Message from Mars - (3)

Hugh came up with Scott, slid the bag of roots to the ground and sat upon it.
    He nodded at the building across the desert.
    "That's the nerve center of the whole business," he declared. "If we could get into it...." His voice trailed away.
    "But we can't," Scott reminded him. "We've tried and we can't. There are no doors. No openings. Just those little holes the bugs fly in and out of."
    "There's a door somewhere," said Hugh. "A hidden door. The bugs use it to bring out machines to do the work when they shoot a rocket out for Earth. I've seen the machines. Screwy looking things. Work units pure and simple but so efficient you'd swear they possessed intelligence. I've tried to find the door but I never could and the bugs always waited until I wasn't around before they moved the machines in or out of the building."
    He chuckled, scrubbing his bearded face with a horny hand.
    "That rocket business saved my life," he said. "If the power lead running out of the building to the cradle hadn't been there I'd been sunk. But there it was, full of good, old electricity. So I just tapped the thing and that gave me plenty of power ... power for heat, for electrolysis, for atmospheric condensation."
    Scott sank down heavily on his sack.
    "It's enough to drive a man nuts," he declared. "We can reach out and touch the building with our hand. Just a few feet away from the explanation of all this screwiness. Inside that building we'd find things we'd be able to use. Machines, tools...."
    Hugh hummed under his breath.
    "Maybe," he said, "maybe not. Maybe we couldn't recognize the machines, fathom the tools. Mechanical and technical development here probably wasn't any more parallel to ours than intelligence development."
    "There's the rocket cradle," retorted Scott. "Same principle as we use on Earth. And they must have a radio in there. And a telescope. We'd be able to figure them out. Might even be able to send Doc Alexander a message."
    "Yeah," agreed Hugh, "I thought of that, too. But we can't get in the building and that settles it."
    "The bugs get under my skin," Scott complained. "Always buzzing around. Always busy. But busy at what? Like a bunch of hornets."
    "They're the straw bosses of the outfit," declared Hugh. "Carrying out the orders of the Martians. The Martians' hands and eyes you might say."
    He dug at the sand with the toe of his space boot.
    "Another swarm of them took off just before we started out on this trip," he said. "While you were in the ship. I watched them until they disappeared. Straight up and out until you couldn't see them. Just like they were taking off for space."
    He kicked savagely at the sand.
    "I sure as hell would like to know where they go," he said.
    "There've been quite a few of them leaving lately," said Scott. "As if the building were a hive and they were new swarms of bees. Maybe they're going out to start new living centers. Maybe they're going to build more buildings...."
    *       *       *       *       *
    He stopped and stared straight ahead of him, his eyes unseeing. Going out to start new living centers! Going out to build new buildings! Shining metallic buildings!
    Like a cold wind from the past it came to him, a picture of that last night on Earth. He heard the whining wind on Mt. Kenya once again, the blaring of the radio from the machine shop door, the voice of the newscaster.
    "Austin Gordon ... Congo Valley ... strange metallic city ... inhabited by strange metallic insects!"
    The memory shook him from head to foot, left him cold and shivery with his knowledge.
    "Hugh!" he croaked. "Hugh, I know what it's all about!"
    His brother stared at him: "Take it easy, kid. Don't let it get you. Stick with me, kid. We're going to make it all right."
    "But, Hugh," Scott yelled, "there's nothing wrong with me. Don't you see, I know the answer to all this Martian business now. The lilies are the Martians! Those bugs are migrating to Earth. They're machines. Don't you see ... they could cross space and the lilies would be there to direct them."
    He jumