its latticework of seats floating precariously in mid-air with the
flimsiest of supports?

"It's rather a pity."  said Dr.  Scott, as the audience of six drifted
out into the corridor, "that we'll never have as fine a collection of
films with us on our later runs.  This batch is for the Central Martian
Library, and we won't be able to hang on to it."

"What's the next programme going to be?"  asked Gibson.

"We haven decided.  It may be a current musical, or we may carry on
with the classics and screen "Gone With the Wind.""

"My grandfather used to rave about that; I'd like to see it now we have
the chance," said Jimmy Spencer eagerly.  "Very well," replied Scott.
put the matter to the Entertainments Committee and see if it can
be arranged."  Since this Committee consisted of Scott and no one else,
these negotiations would presumably be successful.

Norden, who had remained sunk in thought since the end of the run, came
up behind Gibson and gave a nervous little cough.

"By the way, Martin," he said.  "You remember you were badgering me to
let you go out in a spacesuit?"

"Yes.  You said it was strictly against the rules."

Norden seemed embarrassed, which was somewhat unlike him.

"Well, it Is In a way, but this isn't a normal trip and you aren't
technically a passenger.  I think we can manage it after all."

Gibson was delighted.  He had always wondered what it was like to wear
a spacesuit, and to stand in nothingness with the stars all around one.
It never even occurred to him to ask Norden why he had changed his
mind, and for this Norden was very thankful.

The plot had been brewing for about a week.  Every morning a little
ritual took place in Norden's room when Hilton arrived with the daily
maintenance schedules, summa rising the ship's performance and the
behaviour of all its multitudinous machines during the past twenty-four
hours.  Usually there was nothing of any importance, and Norden signed
the reports and filed them away with the log book.  Variety was the
last thing he wanted here, but sometimes he got it.

"Listen, Johnnie," said Hilton (he was the only one who called Norden
by his first name; to the rest of the crew he was always "Skipper").
"It's quite definite now about our airpressure.  The drop's practically
constant; in about ten days we'll be outside tolerance limits."

"Confound it!  That means we'll have to do something.  I was hoping it
wouldn't matter till we dock."  "I'm afraid we can't wait until then;
the records have to be turned over to the Space Safety Commission when
we get home, and some nervous old woman is sure to start yelling if
pressure drops below limits."  "Where do you think the trouble is?"

"In the hull, almost certainly."  "That pet leak of yours up round the
North Pole?"  "I doubt it; this is too sudden.  I think we've been
holed again."

Norden looked mildly annoyed.  Punctures due to meteoric dust happened
two or three times a year on a ship of this size.  One usually let them
accumulate until they were worth bothering about, but this one seemed a
little too big to be ignored.

"How long will it take to find the leak?"  "That's the trouble," said
Hilton in tones of some disgust.  "We've only one leak detector, and
fifty thousand square metres of hull.  It may take a couple of days to
go over it.  Now if it had only been a nice big hole, the automatic
bulkheads would have gone into operation and located it for us."  "I'm
mighty glad they didn't!" grinned Norden.  "That would have taken some
explaining away!"

Jimmy Spencer, who as usual got the job that no one else wanted to do,
found the puncture three days later, after only a dozen circuits of the
ship.  "The blurred little crater was scarcely visible to the eye, but
the supersensitive leak detector had registered the fact that the
vacuum near this part of the hull was not as perfect as it should have
been.  Jimmy had marked the place with chalk and gone thankfully back
into the airlock.  Norden dug out the ship's plans and located the
aproximate position from Jimmy's report.  Then he whistled softly and
his eyebrows climbed towards the ceiling.

"Jimmy," he said, "does Mr.  Gibson know what you've been up to?"

"No," said Jimmy.  "I've not missed giving him his astronautics
classes, though it's been quite a job to manage it as well as------!"

"All right, all right!  You don't think anyone else would have told him
about the leak?"

"I don't know, but I think he'd have mentioned it if they had."

"Well, listen carefully.  This blasted puncture is smack in the middle
of his cabin wall, and if you breathe a word about it to him ru skin
you.  Understand?"

"Yes," gulped Jimmy, and fled precipitately.  "Now what?"  said Hilton,
in tones of resignation.

"We've got to get Martin out of the way on some pretext and plug the
hole as quickly as we can."

"It's funny he never noticed the impact.  It would have made quite a
din."

"He was probably out at the time.  I'm surprised he never noticed the
air current.  it must be fairly considerable."

"Probably masked by the normal circulation.  But anyway, why all the
fuss?  Why not come clean about it and explain what's happened to
Martin?  There's no need for all this melodrama."

"Oh, isn't there?  Suppose Martin tells his public that a 12th
magnitude meteor has holed the skip-and then goes on to say that this
sort of thing happens every other voyage?  How many of his readers will
understand not only that it's no real danger, but that we don't usually
bother to do anything even when it does happen?  I'll tell you what the
popular reaction would be: "If it was a little one, it might just as
well be a big 'un."  The public's never trusted statistics.  And cant
you see the headlines: "Ares Holed by Meteorl'That would be bad for
trade!"

"Then why not simply tell Martin and ask him to keep quiet?"

"It wouldn't be fair on the poor chap.  He's had no news to hang his
articles on to for weeks.  It would be kinder to say nothing."

"O.K.," sighed Hilton.  "It's your idea.  Don't blame me if it
backfires."

"It won't.  I think I've got a watertight plan."  "I don't give a damn
if it's watertight.  Is it airtight?"

All his life Gibson had been fascinated by gadgets, and the spacesuit
was yet another to add to the collection of mechanisms he had
investigated and mastered.  Bradley had been detailed to make sure that
he understood the drill correctly, to take him out into space, and to
see that he didn't get lost.

Gibson had forgotten that the suits on the Ares had no legs, and that
one simply sat inside them.  That was sensible enough, since they were
built for use under zero gravity, and not for walking on airless
planets.  The absence of flexible leg joints greatly simplified the
designs of the suits, which were nothing more than perspex-topped
cylinders sprouting articulated arms at their upper ends.  Along the
sides were mysterious flutings and bulges concerned with the air
condition int radio, heat regulators, and the low-powered propulsion
system.  There was considerable freedom of movement inside them: one
could withdraw one's arms to get at the internal controls, and even
take a meal without too many acrobatics.

Bradley had spent almost an hour in the airlock, making certain that
Gibson understood all the main controls and catechising him on their
operation.  Gibson appreciated his thoroughness, but began to get
alittle impatient when the lesson showed no sign of ending.  He
eventually !nutinied when Bradley started to explain the suit's
primitive sanitary arrangements.

"Hang it all!" he protested, "we aren't going to be outside that long!"
Bradley grinned.

"You'd be surprised," he said darkly, "just how many people make that
mistake."

He opened a compartment in the airlock wall and took out two spools of
line, for all the world like fishermen's reels.  They locked firmly
into mountings on the suits so that they could not be accidentally
dislodged.

"Number One safety precaution," he said.  "Always have a lifeline
anchoring you to the ship.  Rides are made to be broken-but not this
one.  To make doubly sure, I'll tie your suit to mine with another ten
metres of cord.  Now we're ready to ascend the Matterhorn."

The outer door slid aside.  Gibson felt the last trace of air tugging
at him as it escaped.  The feeble impulse set him moving towards the
exit, and he drifted slowly out into the stars.

The slowness of motion and the utter silence combined to make the
moment deeply impressive.  The Ares was receding behind him with a
terrifying inevitability.  He was plunging into space-at last-his only
link with safety that tenuous thread unreeling at his side.  Yet the
experience, though so novel, awoke faint echoes of familiarity in his
mind.

His brain must have been working with unusual swiftness, for he
recalled the parallel almost immediately.  This was like the moment in
his childhoods moment, he could have sworn until now, forgotten beyond
recall when he had been taught to swim by being dropped into ten metres
of water.  Once again he was plunging head long into a new and unknown
element

The friction of the reel had checked his momentum when the cord
attaching him to Bradley gave a jerk.  He had almost forgotten his
companion, who was now blat ting away from the ship with the little gas
jets at the base of his suit, towing Gibson behind him.

Gibson was quite startled when the others voice, echoing: metallically
from the speaker in his suit, shattered the silence.

"Don't use your jets unless I tell you.  We don't want to build up too
much speed, and we must be careful not to get our lines tangled."

"All right," said Gibson, vaguely annoyed at the intrusion into his
privacy.  He looked back at the ship.  It was already several hundred
metres away, and shrinking rapid.  ly.How much line have we got?"  he
asked anxiously.  There was no reply, and he had a moment of mild panic
before remembering to press the "TRANSMIT" switch.

"About a kilometre Bradley answered when he repeated the question.
"That's enough to make one feel, nice and lonely."

"Suppose it broker asked Gibson, only half joking.

"It won't.  It could support your full weight, back on Earth.  Even if
it did, we could get back perfectly easily with our jets."  "And if
they ran out?"

"This is a very cheerful conversation.  I can't imagine that happening
except through gross carelessness or about three simultaneous
mechanical failures.  Remember, there's a spare propulsion unit for
just such emergencies--and you've got warning indicators in the suit
which let you know well before the main tank's empty."

"But just supposing," insisted Gibson.

"In that case the only thing to do would be to switch on the suit's
SOS.  beacon and wait until someone came out to haul you back.  I doubt
if they'd hurry, in such circumstances.  Anyone who got himself in a
mess like that wouldn't receive much sympathy."

There was a sudden jerk; they had come to the end of the line.  Bradley
killed the rebound with his jets.

"Were a long way from home now," he said quietly.

It took Gibson several seconds to locate the Ares.  They were on the
night side of the ship so that it was almost wholly in shadow; the two
spheres were thin, distant crescents that might easily have been taken
for Earth and Moon, seen from perhaps a million kilometres away.  There
was no zeal sense of contact: the ship was too small and frail a thing
to be regarded as a sanctuary any more.  Gibson was alone with the
stars at last.

He was always grateful that Bradley left him in silence and did not
intrude upon his thoughts.  Perhaps the other was equally overwhelmed
by the splendid solemnity of the moment The stars were so brilliant and
so numerous that at first Gibson could not locate even the most
familiar constellations.  Then he found Mars, the brightest object in
the sky next to the Sun itself, and so determined the plane of the
ecliptic.  Very gently, with cautious bursts from his gas jets, he
swung the suit round so that his 'head pointed roughly towards the Pole
Star.  He was "the right way uV' again, and the star patterns were
recogmisable once more.

Slowly he made his way along the Zodiac, wondering how many other men
in history had so far shared this experience.  (Soon, of course, it
would be common enough, and the magic would be dimmed by
familiarity.)"Presently be found Jupiter, and later Saturn--or so he
imagined.  "The planets could no longer be distinguished from the stars
by the steady, un winking light that was such a useful, though
sometimes treacherous, guide to amateur astronomers.  Gibson did not
search for Earth or Venus, for the glare of the sun would have dazzled
him in a moment if he had turned his eyes in that direction.

A pale band of light welding the two hemispheres of the sky together,
the whole ring of the Milky Way was visible.  Gibson could see quite
clearly the vents and tears along its edge, where entire continents of
stars seemed trying to break away and go voyaging alone into the abyss.
In the Southern Hemisphere, the -black chasm of the Coal Sack gaped
like a tunnel drilled through the stars into another universe.

The thought made Gibson turn towards Andromeda.  There lay the great
Nebula-a ghostly lens of light.  He could cover it with his thumbnail,
yet it was a whole galaxy as vast as the sky spanning ring of stars in
whose heart he was floating now.  That misty spectre was a million
times farther away than the stars-and they were a million times more
distant than the planets.  How pitiful were all men's voyagings and
adventures when seen against this backgroundl

Gibson was looking for Alpha Centauri, among the unknown constellations
of the Southern Hemisphere, when he caught sight of something which,
for a moment, his mind failed to identify.  At an immense distance, a
white rectangular object was floating against the stars.  That, at
least, was Gibson's first impression; then he realised that his sense
of perspective was at fault and that, in fact, he was really seeing
something quite small, only a few metres away.  Even then it was some
time before he recognised this interplanetary wanderer for what it
was-a perfectly ordinary sheet of quarto manuscript paper, very slowly
revolving in space.  Nothing could have been more commonplace-or more
unexpected here.

Gibson stared at the apparition for some time before he convinced
himself that it was no illusion.  Then he switched on his transmitter
and spoke to Bradley.

The other was not in the least surprised.

"There's nothing very remarkable about that," he replied, rather
impatiently.  "Weve been throwing out waste every day for weeks, and as
we haven't any acceleration some of it may still be hanging round.  As
soon as we start braking, of course, we'll drop back from it and all
our junk will go shooting out of the Solar System."

How perfectly obvious, thought Gibson, feeling a little foolish, for
nothing is more disconcerting than a mystery which suddenly evaporates.
It was probably a rough draft of one of his own articles.  H it had
been a little closer, it would be amusing to retrieve it as a souvenir,
and to see what effects its stay in space had produced.  Unfortunately
it was -just out of reach, and there was no way of capturing it without
slipping the cord that linked him with the Ares.

When he had been dead for ages, that piece of paper would still be
carrying its message out among the stars; and what it was, he would
never know.

Norden met them when they returned to the airlock.  He seemed rather
pleased, with himself, though Gibson was in no condition to notice such
details.  He was still lost among the stars and it would be some time
before he returned to normal before his typewriter began to patter
softly as he tried to recapture his emotions.

"You managed the job in tim?"  asked Bradley, when Gibson was out of
hearing.

"Yes, with fifteen minutes to spare.  We shut off the ventilators and
found the leak right away with the good old smoke-candle technique.  A
blind rivet and a spot of quick drying paint did the rest; we can plug
the outer hull when we're in dock, if it's worth it.  Mac did a pretty
neat job-he's wasting his talents as a navigator."



For Martin Gibson, the voyage was running: smoothly and' pleasantly
enough.  As he always did, he had now managed to organise his
surroundings (by which he meant not only his material environment but
also the human beings who shared it with him) to his maximum comfort,
He had done a satisfactory amount of writing, some of it quite good and
most of it passable, though he would not get properly into his stride
until he had reached Mars.

The flight was now entering upon its closing weeks, and there was an
inevitable sense of anticlimax and slackening interest, which would
last until they entered the orbit of Mars.  Nothing would happen until
then; for the time being WIthe excitements of the voyage were over.

he last high-light, for Gibson, had been the morning when he finally
lost the Earth.  Day by day it had come closer to the vast pearly wings
of the corona, as though about to immolate all its millions in the
funeral pyre of the Sun.  One evening it had still been visible through
the telescope--a tiny spark glittering bravely against the splendour
that was soon to overwhelm it.  Gibson had thought it might still be
visible in the morning, but overnight some colossal explosion had
thrown the corona half a million kilometres farther into space, and
Earth was lost against that incandescent curtain.  It would be a week
before it reappeared, and by then Gibson's world would have changed
more than he would have believed possible in so short a time.

If anyone had asked Jimmy Spencer just what he thought of Gibson, that
young man would have given rather different replies at various stages
of the voyage.  At first he had been quite overawed by his
distinguished shipmate, but that stage had worn off very quickly.  To
do Gibson credit, he was completely free from snobbery, and he never
made unreasonable use of his privileged position on board the Ares.Mus
from Jimmy's point of view 59

he was more approachable than the rest of the liners inhabitants-all of
wkom were in some degree his superior officers.

When Gibson had started taking a serious interest in astronautics,
Jimmy had seen him at close quarters once or twice a week and had made
several efforts to weigh him up.  This had not been at all easy, for
Gibson never seemed to be the same person for very long.  There were
times when he was considerate and thoughtful and generally good
company.  Yet there were other occasions when he was so grumpy and
morose that he easily qualified as the person on the Ares most to be
avoided.

What Gibson thought of him Jimmy wasn't at all sum He sometimes had an
uncomfortable feeling that the author regarded him purely as raw
material that might or might not be of value some day.  Most people who
knew Gibson slightly had that impression, and most of tkem were right.
Yet as he had tried to pump Jimmy directly.  there seemed no real
grounds for these suspicions.

Another puzzling thing about Gibson was his technical background.  When
Jimmy had started his evening classes, as everyone called them, he had
assumed that Gibson was merely anxious to avoid glaring errors in the
material he radioed back to Earth, and had no very deep interest in
astronautics for its own sake.  It soon became clear that this was far
from being the case.  Gibson had an almost pathetic anxiety to master
quite abstruse branches of the science, and to demand mathematical
proofs, some of which Jimmy was hard put to provide.  he older man must
once have had a good deal of technical knowledge, fragments of which
still remained with him.  How he had acquired it he never explained;
nor did he give any reason for his almost obsessive attempts, doomed
though they were to repeated failures, to come to grips witk scientific
ideas far too advanced for him.  Gibson's disappointment after these
failures was so obvious that Jimmy found himself very sorry for
him-except on those occasions when his pupil became bad-tempered and
showed a tendency to blame his instructor.  Then there would be a brief
exchange of discourtesies, Jimmy would pack up his books, and the
lesson would not be resumed until Gibson kW apologised.

Sometimes, on the other hand, Gibson took these setbacks with humorous
resignation and simply changed the subject.  He would then talk about
his experiences in the strange literary jungle in which he lived-a
world of weird and often carnivorous beasts whose behaviour Jimmy found
quite fascinating.  Gibson was a good raconteur, with a fine flair for
purveying scandal and undermining reputations.  He seemed to do this
without any malice, and some of the stories he told Jimmy about the
distinguished figures of the day quite shocked that somewhat
strait-laced youth.  The curious fact was that the people whom Gibson
so readily dissected often seemed to be his closest friends.  This was
something that Jimmy found very hard to understand.

Yet despite all these warnings Jimmy talked readily enough when the
time came.  One of their lessons had grounded on a reef of
integro-differential equations and there was nothing to do but abandon
ship.  Gibson was in one of his amiable moods, and as he closed his
books with a sigh he turned to Jimmy and remarked casually:

"You've never told me anything about yourself, Jimmy.  What part of
England do you come from, anyway?"  "Cambridge-at least, that's where I
was born."

"I used to know it quite well, twenty years ago.  But you don't live
there now?"

"No; when I was about six, my people moved to let.  I've been there
ever since."

"What made you take up astronautics?"

"It's rather hard to say.  I was always interested In science, and of
course spaceflight was the coming thing when I was growing up.  So I
suppose it was just natural.  If I'd been born fifty years before, I
guess I'd have gone into aeronautics."

"So you're interested in spaceflight purely as a technical problem, and
not as-shall we say-something that might revolutionise human thought,
open up new planets, and all that sort of thing?"

Jimmy grinned.

"I suppose that's true enough.  Of course, I wn interested In these
ideas, but it's the technical side that really fascinates me.  Even if
there was nothing on the planets, I'd still want to know how to reach
them."

Gibson shook his head in mock distress.

"You're going to grow up into one of those coldblooded scientists who
know everything about nothing.  Another good man wast edt

"I'm glad you think it will be a waste," said Jimmy with some spirit.
"Anyway, why are you so interested in science?"

Gibson laughed, but there was a trace of annoyance in his voice as he
replied: "]PM only interested in science as a means, not as an end in
itself."

That, Jimmy was sure, was quite untrue.  But something warned him not
to pursue the matter any further, and before he could reply Gibson was
questioning him again.

It was all done in such a friendly spirit of apparently genuine
interest that Jimmy couldn't avoid feeling flattered couldn't help
talking freely and easily.  Somehow it didn't matter if Gibson was
indeed studying him as disinterestedly and as clinically as a biologist
watching the reactions of one of his laboratory animals.  Jimmy felt
like talking, and he preferred to give Gibson's motives the benefit of
the doubt.

He talked of his childhood and early life, and presently Gibson
understood the occasional clouds that sometimes seemed to overlie the
lad's normally cheerful disposition.  It was an old story--one of the
oldest.  Jimmy's mother had died when he was a little more than a baby,
and his father had left him in the charge of a married sister.  Jimmy's
aunt had been kind to him, but he had never felt at home among his
cousins, had always been an outsider.  Nor had his father been a great
deal of help, for he was seldom in England, and had died when Jimmy was
about ten years old.  He appeared to have left very little Impression
on his son, who, strangely enough, seemed to have clearer memories of
the mother whom he could scarcely have known.

Once the barriers were down, Jimmy talked without reticence, as if glad
to unburden his mind.  Sometimes Gibson asked questions to prompt him,
but the questions grew further and further apart and presently came no
more

"I don't think my parents were really very much, In love," said Jimmy.
"From what Aunt Ellen told me, it was all rather a mistake.  There was
another man first, but that fell through.  My father was the next best
thing.  Oh, I know this sounds rather heartless, but please remember it
all happened such a long time ago, and doesn't mean much to me now."

"I understand," said Gibson quietly; and it seemed as if he really did.
"Tell me more about your mother."  "Her father-my granddad, that is-was
one of the professors at the university.  I think Mother spent all her
life in Cambridge.  When she was old enough she went to college for her
degree-she was studying history.  Oh, all this can't possibly interest
youl"

"It really does," said Gibson earnestly.  "Go on."

So Jimmy talked.  Everything he told must have been learned from
hearsay, but the picture he gave Gibson was surprisingly clear and
detailed.  His listener guessed that Aunt Ellen must have been very
talkative, and Jimmy a very attentive small boy.

It was one of those innumerable college romances that briefly flower
and wither during that handful of years which seems a microcosm of life
itself.  But this one had been more serious than most.  During her last
term Jimmys mother-he still hadn't told Gibson her name-had fallen in
love with a young engineering student who was half-way through his
college career.  It had been a whirlwind romance, and the match was an
ideal one despite the fact that the girl was several years older than
the boy.  Indeed, it had almost reached the stage of an engagement
when-Jimmy wasn't quite sure what had happened.  The young man had been
taken seriously ill, or had had a nervous breakdown, and had never come
back to Cambridge.

"My mother never really got over it," said Jimmy, with a grave
assumption of wisdom which somehow, did not seem completely
incongruous. "But another -student was very much in love with her, and
so she married him.  I sometimes feel rather sorry for my father, for
he must kave known all about the other affair.  I never saw much of him
because--why, Mr.  Gibson, don't you feel well?"  Gibson forced a
smile.

"It's nothing-just a touch of space-sickness.  I get it now and then-it
will pass in a minute."

He only wished that the words were true.  All these weeks, in total
ignorance and believing himself secure against all the shocks of time
and chance, he had been steering a collision course with Fate.  And now
the moment of impact had come; the twenty years that lay behind had
vanished like a dream, and he was face to face once more with the
ghosts of his own forgotten pasL

"Iberes something wrong with Martin," said Bradley, signing the signals
log with a flourish.  "It can be any news lies had from Earth-I've read
it all.  Do you sup.  pose he's getting homesick?"

"He's left it a little late in the day, if that's the explanation,"
replied Norden.  "After all, well be on Mars in a fortnight.  But you
do rather fancy yourself as an amateur psychologist, don't you?"

"Well, who doesn't?"  "I don't for one," began Norden pontifically.
"Trying Into other people's affairs isn't one of my----?"

An anticipatory gleam in Bradley's eyes warned him just in time, and to
the others evident disappointment be checked himself in mid-sentence.
Martin Gibson, complete v1ith notebook and looking like a cub reporter
attending his first press conference, had hurried into the office.

"Well, Owen, what was it you wanted to show me?"  he asked eagerly.

Bradley moved to the main communication rack.

"It isn't really very impressive," he said, "but it means that weve
passed another milestone and always gives me a bit of a kick.  Listen
to this."

He pressed the speaker switch and slowly brought UP the volume control.
The room was flooded with the hum and crackle of radio noise, like the
sound of a thousand frying paw at the point of imminent ignition.  It
was a sound that Gibson had heard often enough in the signals cabin
and, for all its unvarying monotony, it never failed to fill him with a
sense of wonder.  He was listening" he knew, to the voices of the stars
and nebulae, to radiations that had set out upon their journey before
the birth of

Man.  And buried far down in the depths of that crackling, whispering
chaos there might be-there must be-4he sounds of alien civinsations
talking to one another in the deeps of space.  But, alas, their voices
were lost beyond recall in the welter of cosmic interference which
Nature herself had made.

This, however, was certainly not what Bradley had called him to hear.
Very delicately, the signals officer made some vernier adjustments,
frowning a little as he did so.

"I had it on the nose a minute ago-hope it hasn't: drifted off ah here
it is!"

At first Gibson could detect no alteration in the barrage of noise.
Then he noticed that Bradley was silently marking time with his
hand-rather quickly, at the rate of some two beats every second.  With
this to guide him, Gibson presently detected the infinitely faint
undulating whistle that was breaking through the cosmic storm.

"What is it?"  he asked, already half guessing the anWer.

"It's the radio beacon on Deimos.  Ibere's one on Phobos as well, but
it's not so powerful and we can't pick it up yet.  When we get nearer
Mars, we'll be able to fix ourselves within a few hundred kilometres by
using them.  Were at ten times the usable range now, but it's nice to
know."

Yes, thought Gibson, it is nice to know.  Of course, these radio aids
weren't essential when one could see one's destination all the time,
but they simplified some of the navigational problems.  As he listened
with half closed eyes to that faint pulsing, sometimes almost drowned
by the cosmic barrage, he knew how the mariners of old must have felt
when they caught the first glimpse of the harbour lights from far out
at sea.

"I think that's enough," said Bradley, switching off the speaker and
restoring silence.  "Anyway, it should give you something new to write
about-things have been pretty quiet lately, haven't they?"

He was watching Gibson intently as he said this, but the duthor never
responded.  He merely jotted a few words in his notebook, thanked
Bradley with absent-minded and unaccustomed politeness, and departed to
his cabin.

"You're quite right," said Norden when he had gone.  "Something's
certainly happened to Martin.  I'd better have a word with Doc."

"I shouldn't bother," replied Bradley.  "Whatever it is, I don't think
it's anything you can handle with pills.  Better leave Martin to work
it out his own way."

"Maybe you're right," said Norden grudgingly.  "But I hope he doesn't
take too long over it!"

He had now taken almost a week.  The initial shock of discovering that
Jimmy Spencer was Kathleen Morgan's son had already worn off, but the
secondary effects were beginning to make themselves felt.  Among these
was a feeling of resentment that anything like this should have
happened to him.  It was such an outrageous violation of the laws of
probability-the sort of thing that would never have happened in one of
Gibson's own novels.  But life was so inartistic and there was really
nothing one could do about it.

This mood of childish petulance was now passing, to be replaced by a
deeper sense of discomfort.  All the emotions he had thought safely
buried beneath twenty years of feverish activity were now rising to the
surface again, like deep-sea creatures slain in some submarine
eruption.  On Earth, he could have escaped by losing himself once more
in the crowd, but here he was trapped, with nowhere to flee.

It was useless to pretend that nothing had really changed, to say: "Of
course I knew that Kathleen and Gerald had a son: what difference does
that make now?"  It made a great deal of difference.  Every time he saw
Jimmy he would be reminded of the past and-what was worse-of the future
that might have been.  The most urgent problem now was to face the
facts squarely, and to come to grips with the new situation.  Gibson
knew well enough that there was only one way in which this could be
done, and the opportunity would arise soon enough.

Jimmy had been down to the Southern Hemisphere and was mal ting his way
along the equatorial observation deck when he saw Gibson sitting at one
of the windows, staring out into space.  For a moment he thought the
other had not seen him and had decided not to intrude upon his thoughts
when Gibson called out: "Hello, Jimmy.  Have you got a moment to
spare?"

As it happened, Jimmy was rather busy.  But he knew that there had been
something wrong with Gibson, and realised that the older man needed his
presence.  So he came and sat on the bench recessed into the
observation port, and presently he knew as much of the truth as Gibson
thought good for either of them.  -I'm going to tell you something,
Jimmy," Gibson began, "which is known to only a handful of people.
Don't interrupt me and don't ask any questions-not until I've finished,
at any rate.

"When I was rather younger than you, I wanted to be an engineer.  I was
quite a bright kid in those days and had no difficulty in getting into
college through the usual examinations.  As I wasn't sure what I
intended to do, I took the five-year course in general engineering
physics,

which was quite a new thing in those days.  In my first year I did
fairly well-well enough to encourage me to work harder next time.  In
my second year I did-not brilliantly, but a lot better than average.
And in the third year I fell in love.  It wasn't exactly for the first
time, but I knew it was the real thing at last.

"Now falling in love while you're at college may or may not be a good
thing for you; it all depends on circumstances.  If it's only a mild
flirtation, it probably doesn't matter one way or the other.  But if
it's really serious, there are two possibilities.

"It may act as a stimulus-it may make you determined to do your best,
to show that you're better than the other fellows.  On the other hand,
you may get so emotionally involved in the affair that nothing else
seems to matter, and your studies go to pieces.  That-is what happened
in my case."

Gibson fell into a brooding silence, and Jimmy stole a glance at him as
he sat in the darkness a few feet away.  They were on the night side of
the ship, and the corridor lights had been dimmed so that the stars
could be seen in their unchallenged glory.  The constellation of Leo
was directly ahead, and there in its heart was the brilliant ruby gem
that was their goal.  Next to the Sun itself, Mars was by far the
brightest of all celestial bodies, and already its disc was just
visible to the naked eye.  The brilliant crimson light playing full on
his face gave Gibson a healthy, even a cheerful appearance quite out of
keeping with his feelings.

Was it true, Gibson wondered, that one never really forgot anything? It
seemed now as if it might be.  He could still see, as clearly as he had
twenty years ago, that message pinned on the faculty notice board "The
Dean of Engineering wishes to see M. Gibson in his office at 3.00."  He
had had to wait, of course, until 3.15, and that hadn't helped.  Nor
would it have been so bad if the Dean had been sarcastic, or icily
aloof, or even if he had lost his temper.  Gibson could still picture
that inhumanly tidy room, with its neat files and careful rows of
books, could remember the Dean's secretary padding away on her
typewriter in the corner, pretending not to listen.  (Perhaps, now he
came to think of it, she wasn't pretending after all.  The experience
wouldn't have been so novel to her as it was to him.)

Gibson had liked and respected the Dean, for all the old man's finicky
ways and meticulous pedantry, and now he had let him down, which made
his failure doubly hard to bear.  The Dean had rubbed it in with his
"more in sorrow than in anger" technique, which had been more effective
than he knew or intended.  He had given Gibson another chance, but he
was never to take it.

What made matters worse, though he was ashamed to admit the fact, was
that Kathleen had done fairly well in her own exams.  When his results
had been published, Gibson had avoided her for several days, and when
they met again he had already identified her with the cause of his
failure.  He could see this so clearly now that it no longer hurL Had he
really been in love if he was prepared to sacrifice Kathleen for the
sake of his own self-respect?  For that is what it came to; he had
tried to shift the blame on to her.  "The rest was inevitable.  that
quarrel on their last long cycle ride together into the country, and
their returns by separate routes.  The letters that hadn't been opened
above all, the letters that hadn't been written.  Their unsuccesaftil
attempt to meet, if only to say good-bye, on his last day in Cambridge.
But even this had fallen through; the message hadn't reached Kathleen
in time, and though he had waited until the last minute she had never
come.  The crowded train, packed with cheering students, had drawn
noisily out of the station, leaving Cambridge and Kathleen behind.  He
W never seen either again.

There was no need to tell Jimmy about the dark months that had
followed.  He need never know what was meant by the simple words: "I
had a breakdown and was advised not to return to college."  Dr.  Evans
had made a pretty good job of patching him up, and he'd always be
grateful for that It was Evans whed persuaded him to take up writing
during his convalescence, with results that had surprised them both.
(How many people knew that his first novel had been dedicated to his
psychoanalyst?  Well, if Rachmaninoff could do the same thing with the
C Minor Concerto, why shouldn't he?)

Evans had given him a new personality and a vocation through which he
could win back his self-confidence.  But he couldn't restore the future
that had been lost.  All his life Gibson would envy the men who had
finished what he had only begun-the men who could put after their names
the degrees and qualifications he would never possess, and who would
find their life's work in fields of which he could be only a
spectator.

If the trouble had lain no deeper than this, it might not have mattered
greatly.  But in salvaging his pride by throwing the blame on to
Kathleen he had warped his whole life.  She, and through her all women,
had become identified with failure and disgrace.  Apart from a few
attachments which had not been taken very seriously by either partner,
Gibson had never fallen in love again, and now he realised that he
never would.  Knowing the cause of his complaint had helped him not in
the least to find a cure.

None of these things, of course, need be mentioned to Jimmy.  It was
sufficient to give the bare facts, and to leave Jimmy to guess what he
could.  One day, perhaps, he might tell him more, but that depended on
many things.

When Gibson had finished, he was surprised to find how nervously he was
waiting for Jimmy's reactions.  He felt himself wondering if the boy
had read between the lines and apportioned blame where it was due,
whether he would be sympathetic, angry-or merely embarrassed.  It had
suddenly become of the utmost importance to win Jimmy's respect and
friendship, more important than anything that had happened to Gibson
for a very long time.  Only thus could he satisfy his conscience and
quieten those accusing voices from the past.

He could not see Jimmy's face, for the other was in shadow and it
seemed an age before he broke the silence.

"Why have you told me this?"  he asked quietly.  His voice was
completely neutral-free both from sympathy or reproach.

Gibson hesitated before answering.  The pause was natural enough, for,
even to himself, he could hardly have explained all his motives.

"I just had to tell you," he said earnestly.  "I couldn't have been
happy until I'd done so.  And besides-I felt I might be able to help,
somehow."  Again that nerve-racking silence.  Then Jimmy rose slowly to
his feet.

"I'll have to think about what you've told me," he said, his voice
still almost emotionless.  "I don't know what to say now."

Then he was gone.  He left Gibson in a state of extreme uncertainty and
confusion, wondering whether he had made a fool of himself or not.
Jimmy's self-control, his failure to react, had thrown him off balance
and left him completely at a loss.  Only of one thing was he certain:
in telling the facts, he had already done a great deal to relieve his
mind.

But there was still much that he had not told Jimmy; indeed there was
still much that he did not know himself.



"This is completely crazy!" stormed Norden, looking The a berserk
Viking chief.  "There must be some explanation! Good heavens, there
aren't any proper docking facilities on Deimos--how do they expect us to
unload? I'm going to call the Chief Executive and raise hell I"

"I shouldn't if I were you," drawled Bradley.  "Did you notice the
signature?  This isn't an instruction from Earth, routed through Mars.
It originated in the C.E."s office.  The old man may be a Tartar, but
he doesn't do things unless he's got a good reason."

"Name just one!"  Bradley shrugged his shoulders.  1.1 don't have to
run Mars, so how would I know?  We'll find out soon enough."  He gave a
malicious little chuckle.  "I wonder how Mac is going to take it?  Hell
have to recompute our approach orbit."

Norden leaned across the control panel and threw a switch.

"Hello, Mac--Mdpper here.  You receiving me?"

There was a short pause; then Hilton's voice came from the speaker.

"Mac's not here at the moment.  Any message?"

"All right-you can break it to him.  We've had orders from Mars to
re-route the ship.  They've.  diverted us from Phobos-no reason given
at all.  Tell Mac to calculate an orbit to Deimos, and to let me have
it as soon as he can.

"I don't understand it.  Why, Deimos is just a lot of mountains with
no---"

"Yes-we've been through all that!  Maybe we'll know the answer when we
get there.  Tell Mac to contact me as soon as he can, will you?"

Dr.  Scott broke the news to Gibson while the author was putting the
final touches to one of his weekly articles.  "Heard the latest?"  he
exclaimed breathlessly.  "We've
been diverted to Deimos.  Skippers mad as bell-it may make us a day
late."

"Does anyone know why?"

"No; it's a complete mystery.  We've asked, but Mars won't tell."

Gibson scratched his head, examining and rejecting half a dozen ideas.
He knew that Phobos, the inner moon, had been used as a base ever since
the first expedition had reached Mars.  Only 6,000 kilometres from the
surface of the planet, and with a gravity less than a thousandth of
Earth's, it was ideal for this purpose.

The Ares was due to dock in less than a week, and already Mars was a
small disc showing numerous surface markings even to the naked eye.
Gibson had borrowed a large Mercator projection of the planet and had
begun to learn the names of its chief features-names that had been
given, most of them, more than a century ago by astronomers who had
certainly never dreamed that men would one day use them as part of
their normal lives.  How poetical those old map makers had been when
they had ransacked mythology!  Even to look at those words on the map
was to set the blood pounding in the veins Deucalion Elysium, Eurnenide
s Arcadia, Atlantis, Utopia, Eos.... Gibson could sit for hours,
fondling those wonderful names with his tongue, feeling as if in truth
Keats' charmed magic casements were opening before him.  But there were
no sew, perilous or otherwise, on Marsthough many of its lands were
sufficiently forlorn.

The path of the Ares was now cutting steeply across the planet's orbit,
and in a few days the motors would be checking the ship's outward
speed.  The change of velocity needed to deflect the voyage orbit from
Phobos to Deimos was trivial, though it had involved Mackay in several
hours of computing.

Every meal was devoted to discussing one thing-the crew's plans when
Mars was reached.  Gibson's could be summed up in one phrase.--to see
as much as possible.  It was, perhaps, a little optimistic to imagine
that one could get to know a whole planet in two months, despite
Bradley's repeated assurances that two days was quite long enough for
Mars.

The excitement of the voyage's approaching end had, to some extent,
taken Gibson's mind away from his personal problems.  He met Jimmy
perhaps half a dozen times a day at meals and during accidental
encounters, but they had not reopened their earlier conversation.  For
a while Gibson suspected that Jimmy was deliberately avoiding him, but
he soon realised that this was not altogether the case.  Like the rest
of the crew, Jimmy was very busy preparing for the end of the voyage.
Norden was determined to have the ship in perfect condition when she
docked, and a vast amount of checking and servicing was in progress.

Yet despite this activity, Jimmy had given a good deal of thought to
what Gibson had told him.  At first he had felt bitter and angry
towards the man who had been responsible, however unintentionally, for
his mother's unhappiness.  But after a while, he began.  to see
Gibson's point of view and understood a little of the other's feelings.
Jimmy was shrewd enough to guess that Gibson had not only left a good
deal untold, but had put his own case as favourably as possible.  Even
allowing for this, however, it was obvious that Gibson genuinely
regretted the past, and was anxious to undo whatever damage he could,
even though he was a generation late.

It was strange to feel the sensation of returning weight and to hear
the distant roar of the motors once again as the Ares reduced her speed
to match the far smaller velocity of Mars.  The manoeuvring and the
final delicate course-corrections took more than twenty-four hours.
When it was over, Mars was a dozen times as large as the full moon from
Earth, with Phobos and Deimos visible as tiny stars whose movements
could be clearly seen after a few minutes of observation.

Gibson had never really realised how red the great deserts were.  But
the simple word "red" conveyed no idea of the variety of colour on that
slowly expanding disc.  Some regions were almost scarlet, others
yellow-brown, while perhaps the commonest hue was what could best be
described as powdered brick.

It was late spring in the southern hemisphere, and the polar cap had
dwindled to a few glittering specks of whiteness where the snow still
lingered stubbornly on higher ground.  The broad belt of vegetation
between pole and desert was for the greater part a pale bluish-green,
but every imaginable shade of colour could be found somewhere on that
mottled disc.

The Ares was swimming into the orbit of Deimos at a relative speed of
less than a thousand kilometres an Ahead of the ship, the tiny moon was
already showing a visible disc, and as the hours passed it grew until,
from a few hundred kilometres away, it looked as large as Mars. But
what a contrast it presented!  Here were no rich reds and greens, only
a dark chaos of jumbled rocks, of mountains which jutted up towards the
stars at all angels in this world of practically zero gravity.

Slowly the cruel rocks slid closer and swept past them, as the Ares
cautiously felt her way down towards the radio beacon which Gibson had
heard calling days before.  Presently he saw, on an almost level area a
few kilometres below, the first signs that man had ever visted this
barren world.  Two rows of vertical pillars jutted up from the ground,
and between them was slung a network of cables.  Almost imperceptibly
the Ares sank towards Deimos; the main rockets had long since been
silenced, for the small auxiliary jets had no difficulty in handling
the ship's effective weight of a few hundred kilogrammes

It was impossible to tell the moment of contact; only the sudden
silence when the jets were cut off told Gibson that the journey was
over, and the Ares was now resting in the cradle that had been prepared
for her.  He was still, of course, twenty thousand kilometres from Mars
and would not actually reach the planet itself for another day, in one
of the little rockets that was already climbing up to meet them.  But
as far as the Ares was concerned, the voyage was ended.

The tiny cabin that had been his home for so many weeks would soon know
him no more.

He left the observation deck and hurried up to the control room, which
he had deliberately avoided during the last busy hours.  It was no
longer so easy to move around inside the Ares, for the minute
gravitational field of Deimos was just sufficient to upset his
instinctive movements and he had to make a conscious allowance for it.
He wondered just what it would be like to experience a real
gravitational field again.  It was hard to believe that only three
months ago the idea of having no gravity at all had seemed very strange
and unsettling, yet now he had come to regard it as normal.  How
adaptable the human body was I

The entire crew was sitting round the chart table, looking very smug
and self-satisfied.

"You're just in time, Martin," said Norden cheerfully.  "We're going to
have a little celebration.  Go and get your camera and take our
pictures while we toast the old crate's health."

"Don't drink it all before I come backl" warned Gibson, and departed in
search of his Leica.  When he reentered, Dr.  Scott was attempting an
interesting experiment.

"I'm fed up with squirting my beer out of a bulb," he explained.  "I
want to pour it properly into a glass now we've got the chance again.
Let's see how long it takes."

"It'll be flat before it gets there," warned Mackay.  "Let's seeg's
about half a centimetre a second squared, you're pouring from a height
of He retired into a brown study.

But the experiment was already in progress.  Scott was holding the
punctured beer-tin about a foot above his glass and for the first time
in three months, the word "above" had some meaning, even if very
little.  For, with incredible slowness, the amber liquid oozed out of
the tin-so slowly that one might have taken it for syrup.  A thin
column extended downwards, moving almost imperceptibly at first, but
then slowly accelerating.  It seemed an age before the glass was
reached; then a great cheer went up as contact was made and the level
of the liquid began to creep upwards.  "..  . I calculate it should
take a hundred and twenty seconds to get there," Mackay's voice was
heard to announce above the din.

"Then you'd better calculate again," retorted Scott.  "That's two
minutes, and it's already there!"

"Eh?"  said Mackay, startled, and obviously realising for the first
time that the experiment was over.  He rapidly rechecked his
calculations and suddenly brightened at discovering a misplaced decimal
point.

"Silly of me!  I never was any good at mental arithmetic.  I meant
twelve seconds, of course."

"And that's the man who got us to Mars!"  said someone in shocked
amazement.  "I'm going to walk back!"

Nobody seemed inclined to repeat Scott's experiment, which, though
interesting, was felt to have little practical value.  Very soon large
amounts of liquid were being squirted out of bulbs in the "normal"
manner, and the party began to get steadily more cheerful.  Dr.  Scott
recited the whole of that saga of the space ways-and a prodigious
feat of memory it was-which paying passengers seldom encounter and
which begins:

"It'was the spaceship Venus..

Gibson followed for some time the adventures of this all too
appropriately' named craft and its ingenious though single minded crew.
Then the atmosphere began to get too close for him and he left to clear
his head.  Almost automatically, he made his way back to his favourite
viewpoint on the observation deck.

He had to anchor himself in it, lest the tiny but persistent pull of
Deimos dislodge him.  Mars, more than half full and slowly waxing, lay
dead ahead.  Down there the preparations to greet them would already be
under way, and even at this moment the little rockets would be climbing
invisibly towards Deimos to ferry them down.  Fourteen thousand
kilometres below, but still six thousand kilometres above Mars, Phobos
was transiting the unlighted face of the planet, shining brilliantly
against its star-eclipsing crescent.  Just what was happening on that
little moon, Gibson wondered halfheartedly.  Oh, well, he'd find out
soon enough.  Meanwhile he'd polish up his aerography.  Let's see-there
was the double fork of the Sinus Meridiani (very convenient, that,
smack on the equator and in zero longitude) and over to the east was
the Syrtis Major, Working from these two obvious landmarks he could
fill in the finer detail.  Margaritifer Sinus was showing up nicely
today, but there was a lot of cloud over Xanthe, and" Mr.  Gibson!"

He looked round, startled.

"Why, Jimmy-you had enough too?"

Jimmy was looking rather hot and flushed---obviously another seeker
after fresh air.  He wavered, a little unsteadily, into the observation
seat and for a moment stared silently at Mars as if he'd never seen it
before.  Then he shook his head disapprovingly.

"It's awfully big," he announced to no one in particular.

"It isn't as big as Earth," Gibson protested.  "And in any case your
criticism's completely meaningless, unless you state what standards
you're applying.  Just what size do you think Mars should be,
anyway?"

7his obviously hadn't occurred to Jimmy and he pondered it deeply for
some time.

"I don't know," he said sadly.  "But it's still too big.  Everything's
too big."

This conversation was going to get nowhere, Gibson decided.  He would
have to change the subject.

"What are you going to do when you get down to Mars?  You've got a
couple of months to play with before the Ares goes home."

"Well, I suppose I'll wander round Port Lowell and go out and look at
the deserts.  I'd like to do a bit of exploring if I can manage it."

Gibson thought this quite an interesting idea, but he knew that to
explore Mars on any useful scale was not an easy undertaking and
required a good deal of equipment, as well as experienced guides.  It
was hardly likely that Jimmy could attach himself to one of the
scientific parties which left the settlements from time to time.

"I've an idea," he said.  "They're supposed to show me everything I
want to see.  Maybe I can organise some trips out into Hellas or
Hesperia, where no one's been yet Would you like to come?  We might
meet some Martianst"

That, of course, had been the stock joke about Mars ever since the
first ships had returned with the disappointing news that there weren't
any Martians after all.  Quite a number of people still hoped, against
all evidence, that there might be intelligent life somewhere in the
many unexplored regions of the planet.

"Yes," said Jimmy, "that would be a great idea.  No one can stop me,
anyway-my time's my own as soon as we get to Mars.  It says so in the
contract."

He spoke this rather belligerently, as if for the information of any
superior officers who might be listening, and Gibson thought it wisest
to remain silent.

The silence lasted for some minutes.  Then Jimmy began, very slowly, to
drift out of the observation port and to slide down the sloping walls
of the ship.  Gibson caught him before he had travelled very far and
fastened two of the elastic handholds to his clothing-on the principle
that Jimmy could sleep here just as comfortably as anywhere else.  He
was certainly much too tired to carry him to his bunk.

Is it true that we only look our true selves when we are asleep?
wondered Gibson.  Jimmy seemed very peaceful and contented now that he
was completely relaxed although perhaps the ruby light from the great
planet above gave him his appearance of well-being.  Gibson hoped it
was not all illusion.  The fact that Jimmy had at last deliberately
sought him out was significant.  True, Jimmy was not altogether
himself, and he might have forgotten the whole incident by morning.
But Gibson did not think so.  Jimmy had decided, perhaps not yet
consciously, to give him another chance.  He was on probation.

Gibson awoke the next day with a most infernal din ringing in his ears.
It sounded as if the Ares was falling to pieces around him, and he
hastily dressed and hurried out into the corridor.  The first person he
met was Mackay, who didn't stop to explain but shouted after him as he
went by.  "The rockets are here! The first one's going down in two
hours.  Better hurry you're supposed to be on it!"

Gibson scratched his head a little sheepishly.

"Someone ought to have told me," he grumbled.  Then he remembered that
someone had, so he'd only himself to blame.  He hurried back to his
cabin and began to throw his property into suitcases.  From time to
time the Ares gave a distinct shudder around him, and he wondered just
what was going on.

Norden, looking rather harassed, met him at the airlock.  Dr.  Scott,
also dressed for departure, was with him.  He was carrying, with
extreme care, a bulky metal cas "Hope you two have a nice trip down,"
said Norden.  "We'll be seeing you in a couple of days, when we've got
the cargo out.  So until then-oh, I almost forgot!  I'm supposed to get
you to sign this,"

"What is it?' asked Gibson suspiciously.  "I never sign anything until
my agent's vetted it."

"Read it and see," grinned Norden.  "It's quite an historic
document."

The parchment which Norden had handed him bore these words:

THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT MARTIN M. GIBSON, AUTHOR, WAS

THE FIRST PASSENGER.  TO TRAVEL IN TIM LINER ARES, OF

EARTH, ON HER MAIDEN VOYAGE FROM EARTH TO MARS.

Then followed the date, and space for the signatures of Gibson and the
rest of the crew.  Gibson wrote his autograph with a flourish.

"I suppose this will end up in the museum of Astronautics, when they
decide where they're going to build it," he remarked.

"So will the Ares I expect," said Scott.

"That's a fine thing to say at the end of her first trip!" protested
Norden.  "But I guess you're right.  Well, I must be off.  The others
are outside in their suits--shout to them as you go across.  See you on
Mars!"

For the second time, Gibson climbed into a spacesuit, now feeling quite
a veteran at this sort of thing.

"Of course, you'll understand," explained Scott, "that when the service
is properly organised the passengers will go across to the ferry through
a connecting tube.  That will cut out all this business."

"They'll miss a lot of fun," Gibson replied as he quickly checked the
gauges on the little panel beneath his chin.

The outer door opened before them, and they jetted themselves slowly
out across the surface of Deimos.  The Ares, supported in the cradle of
ropes (which must have been hastily prepared within the last week)
looked as.  if a wrecking party had been at work on her.  Gibson
understood now the cause of the bangings and thumpings that had
awakened him.  Most of the plating from the Southern Hemisphere had
been removed to get at the hold, and the space-suited members of the
crew were bringing out the cargo, which was now being piled on the
rocks around the ship.  It looked, Gibson thought, a very haphazard
sort of operation.  He hoped that no one would accidentally give his
luggage a push which would send it off irretrievably into space, to
become a third and still tinier satellite of Mars.

Lying fifty metres from the Ares, and quite dwarfed by her bulk, were
the two winged rockets that had come up from Mars during the night. One
was already having cargo ferried into it; the other, a much smaller
vessel, was obviously intended for passengers only.  As Gibson slowly
and cautiously followed Scott towards it, he switched over to the
general wavelength of his suit and called good-bye to his crewmates.
Their envious replies came back promptly, interspersed with much
puffing and blowing-for the loads they were shifting, though practically
weightless, possessed their normal inertia and so were just as hard to
set moving as on Earth.

"That's rightt," came Bradley's voice.  "Leave us to do all the
work!"

"You've one compensation," laughed Gibson.  "You must be the.
highest-paid stevedores in the Solar System!"  He could sympathise with
Bradley's point of view; this was not the sort of work for which the
highly trained technicians of the Ares had signed on.  But the
mysterious diversion of the ship from the tiny though well-equipped
port on Phobos had made such improvisations unavoidable.

One couldn't very well make individual good-byes on open circuit with
half a dozen people listening, and in any case Gibson would be seeing
everyone again in a few days.  He would like to have had an extra word
with Jimmy, but that would have to wait.

It was quite an experience seeing a new human face again.  The rocket
pilot came into the airlock to help them with their suits, which were
gently deposited back on Deimos for future use simply by opening the
outer door again and letting the air current do the rest.  Then he led
them into the tiny cabin and told them to relax in the padded seats.

"Since you've had no gravity for a couple of months," he said, "I'm
taking you down as gently as I can.  I won't use more than a normal
Earth gravity-but even that may make you feel as if -you weigh a ton.
Ready?"

"Yes," said Gibson, trying valiantly to forget his last experience of
this nature.

There was a gentle, far-away roar and something thrust him firmly down
into the depths of his seat.  The crags and mountains of Deimos sank
swiftly behind; he caught a last glimpse of the Ares-a bright silver
dumb-bell against that nightmare jumble of rocks.

Only a second's burst of.  power had liberated them from the tiny moon;
they were now floating round Mars in a free orbit.  For several minutes
the pilot studied his instruments, receiving radio checks from the
planet bee neath, and swinging the ship round its gyros.  Then he
punched the firing key again, and the rockets thundered for a few
seconds more.  The ship had broken free from the orbit of Deimos, and
was falling towards Mars.  The whole operation was an exact replica, in
miniature, of a true interplanetary voyage.  Only the times and
durations were changed; it would take them three hours, not months, to
reach their goal, and they had only thousands instead of millions of
kilometres to travel.

"Well," said the pilot, locking his controls and swinging round in his
seat.  "Had a good trip?"

"Quite pleasant, thanks," said Gibson.  "Not much excitement, of
course.  Everything went very smoothly."

"How's Mars these days?"  asked Scott.

"Oh, just the same as usual.  All work and not much play.  The big
thing at the moment is the new dome we're building at Lowell.  Three
hundred metres clear span you be able to think you're back on Earth.
We're wondering if we can arrange clouds' and rain inside it."

"What's all this Phobos business?"  said Gibson, with a nose for news.
"It caused us a lot of trouble."

"Oh, I don't think it's anything important.  No one seems to know
exactly, but there are quite a lot of people up there building a big
lab.  My guess is that Phobos is going to be a pure research station,
and they don't want liners and me com.  g .-A going M_ 1-9@_ _-sffig
uIp their i q rn en with just about every form of radiation known to
science."

Gibson felt disappointed at the collapse of several interesting
theories.  Perhaps if he had not been so intent on the approaching
planet he might have considered this explanation a little more
critically, but for the moment it satisfied him and he gave the matter
no further thought.

When Mars seemed in no great hurry to come closer, Gibson decided to
learn all he could about the practical details of life on the planet,
now that he had a genuine colonist to question.  He had a morbid fear
of making a fool of himself, either by ignorance or tactlessness, and
for the next couple of hours the pilot was kept busy alternating
between Gibson and his instruments.

Mars was less than a thousand kilometres away when Gibson released his
victim and devoted his whole attention to the expanding landscape
beneath.  They were passing swiftly over the equator, coming down into
the outer fringes of the planet's extremely deep yet very tenuous
atmosphere.  Presently-and it was impossible to tell when the moment
arrived-Mars ceased to be a planet floating in space, and became
instead a landscape far below.  Deserts and oases fled beneath; the
Syrtis Major came and passed before Gibson had time to recognise it.
They were fifty kilometres up when there came the first hint that the
air was thickening around them.  A faint and distant sighing, seeming
to come from nowhere, began to MI the cabin.  The thin air was tugging
at their hurtling projectile with feeble fingers, but its strength
would grow swiftly too swiftly, if their navigation had been at fault.
Gibson could feel the deceleration mounting as the ship slackened its
speed; the whistle of air was now so loud, even through the insulation
of the walls, that normal speech would have been difficult.

This seemed to last for a very long time, though it could only have
been a few minutes.  At last the wail of the wind died slowly away. The
rocket had shed all its surplus speed against air resistance; the
refractory material of its nose, and knife edged wings would be swiftly
cooling from cherry-red.  No longer a spaceship now, but simply a
highspeed glider, the little ship was racing across the desert at less
than a thousand kilometres an hour, riding down the radio beam into
Port Lowell.

Gibson first glimpsed the settlement as a tiny white patch on the
horizon, against the dark background of the Aurorae Sinus.  The pilot
swung the ship round in a great whistling arc to the south, losing
altitude and shedding his surplus speed.  As the rocket banked, Gibson
had a momentary picture of half a dozen large, circular domes,
clustered closely together.  Then the ground was rushing up to meet
him, there was a series of gentle bumps, and the machine rolled slowly
to a standstill.

He was on Mars.  He had reached what to ancient man had been a moving
red light among the stars, what to the men of only a century ago had
been a mysterious and utterly unattainable world-and what was now the
frontier of the human race.

"There's quite a reception committee," remarked the pilot.  "All the
transport fleet's come out to see us.  I didn't know they had so many
vehicles serviceable!"

Two small, squat machines with very wide balloon tires had come racing
up to meet them.  Each had a pressurised driving cab, large enough to
hold two people, but a dozen passengers had managed to crowd on to the
little vehicles by grabbing convenient hand-holds.  Behind them came
two large half tracked buses, also full of spectators.  Gibson had not
expected quite such a crowd, and began to compose a short speech.

"I don't suppose you know how to use these things yet," said the pilot,
producing two breathing masks.  "But you've only got to wear them for a
minute while you get over to the Fleas."  (The what?  thought Gibson.
Oh, of course, those little vehicles would be the famous Martian "Sand
Fleas," the planet's universal transports.) "I'll fix them on for you.
Oxygen O.K.?  Right-here we go.  It may feel a bit queer at first."

The air slowly hissed from the cabin until the pressure inside and out
had been equalised.  Gibson felt his exposed skin tingling
uncomfortably; the atmosphere around him was now thinner than above the
peak of Everest.  It had taken three months of slow acclimatisation on
the Ares, and all the resources of modern medical science, to enable
him to step out on to the surface of Mars with no more protection than
a simple oxygen mask.

It was flattering that so many people had come to meet him.  Of course,
it wasn't often that Mars could expect so distinguished a visitor, but
he knew that the busy little colony had no time for ceremonial.

Dr.  Scott emerged beside him, still carrying the large metal case he
had nursed so carefully through the whole of the trip.  At his
appearance a group of the colonists came rushing forward, completely
ignored Gibson, and crowded round Scott.  Gibson could hear their
voices, so distorted in this thin air as to be almost
incomprehensible.

"Glad to see you again, Doc!  Here--let us carry it!"

"We've got everything ready, and there are ten cases waiting in
hospital now.  We should know how good it is in a week."

"Come on--get into the bus and talk later!" Before Gibson had realised
what was happening, Scott and his impedimenta had been swept away.
There was a shrill whine of a powerful motor and the bus tore off
towards Port Lowell, leaving Gibson feeling as foolish as he had ever
been in his life.

He had completely forgotten the serum.  To Mars, its arrival was of
infinitely greater importance than a visit by any novelist, however
distinguished he might be on his own planet.  It was a lesson he would
not forget in a hurry.

Luckily, he had not been completely deserted-the Sand Fleas were still
left.  One of the passengers disembarked and hurried up to him.

"Mr.  Gibson?  I'm Westerman of the "Times'-the "Martian Times," that
is.  Very pleased to meet you.  This is----"

"Henderson, in charge of port facilities," interrupted a tall,
hatchet-faced man, obviously annoyed that the other had got in first.
"I've seen that your luggage will be collected.  Jump aboard."

It was quite obvious that Westerman would have much preferred Gibson as
his own passenger, but he was forced to submit with as good grace as he
could manage.  Gibson climbed into Henderson's Flea through the
flexible plastic bag that was the vehicle's simple but effective
airlock, and the other joined him a minute later in the driving cab. It
was a relief to discard the breathing mask; the few minutes he had
spent in the open had been quite a strain.  He also felt very heavy and
sluggish-the exact reverse of the sensation one would have expected on
reaching Mars.  But for three months he had known no gravity at all,
and it would take him some time to grow accustomed to even a third of
his terrestrial weight.

The vehicle began to race across the landing strip towards the domes of
the Port, a couple of kilometres away.  For the first time, Gibson
noticed that all around him was the brilliant mottled green of the
hardy plants that were the commonest lifeform on Mars.  Overhead the
sky was no longer jet black, but a deep and glorious blue.  The sun was
not far from the zenith, and its rays struck with surprising warmth
through the plastic dome of the cabin.

Gibson peered at the dark vault of the sky, trying to locate the tiny
moon on which his companions were still at work.  Henderson noticed his
gaze, took one hand off the steering wheel, and pointed close to the
Sun.

"There she is," he said.

Gibson shielded his eyes and stared into the sky.  Then he saw, hanging
like a distant electric arc against the blue, a brilliant star a little
westwards of the Sun.  It was far too small even for Deimos, but it was
a moment before Gibson realised that his companion had mistaken the
object of his search.

That steady, un winking light, burning so unexpectedly in the daylight
sky, was now, and would remain for many weeks, the morning star of
Mars.  But it was better known as Earth.



"Sorry to have kept you waiting," said Mayor Whittaker, "but you know
the way it is-the Chief's been in conference for the last hour.  I've
only just been able to get hold of him myself to tell him you're here.
This way -we'll take the short cut through Records."

It might have been an ordinary office on Earth.  The door said, simply
enough: "Chief Executive."  There was no name; it wasn't necessary.
Everyone in the Solar System knew who ran Mars-indeed, it was difficult
to think of the planet without thinking of Warren Hadfield at the same
time.

Gibson was surprised, when he rose from his desk, to see that the Chief
Executive was a good deal shorter than he had imagined  He must have
judged the man by his works, and had never guessed that he could give
him a couple of inches in height.  But the thin, wiry frame and
sensitive, rather birdlike head were exactly as he had expected.

The interview began with Gibson somewhat on the defensive, for so much
depended on his making a good impression.  His way would be infinitely
easier if he had the Chief on his side.  In fact, if he made an enemy
of Hadfield he might just as well go home right away.

"I hope Whittaker has been looking after you," said the Chief when the
initial courtesies had been exchanged.  "You'll realise that I couldn't
see you before--I've only just got back from an inspection.  How are
you settling down here?"

"Quite well," smiled Gibson.  "I'm afraid I've broken a few things by
leaving them in mid-air, but I'm getting used to living with gravity
again."  "And what do you think of our little city?"

"It's a remarkable achievement.  I don't know how you managed to do so
much in the time."  Hadfield was eyeing him narrowly.

"Be perfectly frank.  It's smaller than you expected, isn't it?'

Gibson hesitated.

"Well, I suppose it is-but then I'm used to the standards of London and
New York.  After all, two thousand people would only make a large
village back on Earth.  Such a lot of Port Lowell's underground, too,
and that makes a difference."

The Chief Executive seemed neither annoyed nor surprised.

"Everyone has a disappointment when they see Mars' largest city," he
said.  "Still, it's going to be a lot bigger in another week, when the
new dome goes up.  Tell me just what are your plans now you've got
here?  I suppose you know I wasn't very much in favour of this visit in
the first place."

"I gathered that on Earth," said Gibson, a little taken aback.  He had
yet to discover that frankness was one of the Chief Executive's major
virtues; it was not one that endeared him to many people.  "I suppose
you were afraid I'd get in the way."

"Yes.  But now you're here, we'll do the best for you.  I hope you'll
do the same for us."

"In what way?"  asked Gibson, stiffening defensively.

Hadfield leaned across the table and clasped his hands together with an
almost feverish intensity.

"We're at war, Mr.  Gibson.  We're at war with Mars and all the forces
it can bring against us--cold, lack of water, lack of air.  And we're
at war with Earth.  It's a paper war, true, but it's got its victories
and defeats.  I'm fighting a campaign at the end of a supply line
that's never less than fifty million kilometres long.  The most urgent
goods take at least five months to reach me-and I only get them if
Earth decides I can't manage any other way.I suppose you realise what
I'm fighting for-my primary objective, that is?  It's self-sufficiency.
Remember that the first expeditions had to bring everything with them.
Well, we can provide all the basic necessities of life now, from our
own resources.  Our workshops can make almost anything that isn't too
complicated-but it's all a question of manpower.  There are some very
specialised goods that simply have to be made on Earth, and until our
population's at least ten times as big we can't do much about it.
Everyone on Mars is an expert at something but there are more skilled
trades back on Earth than there are people on this planet, and it's no
use arguing with arithmetic.

"You see those graphs over there?  I started keeping them five years
ago.  They show our production index for various key materials.  We've
reached the self-sufficiency level-that horizontal red line-for about
half of them.  I hope that in another five years there will be very few
things we'll have to import from Earth.  Even now our greatest need is
manpower, and that's where you may be able to help us."

Gibson looked a little uncomfortable.

"I can't make any promises.  Please remember that I'm here purely as a
reporter.  Emotionally, I'm on your side, but I've got to describe the
facts as I see them."

"I appreciate that.  But facts aren't everything.  What I hope you'll
explain to Earth is the things we hope to do, just as much as the
things we've done.  They're even more important-but we can achieve them
only if Earth gives us its support.  Not all your predecessors have
realised that."

That was perfectly true, thought Gibson.  He remembered a critical
series of articles in the "Daily Telegraph" about a year before.  The
facts had been quite accurate, but a similar account of the first
settlers' achievements after five years' colonisation of North America
would probably have been just as discouraging.

"I think I can see both sides of the question," said Gibson.  "You've
got to realise that from the point of view of Earth, Mars is a long way
away, costs a lot of money, and doesn't offer anything in return.  The
first glamour of interplanetary exploration has worn off.  Now people
are asking, "What do we get out of it?  So far the answer's been, "Very
little!  I'm convinced that your work is important, but in my case it's
an act of faith rather than a matter of logic.  The average man back on
Earth probably thinks the millions you're spending here could be better
used improving his own planet-when he thinks of it at all, that is."

"I understand your difficulty; it's a common one.  And it isn't easy to
answer.  Let me put it this way.  I suppose most intelligent people
would admit the value of a scientific base on Mars, devoted to pure
research and investigation?"  "Undoubtedly."  "But they can't see the
purpose of building up a self--contained culture, which may
eventually become an independent civilisation?"

"That's the trouble, precisely.  They don't believe it's possible-or,
granted the possibility, don't think it's worth while.  You'll often
see articles pointing out.  that Mars will always be a drag on the home
planet, because of the tremendous natural difficulties under which
you're labouring."

"What about the analogy between Mars and the American colonies?"

"It can't be pressed too far.  After all, men could breathe the air and
find food to eat when they got to America!"

"That's true, but though the problem of colonising Mars is so much
more difficult, we've got enormously greater powers at our control.
Given time and material, we can make this a world as good to live on as
Earth.  Even now, you won't find many of our people who want to go
back.  They know the importance of what they're doing.  Earth may not
need Mars yet, but one day it will."

"I wish I could believe that," said Gibson, a little unhappily.  He
pointed to the rich green tide of vegetation that lapped, like a hungry
sea, against the almost invisible dome of the city, at the great plain
that hurried so swiftly over the edge of the curiously close horizon,
and at the scarlet hills within whose arms the city lay.  "Mars is an
interesting world, even a beautiful one.  But it can never be like
Earth."

"Why should it be?  And what do you mean by "Earth," anyway?  Do you
mean the South American pampas, the vineyards of France, the coral
islands of the Pacific, the Siberian steppes?  "Earth' is every one of
those! Wherever men can live, that will be home to someone, some day.
And sooner or later men will be able to live on Mars without all this."
He waved towards the dome which floated above the city and gave it
life.

"Do you really think," protested Gibson, "that men can ever adapt
themselves to the atmosphere outside?  They won't be men any longer if
they do."

For a moment the Chief Executive did not reply.  Then he remarked
quietly: "I said nothing about men adapting themselves to Mars.  Have
you ever considered the possibility of Mars meeting us half-way?"

He left Gibson just sufficient time to absorb the words; then, before
his visitor could frame the questions that were leaping to his mind,
Hadfield rose to his feet.

"Well, I hope Whittaker looks after you and shows you everything you
want to see.  You'll understand that the transport situation's rather
tight, but we'll get you to all the outposts if you give us time to
make the arrangements.  Let me know if there's any difficulty."

The dismissal was polite and, at least for the time being, final.  The
busiest man on Mars had given Gibson a generous portion of his time,
and his questions would have to wait until the next opportunity.

"What do you think of the Chief, now you've met him?"  said Mayor
Whittaker when Gibson had returnd to the outer office.

"He was very pleasant and helpful," replied Gibson cautiously.  "Quite
an enthusiast about Mars, isn't he?"  Whittaker pursed his lips.

"I'm not sure that's the right word.  I think he regards Mars as an
enemy to be beaten.  So do we all, of course, but the Chief's got
better reasons than most.  You'd heard about his wife, hadn't you?"
No."

"She was one of the first people to die of Martian fever, two years
after they came here."

"Oh," said Gibson slowly.  "I see.  I suppose that's one reason why
there's been such an effort to find a cure."

"Yes; the Chiefs very much set on it.  Besides, it's such a drain on
our resources.  We can't afford to be sick he rel "That last remark,
thought Gibson as he crossed Broadway (so called because it was all of
fifteen metres wide), almost summed up the position of the colony.  He
had still not quite recovered from his initial disappointment at
finding how small Port Lowell was, and how deficient in all the
luxuries to which he was accustomed on Earth.  With its rows of uniform
metal houses and few public buildings 'it was more of a military camp
than a city, though the inhabitants had done their best to brighten it
up with terrestrial flowers.  Some of these had grown to impressive
sizes under the low gravity, and Oxford Circus was now ablaze with
sunflowers thrice the height of a man.  Though they were getting rather
a nuisance no one had the heart to suggest their removal; if they
continued at their present rate of growth it would soon take a skilled
lumberjack to fell them without endangering the port hospital.  Gibson
continued thoughtfully up Broadway until he came to Marble Arch, at the
meeting point of Domes One- and Two.  It was also, as he had quickly
found, a meeting point in many other ways.  Here, strategically placed
near the multiple airlocks, was "George's," the only bar on Mars.
"Morning, Mr.  Gibson," said George.  "Hope the Chief was in a good
temper."

As he had left the administration building less than ten minutes ago,
Gibson thought this was pretty quick work.  He was soon.  to find that
news travelled very rapidly in Port Lowell, and most.  of it seemed to
be routed through George.

George was an interesting character.  Since tavern keepers were
regarded as only relatively, and not absolutely, essential for the
well-being of the Port, he had two official professions.  On Earth he
had been a well-known stage entertainer, but the unreasonable demands
of the three or four wives he had acquired in a rush of youthful
enthusiasm had made him decide to emigrate.  He was now in charge of
the Port's little theatre and seemed to be perfectly contented with
life.  Being in the middle forties, he was one of the oldest men on
Mars.

"We've got a show on next week," he remarked, when he had served
Gibson.  "One or two quite good turns.  Hope you'll be coming along."

"Certainly," said Gibson.  "I'll look forward to it.  How often do you
have this sort of thing?"

"About once a month.  We have film shows three times a week, so we
don't really do too badly," "I'm glad Port Lowell has some
night-life."

"You'd be surprised.  Still, I'd better not tell you about that or you'll
be writing it all up in the papers."

"I don't write for that sort of newspaper," retorted Gibson, sipping
thoughtfully at the local brew.  It wasn't at all bad when you got used
to it, though of course it was completely synthetic-the joint offspring
of hydroponic farm and chemical laboratory.

The bar was quite deserted, for at this time of day everyone in Port
Lowell would be hard at work.  Gibson pulled out his notebook and began
to make careful entries, whistling a little tune as he did so.  It was
an annoying habit, of which he was quite unconscious, and George
counterattacked by turning up the bar radio.

For once it was a live programme, beamed to Mars from somewhere on the
night side of Earth, punched across space by heaven-knows-how-many
megawatts, then picked up and rebroadcast by the station on the low
hills to the south of the city.  Reception was good, apart from a trace
of solar noise static from that infinitely greater transmitter against
whose background Earth was broadcasting.  Gibson wondered if it was
really worth all this trouble to send the voice of a somewhat mediocre
soprano and a light orchestra from world to world.  But half Mars was
probably listening with varying degrees of sentimentality and
homesickness-both of which would be indignantly denied.

Gibson finished the list of several score questions he had to ask
someone.  He still felt rather like a new boy at his first school;
everything was so strange, nothing could be taken for granted.  It was
hard to believe that twenty metres on the other side of that
transparent bubble lay a sudden death by suffocation.  Somehow this
feeling had never worried him on the Ares; after all, space was like
that.  But it seemed all wrong here, where one could look out across
that brilliant green plain, now a battlefield on which the hardy
Martian plants fought their annual struggle for existences struggle
which would end in death for victors and vanquished alike with the
coming of winter.

Suddenly Gibson felt an almost overwhelming desire to leave, the narrow
streets and go out beneath the open sky.  For almost the first time, he
found himself really missing Earth, the planet he had thought had so
little more to offer him.  Like FalstAff, he felt like babbling of
green fields-with the added irony that green fields were all around
him, tantalisingly visible yet barred from him by the laws of nature.

"George," said Gibson abruptly, "I've been here awhile and I haven't
been outside yet.  I'm not supposed to without someone to look after
me.  You won't have any customers for an hour or so.  Be a sport and
take me out through the airlock just for ten minutes."

No doubt, thought Gibson a little sheepishly, George considered this a
pretty crazy request.  He was quite wrong; it had happened so often
before that George took it very much for granted.  After all, his job
was attending to the whims of his customers, and most of the new boys
seemed to feel this way after their first few days under the dome.
George shrugged his shoulders philosophically, wondering if he should
apply for additional credits as Port psychotheraphist, and disappeared
into his inner sanctum.  He came back a moment later, carrying a couple
of breathing masks and their auxiliary equipment

"We won't want the whole works on a nice day like this," he said, while
Gibson clumsily adjusted his gear.  "Make sure that sponge rubber fits
snugly around your neck.  All right-let's go.  But only ten minutes,
mind!"

Gibson followed eagerly, like a sheepdog behind its master, until they
came to the dome exit.  There were two locks here, a large one, wide
open, leading into Dome Two, and a smaller one which led out on to the
open landscape.  It was simply a metal tube, about three metres in
diameter, leading through the glass-brick wall which anchored the
flexible plastic envelope of the dome to the ground.

There were four separate doors, none of which could be opened unless
the remaining three were closed.  Gibson fully approved of these
precautions, but it seemed a long time before the last of the doors
swung inwards from its seals and that vivid green plain lay open before
him.  His exposed skin was tingling under the reduced pressure, but the
thin air was reasonably warm and he soon felt quite comfortable.
Completely ignoring George, he ploughed his way briskly through the
low, closely packed vegetation, wondering as he did why it clustered so
thickly round the dome.  Perhaps it was attracted by the warmth of the
slow seepage of oxygen from the city.

He stopped after a few hundred metres, feeling at last clear of that
oppressive canopy and once more under the open sky of heaven.  The fact
that his head, at least, was still totally enclosed somehow didn't seem
to matter.  He bent down and examined the plants among which he was
standing knee-deep.

He had, of course, seen photographs of Martian plants many times
before.  They were not really very exciting, and he was not enough of a
botanist to appreciate their peculiarities.  Indeed if he had met such
plants in some out-of-the-way part of Earth he would hardly have looked
at them twice.  None were higher than his waist, and those around him
now seemed to be made of sheets of brilliant green parchment, very thin
but very tough, designed to catch as much sunlight as possible without
losing precious water.  These ragged sheets were spread like little
sails in the sun, whose progress across the sky they would follow until
they dipped westwards at dusk.  Gibson wished there were some flowers
to add a touch of contrasting colour to the vivid emerald, but there
were no flowers on Mars.  Perhaps there had been, once, when the air
was thick enough to support insects, but now most of the Martian
plant-life was selffertilised.

George caught up with him and stood regarding the natives with a morose
indifference.  Gibson wondered if he was annoyed at being so summarily
dragged out of doors, but his qualms of conscience were unjustified.
George was simply brooding over his next production, wondering whether
to risk a Noel Coward play after the disaster that had resulted the
last time his company had tried its hand with period pieces.  Suddenly
he snapped out of his reverie and said to Gibson, his voice thin but
clearly audible over this short distance: "This is rather amusing. Just
stand still for a minute and watch that plant in your shadow." -Gibson
obeyed this peculiar instruction.  For a moment Nothing happened.  Then
he saw that, very slowly, the parchment sheets were folding in on one
another.  The whole process was over in about three minutes; at the end
of that time the plant had become a little ball of green paper, tightly
crumpled together and only a fraction of its previous size.

George chuckled.

"It thinks night's fallen," he said, "and doesn't want to be caught
napping when the sun's gone.  If you move away, it will think things
over for half an hour before it risks opening shop again.  You could
probably give it a nervous breakdown if you kept this up all day."

"Are these plants any use?"  said Gibson.  "I mean, can they be eaten,
or do they contain any valuable chemical s?"

"They certainly can't be eaten-they're not poisonous but they'd make
you feel mighty unhappy.  You see they're not really like plants on
Earth at all.  That green is just a coincidence.  It isn't-what do you
call the stuff---"

"Chlorophyll?"

"Yes.  They don't depend on the air as our plants do; everything they
need they get from the ground.  In fact they can grow in a complete
vacuum, like the plants on the Moon, if they've got suitable soil and
enough sunlight."

Quite a triumph of evolution, thought Gibson.  But to what purpose?  he
wondered.  Why had life clung so tenaciously to this little world,
despite the worst that nature could do?  Perhaps the Chief Executive
had obtained some of his own optimism from these tough and resolute
plants.  "Hey!" said George.  "It's time to go back."

Gibson followed meekly enough.  He no longer felt weighed down by that
claustrophobic oppression which was, he knew, partly due to the
inevitable reaction at finding Mars something of an anticlimax.  Those
who had come here for a definite job, and hadn't been given time to
brood, would probably by-pass this stage altogether.  But he had been
turned loose to collect his impressions, and so far his chief one was a
feeling of helplessness as he compared what man had so far achieved on
Mars with the problems still to be faced.  Why, even now three quarters
of the planet was still unexplored That was some measure of what
remained to be done.  The first days at Port Lowell had been busy and
exciting enough.  It had been a Sunday when he had arrived and Mayor
Whittaker had been sufficiently free from the cares of office to show
him round the city personally, once he had been installed in one of the
four suites of the Grand Martian Hotel.  (The other three had not yet
been finished.) They had started at Dome One, the first to be built,
and the Mayor had proudly traced -the growth of his city from a group
of pressurised huts only ten years ago.  It was amusing-and rather
touching--to see how the colonists had used wherever possible the names
of familiar streets and squares from their own far-away cities.  There
was also a scientific system of numbering the streets in Port Lowell,
but nobody ever used it.

Most of the living houses were uniform metal structures, two stories
high, with rounded corners and rather small windows.  They held two
families and were none too large, since the birthrate of Port Lowell
was the highest in the known universe.  This, of course, was hardly
surprising since almost the entire population lay between the ages of
twenty and thirty, with a few of the senior administrative staff
creeping up into the forties.  Every house had a curious porch which
puzzled Gibson until he realised that it was designed to act as an
airlock in an emergency.

Whittaker had taken him first to the administrative centre, the tallest
building in the city.  If one stood on its roof, one could almost reach
up and touch the dome floating above.  There was nothing very exciting
about Admin.  It might have been any office building on Earth, with its
rows of desks and typewriters and filing cabinets.

Main Air was much more interesting.  This, truly, was the heart of Port
Lowell; if it ever ceased to function, the city and all those it held
would soon be dead.  Gibson had been somewhat vague about the manner in
which the settlement obtained its oxygen.  At one time he had been
under the impression that it was extracted from the surrounding air,
having forgotten that even such scanty atmosphere as Mars possessed
contained less than one per cent of the gas.

Mayor Whittaker had pointed to the great heap of red sand that had been
bulldozed in from outside the dome.  Everyone called it "sand," but it
had little resemblance to the familiar sand of Earth.  A complex
mixture of metallic oxides, it was nothing less than the debris of a
world that had rusted to death.

"All the oxygen we need is in these ores," said Whittaker, kicking at
the caked powder.  "And just about every metal you can think of.  We've
had one or two strokes of luck on Mars: this is the biggest."

He bent down and picked up a lump more solid than the rest.

"I'm not much of a geologist," he said, "but look at this.  Pretty,
isn't it?  Mostly iron oxide, they tell me.  Iron isn't much use, of
course, but the other metals are.  About the only one we can't get
easily direct from the sand is magnesium.  The best source of that's
the old sea bed; there are some salt flats a hundred metres thick out
in Xanthe and we just go and collect when we need it."

They walked into the low, brightly lit building, towards which a
continual flow of sand was moving on a conveyor belt.  There was not
really a great deal to see, and though the engineer in charge was only
too anxious to explain just what was happening, Gibson was content
merely to learn that the ores were cracked in electric furnaces, the
oxygen drawn off, purified and compressed, and the various metallic
messes sent on for more complicated operations.  A good deal of water
was also produced here-almost enough for the settlement's needs, though
other sources were available as well.

"Of course," said Mayor Whittaker, "in addition to storing the oxygen
weve got to keep the air pressure at the correct value and to get rid
of the CO2.  You realise, don't you, that the dome's kept up purely by
the internal pressure and hasn't any other support."

"Yes," said Gibson.  "I suppose if that fell off the whole thing would
collapse like a deflated balloon."

"Exactly.  We keep 150 millimetres pressure in summer, a little more in
winter.  That gives almost the same oxygen pressure as in Earth's
atmosphere.  And we remove the CO2 simply by letting plants do the
trick.  We imported enough for this job, since the Martian plants don't
go in for photosynthesis."

"Hence the hypertrophied sunflowers in Oxford Circus, I suppose."

"Well, those are intended to be more ornamental than functional.  I'm
afraid they're getting a bit of a nuisance; I'll have to stop them from
spraying seeds all over the city, or whatever it is that sunflowers do.
Now let's walk over and look at the farm."

The name was a singularly misleading one for the big food production
plant filling Dome Three.  The air was quite humid here, and the
sunlight was augmented by batteries of fluorescent tubes so that growth
could continue day and night.  Gibson knew very little about hydroponic
farming and so was not really impressed by the figures which Mayor
Whittaker proudly poured into his ear.  He could, however, appreciate
that one of the greatest problems was meat production, and admired the
ingenuity which had partly overcome this by extensive tissue-culture in
great vats of nutrient fluid.

"It's better than nothing," said the Mayor a little wistfully.  "But
what I wouldn't give for a genuine lamb-chop. The trouble with natural
meat production is that it takes up so much space and we simply can't
afford it.  However, when the new domes up we're going to start a
little farm with a few sheep and cows.  The kids will love it-they've
never seen any animals, of course."

This was not quite true, as Gibson was soon to discover: Mayor
Whittaker had momentarily overlooked two of Port Lowell's best-known
residents.

By the end of the tour Gibson began to suffer from slight mental
indigestion.  The mechanics of life in the city were so complicated,
and Mayor Whittaker tried to show him everything.  He was quite
thankful when the trip was over and they returned to the mayors home
for dinner. "I think that's enough for one day," said Whittaker, "but I
wanted to show you round because well all be busy tomorrow and I won't
be able to spare much time The Chiefs away, you know, and won't be back
until Thursday, so I've got to look after everything."

"Where's he gone?"  asked Gibson, out of politeness rather than real
interest.

"Oh, up to Phobos," Whittaker replied, with the briefest possible
hesitation.  "As soon as he gets back he'll be glad to see you."

The conversation had then been interrupted by the arrival of Mrs.
Whittaker and family, and for the rest of the evening Gibson was
compelled to talk about Earth.  It was his first, but not by any means
his last, experience of the insatiable interest which the colonists had
in the home planet.  They seldom admitted it openly, pretending to a
stubborn indifference about the "old world" and its affairs.  But their
questions, and above all their rapid reactions to terrestrial
criticisms and comments, belied this completely.

It was strange to talk to children who had never known Earth, who had
been born and had spent all their short lives under the shelter of the
great domes.  What, Gibson wondered, did Earth mean to them?  Was it
any more real than the fabulous lands of fairy tales?  All they knew of
the world from which their parents had emigrated was at second hand,
derived from books and pictures.  As far as their own senses were
concerned, Earth was just another star.

They had never known the coming of the seasons.  Outside the dome, it
was true, they could watch the long winter spread death over the land
as the Sun descended in the northern sky, could see the strange plants
wither and perish, to make way for the next generation when spring
returned.  But no hint of this came through the protecting barriers of
the city.  The engineers at the power plant simply threw in more heater
circuits and laughed at the worst that Mars could do.

Yet these children, despite their completely artificial environment,
seemed happy and well, and quite unconscious of all the things which
they had missed.  Gibson wondered just what their reactions would be if
they ever came to Earth.  It would be a very interesting experiment,
but so far none of the children born on Mars were old enough to leave
their parents.

he lights of the city were going down when Gibson left the Mayor's home
after his first day on Mars.  He said very little as Whittaker walked
back with him to the hotel, for his mind was too full of jumbled
impressions.  In the morning he would start to sort them out, but at
the moment his chief feeling was that the greatest city on Mars was
nothing more than an over-mechanised village.

Gibson had not yet mastered the intricacies of the Martian calendar,
but he knew that the week-days were the same as on Earth and that
Monday followed Sunday in the usual way.  (The months also had the same
names, but were fifty to sixty' days in length.) When he left the hotel
at what he thought was a reasonable hour, the city appeared quite
deserted.  There were none of the gossiping groups of people who had
watched his progress with such interest on the previous day.  Everyone
was at work in office, factory, or lab, and Gibson felt rather like a
drone who had strayed into a particularly busy hive.

He found Mayor Whittaker beleaguered by secretaries and talking into
two telephones at once.  Not having the heart to interupt, Gibson
tiptoed away and started a tour of exploration himself.  There was not,
after all, any great danger of becoming lost.  The maximum distance he
would travel in a straight line was less than half a kilometre  It was
not the kind of exploration of Mars he had ever imagined in any of his
books.... So he had passed his first few days in Port Lowell wandering
round and asking questions during working hours, spending the evenings
with the families of Mayor Whittaker or other members of the senior
staff.  Already he felt as if he had lived here for years.  There was
nothing new to be seen; he had met everyone of importance, up to and
including the Chief Executive himself.

But he knew he was still a stranger: he had really seen less than a
thousand millionth of the whole surface of Mars.  Beyond the shelter of
the dome, beyond the crimson hills" over the edge of the emerald
plain-all the rest of this world was mystery.

"Well, it's certainly nice to see you all again," said Gibson carrying
the drinks carefully across from the bar.  "Now I suppose you're going
to paint Port Lowell red.  I Presume the first move will be to contact
the local girl friends?"

"That's never very easy," said Norden.  "They will get married between
trips, and you've got to be tactful.  By the way, George, what's
happened to Miss Margaret Mackinnon?"

"You mean Mrs.  Henry Lewis," said George.  "Such a fine baby boy,
too."

"Has she called it John?"  asked Bradley, not particularly Sotto
voce.

Oh, well," sighed Norden, "I hope she's saved me some of the wedding
cake.  Here's to you, Martin."

"And to-the Ares," said Gibson clinking glasses.  "I hope you've put
her together again.  She looked in a pretty bad way the last time I saw
her."

Norden chuckled.

"Oh, that!  No, we'll leave all the plating off until we reload.  The
rain isn't likely to get in."

"What do you think of Mars, jimmy?" asked Gibson.  "You're the only
other new boy here besides myself."

"I haven't seen much of it yet," Jimmy replied cautiously.  "Everything
seems rather small, though."

Gibson spluttered violently and had to be patted on the back.

"I remember your saying just the opposite when we were on Deimos.  But
I guess you've forgotten it.  You were slightly drunk at the time."

"I've never been drunk," said Jimmy indignantly.

"Then I compliment you on a first-rate imitation: it deceived me
completely.  But I'm interested in what you say, because that's exactly
how I felt after the first couple of days, as soon as I'd seen all
there was to look at inside the dome.  There's only one cure-you have
to go outside and stretch your legs.  I've had a couple of short walks
around, but now I've managed to grab a Sand Flea from Transport.  I'm
going to gallop up into the hills' tomorrow  Like to come?"

Jimmy's eyes glistened.

"Thanks very much-I'd love to."

"Hey, what about us?"  protested Norden.

"You've done it before," said Gibson.  "But there'll be one spare seat,
so you can toss for it.  We've got to take an official driver; they
won't let us go out by ourselves with one of their precious vehicles,
and I suppose you can hardly blame them."

Mackay won the toss, whereupon the others immediately explained that
they didn't really want to go anyway.

"Well, that settles that," said Gibson.  "Meet me at Transport Section,
Dome Four, at 10 tomorrow.  Now I must be off.  I've got three articles
to write---or at any rate one article with three different titles."

The explorers met promptly on time, carrying the full protective
equipment which they had been issued on arrival but so far had found no
occasion to use.  This comprised the headpiece, oxygen cylinders, and
air purifier all that was necessary out of doors on Mars on a warm
day-and the heat insulating suit with its compact power cells.  This
could keep one warm and comfortable even when the temperature outside
was more than a hundred below.  It would not be needed on this trip,
unless an accident to the Flea left them stranded a long way away from
home.

The driver was a tough young geologist who claimed to have spent as
much time outside Port Lowell as in it.  He looked extremely competent
and resourceful, and Gibson felt no qualms at handing his valuable
person into his keeping.

"Do these machines ever break down outsider' he asked as they climbed
into the Flea.

"Not very often.  They've got a terrific safety factor and there's
really very little to go wrong.  Of course, sometimes a careless driver
gets stuck, but you can usually haul yourself out of anything with the
winch.  There have only been a couple of cases of people having to walk
home in the last month."

"I trust we won't make a third," said Mackay, as the vehicle rolled
into the lock.

"I shouldn't worry about that," laughed the driver, waiting for the
outer door to open.  "We won't be going far from base, so we can always
get back even if the worst comes to the worst."

With a surge of power they shot through the lock and out of the city. A
narrow road had been cut through the low, vivid vegetations road which
circled the port and from which other highways radiated to the nearby
mines, to the radio station and observatory on the hills, and to the
landing ground on which even now the Ares' freight was being unloaded
as the rockets ferried it down from Deimos.

"WeW' said the driver, halting at the first Junction.  "Ifs all yours.
Which way do we go?"

Gibson was struggling with a map three sizes too big for the cabin.
Their guide looked at it with scorn.

"I don't know where, you got hold of that," he said.  "I suppose Admin
gave it to you.  It's completely out of date, anyway.  If you'll tell
me where you want to go I can take you there without bothering about
that thing."  "Very well," Gibson replied meekly.  "I suggest we climb
up into the hills and get a good look round.  Let's go to the
Observatory."  "The Flea leapt forward along the narrow road and the
brilliant green around them merged into a featureless blur.

"How fast can these things go?"  asked Gibson, when he had climbed out
of Mackay's lap.

"Oh, at least a hundred on a good road.  But as there aren't any good
roads on Mars, we have to take it easy.  I'm doing sixty now.  On rough
ground you'll be lucky to average half that.,

"And what about range?"  said Gibson, obviously still a little
nervous.

"A good thousand kilometres on one charge, even allowing pretty
generously for heating" cooking, and the rest.  For really long trips
we tow a trailer with spare power sells.  The record's about five
thousand kilometres; I've done three before now, prospecting out in
Argym When you're doing that sort of thing, you arrange to get supplies
dropped from the air."

Though they had now been travelling for no more than a couple of
minutes, Port Lowell was already falling below the horizon.  The steep
curvature of Mars made it very difficult to judge distances, and the
fact that the domes were now half concealed by the curve of the planet
made one imagine that they were much larger objects at a far greater
distance than they really were.

Soon afterwards, they began to reappear as the Flea started climbing
towards higher ground.  The hills above Port Lowell were less than a
kilometre high, but they formed a useful break for the cold winter
winds from the south, and gave vantage points for radio station and
observatory.

They reached the radio station half an hour after leaving the city.
Feeling it was time to do some walking, they adjusted their masks and
dismounted from the Flea, taking turns to go through the tiny
collapsible airlock.

The view was not really very impressive.  To the north, the domes of
Port Lowell floated like bubbles on an emerald sea.  Over to the west
Gibson could just catch a glimpse of.  crimson from the desert which
encircled the entire planet.  As the crest of the hills stiff lay a
little above him, he could not see southwards, but he knew that the
green band of vegetation stretched for several hundred kilometres until
it petered out into the Mare Erythraeum.  There were hardly any plants
here on the hilltop, and he presumed that this was due to the absence
of moisture.

He walked over to the radio station.  It was quite automatic, so there
was no one he could buttonhole in the usual way, but he knew enough
about the subject to guess what was going on.  The giant parabolic
reflector lay almost on its back, pointing a little east of the zenith
pointing to Earth, sixty million kilometres Sunwards.  Along its
invisible beam were coming and going the messages that linked these two
worlds together.  Perhaps at this very moment one of his own articles
was flying Earthwardsor one of Ruth Goldstein's directives was winging
its way towards him.

Mackay's voice, distorted and feeble in this thin air, made him turn
round.

"Someone's coming in to land down there-over on the right."

With some difficulty, Gibson spotted the tiny arrowhead of the rocket
moving swiftly across the sky, racing in on a free glide just as he had
done a week before.  It banked over the city and was lost behind the
domes as it touched down on the landing strip.  Gibson hoped it was
bringing in the remainder of his luggage, which seemed to have taken a
long time to catch up with him.

The Observatory was about five kilometres farther south, Just over the
brow of the hills, where the lights of Port Lowell would not interfere
with its work.  Gibson had half expected to see the gleaming domes
which on Earth were the trademarks of the astronomers, but instead the
only dome was the sin all plastic bubble of the living quarters.  "The
instruments themselves were in the open, though there was provision for
covering them up in the very rare event of bad weather.

Everything appeared to be completely deserted as the Flea approached.
They halted beside the largest instr ament-a reflector with a mirror
which, Gibson guessed, was less than a metre across.  It was an
astonishingly small instrument for the chief observatory on Mars. There
were two small refractors, and a complicated horizontal affair which
Mackay said was a mirror-transit-whatever that might be.  And fli*
apart from the pressurised dome, seemed to be about all.

There was obviously someone at home for a small Sand Flea was parked
outside the building.  "they're quite a sociable crowd," said the
driver as he brought the vehicle to a halt.  "It's a pretty dull life
up here and they're always glad to see peoples And there'll he room
inside the dome for us to stretch our legs and have dinner in comfort'

"Surely we can't expect them to provide a meal for us," protested
Gibson, who had a dislike of incurring obligations he couldn't readily
discharge.  The driver looked genuinely surprised; then he laughed
heartily.

"This isn't Earth, you know.  On Mars , everyone helps everyone else-we
have to, or we'd never get anywhere.  But I've brought our provisions
along-all I want to use is their stove.  If you'd ever tried to cook a
meal.  inside a Sand Flea with four aboard you'd know why,"

As predicted, the two astronmers on duty greeted them warmly, and the
little plastic bubbles air-conditioning plant was soon dealing with the
odours of cookery.  While this was going on, Mackay had grabbed the
senior member of the staff and started a technical discussion about the
Observatory's work.  Most of it was quite over Gibson's head, but he
tried to gather what he could from the conversation.

Most of the work done here was, it seemed, positional astronomy-the
dull but essential business of finding longitudes and latitudes,
providing time signals and linking radio fixes with the main Martian
grid.  Very little observational work was done at all; the huge
instruments on Earth's moon had taken that over long ago, and these
small telescopes, with the additional handicap of an atmosphere above
them, could not hope to compete.  The parallaxes of a few nearer stars
had been measured, but the very slight increase of accuracy provided by
the wider orbit of Mars made it hardly worth while.

As he ate his dinner-finding to his surprise that -his appetite was
better than at any time since reaching Mars-Gibson felt a glow of
satisfaction at having done a little to brighten the dull lives of
these devoted men.  Because he had never met enough of them to shatter
the illusion, Gibson had an altogether disproportionate respect for
astronomers, whom he regarded as leading lives of monkish dedication on
their remote mountain eyries.  Even his first encounter with the
excellent cocktail bar on Mount Palomar had not destroyed this simple
faith.

After the meal, at which everyone helped so conscientiously with the
washing-up that it took twice as long as necessary, the visitors were
invited to have a look through the large reflector.  Since it was early
afternoon, Gibson -did not imagine that there would be a great deal to
see; but this was an oversight on his part.

For a moment the picture was blurred, and he adjusted the focussing
screw with clumsy fingers.  It was not easy to observe with the special
eyepiece needed when one was wearing a breathing mask, but after a
while Gibson got the knack of it.

Hanging in the field of view, against the almost black sky near the
zenith, was a beautiful pearly crescent like it three-day old moon.
Some markings were just visible 62 the illuminated portion, but though
Gibson strained his eyes to the utmost he could not identify them." Too
much of the planet was in darkness for him to see any of the major
continents.

Not far away Boated an identically shaped but much smaller and fainter
crescent, and Gibson could distinctly see some of the familiar craters
along its edge.  They formed a beautiful couple, the twin planets Earth
and Moon, but somehow they seemed too remote and ethereal to give him
any feeling of homesickness or regret for all that he had left
behind.

One of the astronomers was speaking, his helmet held close to
Gibson's.

"When it's dark.  you can see the lights of the cities down there on
the night side.  New York and London- are easy.  The prettiest sight,
though, is the reflections of the Sun off the sea.  You get it near the
edge of the disc when there's no cloud about-a sort of brilliant,
shimmering star.  It isn't visible now because it's mostly land on the
crescent portion.

Before leaving the Observatory, they had a look at Deimos, which was
rising in its leisurely fashion in the east.  Under the highest power
of the telescope the rugged little moon seemed only a few kilometres,
away, and to his surprise Gibson could see the Ares quite clearly as two
gleaming dots close together.  He also wanted to look at Phobos.  but
the inner moon had not yet risen.

When there was nothing more to be seen, they bade farewell to the two
astronomers, who waved back rather glumly as the Flea drove off along,
the brow of the hill.  The driver explained that he wanted to make a
private detour to pick up- some rock specimens, and as to Gibson one
part of Mars was very much like another he raised no objection.

There was no real road over the hills, but ages ago all irregularities
had been worn away so that the ground was perfectly smooth.  Here and
there a few stubborn boulders still jutted above the surface,
displaying a fantastic riot of colour and shape, but these obstacles
were easily avoided.  Once or twice they passed small trees-if one
could call them that-of a type which Gibson had never seen before.  They
looked rather like pieces.  of coral, completely stiff petrified.
According to their driver they were immensely old, for though they were
certainly alive no-one had yet been able to measure their rate of
growth.  The smallest value which could be derived for their age was
fifty thousand years, and their method of reproduction was a complete
mystery.

Towards midafternoon they came to a low but beautifully coloured
cliff--"Rainbow Ridge," the geologist called It-which reminded Gibson
irresistibly of the more flamboyant Arizona canyons, though on a much
smaller scale.  They got out of -the Sand Flea and, while the driver
chipped off his samples, Gibson happily shot off half a reel of the new
Multichrome film he had brought with him for just such occasions.  If
it could bring out all those colours perfectly it must be as good as
the makers claimed, but Unfortunately he'd have to wait until he got
back to Earth before it could be developed.  No one on Mars knew
anything about it.  "Well," said the driver, "I suppose it's time we
started for home if we want to get back for tea.  We can drive back the
way we came, and keep to the high ground, or we can go round behind the
hills.  Any preferences?"

"Why not drive down into the plain?  That would be the most direct
route," said Mackay, who was now getting a little bored.

"And the slowest-you cant drive at any speed through those overgrown
cabbages."

"I always hate retracing my steps," said Gibson.  "Lees go round the
hills and see what we can find there."

The driver grinned.

"Don't raise any false hopes.  les much the same on both sides.  Here
we go!"

The Flea bounced forward and Rainbow Ridge soon disappeared behind
them.  They were now winding their way through completely barrew
country, and even the petrified trees had vanished.  Sometimes Gibson
saw a patch of green which he thought was vegetation, but as 'they
approached it invariably turned into another mineral outcrop.  71us
region was fantastically beautiful, a geologist's paradise, and Gibson
hoped that it would never be ravaged by mining operations.  It was
certainly one of the show places of Mars.  They had been driving for
half an hour when the hills dropped down into a. long, winding.  valley
which was unmistakably an ancient watercourse.  Perhaps fifty million
years ago, the driver told them, a greifriver had flowed this way to
lose its waters In the Mare Brythraeum--one of the few Martian "sea" to
be correctly, if somewhat belatedly, named.  They stopped the Flea and
gazed down the empty river bed with mingled feelings.  Gibson tried to
picture this scene as it must have appeared in those remote days, when
the great reptiles ruled the Earth and Man was still a dream of the
distant future.  The red cliffs would scarcely have changed in all that
time, but between them the river would have made its unhurried way to
the sea, flowing slowly under the weak gravity.  It was a scene that
might almost have belonged to Earth; and had it ever been witnessed by
intelligent eyes?  No one knew.  Perhaps there had indeed been Martians
in those days, but time had buried them completely.

The ancient river had left a legacy, for there was still moisture along
the lower reaches of the valley.  A narrow band of vegetation had come
thrusting up from Erythraeum, its brilliant green contrasting vividly
with the crimson of the cliffs.  The plants were those which Gibson had
already met on the other side of the hills, but here and there were
strangers.  They were tall enough to be called trees, but they had no
leaves-only thin, whip-like branches which continually trembled despite
the stillness of the air.  Gibson thought they were some of the most
sinister things he had ever seen-just the sort of ominous plant that
would suddenly flick out its tentacles at an unsuspecting passer-by. in
fact, as he was perfectly well aware, they were as harmless as
everything else on Mars.

They had zigzagged down into the valley and were climbing the other
slope when the driver suddenly brought the Flea to a halt.

"Hello!" he said.  "This is odd.  I didn't know there was any traffic
in these parts."

For a moment Gibson, who was not really as observant as he liked to
think, was at a loss.  Then he noticed a faint track running along the
valley at right angles to their present path.

"There have been some heavy vehicles here," said the driver.  "I'm sure
this track didn't exist the last time I came this way-let's see, about
a year ago.  And there haven't been any expeditions into Erythraeum, in
that time."  "Where does it lead?"  asked Gibson.

"Well, if you go up the valley and over the top YOU'll be back in Port
Lowell; that was what I intended to do.  The other direction only leads
out into the Mare."

"We've got time-let's go along it a little way."

Willingly enough, the driver swung the Flea around and headed down the
valley.  From time to time the track vanished as they went over smooth,
open rock, but it always reappeared again.  At last, however, they lost
it completely.

The driver stopped the Flea.

"I know what's happened," he said.  "Theres only one way it could have
gone.  Did you notice that pass about a kilometre back?  Ten to one it
leads up there."

"And where would that take anyone?"  "That's the funny thing-it's a
complete cul-de-sac.  There's a nice little amphitheatre about two
kilometres across, but you can't get out of it anywhere except the way
you came in.  I spent a couple of hours there once when we did the
first survey of this region.  It's quite a pretty little place,
sheltered and with some water in the spring."

"A good hide-out for smugglers," laughed Gibson.

The driver grinned.

"That's an idea.  Maybe theresa gang bringing in contraband beefsteaks
from Earth.  I'd settle for one a week to keep my mouth shut."

The narrow pass had obviously once contained a tributary of the main
river, and the going was a good deal rougher than in the main valley.
They had not driven very far before it became quite clear that they
were on the right track.  There's been some blasting here," said the
driver.  "This bit of road didn't exist when I came this way.  I had to
make a detour up that slope, and nearly had to abandon the Flea."

"What do you think is going on?"  asked Gibson, now getting quite
excited.

"Ob, there are several research projects that are so Specialised that
one doesn't hear a lot about them.  Some things can't be done near the
city, you know.  They may be building a magnetic observatory here-there's
been some talk of that.  The generators at Port Lowell would be
pretty well shielded by the hills.  But I don't think that's the
explanation, forrd have heard-Good Loral- "They had suddenly merged
from the pass, and before them lay an almost perfect oval of green,
flanked by the low, ochre hills.  Once this might have been a lovely
mountain lake; it was still a solace to the eye weary of lifeless,
multicoloured rock.  But for the moment Gibson scarcely noticcd the
brilliant carpet of vegetation; he was too astonished by the cluster of
domes, like a miniature of Port Lowell itself, grouped at the edge of
the little plain.

They drove in silence along the road that had been cut through the
living green carpet.  No one was moving outside the domes, but a large
transporter vehicle, several times the size of the Sand Flea, showed
that someone was certainly at home.  "This is quite a set-up," remarked
the driver as he adjusted his mask.  "There must be a pretty good
reason for spending all this money.  Just wait here while I go over and
talk to them."

They watched him disappear into the airlock of the larger dome.  It
seemed to his Inpatient passengers that he was gone rather a long time.
Then they saw the outer door open again and he walked slowly back
towards them.

"Well?"  asked Gibson eagerly as the driver climbed back into the cab.
"What did they have to say?"

There was a slight pause; then the driver started the engine and the
Sand Flea began to move off.

"I say-what about this famous Martian hospitality?  Aren't we invited
in?"  cried Mackay.

The driver seemed embarrassed.  He looked, Gibson thought, exactly like
a man who had just discovered lies made a fool of himself.  He cleared
his throat nervously.

"It's a plant research station," he said, choosing his words with
obvious care.  "It's not been going for very long, which is why I
hadn't heard of it before.  We can't go inside because the whole place
is sterile and they don't want spores brought inwe'd have to change all
our clothes and have a bath of disinfectant."

"I see," said Gibson.  Something told him it was no use asking any
further questions.  He knew, beyond all possibility of error, that his
guide had told him only part of the truth--and the least important part
at that.  For the first time the little discrepancies and doubts that
Gibson had hitherto ignored or forgotten began to crystallise in his
mind.  It had started even before he reached Mars, with the diversion
of the Ares from Phobos.  And now he had stumbled upon this hidden
research station.  It had been as big a surprise to their experienced
guide as to them, but he was attempting to cover up his accidental
indiscretion.

There was something going on.  What it was, Gibson could not imagine.
It must be big, for it concerned not only Mars but Phobos.  It was
something unknown to most of the colonists, yet something they would
qo-operate in keeping secret when they encountered it.

Mars was hiding something; and it could only be hiding it from Earth.



The Grand Martian Hotel now had no less than two residents, a state of
affairs which imposed a severe strain on its temporary staff.  The rest
of his shipmates had made private arrangements for their accommodation
in Port Lowell, but as he knew no one in the city Jimmy had decided to
accept official hospitality.  Gibson wondered if this was going to be a
success; he did not wish to throw too great a strain on their still
somewhat provisional friendship, and if Jimmy saw too much of him the
results might be disastrous.  He remembered an epigram which his best
enemy had once concocted: "Martin's one of the nicest fellows you could
meet, as long as you don't do it too often."  There was enough truth in
this to make it sting, and he had no wish to put it to the test
again.

His life in the Port had now settled down to a fairly steady routine.
In the morning he would work, putting on paper his impressions of
Mars-rather a presumptuous thing to do when he considered just how much
of the planet he had so far seen.  The afternoon was reserved for tours
of inspection and interviews with the city's inhabitants.  Sometimes
Jimmy went with him on these trips, and once the whole of the Ares crew
came along to the hospital to see how Dr.  Scott and his colleagues
were progressing with their battle against Martian fever.  It was still
too early to draw any conclusions, but Scott seemed fairly optimistic.
"What we'd like to have," he said rubbing his hands ghoulishly, "is a
really good epidemic so that we could test the stuff properly.  We
haven't enough cases at the moment."

Jimmy had two reasons for accompanying Gibson on his tours of the city.
In the first place, the older man could go almost anywhere he pleased
and so could get into all the interesting places which might otherwise
be out of bounds.  The second reason was a purely personal one--ill his
increasing interest in the curious character of Martin Gibson.

Though they had now been thrown so closely together, they had never
reopened their earlier conversation.  Jimmy knew that Gibson was
anxious to be friends and to make some recompense for whatever had
happened in the past.  He was quite capable of accepting this offer on
a purely impersonal basis, for he realised well enough that Gibson
could be extremely useful to him in his career.  Like most ambitious
young men, Jimmy had a streak of coldly calculating selfinterest in his
make-up, and Gibson would have been slightly dismayed at some of the
appraisals which Jimmy had made of the advantages to be obtained from
his patronage.

It would, however, be quite unfair to Jimmy to suggest that these
material considerations were uppermost in his mind.  There were times
when be sensed Gibson's inner loneliness-the loneliness of the bachelor
facing the approach of middle age.  Perhaps Jimmy also realised
though not consciously as yet-that to Gibson he was beginning to
represent the son he had never had.  It was not a role that Jimmy was
by any means sure he wanted, yet there were often times when he felt
sorry for Gibson and would have been glad to please him.  It is, after
all, very difficult not to feel -a certain affection towards someone
who likes you.

The accident that introduced a new and quite unexpected element into
Jimmy's life was really very trivial.  He had been out alone one
afternoon and, feeling thirsty, had dropped into the small cafe
opposite the Administration building.  Unfortunately he had not chosen
his time well, for while he was quietly sipping a cup of tea which had
never been within millions of kilometres of Ceylon, the place was
suddenly invaded.  It was the twenty-minute afternoon break when all
work stopped on Mars-a rule which the Chief Executive had enforced in
the interests of efficiency, though everyone would have much preferred
to do without it and leave work twenty minutes earlier instead.

Jimmy was rapidly surrounded by an army of young women, who eyed him
with alarming candour and a complete lack of diffidence.  Although half
a dozen men had been swept in on the flood, they crowded round one
table for mutual protection, and judging by their intense expressions,
continued to battle mentally with the files they had left on their
desks.  Jimmy decided to finish his drink as quickly as he could and
get out.

A rather tough-looking woman in her late thirties probably a senior
secretary-was sitting opposite him, talking to a much younger girl on
his side of the table.  It was quite a squeeze to get past, and as
Jimmy pushed into the crowd swirling through the narrow gangway, he
tripped over an outstretched foot.  He grabbed the table as he fell and
managed to avoid complete disaster, but only at the cost of catching
his elbow a sickening crack on the glass top.  Forgetting in his agony
that he was no longer back in the Ares, he relieved his feelings with a
few well chosen words.  I'lien, blushing furiously, he recovered and
bolted to freedom.  He.caught a glimpse of the elder woman trying hard
not to laugh, and the younger one not even attempting such
self-control.

And then, though it seemed inconceivable in retrospect, he forgot all
about them both.

It was Gibson who quite accidentally provided the second stimulus.  They
were talking about the swift growth of the city during the last few
years, and wondering if it would continue in the future.  Gibson had
remarked on the abnormal age distribution caused by the fact that no
one under twenty-one had been allowed to emigrate to Mars, so that
there was a complete gap between the ages of ten and twenty one-a gap
which, of course, the high birth-rate of the colony would soon fill.
Jimmy had been listening halfheartedly when one of Gibson's remarks
made him suddenly look up.

"That's funny," he said.  "Yesterday I saw a girl who couldn't have
been more than eighteen."

And then he stopped.  For, like a delayed-action bomb, the memory of
that girl's laughing face as he had stumbled from the cafe suddenly
exploded in his mind.

He never heard Gibson tell him that he must have been mistaken.  He
only knew that, whoever she was and wherever she had come from, he had
to see her again.

In a place the size of Port Lowell, it was only a matter of time before
one met everybody: the laws of chance would see to that.  Jimmy,
however, had no intention of waiting until these doubtful allies
arranged a second encounter.  The following day, just before the
afternoon break, he was drinking tea at the same table in the little
cafe.

This not very subtle move had caused him some mental anguish.  In the
first case, it might seem altogether too obvious.  Yet why shouldn't he
have tea here when most of Admin did the same?  A second and weightier
objection was the memory of the previous day's debacle.  But Jimmy
remembered an apt quotation about faint hearts and fair ladies.

His qualms were unnecessary.  Though he waited until the cafe had
emptied again, there was no sign of the girl or her companion.  They
must have gone somewhere else.

It was an annoying but only temporary setback to so resourceful a young
man as Jimmy.  Almost certainly she worked in the Admin building, and
there were innumerable excuses for visiting that.  He could think up
enquiries about his pay, though these would hardly get him into the
depths of the filing system or the stenographer's office, where she
probably worked.

It would be best simply to keep an eye on the building when the staff
arrived and left, though how this could be done unobtrusively was a
considerable problem.  Before he had made any attempt to solve it, Fate
stepped in again, heavily disguised as Martin Gibson, slightly short
of breath.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, Jimmy.  Better hurry up and get
dressed.  You know theresa show to_ night?  Well, we've all been
invited to have dinner with the Chief before going.  That's in two
hours.- "What does one wear for formal dinners on Mars?" asked Jimmy.

"Black shorts and white tie, I think," said Gibson, a little
doubtfully.  "Or is it the other way round?  Anyway, they'll tell us at
the hotel.  I hope they can find some.  thing that fits me."

They did, but only just Evening dress on Mars, where in the heat and
air-conditioned cities all clothes were kept to a minimum, consisted
simply of a white silk shirt with two rows of pearl buttons, a black
bow tie, and black satin shorts with a belt of wide aluminium links on
an elastic backing.  It was smarter than might have been expected but
when fitted out Gibson felt something midway between a Boy Scout and
Little Lord Fauntleroy.  Norden and Hilton, on the other hand, carried
it off quite well,

Mackay and Scott were less successful, and Bradley obviously didn't
give a damn.

The Chief's residence was the largest private house on Mars, though on
Earth it would have been a very modest affair.  They assembled in the
lounge for a chat and sherry-real sherry before the meal.  Mayor
Whittaker, being Hadfield's second-in command had also been invited,
and as he listened to them talking to Norden, Gibson understood for the
first time with what respect and admiration the colonists regarded the men
who provided their sole link with Earth.  Hadfield was holding forth at
some length about the Ares, waxing quite lyrical over her speed and
payload, and the effects these would have on the economy of Mars.

"Before we go in," said the Chief, when they had finished the sherry,
"I'd like you to meet my daughter.  She's just seeing to the
arrangements-excuse me a moment while I fetch her."

He was gone only a few seconds.  "This is Irene," he said, in a voice
that tried not to be proud but failed completely.  One by one he
introduced her to his guests, coming to Jimmy last.  Irene looked at
him and smiled sweetly.  "I think we've met before," she said.

Jimmy's colour heightened, but he held his ground and smiled back.

"So we have," he replied.

It was really very foolish of him not to have guessed.  If he had even
started to think properly he would have known who she must have been.
On Mars, the only man who could break the rules was the one who
enforced them.  Jimmy remembered hearing that the Chief had a daughter,
but he had never connected the facts together.  It all fell into place
now: when Hadfield and his wife came to Mars they had brought their
only child with them as part of the contract.  No one else had 'ever
been allowed to do so.

The meal was an excellent one, but it was largely wasted on Jimmy.  He
had not exactly lost his appetite-that would have been unthinkable-but
he ate with a distracted air.  As he was seated near the end of the
table, he could see Irene only by dint of craning his neck in a most
ungentlemanly fashion.  He was very glad when the meal was over and
they adjourned for coffee.

The other two members of the Chief Executives household were waiting
for the guests.  Already occupying the best seats, a pair of beautiful
Siamese cats regarded the visitors with fathomless eyes.  They were
introduced as Topaz and Turquoise, and Gibson, who loved cats,
immediately started to try and make friends with them.

"Are you fond of cats?" Irene asked Jimmy.

"Rather," said Jimmy, who loathed them.  "How long have they been
here?"

"Oh, about a year.  Just fancy-they're the only animals on Mars! I
wonder if they appreciate it."

"I'm sure Man does.  Don't they get spoiled?" "They're too independent.
I don't think they really care for anyone-not even Daddy, though he
likes to pretend they do."

With great subtlety--though to any spectator it would have been fairly
obvious that Irene was always one jump ahead of hfin-Jimmy brought the
conversation round to more personal matters.  He discovered that she
worked in the accounting section, but knew a good deal of everything
that went on in Administration, where she one day hoped to hold a
responsible executive post.  Jimmy guessed that her father's position
had been, if anything, a slight handicap to her.  Though it must have
made life easier in some ways, in others it would be a definite
disadvantage, as Port Lowell was fiercely democratic.

It was very hard to keep Irene on the, subject of Mars.  She was much
more anxious to hear about Earth, the planet which she had left when a
child and so must have, in her mind, a dream-like unreality.  Jimmy did
his best to answer her questions, quite content to talk about anything
which held her interest.  He spoke of Earth's great cities, its
mountains and seas, its blue skies and scudding clouds, its rivers and
rainbows-all the things which Mars had lost.  And as he talked, he fell
deeper and deeper beneath the spell of Irene's laughing eyes.  That was
the only word to describe them: she always seemed to be on the point of
sharing some secret joke.

Was she still laughing at him?  Jimmy wasn't sure-and he didn't mind.
What rubbish it was, he thought, to imagine that one became tongue-tied
on these occasions.  He had never been more fluent in his life'

he was suddenly aware that a great silence had fallen.  Everyone was
looking at him and Irene.

"Humph!"  said the Chief Executive.  "If you two have quite finished,
we'd better get a move on.  The show starts in ten minutes."

Most of Port Lowell seemed to have squeezed into the little theatre by
the time they arrived.  Mayor Whittaker, who had hurried ahead to check
the arrangements, met them at the door and shepherded them into their
seats, a reserved block occupying most of the front row.  Gibson,
Hadfield, and Irene were in the centre, Ranked by Norden and
Hilton-much to Jimmy's chagrin.  He had no alternative but to look at
the show.

Like all such amateur performances, it was good in parts.  The musical
items were excellent and there was one mezzo soprano who was up to the
best professional standards of Earth.  Gibson was not surprised when he
saw against her name on the programme: "Late of the Royal Covent Garden
Opera."

A dramatic interlude then followed, the distressed heroine and old time
villain hamming it for all they were worth.  The audience loved it,
cheering and booing the appropriate characters and shouting gratuitous
advice.

Next came one of the most astonishing ventriloquist acts that Gibson
had ever seen.  It was nearly over before he realised-only a minute
before the performer revealed it deliberately-that there was a radio
receiver inside the doll and an accomplice off-stage.

The next item appeared to be a skit on life in the city, and was so
full of local allusions that Gibson understood only part of it.
However, the antics of the main character -a harassed official
obviously modelled on Mayor Whittaker--drew roars of laughter.  "Mese
increased still further when he began to be pestered by a fantastic
person who was continually asking ridiculous questions, noting the
answers in a little book (which he was always losing).  and
photographing everything in sight.

It was several minutes before Gibson realised just what was going on.
For a moment he turned a deep red; then he realised that there Was only
one thing he could do.  He would have to laugh louder than anyone
else.

The proceedings ended with community singing, a form of entertainment
which Gibson did not normally go out of his way to seek-rather the
reverse, in fact.  But he found it more enjoyable than he had expected,
and as he Joined in the last choruses a sudden wave of emotion swept
over him, causing his voice to peter out Into nothingness.  For a
moment he sat, the only silent man in all that-crowd, wondering what
had happened to him.

The faces around provided the answer.  Here were men and women united
in a single task, driving towards a common goal, each knowing that
their work was vital to the community.  They had a sense of fulfilment
which very few could know on Earth, where all the frontiers had long
ago been reached.  It was a sense heightened and made more personal by
the fact that Port Lowell,was still so small that everyone knew
everybody else..

Of course, it was too good to last.  As the colony grew, the spirit of
these pioneering days would fade.  Everything would become too big and
too well organised; the development of the planet would be just another
job of work.  But for the present it was a wonderful sensation, which a
man would be lucky indeed to experience even once in his lifetime.
Gibson knew it was felt by all those around him, yet he could not share
it.  He was an outsider: that was the role he had always preferred to
play-and now he had played it long enough.  It N was not too late, he
wanted to join in the game.  That was the moment, if indeed there was
such a single point in time, when Martin Gibson changed his allegiance
from Earth to Mars.  No one ever knew.  Even those beside him, if they
noticed anything at all, were aware only that for a few seconds he had
stopped singing, but had now joined in the chorus again with redoubled
vigour.

In twos and threes, laughing, talking and singing, the audience slowly
dissolved into the night, Gibson and his friends started back towards
the hotel, having said goodbye to the Chief and Mayor Whittaker.  The
two men who virtually ran Mars watched them disappear down the narrow
streets; then Hadfield turned to his daughter and remarked quietly:
"Run along home now, dear-Mr.  Whittaker and I are going for a little
walk.  I'll be back in half an hour."

IMey waited, answering good-nights from time to time, until the tiny
square was deserted.  Mayor Whittaker, who guessed what was coming,
fidgeted slightly.

"Remind me to congratulate George on tonight's show," said Hadfield.

"Yes," Whittaker replied.  "I loved the skit on our mutual headache,
Gibson.  I suppose you want to conduct a postmortem on his latest
exploit?"

The Chief was slightly taken aback by this direct approach.

"It's rather too late now-and theres no real evidence that any real
harm was done.  I'm just wondering how to prevent future accidents."

"It was hardly the driver's fault.  He didn't know about the Project
and it was pure bad luck that he stumbled on it."

"Do you think Gibson suspects anything?"  "Frankly, I don't know.  he's
pretty shrewd."

"Of all the times to send a reporter here! I did everything I could to
keep him away, heaven know still
he's bound to find out that something's happening before he's here
much longer.  I think there's only one solution."

"What's that?"  "We just have to tell him.  Perhaps not everything,
but enough."

They walked in silence for a few yards.  Then Hadfield remarked: That's
pretty drastic.  You're assuming he can be trusted completely."  "I've
seen a good deal of him these last weeks. Fundamentally, he's on our
side.  You me, were doing the sort of things he's been writing about
all his life, though he can't quite believe it yet.  What would be
fatal would be to let him go back to Earth, suspecting something but
not knowing what."

There was another long silence.  They reached the Emit of the dome and
stared across the Simmering Martian landscape, dimly lit by the
radiance spilling out from the city.

"I'll have to think it over," said Hadfield, turning to retrace his
footsteps.  "Of course, a lot depends on how quickly things move'

"Any hints yet?" "No, confound them.  You never can pin scientists down
to a date."

A young couple, arms twined together, strolled past them obliviously.
Whittaker chuckled.  "That reminds me.  Irene seems to have taken quite
a fancy to that youngster-what's his name-Spencer."

"Oh, I don't know.  It's a change to see a fresh face around.  And space
travel is so much more romantic than the work we do here."

"All the nice girls love a sailor, eh?  Well, don't say I didn't warn
you."

That something had happened to Jimmy was soon perfectly obvious to
Gibson, and it took him no more than two guesses to arrive at the
correct answer.  He quite approved of the lad's choice: Irene seemed a
very nice child, from what little he had seen of her.  She was rather
unsophisticated, but this was not necessarily a handicap.  Much more
important was the fact that she had a gay and cheerful disposition,
though once or twice Gibson had caught her in a mood of wistfulness
that was very attractive.  She was also extremely pretty; Gibson was
now old enough to realise that this was not all-important, though Jimmy
might have different views on the subject.

At first, he decided to say nothing about the matter until Jimmy raised
it himself.  in all probability, the boy was, still under the
impression that no one had noticed anything in the least unusual.
Gibson's self-control gave way, however, when Jimmy announced his
intention of taking a temporary job in Port Lowell.  There was nothing
odd about this; indeed, it was a common practice among visiting
space-crews, who soon got bored if they had nothing-to do between
trips.  The work they chose was invariably technical and related in
some way to their professional activities; Mackay, for example, was
running evening classes in mathematics, while poor Dr.  Scott had had
no holiday at all, but had gone straight to the hospital immediately on
reaching Port Lowell.

But Jimmy, it seemed, wanted a change.  They were short of staff in the
accounting section, and he thought his knowledge of mathematics might
help.  He put up an astonishingly convincing argument, to which Gibson
listened with genuine pleasure.

"My dear Jimmy," he said, when it was finished.  "Why tell me all this?
Theres nothing to stop your going right ahead if you want to."

I "I know," said Jimmy, "but you see a lot of Mayor Whittaker and it
might save trouble if you had a word with him."

"I'll speak to the Chief if you like."  "Oh no, I shouldn't---.-" Jimmy
began.  Then he tried to retrieve his blunder.  "It isn't worth
bothering him about such details."

"Look here, Jimmy," said Gibson with great firmness.  "Why not come
clean?  Is this your idea, or did Irene put you up to it?"

It was worth travelling all the way to Mars to see Jimmy's expression.
He looked rather like a fish that had been breathing air for some time
and had only just realised it.

"Oh"' he said at last, "I didn't know you knew.  You won't ell anyone,
will you?"

Gibson was just about to remark that this would be quite unnecessary,
but -there was something in Jimmy's eyes that made him abandon all
attempts at humour.  The wheel had come full circle; he was back again
in that twenty-year-old buried spring.  He knew exactly what Jimmy was
feeling now, and knew also that nothing which the future could bring to
him would ever match the emotions he was discovering, still as new and
fresh as on the first morning of the world.  He might fall in love
again in later days, but the memory of Irene would shape and colour all
his life-just as Irene herself must be the memory of some ideal he had
brought with him into this universe.

"I'll do what I can," said Gibson gently, and meant it with all his
heart.  Though history might repeat itself, it never did so exactly,
and one generation could learn from the errors of the last.  Some
things were beyond planning or foresight, but he would do all he could
to help; and this time, perhaps, the outcome might be.  different

 The amber light was on.  Gibson took a last sip of water, cleared his
throat gently, and checked that the papers of his script were in the
right order.  No matter how many times he broadcast, his throat always
felt this initial tightness.  In the control room, the programme
engineer held up her thumb; the amber changed abruptly to red.

"Hello, Earth.  This is Martin Gibson speaking to you from Port Lowell,
Mars.  It's a great day for us here.  This morning the new dome was
inflated and now the city's increased its size by almost a half.  I
don't know if I can convey any impression of what a triumph this means,
what a feeling of victory it gives to us here in the battle against
Mars.  But I'll try.

"You all know that it's impossible to breathe the Martian
atmosphere-it's far too thin and contains practically no oxygen.  Port
Lowell, our biggest city, is built under six domes of transparent
plastic held up by the pressure of the air inside-air which we can
breathe comfortably though it's still much less dense than yours.

"For the last year a seventh dome has been under construction, a dome
twice as big as any of the others.  I'll describe it as it was yesterday,
when I went inside before the inflation started.

"Imagine a great circular space half a kilometre across, surrounded by
a thick wall of glass bricks twice as high as a man.  Through this wall
lead the passages to the other domes, and the exits direct on to the
brilliant green Martian landscape all around us.  These passages are
simply metal tubes with great doors which close automatically if air
escapes from any of the domes.  On Mars, we don't believe in putting
all our eggs in one basket.

"When I entered Dome Seven yesterday, all this great circular space was
covered with a thin transparent sheet fastened to the surrounding wall,
and lying limp on the ground in huge folds beneath which we had to
force our
way.  If you can imagine being inside a deflated balloon you'll know
exactly how I felt.  The envelope of the dome is a very strong plastic,
almost perfectly transparent and quite flexible-a kind of thick
cellophane.

"Of course, I had to wear my breathing mask, for though we were sealed
off from the outside there was still practically no air in the dome. It
was being pumped in as rapidly as possible, and you could see the great
sheets of plastic straining sluggishly as the pressure mounted.

"This went on all through the night.  The first thing this morning I
went into the dome again, and found that the envelope had now blown
itself into a big bubble at the centre, though round the edges it was
still lying flat.  That huge bubble it was about a hundred metres
across-kept trying to move around like a living creature, and all the
time it grew.

"About the middle of the morning it had grown so much that we could see
the complete dome taking shape; the envelope had lifted away from the
ground everywhere.  Pumping was stopped for a while to test for leaks,
then resumed again around midday.  By now the sun was helping too,
warming up the air and making it expand.

"Three hours ago the first stage of the inflation was finished.  We
took off our masks and let out a great cheer.  The air still wasn't
really thick' enough for comfort, but it was breathable and the
engineers could work inside without bothering about masks any more.
They'll spend the next few days checking the great envelope for
stresses, and looking for leaks.  There are bound to be some, of
course, but as long as the air loss doesn't exceed a certain value it
won't matter.

"So now we feel weve pushed our frontier on Mars back a little further.
Soon the new buildings will be going up under Dome Seven, and we're
making plans for a small park and even a lake-the only one on Mars,
that will be, for free water can't exist here in the open for any
length of time.

"Of course, this is only a beginning, and one day it will seem a very
small achievement; but it's a great step forward in our battle-it
represents the conquest of another slice of Mars.  And it means living
space for another thousand people.  Are you listening, Earth?  Good
night."  The red light faded.  For a moment Gibson sat staring at the
microphone, musing on the fact that his first words, though travelling
at the speed of light, would only now be reaching Earth.  Then he
gathered up his papers and walked through the padded doors into the
control room.

The engineer held up a telephone for him.  "A call's just come through
for you, Mr.  Gibson," she said.  "Someone's been pretty quick off the
mark." "They certainly have," he replied with a grin.  "Hello, Gibson
here."  "This is Hadfield.  Congratulations.  I've just been
listening-it went out over our local station, you know."  "I'm glad you
liked it."

Hadfield chuckled.

"You've probably guessed that I've read most of your earlier scripts.
It's been quite interesting to watch the change of attitude."

"What change?"

"When you started, we were "they."  Now were "we."  Not very well put,
perhaps, but I think my point is clear."

He gave Gibson no time to answer this, but continued without a break.

"I really rang up about this.  Ive been able to fix your trip to Sida
at last.  We've got a passenger jet going over there on Wednesday with
room for three aboard.  Whittaker will give you the details.
Good-bye."

The phone clicked into silence.  Very thoughtfully, but not a little
pleased, Gibson replaced it on the stand.  What the Chief had said was
true enough.  He had been here for almost a month, and in that time his
outlook towards Mars had changed completely.  The first schoolboy
excitement had lasted no more than a few days; the subsequent
disillusionment only a little longer.  Now he knew enough to regard the
colony with a tempered enthusiasm not wholly based on logic.  He was
afraid to analyse it, lest it disappear completely.  Some part of it,
he knew, came from his growing respect for the people around him-his
admiration for the keen-eyed competence, the readiness to take
well-calculated risks, which had enabled them not merely to survive, on
this heartbreakingly hostile world, but to lay the foundations 'of the
first extra-terrestrial cul turn More than ever before, he felt a
longing to identify himself with their work, wherever it might lead.

Meanwhile, his first real chance of seeing Mars on the large scale had
arrived.  On Wednesday he would be taking off for Port Schiaparelli,
the planet's second city, ten thousand kilometres to the east in
Trivium Charontis.  The trip had been planned a fortnight ago, but
every time something had turned up to postpone it.  He would have to
tell Jimmy and Hilton to get ready---they had been the lucky ones in
the draw.  Perhaps Jimmy might not be quite -so eager to go now as he
had been once.  No doubt he was now anxiously counting the days left to
him on Mars, and would resent anything that took him away from Irene.
But if he turned down this chance, Gibson would have no sympathy for
him at all.

"Neat job, isn't she?"  said the pilot proudly.  "There are only six
like her on Mars.  It's quite a trick designing a jet that can fly in
this atmosphere, even with the low gravity to help you."

Gibson did not know enough about aerodynamics to appreciate the finer
points of the aircraft, though he could see that the wing area was
abnormally large.  The four jet units were neatly buried just outboard
of the fuselage, only the slightest of bulges betraying their position.
If he had met such a machine on a terrestrial airfield Gibson would not
have given it a second thought, though the sturdy tractor undercarriage
might have surprised him.  This machine was built to fly fast and
far-and to land on any surface which was approximately flat.

He climbed in after Jimmy and Hilton and settled himself as comfortably
as he could in the rather restricted space.  Most of the cabin was
taken up by large packing cases securely strapped in position-urgent
freight for Skia, he supposed.  It hadn't left a great deal of space
for the passengers.

The motors accelerated swiftly until their thin whines hovered at the
edge of hearing.  There was the familiar pause while the pilot checked
his instruments and controls; then the jets opened full out and the
runway began to slide beneath them.  A few seconds later there came the
sudden reassuring surge of power as the take-off rockets fired and
lifted them effortlessly up into the sky.  The aircraft climbed
steadily into the south, then swung round to starboard in a great curve
that took it over the city.

The aircraft levelled out on an easterly course and the great island of
Aurorae Sinus sank over the edge of the planet.  Apart from a few
oases, the open desert now lay ahead for thousands of kilometres.

The pilot switched his controls to automatic and came amidships to talk
to his passengers.

"We'll be at Charontis in about four hours," he said.  "I'm afraid
there isn't much to look at on the way, though you'll see some fine
colour effects when we go over Euphrates.  After that it's more or less
uniform desert until we hit the Syrtis Major."

Gibson did some rapid mental arithmetic.

"Let's see-we're flying east and we started rather late -it1l be dark
when we get there."

"Don't worry about that-well pick up the Charontis beacon when we're a
couple of hundred kilometres away.  Mars is so small that you don't
often do a long-distance, trip in daylight all the way."  "How long
have you been on Mars?"  asked Gibson, who had now ceased taking photos
through the observation ports.

"Oh, five years."

"I'm .

Y1119 all the time?"

"Most of it."

"Wouldn't you prefer being in spaceships?"

"Not likely.  No -excitement in it-just floating around in nothing for
months."  He grinned at Hilton, who smiled amiably but showed no
inclination to argue.

"Just what do you mean by 'excitements' said Gibson anxiously.

"Well, you've got some scenery to look at, you!  re not away from home
for very long, and there's always the chance you may find something
new.  I've done half a dozen trips over the poles, you know-most of
them in summer, but I went across the Mare Boreum last winter.  A
hundred and fifty degrees below outsider That's the record so far for
Mars."

"I can beat that pretty easily," said Hilton.  "At night it reaches two
hundred below on ri tan  It was the first time Gibson had ever heard
him refer to the Saturnia expedition.  "By the way, Fred," he asked,
"is this rumour true?"  "What rumour?"

"You know-that you're going to have another shot at Saturn.,"

Hilton shrugged his shoulders.

"It Isn't decided-there are a lot of difficulties.  But I think it will
come off ; it would be a pity to miss the chance.  You see, if we can
leave next year we can go past Jupiter on the way, and have our first
really good look at him.  Mac's worked out a very interesting orbit for
us.  We go rather close to Jupiter-right inside all the satellites-and
let his gravitational field swing us round so that we head out in the
rigbt direction for Saturn.  It'll need rather accurate navigation to
give us just the orbit we want, but it can be done."

"Then what's holding it up?"

"Money, as usual.  The trip will last two and a half years and will
cost about fifty million.  Mars can't afford it-it would mean doubling
the usual deficit!  At the moment we're trying to get Earth to foot the
bill."

"It would come to that anyway in the long run," said Gibson.  "But give
me all the facts when we get home and I'll write a blistering expose
about cheeseparing terrestrial politicians.  You mustn't underestimate
the power of the press."

The talk then drifted from planet to planet, until Gibson suddenly
remembered that he was wasting a magnificent chance of seeing Mars at
first hand.  Obtaining permission to occupy the pilot's seat-after
promising not to touch anything-he went forward and settled himself
comfortably behind the controls.

Five kilometres below, the Coloured desert was streaking past him to
the west.  They were flying at what, on Earth, would have been a very
low altitude, for the thinness of the Martian air made it essential to
keep as near the surface as safety allowed.  Gibson had never before
received such an impression of sheer speed, for though he had flown in
much faster machines on Earth, that had always been at heights where
the ground was invisible.  The nearness of the horizon added to the
effect, for an object which appeared over the edge of the planet would
be passing beneath a few minutes later.

From time to time the pilot came forward to check the course, though it
was a pure formality, as there was nothing he need do until the voyage
was nearly over.  At mid-point some coffee and light refreshments were
produced, and Gibson rejoined his companions in the cabin.  Hilton and
the pilot were now arguing briskly about Venus -quite a sore point with
the Martian colonists, who regarded that peculiar planet as a complete
waste of time.  The sun was now very low in the west and even the
stunted Martian hills threw long
shadows across the desert.  Down there the temperature was already
below freezing point, and falling fast.  "The few hardy plants that had
survived in this almost barren waste would have folded their leaves
tightly together, conserving warmth and energy against the rig ours of
the night.

Gibson yawned and stretched himself.  The swiftly unfolding landscape
had an almost hypnotic effect and it was difficult to keep awake.  He
decided to catch some sleep in the ninety or so minutes that were left
of the voyage.

Some change in the failing light must have woken him.  For a moment it
was impossible to believe that he was not still dreaming; he could only
sit and stare, paralysed with sheer astonishment.  No longer was he
looking out across a flat, almost featureless landscape meeting the
deep blue of the sky at the far horizon.  Desert and horizon had both
vanished; in their place towered a range of crimson mountains, reaching
north and south as far as the eye could follow.  The last rays of the
setting sun caught their peaks and bequeathed to them its dying glory;
already the foothills were lost in the night that was sweeping onwards
to the west.

For long seconds the splendour of the scene robbed it of all reality
and hence all menace.  Then Gibson awoke from his trance, realising in
one dreadful instant that they were flying far too low to clear those
Himalayan peaks.

The sense of utter panic lasted only a moment-to be followed at once by
a far deeper terror.  Gibson had remembered now what the first shock
had banished from his mind-the simple fact he should have thought of
from the beginning.

There were no mountains on Mars

Hadfield was dictating an urgent memorandum to the Interplanetary
Development Board when the news came through.  Port Schiaparelli had
waited the regulation fifteen minutes after the aircraft's expected
time of arrival, and Port Lowell Control had stood by for another ten
before sending out the "Overdue" signal.  One precious aircraft from
the tiny Martian fleet was already standing by to search the line of
flight as soon as dawn came.  The high speed and low altitude essential
for flight would make such a search very difficult, but when Phobos rose
the telescopes up there could join in with far greater prospects of
success.

The news reached Earth an hour later, at a time when there was nothing
much else to occupy press or radio.  Gibson would have been well
satisfied by the resultant publicity: everywhere people began reading
his last articles with a morbid interest.  Ruth Goldstein knew nothing
about it until an editor she was dealing with arrived waving the
evening paper.  She immediately sold' the second reprint rights of
Gibson's latest series for half as much again as her victim had
intended to pay, then retired to her private room and wept copiously
for a full minute.  Both these events would have pleased Gibson
enormously.

In a score of newspaper offices, the copy culled from the morgue began
to be set up in type so that no time would be wasted.  And in London a
publisher who had paid Gibson a rather large advance began to feel very
unhappy indeed.

Gibson's shout was still echoing through the cabin when the pilot
reached the controls.  Then he was.  flung to the floor as the machine
turned over in an almost vertical bank in a desperate attempt to swing
round to the north.  When Gibson could climb to his feet again, he
caught a glimpse of a strangely blurred orange cliff sweeping down upon
them from only kilometres away.  Even in that moment of panic, he could
see that there was something very curious about that swiftly
approaching barrier, and suddenly the truth dawned upon him at last
This was no mountain range, but something that might be no less deadly.
They were running into a wind-borne wall of sand reaching from the
desert almost to the edge of the stratosphere.

The hurricane hit them a second later.  Something slapped the machine
violently from side to side, and through the insulation of the hull
came an angry whistling roar that was the most terrifying sound Gibson
had ever heard in his life.  Night had come instantly upon them and
they were flying helplessly through a howling darkness.

It was all over in five minutes, but it seemed a lifetime.  Their sheer
speed had saved them, for.  the ship had cut through the heart of the
hurricane Re a projectile.  There was a sudden burst of deep ruby
twilight, the ship ceased to be pounded by a million sledge-hammers,
and a ringing silence seemed to fill the little cabin.  Through the
rear observation port Gibson caught a last glimpse of the storm as it
moved westwards, tearing up the desert in its wake.

His legs feeling like jellies, Gibson tottered thankfully into his seat
and breathed an enormous sigh of relief.  For a moment he wondered if
they had been thrown badly off course, then realised that this scarcely
mattered considering the navigational aids they carried.

It was only then, when his ears had ceased to be deafened by the storm,
that Gibson had his second shock.  The motors had stopped.

The little cabin was very tense and still.  Then the pilot called out
over his shoulder: "Get your masks on!  The bull may crack when we come
down."  His fingers feeling very clumsy, Gibson dragged his breathing
equipment from under the seat and adjusted it over his head.  When he
had finished, the ground already seemed very close, though it was hard
to judge distances in the failing twilight.

A low hill swept by and was gone into the darkness.  "The ship banked
violently to avoid another, then gave a sudden spasmodic jerk as it
touched ground and bounced.  A moment later it made contact again and
Gibson tensed him.  self for the inevitable crash.

It was an age before he dared relax, still unable to believe that they
were safely down.  Then Hilton stretched himself in his seat, removed
his mask, and called out to the pilot: "That was a very nice landing,
Skipper.  Now how far have we got to walk?"

For a moment there was no reply.  Then the pilot called, in a rather
strained voice: "Can anyone light- me a cigarette?  I've got the
twitch."

"Here you are," said Hilton, going forward.  "Let's have the cabin
lights on now, shall we?"

The warm, comfortable glow did much to raise their spirits by banishing
the Martian night, which now lay' all around.  Everyone began to feel
ridiculously cheerful and there was much laughing at quite feeble
jokes.  The reaction had set in: they were so delighted at still being
alive that the thousand kilometres separating them from the nearest
base scarcely seemed to matter.

"That was quite a storm," said Gibson.  "Does this sort of thing happen
very often on Mars?  And why didn't we get any warning?"

The pilot, now that he had got over his initial shock, was doing some
quick thinking, the inevitable court of enquiry obviously looming large
in his mind.  Even on autopilot, he should have gone forward more
often..  ..

"I've never seen one like it before," he said, "though I've done at
least fifty trips between Lowell and Skia.  The trouble is that we
don't know anything about Martian meteorology, even now.  And there are
only half a dozen met stations on the planet-not enough to give us an
accurate picture."

"What about Phobos?  Couldn't they have seen what was happening and
warned us?"

The pilot grabbed his almanac and ruffled rapidly through the pages.

"Phobos hasn't risen yet," he said after a brief calculation.  "I guess
the storm blew up suddenly out of Hades -appropriate name, isn't W-and
has probably collapsed again now.  I don't suppose it went anywhere
near Charontis, so they couldn't have warned us either.  It was just
one of those accidents that's nobody's fault."

This thought seemed to cheer him considerably, but Gibson found it hard
to be so philosophical.

"Meanwhile," he retorted, "we're stuck in the middle of nowhere.  How
long will it take them to find us?  Or is there any chance of repairing
the ship?"

"Not a hope of that; the jets are named.  They were made to work on
air, not sand, you know!"

"Well, can we radio Skia?"

"Not now we're on the ground.  But when Phobos rises in4et's see-an
hour's time, well be able to call the observatory and they can relay us
on.  That's the way we've got to do all our long-distance stuff here,
you know.  he ionospheres too feeble to bounce signals round the way
you do on Earth.  Anyway, I'll go and check that the radio is O.K."

He went forward and started tinkering with the ship's transmitter,
while Hilton busied himself checking the beaters and cabin air
pressure, leaving the two remaining passengers looking at each other a
little thoughtfully.

"This is a fine kettle of fish!"  exploded Gibson, half in anger and
half in amusement.  "I've come safely from Earth to Marsmore than fifty
million kilometres-and as soon as I set foot inside a miserable
aeroplane this is what happens! I'll stick to spaceships in future."

Jimmy grinned.  "It'll give us something to tell the others when we get
back, won't it?  Maybe we'll be able to do some real exploring at
last."  He peered through the windows, cupping his hands over his eyes
to keep out the cabin light.  The surrounding landscape was now in
complete darkness, apart from the illumination from the ship.

"There seem to be hills all round us; we were lucky to get down in one
piece.  Good Lord-there's a cliff here on this side another few metres
and we'd have gone-smack into it!"

"Any idea where we are?"  Gibson called to the pilot.  this tactless
remark earned him a very stony stare.

"About 120 east, 20 north.  The storm can't have thrown us very far off
course."

"Then we're somewhere in the Aetheria," said Gibson, bending over the
maps.  "Yes-there's a hilly region marked here.  Not much information
about it."

"It's the first time anyone's ever landed here-that's why.  This part
of Mars is almost unexplored; it's been thoroughly mapped from the air,
but that's all."

Gibson was amused to see how Jimmy brightened at this news.  There was
certainly something exciting about being in a region where no human
foot had ever trodden before.

"I hate to cast a gloom over the proceedings," remarked Hilton, in a
tone of voice hinting that this was exactly what he was going to do,
"but I'm not at all sure you'll be able to radio Phobos even when it
does rise."

"What!" yelped the pilot.  "The set's O.K.-I've just tested it."

"Yes-but have you noticed where we are?  We can't even see Phobos. That
cliffs due south of us and blocks the view completely.  That means that
they won't be able to pick up our microwave signals.  What's even
worse, they won't be able to locate us in their telescopes."

There was a shocked silence.

"Now what do we do?"  asked Gibson.  He had a horrible vision of a
thousand-kilometre trek across the desert to Charontis, but dismissed
it from his mind at once.

They couldn't possibly carry the oxygen for the trip, still less the
food and equipment necessary.  And no one could spend the night
unprotected on the surface of Mars, even here near the Equator.

"We'll just have to signal in some other way," said Hilton calmly.  "In
the morning we'll climb those hills and have a look round.  Meanwhile I
suggest we take it easy."  He yawned' and stretched himself, filling
the cabin from ceiling to floor.  "We've got no immediate worries;
there's air for several days, and power in the batteries to keep us
warm almost indefinitely.  We may get a bit hungry if -we're here more
than a week, but I don't think that's at all likely to happen."

By a kind of unspoken mutual consent, Hilton had taken control. Perhaps
he was not even consciously aware of the fact, but he was now the
leader of the little party.  The pilot had delegated his own authority
without a second thought.

"Phobos rises in an hour, you said?"  asked Hilton.

"Yes."

"When does it transit?  I can never remember what this crazy little
moon of yours gets up to."

"Well, it rises in the west and sets in the east about four hours
later."

"So it'll be due south around midnight."

"That's right.  Oh Lord-that means we won't be able to see it anyway.
It'll be eclipsed for at least an hour!"  What a moon!" snorted Gibson.
"When you want it most badly, you can't even see the blasted thing!"

"That doesn't matter," said Hilton calmly.  "We'll know just where it
is, and it won't do any harm to try the radio then.  That's all we can
do tonight.  Has anyone got a pack of cards?  No?  Then what about
entertaining us, Martin, with some of your stories?"

It was a rash remark, and Gibson seized his chance immediately.

"I wouldn't dream of doing that," he said.  "You're the one who has the
stories to tell."

Hilton stiffened, and for a moment Gibson wondered if he had offended
him.  He knew that Hilton seldom talked about the Saturnian expedition,
but this was too good an opportunity to miss.  The chance would never
come again, and, as is true of all great adventures, its telling would
do their morale good.  Perhaps Hilton realised this too, for presently
he relaxed and smiled.

"You've got me nicely cornered, haven't you, Martin?  Well, I'll
talk--but on one condition."

"What's that?"

"No direct quotes, please!"

"As if I would!"  .

"And when you do write it up, let me see the manuscript first."

"Of course."

This was better than Gibson had dared to hope.  He had no immediate
intention of writing about Hilton's adventures, but it was nice to know
that he could do so if he wished.  The possibility that he might never
have the chance simply did not cross his mind.

Outside the walls of the ship, the fierce Martian night reigned
supreme-a night studded with needle-sharp, un winking stars.  The pale
light of Deimos made the surrounding landscape dimly visible, as if lit
with a cold phosphorescence.  Out of the east Jupiter, the brightest
object in the sky, was rising in his glory.  But the thoughts of the
four men in the crashed aircraft were six hundred million kilometres
still farther from the sun.

It still puzzled many people-the curious fact that man had visited
Saturn but not Jupiter, so much closer at hand.  But in space-travel,
sheer distance is of no importance, and Saturn had been reached because
of a single astonishing stroke of luck that still seemed too good to be
true.  Orbiting Saturn was Titan, the largest satellite in the Solar
System-about twice the size of Earth's moon.  As far back as 1944 it
had been discovered that Titan possessed an atmosphere.  It was not an
atmosphere one could breathe: it was immensely more valuable than that.
For it was an atmosphere of methane, one of the ideal propellants for
atomic rockets.

This had given rise to a situation unique in the history of
spaceflight.  For the first time, an expedition could be sent to a
strange world with the virtual certainty that refuelling would be
possible on arrival.

The Arcturus and her crew of six had been launched in space from the
orbit of Mars.  She had reached the Saturnian systems only nine months
later, with just enough fuel to land safely on Titan.  Then the pumps
had been started, and the great tanks replenished from the countless
trillions of tons of methane that were there for the taking.
Refuelling on Titan whenever necessary, the Arcturus had visited every
one of Saturn's fifteen known moons, and had even skirted the great
ring system itself.  In a few months, more was learned about Saturn
than in all the previous centuries of telescopic examination.

There had been a price to pay.  Two of the crew had died of radiation
sickness after emergency repairs to one of the atomic motors.  They had
been buried on Dione, the fourth moon.  And the leader-of the
expedition, Captain Envers, had been killed by an avalanche of frozen
air on Titan; his body had never been found.  Hilton had assumed
command, and had brought the Arcturus safely back to Mars a year later,
with only two men to help him.

All these bare facts Gibson knew well enough.  He could still remember
listening to those radio messages that had come trickling back through
space, relayed from world to world.  But it was a different thing
altogether to hear Hilton telling the story in his quiet, curiously
impersonal manner, as if he had been a spectator rather than a
participant.

He spoke of Titan and its smaller brethren, the little moons which,
circling Saturn, made, the planet almost a scale model of the Whole
System.  He described how at last they had landed on the innermost moon
of all, Mimas, only half as far from Saturn as the Moon is from the
Earth.

"We came down in a wide valley between a couple of mountains, where we
were sure the ground would be pretty solid.  We weren't going to make
the mistake we did on Rhea!  It was a good landing, and we climbed into
our suits to go outside.  It's funny how impatient you always are to do
that, no matter how many times you've set down on a new world.  Of
course, Mimas hasn't much gravity-only a hundredth of Earth's.  That
was enough to keep us from jumping off into space.  I liked it that
way; you knew you'd always come down safely again if you waited long
enough.

"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 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 half-way 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 half-way 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."

he cliff against which they were lying was no longer a wall of absolute
and unrelieved darkness.  On its very top.  most 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..  ..



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 realised 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
realised 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.
"Were 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 metres 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 doubt-fully.

"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 under cart perfectly

O.K."

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 metres.  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 its 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 theres 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 miror 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."

"Phewl" 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.  Theres enough for about
a hundred flashes on one charge, and it's practically full."

"A hundred of the high-powered flashes?"

"Yes; it'll do a couple of thousand of the normal ones."

"Then theres enough electrical energy to make a good bomb in that
condenser.  I hope it doesn't spring a leak."

Hilton was examining the little gas-discharge tube, only the size of a
marble, at the centre of the small reflector.

"Can we focus this thing to get a good beam?"  he asked.

"There's a catch behind the reflector-that's the idea.  It's rather a
broad beam, but it'll help."

Hilton looked very pleased.

"They ought to see this thing on Phobos, even in broad daylight, if
they're watching this part with a good telescope.  We mustn't waste
flashes, though."  .  "Phobos is well up now, isn't it?"  asked Gibson.
"I'm going out to have a shot right away."

He got to his feet and began to adjust his breathing equipment.

"Don't use more than ten flashes," warned Hilton.  "We want to save
them for night And stand in any shadow you can find."

"Can I go out too?"  asked Jimmy.

"All right," said Hilton.  "But keep together and don't go wandering
off to explore.  I'm going to stay here and see if there's anything we
can do with the landing lights."

The fact that they now had a definite plan of action had raised their
spirits considerably.  Clutching his camera and the precious flash-gun
close to his chest, Gibson bounded across the valley like a young
gazelle.  It was a curious fact that on Mars one quickly adjusted one's
muscular efforts to the lower gravity, and so normally used strides no
greater than on Earth.  But the reserve of power was available, when
necessity or high spirits demanded it.

They soon left the shadow of the cliff, and had a clear view of the
open sky.  Phobos was already high in the west, a little half-moon
which would rapidly narrow to a thin crescent as it raced towards the
south.  Gibson regarded it thoughtfully, wondering if at this very
moment someone might be watching this part of Mars.  It seemed highly
probable, for the approximate position of their crash would be.  known.
He felt an irrational impulse to dance around and wave his arms-even to
shout: "Here we are,--can't you see us?"

What would this region look like in the telescopes which were, he
hoped, now sweeping Aetheria?  They would show the mottled green of the
vegetation through which he was trudging, and the great cliff would be
clearly visible as a red band casting a broad shadow over the valley
when the sun was low.  There would be scarcely any shadow now, for it
was only a few hours from noon.  The best thing to do, Gibson decided,
was to get in the middle of the darkest area of vegetation he could
find.

About a kilometre from the crashed ship the ground sloped down
slightly, and here, in the lowest part of the valley, was a wide
brownish belt which seemed to be covered with tall weeds.  Gibson
headed for this, Jimmy following close behind.

They found themselves among slender, leathery plants of a type they had
never seen before.  The leaves rose vertically out of the ground in
long, thin streamers, and were covered with numberless pods which
looked as if they might contain seeds.  The flat sides were all turned
towards the Sun, and Gibson was interested to note that while the
sunlit sides of the leaves were black, the shad-owed parts were a
greyish white.  It was a simple but effective trick to reduce loss of
heat.

Without wasting time to hot anise Gibson pushed his way into the centre
of the little forest.  The plants were not crowded too closely
together, and it was fairly easy to force a passage through them.  When
he had gone far enough he raised his flash-gun and squinted along it at
Phobos.

The satellite was now a thin crescent not far from the Sun, and Gibson
felt extremely foolish aiming his flash into the full glare of the
suihiriier sky.  But the time was really well chosen, for it would be
dark on the side of Phobos towards them and the telescopes there would
be observing under favourable conditions.

He let off his ten shots in five pairs, spaced well apart This seemed
the most economical way of doing it while still making sure that the
signals would look obviously artificial.

"that'll do for today," said Gibson.  "We'll save the rest of our
ammunition until after dark.  Now let's have a look at these plants. Do
you know what they remind me Of?,$

"Overgrown seaweed," replied Jimmy promptly.  "Right first time.  I
wonder what's in those pods?  Have you got a knife on you-thanks."

Gibson began carving at the nearest frond until he had punctured one of
the little black balloons.  It apparently held gas, and under
considerable pressure, for a faint hiss could be heard as the knife
penetrated.

"What queer stuff" said Gibson.  "Let's take some back with us."

Not without difficulty, he hacked off one of the long black fronds near
the roots.  A dark brown fluid began to ooze out of the severed and,
releasing tiny bubbles of gas as it did so.  With this souvenir hanging
over his shoulder, Gibson began to make his way back to the ship.

He did not know that he was carrying with him the future of a world.

They had gone only a few paces when they encountered a dense patch and
had to make a detour.  With the sun as a guide there was no danger of
becoming lost, especially in such a small region, and they had made no
attempt to retrace their footsteps exactly.  Gibson was leading the
way, and finding it somewhat heavy going.  He was just wondering
whether to swallow his pride and change places with Jimmy when he was
relieved to come across a narrow, winding track leading more or less in
the right direction.

To any observer, it would have been an interesting demonstration of the
slowness of some mental processes.  For both Gibson and Jimmy had
walked a good six paces before they remembered the simple but
shattering truth that footpaths do not, usually, make themselves

"It's about time our two explorers came back, isn't it?"  said the
pilot as he helped Hilton detach the floodlights from the underside of
the aircraft's wing.  this had Proved, after all, to be a fairly
straight-forward job, and Hilton hoped to find enough wire inside the
machine to run the lights far enough away from the cliff to be visible
from Phobos when it rose again.  They would not have the brilliance of
Gibson's flash, but their steady beams would give them a better chance
of being detected.

"How long have they been gone now?"  said Hilton.

"About forty minutes.  I hope they've had the sense not to get lost."

"Gibson's too careful to go wandering off.  I wouldn't trust young
Jimmy by himself, though-he'd want to start looking for Martians!"
"oh, here they are--they seem to be in a bit of a hurry."

Two tiny figures had emerged from the middle distance and were bounding
across the valley.  Their haste was so obvious that the watchers downed
tools and observed their approach with rising curiosity.

The fact that Gibson and Jimmy had returned so promptly represented a
triumph of caution and self-control.  For a long moment of incredulous
astonishment they had stood staring at that pathway through the thin
brown plants.  On Earth, nothing could have been more commonplace; it
was just the sort of track that cattle make across a hill, or wild
animals through a forest.  Its very familiarity had at first prevented
them from noticing it, and even when they had forced their minds to
accept its presence, they still kept trying to explain it away.

Gibson had spoken first, in a very subdued voice--almost as if he was
afraid of being overheard.  "Ifs a path all right, Jimmy.  But what
could have made it, for heavens sake?  No ones ever been here before."
"It must have been some kind of animal."  "A fairly large one, too."

"Perhaps as big as a horse."

"Or a tiger."

The last remark produced an uneasy silence.  Jimmy said: "Well, if
it comes to a fight, that flash of yours should scare anything."

"Only if it had eyes," said Gibson.  "Suppose it had some other
sense?"

It was obvious that Jimmy was trying to think of good reasons for
pressing ahead.  ,I'm sure we could run faster, and jump higher, than
anything else on Mars."

Gibson liked to believe that his decision was based on prudence rather
than cowardice.

"We're not taking any risks," he said firmly.  "We're going straight back
to tell the others.  Then we'll think about having a look round."

Jimmy had sense enough not to grumble, but he kept looking back
wistfully as they returned to the ship.  Whatever faults he might have,
lack of courage was not among them.

It took some time to convince the others that they were not attempting
a rather poor practical joke.  After all, everyone knew why there
couldn't be animal life on Mars.  It was a question of metabolism:
animals burned fuel so much faster than plants, and therefore could not
exist in this thin, practically inert atmosphere.  The biologists had
been quick to point this out as soon as conditions on the surface of
Mars had been accurately determined, and for the last ten years the
question of animal life on the planet had been regarded as
settled-except by incurable romantics.

"Even if you saw what you thought," said Hilton, "there must be some natural
explanation."

"Come and see for yourself," retorted Gibson.  "I tell you it was a
well-worn track." "Oh, I'm coming," said Hilton.  "So am I," said the
pilot.

"Wait a minute!  We can't all go.  At least one of us has got to stay
behind."

For a moment Gibson felt like volunteering.  Then he realised that he
would never forgive himself if he did.

"I found the tracks!" he said firmly.

"Looks as If I've got a mutiny on my hands," remarked Hilton.  "Anyone
got some money?  Odd man out of you three stays behind."  "It's a
wild goose chase, anyway," said the pilot, when he produced the only
head. "I'll expect you home in an hour.  If you take any longer I'll
want you to bring back a genuine Martian princess, ala Edgar Rice
Burroughs." Hilton, despite his scepticism, was taking the matter more
seriously. there'll be three of us," he said, "so it should be all
right even if we do meet anything unfriendly.  But just in case none of
us come back, you're to sit right here and not go looking for us.
Understand?"  -Very well.  I'll sit tight.  The trio setoff across the
valley towards the little forest, Gibson leading the way.

After reaching the tall thin finds of 'seaweed," they had no diffivulty
in finding the tradl again.  Hilton stared at it in silence for a good
minute, while Gibson and Jimmy regarded him with "I told you so"
expressions.  Then he remarked: "Let's have your flash-Sun, Martin.
I'm going firsL'

It would have been silly to argue.  Hilton was taller, stronger, and
more alert.  Gibson handed over his weapon without a word.

there can be no weirder sensation than that of walking along a narrow
track between high leafy wails, knowing that at any moment you may come
face to face with a totally unknown and perhaps unfriendly creature.
Gibson tried to remind himself that animals which had never before
encountered man were seldom hostile-though there were enough exceptions
to this rule to make life interesting.

They had gone about half-way through the forest when the track branched
into two.  Hilton took the turn to the right, but soon discovered that
this was a cul-de-sac.  It led to a clearing about twenty metres
across, in which all the plants had been.  cut-or eaten-to within a
short distance of the ground, leaving only the stumps showing.  These
were already beginning to sprout again, and it was obvious that this
patch had been deserted for some time by whatever creatures had come
here

"Herbivores," whispered Gibson.

"And fairly intelligent," said Hilton.  "See the way they've left the
roots to come up again?  Lets to back along the other branch."

They came across the second clearing five minutes later.  It was a good
deal larger than the first, and it was not empty.

Hilton tightened his grip on the flash-gun, and in a single smooth,
well-practised movement Gibson swung his camera into position and began
to take the most famous photographs ever made on Mars.  Then they all
re lazed and stood waiting for the Martians to notice them.

In that moment centuries of fantasy and legend well swept away.  All
Man's dreams of neighbours not unlike himself vanished into limbo. With
them, unlamented, went Wells' tentacled monstrosities and the other
legions of crawling, nightmare horrors.  And there vanished also the
myth of coldly inhuman intelligences which might look down
dispassionately on Man from their fabulous heights of wisdom-and might
brush him aside with no more malice than he himself might destroy a
creeping insect

There were ten of the creatures in the glade, and they were all too
busy eating to take any notice of the intruders  In appearance they
resembled very plump kangaroos, their almost spherical bodies balanced
on two large, slender hind limbs They were hairless, and their skin had
a curious waxy sheen like polished leather.  Two thin forearms, which
seemed to be completely flexible, sprouted from the upper part of the
body and ended in tiny hands like the claws of a bird-too small and
feeble, one would have thought, to have been of much practical use.
Their heads were set directly on the trunk with no suspicion of a neck,
and bore two large pale eyes with wide pupils.  There were no
nostrils--only a very odd triangular mouth with three stubby bills
which were making short work of the foliage.  A pair of large, almost
transparent ears bung limply from the head, twitching occasionally and
sometimes folding themselves into trumpets which looked as if they
might be extremely efficient sound detectors, even in this thin
atmosphere.

The largest of the beasts was about as tall as Hilton, but all the
others were considerably smaller.  One baby, less than a metre high,
could only be described by the overworked adjective "cute."  It was
hopping excitedly about in an effort to reach the more succulent
leaves, and from time to time emitted thin, piping cries which were
irresistibly pathetic.

"How intelligent would you say they are?"  whispered Gibson at last.
"It's hard to say.  Notice how they're careful not to destroy the
plants they eat?  Of course, that may be pure instinct--like bees
knowing how to build their hives."

"May move very slowly, don't they?  I wouder if they're warm blooded "I
don't see why they should have blood at all.  Their metabolism must be
pretty weird for them to survive in this clinate."  "It's about time
they took some notice of us."  "Jrhe big fellow knows were here.  I've
caught him looking at us out of the corner of his eye.  Do you notice
the way his ears keep pointing towards us?"  "Let's go out into the
open."  Hilton thougkt this over.

"I don't see how they can do us much harm, even if they want to.  Those
little hands look rather feeble--but I suppose those three4ided beaks
could do some damage.  Well go forward, very slowly, for six paces.  If
they come at us, I'll give them a flash with the gun while you make a
bolt for it.  I'm sure we can outrun them easily.  They certainly don't
look built for speed."

Moving with a slowness which they hoped would appear reassuring rather
than stealthy, they walked forward into the glade.  There was now no
doubt that the Martians saw them; half a dozen pairs of great, calm
eyes stared at them, then looked away as their owners got on with the
more important business of eating.

"they don't even seem to be inquisitive," said Gibson, somewhat
disappointed.  "Are we as uninteresting as all this?"

"Hello-Junior's spotted us!  What's he up to?"

The smallest Martian had stopped eating and was starIng at the invaders
with an expression that might have meant anything from rank disbelief
to hopeful anticipation of another meal.  It gave a couple of shrill
squeaks which were answered by a noncommittal "honk" from one of the
adults.  Then it began to hop towards the interested spectators.

It halted a couple of paces away, showing not the slightest signs of
fear or caution.  "How do you do2?"  said Hilton solemnly.  "Let me
Introduce us.  On my right, James Spencer; on my left, Martin Gibson.
But I'm afraid I didn't quite catch your name "Squeak," said the small
Martian "Well, Squeak, what can we do for you71 The little creature put
out an exploring hand and tugged at Hilton's clothing. Ilen it hopped
towards Gibson, who had been busily photographing this exchange of
courtesies Once again it put.  forward an enquiring paw, and Gibson
moved the camera round out of harms way He held out his hand, and the
little fingers closed round it with surprising strength. "Friendly
little chap, isn't he?"  said Gibson, having disentangled himself with
difficulty.  "At least he's not as stuck-up as his relativea."  The
adults had so far taken not the slightest notice of the proceedings.
11ey were still munching placidly at the other side of the glade.  "I
wish we had something to give him, but I don't sup.  pose he could eat
any of our food.  Lend me your knife, Jimmy.  I'll cut down a bit of
seaweed for him just to prove that were friendL"

This SM was gratefully received and promptly eaten, and the small hands
reached out for more.  "You seem to have made a hit, Martin," said Hilt
aL 'I'm afraid it's cupboard love," sighed Gibson.  "Hey, leave my
camera alone--you can't eat that!"  "I say," said Hilton suddenly.
"Meres something odd here.  What colour would you say this little chap
is?"

"Why, brown in the front and-oh, a dirty grey at the back."

"Well, just walk to the other side of him and offer another bit of
food."  , Gibson obliged, Squeak rotating on his haunches so that he
could grab the new morseL And as he did so, an extraordinary thing
happened.

The brown covering on the front of his body slowly faded, and in less
than a minute had, become a dingy grey.  At the same time, exactly the
reverse happened on the creature's back, until the interchange was
complete.

"Good Lordl'said, Gibson.  "It's just he a chameleon.  What do you
think the idea is?  Protective colorations'

"No, irs cleverer than that.  Look at those others over there.  You
see, they're always brown-or nearly black on the side towards the aim.
It's simply a scheme to catch as much heat as possible, and avoid
re-radiating it The plants do just the same-I wonder who thought Of it
first?  It wouldn't be any use on an animal that had to move quickly,
but some of those big chaps haven't changed position in, the last five
minutes."

Gibson promptly set to work photographing this peculiar phenomenon-not
a very difficult feat to do, as wherever he moved Squeak always turned
hopefully towards him and sat waiting patiently.  When he had-finis biA
Hilton remarked:

"I hate to break up this to'Ag scene, but we said wed be back in an
hour."

"We needn't all.  go.  Be a good chap, Jiminym-run back and say that
were all.  right."

But Jimmy was staring at the sky-the first to realise that for the last
five minutes an aircraft had been circling high over the valley.
71their united chow disturbed even the placidly browsing Martians, who
looked round disapprovingly.  It scared Squeak so much that he shot
backwards in one tremendous hop, but soon got over his fright and came
forward again.

"See you laterl" called Gibson over his shoulder as they hurried out of
the glade.  The natives took not the slightest notice.

They were half-way out of the little forest when Gibson suddenly became
aware of the fact that he was being followed.  He stopped and looked
back.  Making heavy weather, but still hopping along gamely behind him,
was Squeak.

"Shoot," said Gibson, flapping his arms around like a distraught
scarecrow.  "Go back to Motherl I haven't got anything for you."

It was not the slightest use, and his pause had merely enabled Squeak
to catch up with him.  1The others were already out of sight, unaware
that Gibson had dropped back.  17hey therefore missed a very
interesting cameo as Gibson tried, without hurting Squeak's fee Migs to
diisen.  age himsW from his new-found friend.

He gave up the direct approach after five minutes, and tried guile.
Fortunately he had failed to return Jimmy's knife, and after much
panting and hacking managed to collect a small pile of "seaweed" which
he laid in front of Squeak.  This, he hoped, would keep him busy for
quite a while.

He had just finished this when Hilton and Jimmy came hurrying back to
find what had happened to him.

"O.K."-I'm coming along now," he said.  "I had to Set rid of Squeak
somehow.  That'll stop him following."

The pilot in the crashed aircraft had been getting anxIOUs, f& the hour
was nearly up and there was still no sign of his companions.  By
climbing on to the top of the fuselage he could see half-way across the
valley, and to the dark area of vegetation into which they had
disappeared.  He was examining this when the rescue aircraft came
driving out of the east and began to circle the valley.

When he was sure it had spotted him he turned his attention to the
ground,again.  He was just in time to we a group of figures emerging
into the open plain-and a moment later he rubbed his.  eyes in rank
disbelief.

Three people had gone into the forest; but four were coming out.  And
the fourth looked a very odd sort of person indeed.



After what was later to be christened the most successful crash in the
history of Martian exploration, the visit to Trivium.  Charontis and
Port Schiaparelli was, inevitably, something of an anticlimax.  Indeed
Gibson had wished to postpone it altogether and to return to Port
Lowell immediately with his prize.  He had soon abandoned all attempts
to jettison Squeak, and as everyone in the colony would be on
tenterhooks to see a real, live Martian it had been decided to fly the
little creature back with them

But Port Lowell would not let them return; Indeed, it was ten days
before they saw the capital again.  Under the great domes, one of the
decisive battles for the possession of the planet was now being fought.
It was a battle which Gibson knew of only through the radio reports--a
silent but deadly battle which he was thankful to have missed.

The epidemic which Dr.  Scott had asked for had arrived.  At its peak,
a tenth of the city's population was sick with Martian fever.  But the
serum from Earth broke the attacl, and the battle was won with only
three file casw al ties  It was the last time that the fever ever
threatened the colony.

Taking Squeak to Port Schiapmlli involved considerable difficulties,
for it meant flying large quantities of his staple diet ahead of him.
At tint it was doubted if he could live in the oxygenated atmosphere of
the domes, but it was soon disco virid that this Aid not worry him in
the least-though it reduced his appetite considerably.  the explanation
of this fortunate accident was not discovered until a good deal later.
What never was discovered at all was the reason for SqueWs attachment
to Gibson.  Someone suggested, rather unkindly, that it was because
they were approximately the same shape.

Before they continued their journey, Gibson and his colleagues, with
the pilot of the rescue plane and the repair crew who arrived later,
made several visits to the little family of Martians.  7bey discovered
only the one group, and Gibson wondered if these were the last
specimens left on the planet.  This, as it later turned out, was not
the case.

The rescue plane had been searching along the track of their Right when
it had received a radio message from Phobos reporting brilliant flashes
in Aetheria.  (Just how those flashes had been made had puzzled everyone
considerably until Gibson.  with justifiable pride, gave the
explanation.) When they discovered it would take only a few hours to
replace the jet units on their plane, they had decided to wait while
the repairs were carried out and to use the time studying the Martians
in their natural haunts.  It was then that Gibson first suspected the
secret of their existence.

In the remote past they had probably been oxygen breathers, and their
life processes still depended on the element They could not obtain.  it
direct from the sok where it lay in such countless trillions of tons;
but the plants they ate could do so.  01mon quickly found that the
numerous "pods" in the seaweed-like fronds contained oxySea under quite
lush pres sum By slowing down their metabolism, the Martians had.
managed to evolve a balance-almost a symbiosis-with the plants which
provided them, literally, with food and air.  It was a precarious
balance which, one would have thought, might have been upset at any
time by some natural catastrophe.  But conditions an Mars had Ions ago
reached stability, an4 the balance would be maintained for age
yet-unless Man disturbed it.

The repairs took a little longer than expected, and they did not reach
Port SchiapmA until three days after leaving Port Lowell.  The second
city of Mars held less than a thousand people, living under two domes
on a long, narrow plateau.  11us had been the site of the orginal
binding on Man, and so the position of the city was really an
historical accident Not until some years later, when the planet's
resources began to be better known, was it decided to move the colony's
centre of gravity to Lowell and not to expand Schiaparelli any
further.

The little city was in many aspects an exact replica of its larger and
more modern rival.  Its specialty was light engineering, geological-or
rather aero logical-research, and the exploration of the surrounding
regions.  The fact that Gibson and his colleagues had accidentally
stumbled on the greatest discovery so far made on Mars less than an
hour's flight from the city, was thus ih-W cause of some heart burning
"The visit must have had a de moralising effect on an normal activity
in Port Schiaparelli, for wherever Gibson went everything stopped while
crowds gathered around Squeak.  A favourite occupation was to lure him
into a field of uniform illumination and to watch him turn black all
over, as he blissfully tried to extract the maximum advantage from this
state of affairs.  It was in Schiaparelli that someone hit on the
deplorable scheme of projecting simple pictures onto Squeak, and
photographing the result before it faded.  One day Gibson was very
annoyed to come across a photo of his pet bearing a crude but
recognisable caricature of a well-known television star.

On the whole, their stay in Port Schiaparelli.  was not a very happy
one.  After the first three days they had seen everything worth seeing,
and the few trips they were able to make Into the surrounding
countryside did not provide much of interest.  Jimmy was continually
worrying about Irene, and putting through expensive calls to Port
Lowell.  Gibson was impatient to get back to the big city which, not so
long ago, he had called an overgrown village.  Only

Hilton, who seemed to Oossess unliumited'reserver; of pa bence took
life easily and relaxed while the others fumed around him.

There was one excitement during their stay in the city.  Gibson had
often wondered, a little apprehensively, what would happen if the
pressurising dome ever failed.  He received the answer-or as much of it
as he had any desire for-one quiet afternoon when he was interviewing
the city's chief engineer in his office.  Squeak had been with them,
propped up on his large.  flexible lower limbs like some improbable
nursery doll.

As the interview progressed, Gibson became aware that his victim was
showing more than the usual signs of restiveness.  His mind was
obviously very far away, and he seemed to be waiting for something to
happen.  Suddenly, without warning, the whole building trembled
slightly as U hit by an earthquake.  Two more shocks.  equally sPa cede
came in quick succession.  From a loudspeaker on the Wall a voice
called urgently: "Blowoutl Practice onlyl You have ten seconds to reach
shelterl Blowoutl Practice onlyl'

Gibson had jumped out of his chair, but immediately realised there was
nothing he need do.  From far away there came a sound of slamminy
doors-then silence.  The engineer got to his feet and walked over to
the window, overlooking the city's only main street

"Everyone seems to have got to cover," he said.  "Of course, it isn't
possible to make them tests a complete surprise.  There's one a month,
and we have to tell people what day it will be because they might think
it was the real thing."

"Just what are we all supposed to do?"  asked Gibson, who had been told
at least twice but had become a little rusty on the subject.

"As soon as you hear the signal-that's the three ground
explosions-you've got to get under cover.  If you're indoors you have
to grab your breathing mask to rescue anyone who can't make it.  You
see, If pressure goes every house becomes a self-contained unit with
enough ear for several hours."  "And anyone out in the open?"  "It
would take a few seconds for the pm sure to go right down, and as every
building has Its own smock it should always be possible to reach
shelter in time.  Even if -you collapsed in the open, you'd probably be
all right if you were rescued inside two minutes--unless you'd got a
bad heart.  And no one comes to Mars if he's got a bad heart."  "Well,
I hope you never have to put this theory into practice."

"So dowel But on Mars one has to be prepared for any thin Ali, there
goes the All Clear."  71w speaker had burst into LIFE again.

"Exeiche over.  Will all those who failed to reach shelter In the
regulation time please Inform Admin in the usual way?  End of message."
"Vill they?"  asked Gibson.  "I should have thought they'd keep
quiet."

The engineer laughed.

That depends.  They probably will if It was their own fault.  But it's
the best way of showing up weak points in our de fences  Someone will
come and- say: "Look here-1 was cleaning one of the ore furnaces when
the alarm went; it took me two minutes to get out of the blinking
thing.

What am I supposed to do if there's a real blow-out?"  Then we've got
to think of an answer, if we can."

Gibson looked enviously at Squeak, who seemed to be asleep, though an
occasional twitch of the great translucent ears showed that he was
taking some interest in the conversation.  It would be nice if we could
be like him and didn't have to bother about air-pressure.  Then we
could really do something with Mars."

"I wonder!"  said the engineer thoughtfully.  "What have they done
except survive?  IVs always fatal to adapt oneself to ones
surroundings.  "The thing to do is to alter your surroundings to suit
you."

The words were almost an echo of the remark that Hadfield had made at
their first meeting.  Gibson was to remember them often in the years to
come.

Their return to Port Lowell was almost a victory parade.  The capital
was in a mood of elation over the defeat of the epidemic, and it was
now anxiously waiting to see Gibson and his prize.  "The scientists had
prepared quite a reception for Squeak, the zoologists in particular
being busily at work explaining away their early explanations for the
absence of animal life on Mars.

Gibson had handed his pet over to the experts only when they had
solemnly assured him that no thought of dissection had ever for a
moment entered their minds.  Then, full of ideas, he had hurried to see
the Chief.

Hadfield had greeted him warmly.  There was, Gibson was interested to
note, a distinct change in the Chief's attitude towards him.  At first
it had been-well, not unfriendly, but at least somewhat reserved.  He
had not attempted to conceal the fact that he considered Gibsons
presence on Mars something of a nuisance-another burden to add to those
he already carried.  This attitude had slowly changed until it was now
obvious that the Chief Executive no longer regarded him as an
unmitigated calamity.

"You've added some interesting citizens to my little empire," Hadfield
said with a smile.  -I've just had a look at your engaging pet.  he's
already bitten the Chief Medical Officer."

"I hope they're treating him properly, said Gibson anxiously.
"Who-the

C.M.O.?"

"No--Sque2k, of course.  What I'm wondering is whether there are any
other forms of animal life we haven't discovered yet-perhaps more
intelligent."

"In other words, are these the only genuine Martians?"

"Yes."

"It'll be years before we know for certain, but I rather expect they
are.  The conditions which make it possible for them to survive don't
occur in many places on the planet."

"That was one thing I wanted to talk to you about."  Gibson reached
into his pocket and brought out a frond of the brown "seaweed."  He
punctured one of the fronds, and there was the faint hiss of escaping
gas.

"If this stuff is cultivated properly, it may solve the oxygen problem
in the cities and do away with all our present complicated machinery.
With enough sand for it to feed on, it would give you all the oxygen
you need."

"Go on," said Hadfield noncommittally.

"Of course, you'd have to do some selective breeding to get the variety
that gave most oxygen," continued Gibson, warming to his subject.

"Naturally," replied Hadfield.

Gibson looked at his listener with a sudden suspicion, aware that there
was something odd about his attitude.  A faint smile was playing about
Hadfield's lips.

"I don't think you're taking me seriously!" Gibson protested
bitterly.

Hadfield sat up with a start,

"On the contrary!"  he retorted.  "I'm taking you much more seriously
than you imagine."  He toyed with his paperweight, then apparently came
to a decision.  Abruptly he leaned towards his desk microphone and
pressed a switch.  "set me a Sand Flea and a driver," he said.  "I want
them at Lock One West in thirty minutes."

He turned to Gibson.

"Can you be ready by then?"

"What-yes, I suppose so.  Irve only got to get my breathing gear from
the hotel."

"Good-see you in half an hour."

Gibson was there ten minutes early, his brain in a whirl.  Transport
had managed to produce a vehicle in time, and the Chief was punctual as
ever.  He gave the driver instructions which Gibson was unable to
catch, and the Flea jerked out of the dome on to the road circling the
city.

,I'm doing something rather rash, Gibson," said Hadfield as the
brilliant green landscape flowed past them.  "Will you give me your
word that you'll say nothing of this until I authorise you?"

"Why, certainly," said Gibson, startled.

"I'm trusting you because I believe you're on our side, and haven't
been as big a nuisance as I expected."

"Thank you," said Gibson dryly.

"And because of what you've just taught us about our own planet.  I
think we owe you something in return."

The Flea had swung round to the south, following the track that.  led
up into the hills.  And, quite suddenly, Gibson realised where they
were going.

"Were you very upset when you heard that we'd crashed?"  asked Jimmy
anxiously.

"Of course I was," said Irene.  "Terribly upset.  I couldn't sleep for
worrying about you."

"Now it's all over, though, don't you think it was worth it?"

"I suppose so, but somehow it keeps reminding me that in a month you'll
be gone again.  Oh, Jimmy, what shall we do then?"

Deep despair settled upon the two lovers.  All Jimmy's present
satisfaction vanished into gloom.  There was no escaping from this
inevitable fact.  The Ares would be leaving Deimos in less than four
weeks, and it might be years before he could return to Mars.  It was a
prospect too terrible for words.

"I can't possibly stay on Mars, even if they'd let me," said Jimmy.  "I
can't earn a living until I'm qualified, and I've still got two years'
post-graduate work and a trip to Venus to dot There's only one thing
for it!"

Irene's eyes brightened; then she relapsed into gloom.

Oh, we've been through that before.  I'm sure Daddy wouldn't agree."

"Well, it won't do any harm to try.  I'll get Martin to tackle him."
"Mr. Gibson?  Do you think he would?"  "I know he will, if I ask him.
And he'll make it sound convincing."  "I don't see why he should
bother." "Oh, he likes me," said Jimmy with easy self-assurance.  "I'm
sure he'll agree with us.  It's not right that you should stick here on
Mars and never see anything of Earth.  Paris New York-London-why, you
haven't lived until you've visited them.  Do you know what I think?"

"What?!"

"Your father's being selfish in keeping you here."

Irene pouted a little.  She was very fond of her father and her first
impulse was to defend him vigorously.  But she was now torn between two
loyalties, though in the long run there was no doubt which would win.

"Of course," said Jimmy, realising that he might have gone too far,
"I'm sure he really means to do the best for you, but he's got so many
things to worry about.  He's probably forgotten what Earth is like and
doesn't realise what you're losingl No, you must get away before it's
too late."

Irene still looked uncertain.  "Men her sense of humour, so much more
acute than Jimmy's, came to the rescue.  "I'm quite sure that if we
were on Earth, and you had to go back to Mars, you'd be able to prove
just as easily that I ought to follow you there."

Jimmy looked a little hurt, then reelised that Irene wasn't really
laughing at him.

"All right' he said.  "That's settled.  rU talk to Martin as soon as I
see him-and ask him to tackle your Dad.  So lees forget all about it
until then, shall we?"

They did, very nearly.

The little amphitheatre in the hills above Port Lowell was just as
Gibson had remembered it, except that the green of its lush vegetation
had darkened a little, as if it had already received the first warning
of the still far-distant autumn.  The Sand Flea drove up to the largest
of the four small domes, and they walked over to the airlock.

"When I was here before," said Gibson dryly, "I was told we'd have to
be disinfected before we could enter."

"A slight exaggeration to discourage unwanted visitors," said Hadfield,
unabashed.  The outer door had opened at his signal, and they quickly
stripped off their breathing apparatus.  "We used to take.  such
precautions, but they're no longer necessary."

The inner door slid aside and they stepped through into the dome.  A
man wearing the white smock of the scientific worker the clean white
smock of the very senior scientific worker-was waiting for them.

"Hello, Baines," said Hadfield.  "Gibson--this is Professor Baines& I
expect you've heard of each other."

They shook hands.  Baines, Gibson knew, was one of the world's greatest
experts on plant genetics.  He had read a year or two ago that he had
gone to Mars to study, its flora.

"So you're the chap who's just discovered Oxyfera," said Baines
dreamily.  He was a large, rugged man with an absentminded air which
contrasted strangely with his massive frame and determined features.

"Is that what you call it?"  asked Gibson.  "well, I thought, I'd
discovered it.  But I'm beginning to have doubts."

"You certainly discovered something quite as important," Hadfield
reassured him.  "But Baines isn't interested in animals, so it's no
good talking to him about your Martian friends."

They were walking between low temporary walls which, Gibson saw,
partitioned the dome into numerous rooms and corridors.  he whole place
looked as if it had been built in a great hurry; they came across
beautiful scientific apparatus supported on rough, packing cases, and
everywhere then was an atmosphere of hectic improvisation.  Yet,
curiously enough, very few people were at work.  Gibson obtained the
impression that whatever task had been going on here was now oompleted
and that only a skeleton staff was left.

Baines led them to an airlock connecting with one of the other domes,
and as they waited for the last door to open he remarked quietly: 'his
may hurt your eyes a bit."  With this warning, Gibson put up his hand
as a shield.

His first impression was one of light and heat.  It was almost as if he
had moved from Pole to Tropics in a single step.  Overhead, batteries
of powerful lamps were blastIng the hemispherical chamber with light.
There was something heavy -and oppressive about the air that was not
only due to the heat, and he wondered what sort of atmosphere he was
breathing.

This dome was not divided up by partitions; it was simply a large,
circular space laid out into neat plots on which grew all the Martian
plants which Gibson had ever seen, and many more besides.  About a
quarter of the area was covered by tall brown fronds which Gibson
recognised at once.

"So you've known about them all the time?"  he said, neither surprised
nor particularly disappointed.  (Hadfield was quite right: the Martians
were much more important.)

"Yes," said Hadfield.  "They were discovered about two years ago and
aren't very rare along the equatorial belt.  They only grow where
there's plenty of sunlight, and your little crop was the farthest north
they've ever been found."

"It takes a great deal of energy to split the oxygen out of the sand,"
explained Baines.  "We've been help mig them here with these lights,
and trying some experiments of our own.  Come and look at the
result."

Gibson walked over to the plot, keeping carefully to 66 narrow path.
these plants weren after all, exactly the same as those he had
discovered, though they had obviously descended from the same stock.
The most surprising difference was the complete absence of gas-pods,
their place having been taken by myriads of minute pores.

I "This is the important point," said Hadfield.  "We've bred a variety
which releases its oxygen directly into the air, because it doesn't
need to store it any more.  As long as it's got plenty of light and
beat, it can extract an it needs from the sand and will throw off the
surplus.  An the oxygen you're breathing now comes from these plants
there no other source in this dome."

"I -see," said Gibson slowly.  "So you'd already thought of my
idea--and gone a good deal further.  But I stiff don't understand the
need for all this secrecy."  "What secrecy?"  said Hadfield with an air
of injured innocence "Really!"  protested Gibson.  4You!  ve just asked
me not to say anything about this place."

"Oh, that's because there will be an official announce.  medt in a few
days, and we haven't wanted to raise false hopes.  But there hasn't
been any real secrecy

Gibson brooded over this remark all the way -back to Port Lowell.
Hadfield had told him a good deal, but had he told him everything?
Where-if at all--did Phobos come into the picture?  Gibson wondered if
his suspicions about the inner moon were completely unfounded; it could
obviously have no connection with this particular project.  He felt
like trying to force Hadfield's hand by a direct question, but thought
better of it.  He might only make himself look a fool if he did.

The domes of Port Lowell were climbing up over the steeply convex
horizon when Gibson broached the subject that had been worrying him for
the past fortnight.  'The Ares is going back to Earth, in three weeks,
isn't she?"  he remarked to Hadfield.  The other merely nodded; the
question was obviously a purely rhetorical one for Gibson knew the
answer as well as anybody.  "I've been thinking," said Gibson slowly,
"that I'd like to stay on Mars a bit longer.  Maybe until next year."

"Oh," said Hadfield.  The exclamation revealed neither congratulation
nor disapproval, and Gibson felt a little piqued that his shattering
announcement had fallen flat.  "What about your workr'continued the
Chief.

"All that can be done just as easily here as on Earth."  "I suppose you
realise," said Hadfield, "that if you stay here you ll have to take up
some useful profession."  He smiled a little wryly.  '7bat wasn't very
tactful, was it?  What I mean is that you'll have to do something to
help ran -the colony Have you any particular ideas in this line?"

This was a little more encouraging; at least it meant that Hadfield had
not dismissed the suggestion at once.  But it was a point that Gibson
had overlooked in his first rush of, enthusiasm.

"I wasn't thinking of making a permanent home here," he said a little
lamely.  "But I want to spend some time studying the Martians, and I'd
like to see if I can find any more of them.  Besides, I don't want to
leave Mars just when things are getting interesting."

"What do you mean?"  said Hadfield swiftly.  "Why-these oxygen plants,
and getting Dome Seven into operation.  I want to see what comes of all
this.in the next few months."

Hadfield looked thoughtfully at his passenger.  He was less surprised
than Gibson might have imagined, for he had seen this sort of thing
happen before.  He had even wondered if it was going to happen to
Gibson, and was by no means displeased at the turn of events.

The explanation was really very simple.  Gibson was happier now than he
had ever been on Earth; he had done something worth while, and felt
that he was becoming part of the Martian community.  The identification
was now nearly complete, and the fact that Mars had already made one
attempt on his life had merely strengthened his determination to stay.
If he returned to Earth, he would not be going home-he would be sailing
into exile.

"Enthusiasm isn't enough, you know," said Hadfield.  "I quite
understand that."

"This little world of ours is founded on two things skill and hard work.
Without both of them, we might just as well go back to Earth."

"I'm not afraid of work, and I'm sure I could learn some of the
administrative jobs you've got here-and a lot of the routine technical
ones."

this, Hadfield thought, was probably true.  Ability to do these things
was a function of intelligence, and Gibson had plenty of that.  But
more than intelligence was needed; there were personal factors as well.
It would be best not to raise Gibson's hopes until he had made further
enquiries and discussed the matter with Whittaker.

"I'll tell you what to do," said Hadfield.  "Put in a provisional
application to stay, and I'll have it signalled to Earth.  We'll get
their answer in about a week.  Of course, if they turn you down there's
nothing we can do."

Gibson doubted this, for he knew just how much notice Hadfield took of
terrestrial regulations when they interfered with his plans.  But he
merely said: "And if Earth agrees, then I suppose it's up to you?"

"Yes.  I'll start thinking about my answer then."

That, thought Gibson, was satisfactory as far as it went Now that he
had taken the plunge, he felt a great sense of relief, as if everything
was now outside his control.  He had merely to drift with the current,
awaiting the progress of events.

The door of the airlock opened before them and the Flea crunched into
the city.  Even if he had made a mistake, no great harm would be done.
He could always go back to Earth by the next ship--or the one after.

But there was no doubt that Mars had changed him.  He knew what some of
his friends would say when they read the news.  "Have you heard about
Martin?  Looks as if Mars has made a man out of him!  Who'd have
thought it?"

Gibson wriggled uncomfortably.  He had no intention of becoming an
elevating object lesson for anyone, if he could help it.  Even in his
most maudlin moments he had never had the slightest use for those smug
Victorian parables about lazy, self-centred men becoming useful members
of the community.  But he had a horrible fear that something uncommonly
like this was beginning to happen to him.



"Out  with it, Jimmy.  What's on your mind?  You don't seem to have
much appetite this morning."

Jimmy toyed fretfully with the synthetic omelette on his plate, which
he had already carved into microscopic fragments.  "I was thinking
about Irene, and what a shame it is She's never had a chance of seeing
Earth."

"Are you sure the wants to?  I've never heard 'anyone here say a single
good word for the place."

"Oh, she wants to all right.  IVe asked her."

Stop beating about the bush.  What are you two planning now?  Do you
want to elope in the Ares?"  Jimmy gave a rather sickly Vi 'll&s an
idea, but it would take a bit of doing! Honestly though-don't you
think.  Irene ought to go back to Earth to finish her education?  if
she stays here she'll grow up into a-a----?"

"A simple unsophisticated country girl--a raw colonial  Is that what
you were thinking?"

Well, something like that, but I wish you wouldn't put it so
crudely."

"Sorry--I didn't mean to.  As a matter of fact, I rather agree with
you; it's a point that's occurred to me.  I think someone ought to
mention it to Hadfield."  "That's exactly what-- began Jimmy
excitedly.  '%---what you and Irene want me to do?"

Jimmy threw up his hands in mock despair.

"It's no good hying to kid you.  Yes."

"If you'd said that at the beginning, think of the time wed have saved.
But tell me frankly, Jimmyn----just hdw serious are you about Irene?"

Jimmy looked back at him with a level, steadfast gm that was in itself
a suflicient answer.

"I'm dead serious; you ought to know that.  I want to marry her as soon
as she old enough--and I can cam my living

There was a dead silence, then Gibson replied,

"You could do a lot worse; she's a very nice girl.  And I think it
would do her a lot of good to have a year or so on Earth.  Still, I'd
rather not tackle Hadfield at the moment.  He's very busy and-well,
He's already got one request from me."

"Oh?"  said Jimmy, looking up with interest.

Gibson cleared his throat.  "It's got to come out some time, but don't
say anything to the others yet.  I've applied to stay on Mars."

"Good Lordl" exclaimed Jimmy.  "Ibaes-well, quite a thing to do."

Gibson suppressed a smile.

"Do you think it's a good thing?"

"Why, yes.  I'd like to do it myself."  "Even if Irene was going back
to Earth?"  asked Gibson dryly.  'lilt isn't fair!  But how long do you
expect to stay?"  "Frankly, I don't know; R depends on too many
factors. For one thing, III have to learn a Jobl" "What sbrt of job?"
"Something that's congenial--and productive.  Any Ideas?"

Jimmy sat in silence for a moment, his forehead wrinkled with
concentration.  Gibson wondered just what he was thinking.  Was he
sorry that they might soon have to separate?  In the last few weeks the
strain and animosities which had once both repelled and united them had
dissolved away.  They had reached a state of emotional equilibrium
which was pleasant, yet not as satisfactory as.  Gibsw would have
hoped.  Perhaps it was his own fault; perhaps he had been afraid to
show his deeper feelings and had hidden them behind banter and even
occasional sarcasm.  If so, he was afraid he might have succeeded only
too well.  Once he had hoped to em Jimmy's hug and confidence; now, it
seemed, Jimmy only came to him when he wanted something.  No-that
wasn't fair.  Jimmy certainly liked him, perhaps as much, as many sons
liked their fathers.  That was a positive achievement of which he could
be proud.  He could take some credit, too, for the great improvement in
Jimmy's disposition since they had left Earth.  He was no longer
awkward and shy; though he was still rather serious, he was never
sullen. This, thought Gibson, was something in which he could take a
good deal of satisfaction.  But now there was little more he could do.
Jimmy was slipping out of his world-Irene was the only thing that
mattered to him now.

"I'm afraid I don't scm to have any ideas," said Jimmy.  "Of course,
you could have my job beret Oh, that reminds me of something I picked
up in Admin the other day."  His voice dropped to a conspiratorial
whisper and he leaned across the table.  "Have you ever heard of
"Project Dawn'?"

"No; what is it?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out It's something very secret, and I
think it must be pretty big."

"Oh!"  said Gibson, suddenly alert "Perhaps I have heard about it after
all.  Tell me what you know.

"Well, I was working late one evening in the Ming Saotion, and was
sifting on the floor between some of the cabinets, sorting out papers,
when the Chief and Mayor Whittaker came in.  IMey didn't know I was
there.  and were talking together.  I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but
you know how it is.  All of a sudden Mayor Whittaker said something
that made me sit up with a bang.  I think then were his exact words:
"Whatever happens, theres going to be bell to pay as soon as Earth
knows about Project Dawn-even if it's successful."  Then the Chief save
a queer little laugh, and said something about success excusing
everything 'That's all I could hear; they went out soon afterwards.
What do you think about it?"

"Project Dawnl' Ikere was a magic about the name that made Gibson's
pulse quicken Almost certainly it must have some connection with the
research going on up in the hills above the city-but that could hardly
Justify Whittakees remark.  Or could it?

Gibson knew a little about the interplay of political -forces between
Earth and Mars.  He appreciated, from oocasional remarks of HadWs and
comments in the local press, that the colony was now passing through a
critical period.  On Earth, powerful voices were raised in pro ted
against its enormous expense, which, it seemed, would extend
indefinitely into the future with no sign of any ultimate reduction.
More than once Hadfield had spoken bitterly of schemes which he had
been compelled to abandon on grounds of economy, and of other projects
for which permission could not be obtained at all.

"I'll see what I can find out from my--en-various sources of
information," said Gibson.  "Have you mention edit to anyone else?"

No."

"I shouldn't, if I were you.  After all, it may not be anything
important.  I'll let you know what I find out."

"You won't forget to ask about Irene?"

"As- soon as I get the chance.  But it may take some time-I'll have to
catch Hadfield in the right mood!"

As a private detective agency, Gibson was not a success.  He made two
rather clumsy direct attempts before he decided that the frontal
approach was useless.  George the barman had been his first target, for
he seemed to know everything that was happening on Mars and was one of
Gibson's most valuable contacts.  This time, however, he proved of no
use -at all.  "Project Dawn?"  he said, with a puzzled expression.
"I've never heard of it."

"Are you quite surer' asked Gibson, watching him narrowly.

George seemed to lose himself in deep thought.

"Quite sure," he said at last.  And that was that.  George was such an
excellent actor that it' was quite impossible to guess whether he was
lying or speaking the truth.  Gibson did a tri He better with the
editor of the "Martian Times."  Westerman was a man he normally
avoided, as he was always trying to coax articles out of him and Gibson
was invariably behind with his terrestrial commitments The staff of two
therefore looked up with some surprise as their visitor entered the
tiny office of Mars' only newspaper- Having handed over some carbon
copies, as a peace *ffering, Gibson sprang his trap.

"I'm trying to collect all the information I can on "Project Dawn," he
said casually.  "I know it's still under cover, but I want to have
everything ready when it can be published.  There was dead silence for
several seconds.  Then Westerman remarked: "I think you'd better see
the C He about that."

"II didn't want to bother him-he's so busy," said Gibson innocently.
"Well, I can't tell you anything."  "You mean you don't know anything
about it?"

"If you like.  There are only a few dozen people on Mars who could even
tell you what it is."

That, at least, was a valuable piece of information.

"Do you happen to be one of the mr asked Gibson.

Westerman shrugged his shoulders.  "I keep my eyes open, andrve done a
bit of guessing."  That was all that Gibson could extract from him.  He
strongly suspected that Westerman knew little more about the matter
than he did himself, but was anxious to conceal his ignorance.  The
interview had, however, confirmed two main facts.  "Project Dawn"
certainly did exist, and it was extremely well hidden.  Gibson could
only follow Westerman's example, keeping his eyes open and guessing
what he could.

He decided to abandon the quest for the time being and to go round to
the Biophysics Lab, where Squeak was the guest of honour.  The little
Martian was sitting on his haunches taking life easily while the
scientists stood conversing in a corner, trying to decide what to do
nexL As soon as he saw Gibson, he gave a chirp of delight and bounded
across the room bringing down a chair as he did so but luckily missing
any valuable apparatus.  The bevy of biologists regarded this
demonstration with some annoyance; presumably it could not be
reconciled with their views on Martian psychology.

"Well," said Gibson to the leader of the team, when he had disentangled
himself from Squeak's clutches.  "Have you decided how intelligent he
is yetr

The scientist scratched his head.

"He's a queer little beast.  Sometimes I get the feeling he's just
laughing at us.  The odd thing is that he's quite different from the
rest of his tribe.  We've got a unit studying them in the field, you
know."

"In what way is he different?"

"The others don't show any emotions at all, as far as we can discover.
They're completely lacking in curiosity.  You can stand beside them and
if you wait long enough they'll eat right round you.  As long as you
don't actively interfere with them they'll take no notice of you."

"And what happens if you do?"

"They'll try and push you out of the way, like some obstacle.  If they
can't do that, they'll just go somewhere else.  Whatever you do, you
can't make them annoyed."  "Are they good-natured, or just plain
stupid?"

"I'd be inclined to say it's neither one nor the other.  Tbey've had no
natural enemies for so long that they can't imagine that anyone would
try to hurt them.  By now they must be largely creatures of habit;
life's so tough for them that they can't afford expensive luxuries like
curiosity and the other emotions."  "Then how do you explain this
little fellow's behaviourr' asked Gibson, pointing to Squeak, who was
now investigating his pockets.  "He's not really hungry-I've just
offered him some food-so it must be pure inquisitiveness."

"It's probably a phase they pass through when they're young.  7bink how
a kitten differs from a full-grown cat -or a human baby from an adult,
for that matter!"  "So when Squeak grows up hell be like the others?"

"Probably, but it isn't certain.  We don't know what capacity he has
for learning new habits.  For instance, lies very good at finding his
way out of mazes---once you can persuade him to make the effort."

"Poor Squeakl" said Gibson.  "Sometimes I feel quite guilty about
taking you away from home.  Still, it was your own idea.  Let's go for
a waIL"

Squeak immediately hopped towards the door.

"Did you see that?"  exclaimed Gibson.  "He understands what I'm
saying."  "Well, so can a dog when it hears a command.  It may simply
be a question of habit again-you've been taking him out this time every
day and he's got used to it.  Can you bring him back inside half an
hour?  We're fixing up the encephalograph to get some EEG records of
his brain."  These afternoon walks were a way of reconciling Squeak to
his fate and at the same time salving Gibson's conscience.  He
sometimes felt rather like a baby-snatcher who had abandoned his victim
immediately after stealing it.  But it.  was all in the cause of
science, and the biologists had sworn they wouldn't hurt Squeak in any
way.

The inhabitants of Port Lowell were now used to seeing this strangely
assorted pair taking their daily stroll along the streets, and crowds
no longer gathered to watch them pass.  When it was outside school
hours Squeak usually collected a retinue of young admirers who wanted
to play with him, but it was now early afternoon and the juvenile
population was still in durance vile.  there was no one in sight when
Gibson and his companion swung into Broadway, but presently a familiar
figure appeared in the distance.  Hadfield was carrying out his daily
tour of inspection, and as usual he was accompanied by his pets.

It was the fast time that Topaz and Turquoise had met Squeak, and their
aristocratic calm was seriously disturbed, though they did their best
to conceal the fact.  They tugged on their leads and tried to shelter
unobtrusively behind Hadfield, while Squeak took not the slightest
notice of them at all.

"Quite a menage riel laughed Hadfield.  "I don't think Topaz and
Turquoise appreciate having a rival-they've had the place to themselves
so long that they think they own it.99

"Any news from Earth yetr asked Gibson, anxiously.  "Oh, about your
appUcationr Good heavens, I only sent it off two days ago!  You know
just how quickly things move down there.  It will be at least a week
before we get an answer."

The Earth was always "down," the outer planets "up," so Gibson had
discovered.  The terms gave him a curious mental picture of a great
slope leading down to the Sun, with the planets lying on it at varying
heights.

"I don't really see what it's got to do with Earth," Gibson continued.
"After all, it's not as if theresa ny question of allocating shipping
space.  I'm here already ming fact it'll save trouble if I don't go
backl"

"You surely don't imagine that such commonsense arguments carry much
weight with the policy-makers back Ion Earth!"  retorted Hadfield. "Oh,
dear nol Everything has to go through the Proper Channels."

Gibson was fairly sure that Hadfield did not usually talk about his
superiors in this light-hearted fashion, and he felt that peculiar glow
of satisfaction that comes when one is permitted to share a deliberate
indiscretion It was another sign that the C.E. trusted him and
considered that he was on his side.  Dare he mention the two other
matters that were occupying his mind Project Dawn and Irene?  As far as
Irene was concerned, he kad made his promise and, would have to keep it
sooner or later.  But first he really ought to have a talk with Irene
herself-yes, that was a perfectly good excuse for putting it off.

He put it off so long that the matter was taken right out of his hands.
Irene herself made the plunge, no doubt egged on by Jimmy, from whom
Gibson had a full report the next day.  It was easy to tell from
Jimmy's face what the result had been.

Irenes suggestion must have been a considerable shock to Hadfield, who
no doubt believed that he had given his daughter everything she needed,
and thus shared a delusion common among parents.  Yet he had taken it
calmly and there had been no scenes.  Hadfield was too intelligent a
man to adopt the attitude of the deeply wounded father.  He had merely
given lucid and compelling reasons why Irene couldn't possibly go to
Earth until she was twenty one when he planned to return for a long
holiday during which they could.  see the world together.  And that was
only three years away.  "Three year st lamented .7immy.  "It might just
as mean be three lifetime st

Gibson deeply sympatliised, but tried to look on the bright side of
things.

"It's not so long, really.  You'll be fully qualified then and earning
a lot more money than most young men at that age And it's surprising
how quickly the time goes his Job's comforft produced no alleviation of
Jimmy's gloom.  Gibson felt-like adding the comment that it was just as
well that ages on Mars were still reckoned by

Earth time, and not according to the Martian year of 687 days.
However, he thought better of it and remarked instead: "What does
Hadfield think about all thus anyway?  Ho he discussed you with h=e7-
"I don't think he knows anything about it."

You can bet your life be doest You know,.  I really think it would be a
good idea to go and have it out with hinL,v

"I've thought of that, once or twice," said Thniny.  "But I guess I'm
scared."  "You'll have to get over that some time if he going to be
Your father-in-lawl" retorted Gibson.-"Besides, whit harm could it
do?"

"He might stop Irene seeing me in the time weve still got."

"Hadfield isn't that sort of man, and if he washed have done it long
ago."

Jimmy thought this over and was unable to refute it To some extent
Gibson could understand his feelings, for he remembered his own
nervousness at his first meeting with Hadfield.  In this he had had
much less excuse than

Jimmy, for experience had long ago taught him that few great men remain
great when one gets up close to them.  But to Jimmy, Hadfield was still
the aloof and unapproachable master of Mars.  "If I do go and see him,"
said Jimmy at last, "what do you think I ought to say?"

"What's wrong with the plain.  unvarnished truth?  les been known to
work wonders on such occasions."

Jimmy shot him a slightly hurt look; he was never quite sure whether
Gibson was laughing with him or at him.  It was Gibson's own fault, and
was the chief obstacle to their complete understanding.

"LOOV' said Gibson.  "Come along with me to the Chief's house tonight
and have it out with him.  After all, look at it from his point of
view.  For all he can tell, it may be just an ordinary flirtation with
neither side taking it very seriously.  But if you go and tell him you
want to Set enzased-then it's a different matter."

He was much relieved when Jimmy agreed with no more argument.  After
all, if the boy had anything in him he should make these decisions
himself without any prompting.  Gibsonwas sensible enough to realise
that, in his anxiety to be helpful, he must not run the risk of
destroying Jimmys self-reliance.

It was one of Hadflelcrs virtues that one always knew where to find him
at any given time--thougk woe betide anyone who bothered him with
routine official matters during the few hours when he considered
himself off duty.  This matter was neither routine nor official; and it
was not, as Gibson had guessed, entirely unexpected either.  for
Hadfield had shown no surprise at all when he saw whom Gibson had
brought with him.  There was no sign of Irene, she had though'y effaced
herself.  As soon as possible Gibson did the same.  '

He ;L waiting in the library, running through Hadfield's books and
wondering how many of them the Chief had- actually had time to read,
when Jimmy came in.  "Mr.  Hadfield would like to see you," he said.
"How did you get on?"  "I don't know yet, but it wasn't so bad as I'd
expected."  "R never is.  And don't worry.  rU give you the best
reference I can without actual perjury."

When Gibson entered the study, he found Hadfield sunk in one of the
armchairs, staring at the carpet as though he had never seen it before
in his life.  He motioned his visitor to take the other chair.

"How long have you known Spencer?"  he asked.

"Only since leaving Earth.  I'd never met him before boarding the A
res."  "And do you think that's long enough to form a clear opinion of
his character?"

"Is a lifetime long enough to do that?"  countered Gib.  son.

Hadfield smiled, and looked up for the first time.

"Don't evade the issue," he said, though without hrftation.  "What do
you really think about him?  Would you be willing to accept him as a
son-in-lawr

"Yes," said Gibson, without hesitation.  "I'd be glad to."  It was just
as well that Jimmy could not overhear thek conversation in the next ten
minutes--tho ugli in of et ways, perhaps, it was rather a pity, for it
would have given him much more insight into Gibson's feelings.  In his
carefully probing cross-examination.  Hadfield was trying to learn all
he could about Jimmy, but he was testing Gibson as well.  71tis was
something that Gibson should have anticipated; the fact that he had
overlooked it in serving Jim.  my's Interests was no small matter to
his credit.  When Hadfield's interrogation suddenly switched its point
of at.  tack, he was totally imprepared for it.

"Tell me, Gibson," said Hadfield abruptly.  "Why are you taking all
this trouble for young Spencer?  You say you only met him five months
ago.- "That's perfectly true.  But when we were a few weeks out I
discovered that I'd known both his parents very well-we were all at
college together."

It had slipped out before he could stop iL Hadfield's eyebrows went up
slightly, no doubt he was wondering why Gibson had never taken his
degree.  But he was far too tactful to pursue this subject, and merely
asked a few casual questions about Jimmy's parents, and when he had
known them.

At least, they seemed casual questions--just the kind Hadfield might
have been expected to ask, and Gibson answered them innocently enough.
He had forgotten that he was dealing with one of the keenest minds in
the Solar System, one at least as good as his own at analysing the
springs and motives of human conduct."  When be realised what had
happened, it was already too late.  "I'm sorry," said Hadfield, with
deceptive smoothness, 'but this whole story of yours simply lacks
conviction.  I don't say that what you've told me isn't the truth. it's
perfectly possible that you might take such an interest in Spencer
because you knew his parents very well twenty years ago.  But you've
tried to explain away too much, and its quite obvious that the whole
affair touches you at an altogether deeper level."  He leaned forward
suddenly and stabbed at Gibson with his finger.  'I'm not a fool,
Gibson, and men's minds are my business.  You've no need to answer this
if you don't want to, but I think you owe it to me now.  Jimmy Spewer
is your son, Wt her 'no bomb had dropped-the explosion was over And In
the silence that followed Gibson's only emotion was one of overwhelming
relief.

"Yes," be said.  "He is my son.  How did you guess?"  Hadfield smiled;
he looked somewhat pleased with himself, as if he had just settled a
question that had been bothering him for some time "It's extraordinary
how blind men can be to the effects of their own actions-and bow easily
tkey assume -that no one else has any powers of observation.  There's a
slight but distinct likeness between you and Spenow, when I first met
you together I wondered if you were related and was quite surprised
when I heard you weren't'

"It's very curious," interjected Gibson, "that we were together In the
Ares for three months, and no one noticed it them"

"Is it so curious?  Spencer's crewmates thought they know his
background, and it never occurred to them to associate it with you.
That probably blinded them to the resemblance which 1--who hadn't any
preconceived ideas spotted at once.  But I'd have dismissed it as pure
coincidence N you hadn't told me your story.  That provided the missing
clues.  Tell me-does Spencer know thisIr 'I'm sure he doesn't even
suspect it."  "Why are you so sure?  And why haven't you told him?"
The cross-examination was ruthless, but Gibson did not resent I No one
had a better right than Hadfield to ask these questions.  And Gibson
needed someone in whom to confide-just as Jimmy had needed him, back in
the

Ares when this uncovering of the past had first begun.  To think that
he had started it all himselfl He had certainly never dreamed where it
would lead... "I think Id better go back to & beginning," said Gibson,
shifting uneasily in his chair.  "When I left college I had a complete
breakdown and was in hospital for over a year.  After I came out I'd
lost all contact with my Cambridge friends; though a few tried to keep
in touch with me, I didn't want to be reminded of the past. Eventually,
of course, I ran into some of them again, but it wasn't until several
years later that I heard what had happened to Kathleen-to Jimmy's
mother.  By then, she was already dead."

He paused, still remembering, across all these years, the puzzled
wonder he had felt because the news had brought him so little
emotion.

"I heard there was a son, and thought little of it.  Wed always
been-well, careful, or so we believed-and I Just assumed that the boy
was Gerald's.  You see, I didn't know when they were married, or when
Jimmy was born.  I just wanted to forget the whole business, and pushed
it out of my mind.  I can't even remember now if it even occurred to me
that the boy might have been mine.  You may find it hard to believe
this, but it's the truth.

"And then I met Jimmy, and that brought it an back again.  I felt sorry
for him at first, and then began to get fond of him.  But I never
guessed who he was.  I even found myself trying to trace his
resemblance to Geraldthough I can hardly remember him now."

Poor Geraldl He, of course, had known the truth well enough, but he had
loved Kathleen and had been glad to many her on any terms he could.
Perhaps he was to be pitied as much as she, but that was something that
now would never be known.

"And when," persisted Hadfield, 'did you discover the truth?"  "Only a
few weeks ago, when Jimmy asked me to witness some official document he
had to flu in-it was his application to start work here, in facL 11at
was when I first learned his date of birth."

"I see, said Hadfield thoughtfully.  "But even that doesn't love
absolute proof, does it?"

"I'm perfectly sure," Gibson replied with such obvious pique that
Hadfield could not help smiling, "that there as no one else.  Even if
I'd had any doubts left, you've dispelled them yourself."  "And
Spencer?"  asked Hadfield, going back to his original question. "You've
not told me why you're so confident he knows nothing.  Why shouldn't he
have checked a few dates?  His parents' wedding day, for example?
Surely what you've told him must have roused his suspicions?"

"I don't think so," said Gibson slowly, choosing his words with the
delicate precision of a cat walking over a wet roadway.  "You see, he
rather idealises his mother, and though he may guess I haven't told him
everything I don't believe he's jumped to the right conclusion.  he's
not the sort who could have kept quiet about it if he had.  And
besides, he'd still have no proof even if he knows when his parents
were married-which is more than most people do.  No, I'm sure Jimmy
doesn't know, and I'm afraid it will be rather a shock to him when he
finds out."

Hadfield was silent; Gibson could not even guess what he was thinking.
It was not a very creditable story, but at least he had shown the
virtue of frankness.

Then Hadfield shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that seemed to hold a
lifetimes study of human nature.

"He likes you," he said.  "Hell get over it all right."

Gibson relaxed with a sigh of relief.  He knew that the worst was
past.

"Gosh, you've been a long time," said Jimmy.  "I thought you were never
going to finish; what happened?"

Gibson took him by the arm.

"Don't worry," he said.  "It's quite WI right.  Everything's going to
be all right now."

He hoped and believed he was telling the truth.  HadWd had been
sensible, which was more than some fathers would have been even in this
day and age.

"I'm not particularly concerned," he had said, "Who Spencer's parents
were or were not.  This isn't the Victorian era.  I'm only interested
in the fellow himself, and I must say I'm favourably impressed.  I've
also had quite a chat about him with Captain Norden, by the way, so I'm
not relying merely on tonight's interview.  Oh yes, I saw all this
coming a long time ago!  There was even a certain inevitability about
it, since there are very few youngsters of Spencer's age on Mars."

He had spread his hands in front of him-in a habit which Gibson had
noticed beforehand stared intently at his fingers as if seeing them for
the first time in his life.

"The engagement can be announced tomorrow," he'd said softly.  "And
now-what about your side of the affair?"  He'd stared keenly at Gibson,
who returned his gaze without flinching.

"I want to do whatever is best for Jimmy," he had said.  "Just as soon
as I can decide what that is."

"And you still want to stay on Mars?"  asked Hadfield.  "I'd thought of
that aspect of it too," Gibson kad said.  "But if I went back to Earth,
what good would that do?  Jimmy'll never be there more than a few
months at a time -in fact, from now on I'll see a lot more of him if1
stay on Marsl"

"Yes, I suppose that's true enough," Hadfield had said, smiling.  "How
Irene's going to enjoy having a husband who spends half his life in
space remains to be seen-but then, sailors' wives have managed to put
up with this sort of thing for quite a long time."  He paused
abruptly.

"Do you know what I think you ought to do?"  he said.  I'd be very glad
of your views," Gibson had replied with feeling.

"Do nothing until the engagement's over and the whole thing's settled.
If you revealed your identity now I don't see what good it would do,
and it might conceivably cause harm.  Later, though, you must tell
Jimmy who you are or who he is, whichever way you like to look at it.
But I don't think the right moment will come for quite a while."

It was the first time that Hadfield had referred to Spencer by his
Christian name.  He was probably not even conscious of it, but to
Gibson it was a clear and unmistakable sign that he was already
thinking of Jimmy as his son-in-law.  The knowledge brought him a
sudden sense of kinship and sympathy towardi Hadfield.  They were
united in selfless dedication towards the same purpose--the happiness
of the two children in whom they saw their own youth reborn.

Looking back upon it later, Gibson was to identify this moment with the
beginning of his friendship with

Hadfield-the first man to whom he was ever able to give his unreserved
admiration and respect.  It was a friendship that was to play a greater
part in the future of Mars than either could have guessed.

 It had opened just like any other day in Port Lowell.  Jimmy and
Gibson had breakfasted quietly together very quietly, for they were
both deeply engrossed with their personal problems.  Jimmy was still in
what could best be described as an ecstatic condition, though he had
occasional fits of depression at the thought of leaving Irene, while
Gibson was wondering if Earth had yet made any move regarding his
application.  Sometimes he was sure the whole thing was a great
mistake, and even hoped that the papers had been lost.  But he knew
he'd have to go through with it, and decided to stir things up at
Admin.

He could tell that something was wrong the moment he entered the
office.  Mrs.  Smyth, Hadfield's secretary, met him as she always did
when he came to see the Chief.  Usually she showed him in at once;
sometimes she explained that Hadfield was extremely busy, or putting a
call through to Earth, and could he come back later?  This time she
simply said: "I'm sorry, Mr.  Hadfield it there.  He won't be back
until tomorrow."

"Won't be back?"  queried Gibson.  "Has he gone to Skia?

"Oh no," said Mrs.  Smyth, wavering s lightly but obviously on the
defensive.  "I'm afraid I can't say.  But hell be back in twenty-four
hours

Gibson decided to puzzle over this later.  He presumed that Mrs.  Smyth
knew all about his affairs, so she could probably answer his
question.

"Do you know if theres been any reply yet to my application?"  he
asked.

Mrs.  Smyth looked even unhappier.

"I think there has," she said.  "But it was a personal signal to Mr.
Hadfield and I chit discuss it.  I expect he2 want to see you about it
as soon as he gets back."

This was most exasperating.  It was bad enough not to have a reply, but
it was even worse to have one you weren't allowed to see.  Gibson felt
his patience evaporating.

"Surely theres no reason why you shouldn't tell me about it!"  he
exclaimed.  "Especially if I'll know tomorrow, anyway."  64I'm really
awfully sorry, Mr.  Gibson.  But I know Mr.  Hadfield will be most
annoyed if I say anything now."

"Oh, very well," said Gibson, and went off in a huff.

He decided to relieve his feelings by tackling Mayor Whittaker-always
assuming that he was still in the city.  He was, and he did not look
particularly happy to we Gibson, who settled himself firmly down in the
visitoes chair in a way' that obviously meant business.

"Look here, Whittaker," he began.  "I'm a patient man and I think you
ll agree I don't often make unreasonable requests."  As the other
showed no signs of making the right reply.  Gibson continued hastily:

There's something very peculiar going on round here and I'm anxious to
get to the bottom of it."

Whittaker sighed.  He had been expecting this to happen sooner or
later.  A pity Gibson couldn't have waited until tomorrow: it wouldn't
have mattered then..  .

"What's made you suddenly jump to this conclusion?"  he asked.  -Oh,
lots of thinp-and it isn't at an sudden.  I've just tried to see
Hadfield, and Mrs.  Smyth told me lies not in the city and then closed
up like a clam when I tried to ask a few innocent questions."

"I can just imagine her doing that!"  grinned Whittaker cheerfully.

"If you try the same thing rU start throwing the furniture around.  At
least if you can't tell me what's going on, for goodness sake tell me
why you can't tell me.  It's Project Dawn, isn't it?"  seat made
Whittaker sit up with a start.  "How did you know?"  he asked.  "Never
mind; I can be stubborn too."

"I'm not trying to be stubborn," said Whittaker plaintively "Don't
think we like secrecy for the sake of it-, it's a confounded nuisance.
But suppose you start telling me what you know."

"Very well, if UT soften you up.  Project Dawn Is something to do with
that plant genetics place up in the hills where you've been
cultivating-what do you call W-Oxytera.  As there seems no point in
keeping that quiet, I can only assume it's part of a much bigger plan.
I suspect Phobos is mixed up with it, though I can't imagine how.
You've managed to keep it so secret that the few people on Mars who
know anything about it just won't talk.  But you haven't been trying to
conceal it from Mars so much as from Earth.  Now what have you got to
say7

Whittaker appeared to be not in the least abashed.

"I must compliment you on your-er-perspicacity," he said.  "You may
also be interested to know that, a couple of weeks ago, I suggested to
the Chief that we ought to take youl fully into our confidence.  But he
couldn't make up his mind, and since then things have happened rather
more rapidly than anyone expected."

He doodled absentmindedly on his writing pad, then came to a
decision.

"I won't jump the gun," he said, "and I can't tell you what's happening
now.  But heres a little story that may amuse you., Any resemblance
to-ah-real persons and places is quite coincidental"

"I understand," grinned Gibson.  "Go on."

"Ut's suppose that in the first rush of interplanetary enthusiasm world
A has set up a colony on world B. After some years it finds that this
is costing a lot more than it expected and has given no tangible
returns for the money spent.  Two factions then arise on the mother
world.  One, the -conservative group, wants to close the project
down-to cut its losses and get out.  The other group, the Progressives,
wants to continue the experiment because they believe that in the long
run Man has got to explore and master the material universe, or else
he'll simply stagnate on his own world.  But this sort of argument is
no use with the taxpayers, and the conservatives are beginning to Set
the upper hand.

"All this, of course, is rather unsettling to the colonists, who are
getting more and more independently minded and don't like the idea of
being regarded as poor relations living on charity.  Still, they doht
see any way out until one day a revolutionary scientific discovery is
made.  (I should have explained at the beginning that planet B has been
attracting the finest brains of A, which is another reason why A is
getting annoyed.) This discovery opens up almost unlimited prospects
for the future of B, but to 'apply it involves certain risks, as well
as the diversion of a good deal of Bs limited resources.  Still, the
plan is put forward-and is promptly turned down by A. There Is si
protracted tug of-war behind the scenes, but the home planet is
adamant.

"The colonists are then faced with two alternatives.  They can force
the issue out into the open, and appeal to the public on world A.
Obviously they'll be at a.great disadvantage, as the men on the spot
can shout them down.  The other choice is to carry on with the plan
without informing Earth-I mean, planet Aand this is what they finally
decided to do.

"Of course, there were a lot of other factors involved political and
persona as well as scientific.  It so happened that the leader of the
colonists was a man of i unusual determination who wasn't scared of
anything or anyone, on either of the planets.  He had a team of
firstclass scientists behind him, and they backed him up.  So the plan
went ahead; but no one knows yet if it will be successful.  I'm sorry I
can't tell you the end of the story; you know how these serials always
break off at the most exciting place."

"I think, you've told me just about everything," said Gibson.
"Everything, that is, except one minor detail.  I still don't know what
Project Dawn is."  He rose to go.  "Tomorrow I'm coming back to hear
the final instalment of your gripping serial."

There won't be any need to do that," Whittaker replied.  He glanced
unconsciously at the clock.  "Youll know long before then."  As he left
the Administration Building, Gibson was intercepted by Jimmy.

"I'm supposed to be at work," he said breathlessly "but I had to catch
you.  Something important's going on."

"I know," replied Gibson rather impatiently.  "Proje-of Dawn's coming
to the boil, and Hadfield's left town."  '0oh," replied Jimmy, a little
taken aback.  "I didn't think you'd have heard.  But you won't know
tkis, anyway.  Irene's very upset.  She told me her father said
good-bye last night as if-well, as if he mightn't see her again."
Gibson whistled.  That put things in a different light.  Project Dawn
was not only big, it might be dangerous.  This was a possibility he had
not considered.

"Whatever's happening," he said, "we'll know all about it
tomorrow-Whittaker's just told me that.  But I think I can guess where
HadFld is right now."

"He's up on Phobos.  For some reason, that's the key to Project Dawn,
and that's where you ll find the Chief right now."

Gibson would have made a large bet on the accuracy of this guess.  It
was just as well that there was no one to take it, for he was quite
wrong.  Hadfield was now almost as far away from Phobos as he was from
Mars At the moment he was sitting in some discomfort in a small
spaceship, which was packed with scientists and their hastily
dismantled equipment.  He was playing chess, and playing it very badly,
against one of the greatest physicists in the Solar System.  His
opponent was playing equally badly, and it would soon have become quite
obvious to any observer that they were simply trying to pass the time.
Like everyone on Mars, they were waiting; but they were the only ones
who knew exactly what they were waiting for.

The long day-one of the longest that Gibson had ever known-slowly ebbed
away.  It was a day of wild rumours and speculation: everyone in Port
Lowell had some,theorywhich they were anxious to air.  But as those who
knew the truth said nothing, and those who knew nothing said too much,
when night came the city was in a state of extreme confusion. Gibson
wondered if it was worth while staying up late, but around midnight he
decided to go to bed.  He was fast asleep when, invisibly, soundlessly,
hidden from him by the thickness of the planet, Project Dawn came to
its climaif.  Only the men in the watching spaceship saw it happen, and
changed suddenly from grave scientists to shouting, laughing schoolboys
as they turned to race for home.

In the very small hours of the morning Gibson was wakened by a
thunderous banging on his door.  It was Jimmy, shouting to him to get
up and come outsiJe.  He dressed hastily, but, when he reached the door
Jimmy ha4 already gone out into the street.  He caught him up at the
doorway.  From all sides, people were beginng to appear, rubbing their
eyes sleepily and wondering what hid happened.  There was a rising buzz
of voices and distant shouts; Port Lowell sounded like abeehive that
had been suddenly disturbed.

It was a full minute before Gibson understood what had awakened the
city.  Dawn was just breaking: the east- e em sky was aglow with the
first light of the rising Sun.  he eastern sky?  My God, that dawn was
breaking in the west.

No one could have been less superstitious than Gibson, but for a moment
the upper levels of his mind were submerged by a wave of irrational
terror.  It lasted only a moment; then reason reasserted itself.
Brighter and brighter grew the light spilling over the horizon; now the
first rays were touching the hills above the city.  They were moving
swiftly-far, far too swiftly for the Sun-and suddenly a blazing, golden
meteor leapt up out of the desert, climbing almost vertically towards
the zenith.

Its very speed betrayed its identity.  This was Phobosor what had been
Phobos a few hours before.  Now it was a yellow disc of fir et and
Gibson could feel the heat of its burning upon his face.  The city
around him was now utterly silent, watching the miracle and slowly
waking to a dim awareness of all that it might mean to Mars.

So this was Project Dawn-it had been well named.  The pieces of the
jig-saw puzzle were falling into place, but the main pattern was still
not clear.  To have turned Phobos into a second sun was an incredible
feat of presumably-nuclear engineering, yet Gibson did not see how it
could solve the colony's problems.  He was still worrying over this
when the seldom used public-address system of Port Lowell burst into
life and Whittaker's voice came drifting softly down the streets.

"Hello, everybody," he said.  "I guess you're all awake by now and have
seen -what's happened.  The Chief Executive's on his way back from
space and would like to speak to you.  Here he is."

There was a click; then someone said, sotto voce."  "You're on to Port
Lowell, sir."  A moment later Hadfield's voice came out of the
speakers.  He sounded tired but triumphant, like a man who had fought a
great battle and won through to victory.

"Hello, Mars," he said.  "Hadfield speaking.  I'm still in space on the
way home-III be landing in about an hour.

"I hope you like your new sun.  According to our calculations, it will
take nearly a thousand years to burn itself out.  We triggered Phobos
off when it was well below your horizon, just in case the initial
radiation peak was too high.  The reaction's now stabilised at exactly
the level we expected, though it may increase by a few per cent during
the next week.  It's mainly a meson resonance reaction, very efficient
but not very violent, and there's no chance of a fully fledged atomic
explosion with the material composing Phobos.

"Your new luminary will give you about a tenth of the Sun's heat, which
will bring up the temperature of much of Mars to nearly the same value
as Earth's.  But that isn't the reason why we blew up Phobos-at least,
it isn't the main reason.

"Mars wants oxygen more badly than heat-and all the oxygen needed to
give it an atmosphere almost as good as Earth's is lying beneath your
feet, locked up in the sand.  Two years ago we discovered a plant that
can break the sand down and release the oxygen.  It's a tropical plan
tit can exist only on the equator and doesn't really flourish even
there.  If there was enough sunlight available, it could spread over
Mars--with some assistance from us-and in fifty years there'd be an
atmosphere here that men could breathe.  That's the goal were aiming
at: when we've reached it, we can go where we please on Mars and forget
about our domed cities and breathing masks.  It's a dream that many of
you will live to see realised, and it'll mean that we've given a new
world to mankind.

"Even now, there are some benefits we'll derive right away.  It will be
very much warmer, at- least when Phobos and the Sun are 4hining
together, and the winters will be much milder.  Even though Phobos
isn't visible above latitude seventy degrees, the new convection winds
Will warm the polar regions too, and will prevent our precious moisture
from being locked up in the ice caps for half of every year.

"There'll be some disadvantages-the seasons and niglift are going to
get complicated now!-but they ll be far outweighed by the benefits.
And every day, as you see the beacon we have now lit climbing across
the sky, it win remind you of the new world we're bringing to birth.
Were making history, remember, for this is the first time that Man has
tried his hand at changing the face of a planet.  If we succeed here,
others will do the same elsewhere.  In the ages to come, whole
civilisations on worlds of which we've never heard will owe their
existence to what vWve done tonight.

"That's all I've got to say now.  Perhaps you may regret the sacrifice
we've had to make to bring life to this world again.  But remember
this-though' Mars has lost a Moon, it's gained a Sun-and who can doubt
which is the more valuable?

"And now-good night to you all."

But no one in Port Lowell went back to sleep.  As far as the city was
concerned, the night was over and the new day had dawned.  It was hard
to take one's eyes off that tiny golden disc as it climbed steadily up
the sky, its warmth growing greater minute by minute.  What would the
Martian plants be making of.  it?  Gibson wondered.  He walked along
the street until he came to the nearest section of the dome, and looked
out through the transparent wall.  It was as he had expected: they had
all awakened and turned their faces to the new Sun.  He wondered just
what they would do when both Suns were.  in the sky tosether.... The
Chiefs rocket landed half an hour later, but Hatfield and the
scientists of Project Dawn avoided the crowds by coming into the city
on foot through Dome Seven, and sending the transport on to the main
entrance as a decoy.  The ruse worked so well that they were all safely
indoors before anyone realised what had happened, or could start
celebrations which they were too tired to appreciate.  However, this
did not prevent numerous private parties forming all over the
city-parties at which everyone tried to claim that they had known what
Project Dawn was all the time.

I Phobos was approaching the zenith, much nearer and therefore much
warmer than it had been on rising, when Gibson and Jimmy met their
crewmates in the crowd that had goodnaturedly but firmly insisted to
George that he had better open up the bar.  Bach party claimed it had
only homed on this spot because it was sure it would find the other
there.

Hilton, who as Chief Engineer might be expected to know more about
nucleonics' than anyone else in the assembly, was soon pushed to the
fore and asked to explain just what had happened.  He modestly denied
his competence to do anything of the sort.

"What they've done up on Phobos," he protested, "is years ahead of
anything I ever learned at college.  Why, even meson reactions hadn't
been discovered then-let alone how to harness them.  In fact, I don't
think anyone

On Earth knows how to do that, even now.  It must be something that
Mars has learned for itself."  "Do you mean to tell me," said Bradley,
"that Mars is ahead of Earth in nuclear physics--or anything else for
that matter?"  The remark nearly caused a riot and Bradley's colleagues
had to rescue him from the indignant colonists which they did in a
somewhat leisurely fashion.  When peace had been restored, Hilton
nearly put his foot in it by remarking: "Of course, you know that a lot
of Earth's best scientists have been coming here in the last few years,
so it's not as surprising as you might think."

The statement was perfectly true, and Gibson remembered the remark that
Whittaker had made to him that very morning.  Mars had been a lure to
many others besides himself, and now he could understand why.  What
prodigies of persuasion, what intricate negotiations and downright
deceptions Hadfield must have performed in these last few yearsl It
had, perhaps, been not too difficult to attract the really first-rate
minds; they could appreciate the challenge and respond to it The second
raters the equally essential rank-and-file of science, would have been
harder to find.  One day, perhaps, he would learn the secrets behind
the secret, and discover just how Project Dawn had been launched and
guided to Success.

What was left of the night seemed to pass very swiftly.  Phobos was
dropping down into the eastern sky when the Sun rose up to greet its
rival.  It was a duel that all the city watched in silent fascination-a
one-sided conflict that could have only a predetermined outcome.  When
it shone alone in the night sky, it was easy to pretend that Phobos was
almost as brilliant as the Sun, but the first light of the true dawn
banished the illusion.  Minute by minute Phobos faded, though it was
still well above the horizon, as the Sun came up out of the desert.
Now one could tell how pale and yellow it was by comparison.  There was
little danger that the slowly turning plants would be confused in their
quest for light; when the Sun was shining, one scarcely noticed Phobos
at all.

But it was bright enough to perform its task, and for a thousand years
it would be the lord of the Martian night.  And thereafter?  When its
fires were extinguished, by the exhaustion of whatever elements it was
burning now,

would Phobos become again an ordinary moon, shining only by the Sun's
reflected glory?

Gibson knew that it would not matter.  Even in a century it would have
done its work, and Mars would have an atmosphere which it would not
lose again for geological ages.  When at last Phobos guttered and died,
the science of that distant day would have some other answer-perhaps an
answer as inconceivable to this age as the detonation of a world would
have been only a century ago.

For a little while, as the first day of the new age grew to maturity,
Gibson watched his double shadow lying upon the ground.  Both shadows
pointed to the west, but though one scarcely moved, the fainter
lengthened even as he watched, becoming more and more difficult to see,
until at last it was snuffed out as Phobos dropped down below the edge
of Mars.  Its sudden disappearance reminded Gibson abruptly of
something that he-and most of Port Lowell-had forgotten in the last few
hours' excitement.  By now the news would have reached Earth;
perhaps--though he wasn't sure of this-Mars must now be spectacularly
brighter in terrestrial skies.

In a very short time, Earth would be asking some extremely pointed
questions.


It was one of those little ceremonies so beloved by the TV newsreels.
Hadfield and all his staff were gathered in a tight group at the edge
of the clearing, with the domes of Port Lowell rising behind them. It
was, thought the cameraman, a nicely composed picture though the
constantly changing double illumination made things a little
difficult.

He got the cue from the control room and started to pan from left to
right to give the viewers a bit of movement before the real business
began.  Not that there was really much to see: the landscape was so flat
and they'd miss all its interest in this monochrome transmission.  (One
couldn't afford the band-width for colour on a live transmission all
the way to Earth; even on black-and-white it was none too easy.) He had
just finished exploring the scene when he got the order to swing back
to Hadfield, who was now making a little speech.  That was going out on
the other sound channel and he couldn't hear it, though in the control
room it would be mated to the Picture he was sending.  Anyway, he knew
Just what the Chief would be saying-he'd heard it all before.

Mayor Whittaker handed over the shovel on which he had been gracefully
leaning for the last five minutes, and Hadfield began to tip in the
sand until he had covered the roots of the tall, drab Martian plant
standing there, held upright in its wooden frame.  The air weed as it
was now universally called, was not a very impressive object: it
scarcely looked strong enough to stand upright, even under this low
gravity.  It certainly didn't look as if it could control the future of
a planet... Hadfield had finished his token gardening; someone else
could complete the job and fill in the hole.  (The planting team was
already hovering in the, background, waiting for the bigwigs to clear
out of the way so that they could get on with their work.) There was a
lot of hand-shaking and back-slapping; Hadfield was hidden by the crowd
that had gathered round him.  "The only person who wasn't.taking the
slightest notice of all this was Gibson's pet Martian, who was rocking
on his haunches like one of those weighted dolls that always come the
same way up however you put them down.  The cameraman swung towards him
and zoomed, to a close-up; it would be the first time anyone on Earth
would have seen a real Martian-at least in a live programme like
this.

Hello-what was he up to?  Something had caught his Interest-the
twitching of those huge, membranous ears gave him away.  He was
beginning to move in short, cautious hops.  The cameraman chased him
and widened the field at the same time to see where he was going.  No
one else had noticed that he'd begun to move; Gibson was still talking
to Whittaker and seemed to have completely forgotten his pet.

So that was the game!  This was going to be good; the folk back on
Earth would love it.  Would he get there before he, was spotted?
Yes--he'd made it!  With one final bound he hopped down into the little
pit, and the small triangular beak began to nibble at the slim Martian
plant that had just been placed there with, such care.  No doubt he
thought it so kind of his friends to go to all this trouble for him....
Or did he really know he was being naughty?  That devious approach had
been so skilful that it was hard to believe it was done in complete
innocence Anyway, the cameraman wasn't going to spoil his fun; ii would
make too good a picture.  He cut for a moment back to Hadfield and
Company, still congratulating themselves on the work which Squeak was
rapidly undoing.

It was too good to last Gibson spotted what was happening and gave a
great yell which made everyone jump.  Then he raced towards Squeak, who
did a quick look round, decided that there was nowhere to hide, and
just sat still with an air of injured innocence.  He let himself be led
away quietly, not aggravating his offence by resisting the forces of the
law when Gibson grabbed one of his ears and tugged him away from the
scene of the ruins.  A group of experts then gathered anxiously around
the air weed and to every ones relief it was soon decided that the
damage was not fatal.

It was a trivial incident, which no one would have Imagined to have any
consequences beyond the immediate moment.  Yet, though he never
realised the fact, it was to
Inspire one of Gibson's most brilliant and fruitful ideas.

Life for Martin Gibson had suddenly become very complicated-and intensely
interesting.  He had been one of the first to see Hadfield after the
inception of Project Dawn.  The C.E. had called for him, but had been
able to give him only a few minutes of his time.  That, however, had
been enough to change the, pattern of Gibson's future.

"I'm sorry I had to keep you waiting," Hadfield said, but I got the
reply from Earth only just before I left.  the answer is that you can
stay here if you can be absorbed into our administrative structure-to
use the official jargon.  As the future of our administrative
structure depended somewhat largely on Project Dawn, I thought It
best to leave the matter until I got back kome."

The weight of uncertainty had lifted from Gibson's mind.  It was all
settled now; even If he had to make a mistake-and he did not believe he
had-there was now no going back.  He had thrown in his lot with Mars;
he would be part of the colony in its fight to regenerate this world
that was now stirring sluggishly In its sleep.

And what job have you got for ate?"  Gibson asked a little anxiously.
"I've decided to regula rise your unofficial status," said Hadfield,
with a smile.

"What do you mean?"

Do you remember what I said at our very first meeting?  I asked you to
help us by giving Earth not the 7 but also Some Idea of our goals and
facts of the situation, and-I suppose you could call it-the spirit
we've built up here on Mars.  You've done well, despite the fact you
didn't know about the project on which we'd set' our neatest hopes.
I'm sorry I had to keep Dawn from you, but it would have made your job
much harder if you'd known our secret and weren't able to say
anything.  Don't you agree?"  Gibson had not thought of it in
that light, but It certainly made sense.

"I've been very interested," Hadfield continued "to see what result your
broadcasts and articles have had.  You not know that we've Sat a
delicate method of testing

"How?"  asked Gibson in surprise.

"Can't you guess?  Every week about ten thousand people, scattered all
over Earth, decide they want to come here, and something like three per
cent pass the preliminary tests.  Since your articles started appearing
regularly, that figure's gone up to fifteen thousand a week, and its
still rising."

"Oh," said Gibson, very thoughtfully.  He gave an abrupt little laugh.
"I also seem to remember," he added, "that you didn't want -me to come
here in the first place."

"We all make mistakes, but I've learned to profit by mine," smiled
Hadfield.  "To sum it' all up, what I'd like you to do is to lead a
small section which, frankly, will be our propaganda department.  Of
course, we'll think of a nicer name for it!  Your job will be to sell
Mars.  The opportunities are far greater now that weve really got
something to put in out shop window.  If we can get enough people
clamouring to come here, then Earth will be forced to provide the
shipping space.  And the quicker that's done, the sooner we can promise
Earth we'll be standing on our own feet.  What do you say?"

Gibson felt a fleeting disappointment.  Looked at from one point of
view, this wasn't much of a change.  But the C.E. was right: he could
be of greater use -to Mars in this way than in any other.

"I can do it," he said.  "Give me a week to sort out my terrestrial
affairs and clear up my outstanding commitments."

A week was somewhat optimistic, he thought, but that should break the
back of the job.  He wondered what Ruth was going to say.  She'd
probably think he was mad, and she'd probably be right.  "The news that
you're going to stay here" said Had.  field with satisfaction, "will
cause a lot of interest and will be quite-a boost to our campaign.
You've no objection to our announcing it right away!" ,"I don't think
so."

"Good.  Whittaker would like to have a word with you now about the
detailed arrangements.  You realise, of course, that your salary will
be that of a Class H Administrative Officer of your age?"

"Naturally I've looked into that," said Gibson.  He.  did not add,
because it was unnecessary, that this was largely of theoretical
interest.  His salary on Mars, though less than a tenth of his total
income, would be quite adequate for a comfortable standard of living on
a planet where there were very few luxuries.  He was not sure just how
he could use his terrestrial credits, but no doubt they could be
employed to squeeze something through the shipping bottle.  neck.

After a long session with Whittaker-who nearly succeeded in destroying
kis enthusiasm with laments about lack of staff and
accommodation-Gibson spent the rest of the day writing dozens of
radiograms.  The longest was to Ruth, and was chiefly, but by no means
wholly, concerned with business affairs.  Ruth had often commented on
the startling variety of things she did for her ten per cent, and
Gibson wondered what she was going to say to this request that she keep
an eye on one James Spencer, and generally look after- kim when he was
in Now Yorkwhich, since he was completing his studies at MIT."  might
be fairly often.

It would have made matters much simpler if he could have told her the
facts; she would, probably gum them, anyway.  But that would be unfair
to Jimmy; Gibson had made up his mind that he would be the first to
know.  there were times when the strain of not telling him was so great
that he felt almost glad they would soon be parting  Yet Hadfield, as
usual, had been right.  He had waited a generation-he must wait a
little longer yet.  To reveal himself now might leave Jimmy confused
and hurt might even cause the breakdown of his engagement to Irene.
The time to tell him would be when they had been married and, Gibson
kop4 were still insulated from any shocks which the outside world migkt
administer.

It was ironic that, having found his son so late, he must now lose him
again.  Perhaps that was part of the punishment for the selfishness and
lack of courage-to put it no more strongly he had skown twenty years
ago.  But the past must bury itself; he must think of the future now.

Jimmy would return to Mars as soon as he could-there was no doubt of
that.  And even if he had missed the pride and satisfaction of
parenthood, there might be compensations later in watching his
grandchildren come into the world kc was helping to remake.  For the
first time in his life, Gibson had a future to which he could look
forward with interest and excitements future which would not be merely
a repetition of the past.

Earth hurled its thunderbolt four days later.  he first Gibson knew
about it was when he saw the headline across the front page of the
"Martian Mines."  For a moment the two words staring back at him were
so astounding that he forgot to read on.

RADFMLD RECALLED

We have just received news that the Interplanetary

Development Board has requested the Chief Executive to return to Earth
on the Ares, which leaves Deimos in four days.  No reason is gi veAL

17hat was all, but it would set Mars ablaze.  No reason was given-and
none was necessary.  Everyone knew exactly why Earth wanted to see
Warren Hadfield.

"What do you think of this?"  Gibson asked Jimmy as be passed the paper
across the breakfast table.  Good Lordl- Sasped Jimmy.  -1here'll be
trouble now!  What do you think he'll do?"

"What can he do?"  "Well, he can refuse to go.  Everyone here would
certainly back him up."  "That would only make matters worse.  Hell go,
all right.  Hadfield isn't the sort of man to run away from a fight.99
Jimmy's eyes suddenly brightened.

"That means that Irene will be going too."

"Nut you to think of th att laughed Gibson.  "I suppose you hope it
will be an HI wind blowing the pair of you some Sood.  But don't count
on it-Hadfield might leave Irene behind."

He thought this very unlikely When the Chief returned, he would need
all the moral support he could get

Despite the amount of work he had awaiting him, Gib.  son paid one
brief call to Admin, where he found everyone in a state of mingled
indignation and suspense.  Indig.  nation because of EartWs cavalier
treatment of the Chief: suspense because no one yet knew what action he
was going to take.  Hadfield had arrived early that morning, and so far
had not seen anyone except Whittaker and his private secretary.  Those
who had caught a glimpse of him stated that for a man who was,
technically, about to be recalled in disgrace, he looked remarkably
cheerful.

Gibson was thinking over this news as he made a detour towards the
Biology Lab.  He had missed seeing his little Martian friend for two
days, and felt rather guilty about iL

As he %ralked slowly along Regent Street, he wondered what sort of
defence Hadfield would be able to put up.  Now he understood that
remark that Jimmy had overheard.  Would success excuse everything?
Success was still a long way off; as Hadfield had said, to bring
Project Dawn to its conclusion would take half a century, even assuming
the maximum assistance from Earth.  It was essential to secure that
support, and Hadfield would do his utmost not to antagonise the home
planet.  The best that Gibson could do to support him would be to
provide long-range covering fire from his propaganda department.

Squeak, as usual, was delighted to see him, though Gibson returned his
greeting somewhat absentmindedly.  As he invariably did, he proffered
Squeak a fragment of air weed from the supply kept in the Lab.  That
simple action must have triggered something in his subconscious mind,
for he suddenly paused, then turned to the chief biologist.

"Irve just had a wonderful idea," he said.  "You know you were telling
me about the tricks you!  ve been able to teach Squeak?"

"Teach him!  The problem now is to stop him learning theral"

"You also said you were fairly sure the Martians could communicate with
each other, didn't you?"  "Well, our field party's proved that they can
pass on simple thoughts, and even some abstract ideas like colour. That
doesn't prove much, of course.  Bees can do the same."  "Men tell me
what you think of this.  Why shouldn't we teach them to cultivate the
air weed for us?  You see what a colossal advantage they've got-they
can go anywhere on Mars they please, while wed have to do everything
with machines.  They needn't know what they're doing, of course.  We'd
simply provide them-with the shoots--it does propagate that way,
doesn't 0--teach them the necessary routine, and reward them
afterwards."

"Just a moment!  It's a pretty idea, but haven't you overlooked some
practical points?  I think we could train them in the way you
suggest-we've certainly learned enough about their psychology for
that-but may I point out that there are only ten known specimens,
including Squeak?"

"I hadn't overlooked that," said Gibson impatiently.  "I simply don't
believe the group I found is the only one in existence.  Ilat would be
a quite incredible coincidence.

Certainly they're rather rare, but there must be hundreds, if not
thousands, of them over the planet.  I'm going to suggest a
photo-reconnaissance of all the air weed forests -we should have no
difficulty in spotting their clearings.  But in any case I'm taking the
long-term view.  Now that they've got far more favourable living
conditions, they ll start to multiply rapidly, just as the Martian
plant life's already doing.  Remember, even if we left it to itself the
air weed would cover the equatorial regions in four hundred
years-according to your own figures.  With the Martians and us to help
it spread, we might cut years off, Project Dawn I- he biologist shook
his head doubtfully, but began to do some calculations on a scribbling
pad.  When he had finished he pursed his lips.

"Well ... V he said, 11 can't actually prove it's impossible; there are
too many unknown factors-including the most important one of all-the
Martian's reproduction rate.  Incidentally, I suppose you know that
they're marsupials?  That's just been confirmed."  You mean like
kangaroos?"

"Yes.  Junior lives under cover until lies a big enough boy to go out
into the cold, hard world.  We think several of the females are
carrying babies, so they may reproduce yearly.  And since Squeak was
the only infant we found, that means they must have a terrifically high
death-rate-which isn't surprising in this climate."

"Just the conditions we wantl" exclaimed Gibson.  "Now there'll be
nothing to stop them multiplying, providing we see they get all the
food they need."6 Do you want to breed Martians or cultivate air weed
challenged the biologist.

"Both," grinned Gibson.  "They go together like fish and chips, or ham
and eggs."

"Don't!"  pleaded the other, with such a depth of feeling that Gibson
apologised at once for his lack of tact.  He had forgotten that no one
on Mars had tasted such things for years.

The more Gibson thought about his new idea, the more it appealed to
him.  Despite the pressure of his personal affairs, he found time to
write a memorandum to Hadfield on the subject, and hoped that the C.E.
would be able to discuss it with him before returning to Earth.  There
was something inspiring in the thought of regenerating not only a
world, but also a race which might be older than Man.

Gibson wondered how the changed climatic conditions of a hundred years
hence would affect the Martians.  If it became too warm for them, they
could easily migrate north or south-if necessary into the sub-polar
regions where Phobos was never visible.  As for the oxygenated
atmosphere--they had been used to that in the past and might adapt
themselves to it again.  1There was considerable evidence that Squeak
now obtained much of his oxygen from the air in Port Lowell, and seemed
to be thriving on it.

There was still no answer to the at question which the discovery of the
Martians had raised.  Were they the degenerate survivors of a race
whick had achieved civilisation long ago, and let it slip from its
grasp when conditions became too severe?  17his was the romantic view,
for which there was no evidence at all.  The scientists were unanimous
in believing that there had never been any advanced culture on Mars-but
they had been proved wrong once and might be so again.  In any case, it
would be an extremely interesting experiment to see how far up the
evolutionary ladder the Martians would climb, now that their world was
blossoming again.

For it was their world, not Man's.  However he might shape it for his
own purposes, it would be his duty always to safeguard the interests of
its rightful owners.  No one could tell what part they might have to
play in the history of the universe.  And when, as was one day
inevitable, Man himself came to the notice of yet higher races, he
might well be judged by his behaviour here on Mars.

 "I'm sorry you're not coming back with us, Martin," said Norden as
they approached Lock One West, "but I'm sure you're doing the right
thing, and we all respect you for it."

"Thanks," said Gibson sincerely.  "Fd like to have made the return trip
with you all-still, there'll be plenty of chances later!  Whatever
happens, I'm not going to be on Mars all my lifel" He chuckled.  "I
guess you never thought you'd be swapping passengers in this way."

"I certainly didn't.  his going to be a bit embarrassing in some
respects.  I'll feel like the captain of the ship who had to carry
Napoleon to Elba.  How's the Chief taking it?"

"I've not spoken to him since the recall came through, though III be
seeing him tomorrow before he gm up to Deimos.  But Whittaker says he
seems confident enough, and doesn't appear to be worrying in the
slightest."

"What do you think's going to happen?"

"On the official level, he's bound to be reprimanded for
misappropriation of funds, equipment, personnel--*h, enough things to
land him in, jail for the rest of his life.  But as half the executives
and all the scientists on Mars are involved, what can Earth do about
it?  It's really a very amusing situation.  The C.E."s a public hero on
two worlds, and the Interplanetary Development Board will have to
handle him with kid gloves.  I think the verdict will I be: "You
shouldn't have done it, but we're rather glad you did.9 " "And then
they'll let him come back to Mars?"  "they're bound to.  No one else
can do his job."

"Someone will have to, one day."  "True enough, but it would be madness
to waste Had.  field when he's still got years of work in him.  And
heaven help anyone who was sent here to replace him!"

"It certainly is a peculiar position.  I think a lot's been going on
that we don't know about Why did Earth turn down Project Dawn when it
was first suggested?"

"Ne been wondering about that, and intend to get to the bottom of it
some day.  Meanwhile my theory is this-I think a lot of people on Earth
don't want Mars to be.  come too powerful, still less completely
independent.  Not for any sinister reason, mark you, but simply because
they don't like the idea.  It's too wounding to their pride.  They want
the Earth to remain the centre of the universe."  "You know," said
Norden, "it's funny how you talk about "Earth' as if it were some
combination of miser and bully, preventing all progress here.  After
all, it's hardly fair!  What you're actually grumbling at are the
administrators in the Interplanetary Development Board and all its
allied organisations-and they're really trying to do their besL Don't
forget that everything you've got here is due to the enterprise and
initiative of Earth.  I'm .  afraid you colonistC-he gave a wry grin as
he spoke-"take a very self-mt red view of things.  I can see both sides
of the question.  When I'm here I get your point of view and can
sympathise with it.  But in three months' time 1711 be on the other
side and will probably think you're a lot of grum.  bring, ungrateful
nuisances here on Marsi"

Gibson laughed, not altogether comfortably.  There was a good deal of
truth in what Norden had said.  The sheer difficulty and expense of
interplanetary travel, and the time it took to Sd from world to world,
made inevitable some lack of undemanding, even intolerance, between
Earth and Mars He hoped that as the speed of transport increased these
psychological barriers would be broken down and the two planets would
come closer together in spirit as well as in time.  "They had now
reached the lock and were waiting for the transport to take Norden out
to -the airstrip.  the rest of the crew had already said good-bye and
were now on their way UP to Deimos.  Only Jimmy had received special
dis. Pensat'On to fly up with Hadfield and Irene when they
left-tomorrow. Jimmy had certainly changed his status, thought Gibson
with some amusement, since the Ares had left Earth.  He wondered just
how much work Norden was going to get out of him on the homeward
voyage.

"Well, John, I hope you have a good trip back," said Gibson, holding
out his hand as the airlock door opened.  "When will I be seeing you
again?"

"In about eighteen months--I've got a trip to Venus to put in first.
When I get back here, I expect to find quite a difference-air weed and
Martians everywhere"

"I don't promise much in that time," laughed Gibson.  "But well do our
best not to disappoint youl'

They shook hands, and Norden was gone.  Gibson found It impossible not
to feel a twinge of envy as he thought of all the things to which the
other was returning-all the unconsidered beauties of Earth which he had
once taken for granted , and now might not see again for many years.

He still had two farewells to make, and they would be the most
difficult of all.  His last meeting with Hadfield would requite
considerable delicacy and tact.  Norden's analogy, he thought, had been
a good one: it would be rather like an interview with a dethroned
monarch about to sail into exile.

In actual fact it proved to be like nothing of the sort.  Hadfield was
still master of the situation, and seemed quite unperturbed by his
future.  When Gibson entered he had just finished sorting out his
papers; the room looked bare and bleak and three wastepaper baskets
were piled high with discarded forms and memoranda.  Whittaker, as
acting Chief Executive, would be moving in tomorrow.

"I've run through your note on the Martians and the air weed said
Hadfield, exploring the deeper recesses of his desk.  "It's a very
interesting idea, but no one can tell me whether it will work or not
The position's extremely complicated and we haven't enough information.
It really comes down to this-would we get a better return for our
efforts if we teach Martians to plant air weed or if we do the job
ourselves?  Anyway, well ad up a small research group to look into the
idea, though theres not much we can do until we've got some more
Martianst I've asked Dr.  Petersen to handle the scientific side, and
I'd like you to deal with the administrative problem as they
arise--leaving any major decisions to Whittaker, of course.  Petersen's
a very sound fellow, but he lacks imagination.  Between the two of you,
we should get the right balance."  "I'll be very glad to do all I can,"
said Gibson, quite pleased with the prospect, though wondering a little
nervously how he would cope with his increasing responsibilities.
However, the fact that the Chief had given him the job was encouraging:
it meant that Hadfield, at any rate, was sure that he could handle it.
As they discussed administrative details, it became clear to Gibson
that Hadfield did not expect to be away from Mars for more than a year.
He even seemed to be looking forward to his trip to Earth, regarding
it almost in the light of an overdue holiday.  Gibson hoped that this
optimism would be justified by the outcome.  "Towards the end of their
interview, the conversation turned inevitably to Irene and Jimmy.  The
long voyage back to Earth would provide Hadfield with all the
opportunities he needed to study his prospective son-in-law, and Gibson
hoped that Jimmy would be on his best behaviour.  It was obvious that
Hadfield was contemplating this aspect of the trip with quiet
amusement.  As he remarked to Gibson, if Irene and Jimmy could put up
with each other in such close quarters for three months, their marriage
was bound to be a success.  If they couldn't-then the sooner they found
out, the better.

As he left Hadfield's office, Gibson hoped that he had made his own
sympathy clear.  The C.E. knew that he had all Mars behind him, and
Gibson would do his best to gain him the support of Earth as well.  He
looked back at the unobtrusive lettering on the door.  There would be
no need to change that, whatever happened, since the words designated
the position and not the man.  For twelve months or so Whittaker would
be working behind that door, the democratic ruler of Mars and the
withing reasonable limits -conscientious servant of Earth.  Whoever
came and went, the lettering on the door would remain.  That was
another of Hadfield's ideas-the tradition that the post was more
important than the man.  He had not, Gibson thought, given it, a very
good start, for anonymity was scarcely one of Hadfield's personal
characteristics.

The last rocket to Deimos left three hours later with Hadfield, Irene,
and Jimmy aboard.  Irene had come round to the Grand Martian Hotel to
help Jimmy pack and to say goodbye to Gibson.  She was bubbling over
with excitement and so radiant with happiness that it was a pleasure
simply to sit and watch her.  Both her dreams had come true at once:
she was going back to Earth, and she was going with Jimmy.  Gibson
hoped that neither experience would disappoint her; he did not believe
it would.

Jimmy's packing was complicated by the number of souvenirs he had
gathered on Mars-chiefly plant and mineral specimens collected on
various trips outside the Dome.  All these had to be carefully weighed,
and some heartrending decisions were involved when it was discovered
that he had exceeded his personal allowance by two kilogrammes  But
finally the last suitcase was packed and on its way to the airport.

"Now don't forget," said Gibson, 'to contact Mrs.  Goldstein as soon as
you arrive; she'll be expecting to hear from you.99

"I won't," Jimmy replied.  "It's good of you to take all this trouble.
We really do appreciate everything you've done-don't we, Irener,

"Yes," she answered, "we certainly do.  I don't knowhow wed have got on
without you."

Gibson smiled, a little wistfully.  @6,%Me how,99 Ike said, "I think
you'd still have managed In one Way or anotherl But I'm glad
everything's turned out so well for you, and I'm sure you're going to
be very happy.  And-I hope it won't be too long before you're both back
on Mars."

As be gripped Jimmy's hand in farewell, Gibson felt once again that
almost overwhelming desire to reveal his identity and, whatever the
consequences, to greet Jimmy as his son.  But if he did so, he knew
now, the dominant motive would be pure egotism.  It would be an act, of
possessiveness, of inexcusable self-assertion, and it would undo all
the good he had wrought in these past months.  Yet as he dropped
Jimmy's hand, he glimpsed something in the other's expression that he
had never-seen before.  It could have been the dawn of the first
puzzled surmise, the birth of the still half-conscious thought that
might grow at last to fully fledged understanding and recognition.
Gibson hoped it was so; it would make his task ewer when the time came.
He watched them go hand-in-hand down the narrow.  street, oblivious to
all around them, their thoughts even now winging outwards into space.
Already they kad forgotten him; but, later, they would remember.

It was just before dawn when Gibson left the main airlock and walked
away from the still sleeping city.  Phobos had set an hour ago; the
only light was that of the stars and Deimos, now high in the west.  He
looked at his watch-ten minutes to go if there had been no hitch.

"Come on, Squeak," he said.  "Let's take a nice brisk walk to keep
warm."  Though the temperature around them was at least fifty below,
Squeak did not seem unduly worried.  However, Gibson thought it best to
keep his pet on the move.  He was, of course, perfectly comfortable
himself, as he was wearing his full protective clothing.

How these plants had grown in the past few weeksl They were now taller
than a man, and though some of this increase might be normal, Gibson
was sure that much of it was due to Phobos.  Project Dawn was already
leaving its mark on the planet.  Even the North Polar Cap, which should
now be approaching its midwinter maximum, had halted in its advance
over the opposite hemisphere and the remnants of the southern cap had
vanished completely.  They came to a stop about a kilometre from the
city, far enough away for its lights not to hinder observation.  Gibson
glanced again at his watch.  Uss than a minute left; he knew what his
friends were feeling now.  He stared at the tiny, barely visible
gibbous disc of Deimos, and waited.

Quite suddenly, Deimos became conspicuously brighter.  A moment later
it seemed to split into two fragments as a tiny, incredibly bright star
detached itself from its edge and began to creep slowly westwards. Even
across these thousands of kilometres of space!  the glare of the
atomic, rockets was so dazzling that it almost hurt the eye.

He did not doubt that they were watching him.  Up them in the Ares,
they would be at the observation windows, looking down upon the great
crescent world which they were leaving now, as a lifetime ago, it
seemed, he had bade farewell to Earth.

What was Hadfield thinking now?  Was he wondering if he would ever see
Mars again?  Gibson no longer had any real doubts on this score.
Whatever battles Hadfield might have to face, he would win through as
he had done in the past.  He was returning to Earth in triumph, not in
disgrace That dazzling blue white star was several degrees from Deimos
now, falling behind as it lost speed to drop Sun Wards---and
Earthwards.

The rim of the Sun came up over the eastern horizon; all around him,
the tall green plants were stirring in their sleep-a sleep already
interrupted once by the meteoric passage of Phobos across the sky.
Gibson looked once more at the two stars descending into the west, and
raised his hand in a silent farewelL

"Come along, Squeak," he said.  "Time to get backIrve got work to do."
He tweaked the little Martian's ears with his gloved fingers.

"And that goes for you too," be added.  "Though you don't know it yet,
we've both got a pretty big job ahead bf us.,

They walked together towards the great domes, now glistening faintly in
the first morning light.  It would be strange In Port Lowell, now that
Hadfield had gone and another man was sitting behind the door marked
"Chief Exactrtive."

Gibson suddenly paused.  For a fleeting moment, it seemed, he saw into
the future, fifteen or twenty years ahead.  Who would, be Chief then,
when Project Dawn was entering its middle phase and its end could
already be foreseen?

The question and the answer came almost simultaneous.  IY- For the
first time, Gibson knew what lay at the end of the road on which he had
now set his feet.  One day, perhaps, it would be his duty, and his
privilege, to take over the work which Hadfield had begun.  It might
have been sheer self deception or it might have been the first
consciousness of his own still hidden powers-but whichever it was, he
meant to know.

With a new briskness in his step, Martin Gibson, writer, late of Earth,
resumed his walk towards the city.  His shadow merged with Squeak's as
the little Martian hopped beside him; while overhead the last hues of
night drained from the sky, and all around, the tall, flowerless plants
were unfolding to face the sun.

More SIGNET Books by Robert A. Heinlein

0 ASSIGNMENT IN ETERNITY (#J9360-$1.95)

El BEYOND THIS HORIZON (#J9833-41.95)

0 THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW (#W7766-$1.50)

THE DOOR INTO SUMMER (#J9628-$1.95)

THE GREEN HILLS OF EARTH (#J9952-$1.95)

THE MAN WHO SOLD THE MOON (*J8717-$1.95)

THE-MENACE FROM EARTH E987D--$2.25)

[3 METHUSELAHS CHILDREN E9875-42.25)

0 THE PUPPET MASTERS (#AJ1188-$1.95)

0 WALDO & MAGIC, INC.  (#J975"1.95)

Buy them at your local bookstore or use coupon on next page for
ordering.

Recommended Reading from SIGNET

A GARDEN OF SAND by Earl Thompson.  (#E9374-U.95)

TATTOO by Earl Thompson.  (#

E8989-$2.95)

CA LOO LARGO by Earl Thompson.

(#E7737--V.25)

THE WORLD FROM ROUGH STONES by Malcolm Macdonald.

E9635U.95)

[3 THE RICH ARE WITH YOU ALWAYS by Malcolm Macdonald.

(# E7682-4Z25)

[3 SONS OF FORTUNE by Malcolm Macdonald.

(#E8595-U.75)*

THE EBONY TOWER by John Fowles.  (#

E9653-U.95)

ri DANIEL MARTIN by John FoWlQL

(#E8249--$2.95)

COMA by Robin Cook.  (#E97%U.75)

THE CRAZY LADIES by Joyce ElberlL

(#E8923-U.75)

THE FINAL FIRE by Dennis Smith.  (#J7141-$1.95)0 SOME KIND OF HERO by
James Kirkwood.  (#E98%-$2.75) [3 KIN FLICKS by Lisa Alther.

(#E9474-U.95)

Price slightly higher in Canada

Buy them at your keel bookstore or use We coalvenint sompe for
ardarlaM

TNE NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY, INC.,

". Box M, Bergeaffeld, Now mrsey OMI

Please send me the SIGNET BOOKS I have chocked above.  I am enclosing
(please add 50V to this order to cover postage and handling
Send,check or money order--no cash or C.O.D.1s.  Prices and numbers are
subject to changer without n0tlCL

Name

Address city State Zip Coda Allow 4-6 weeks for delivery.  This offer
Is subject to withdrawal without notice.
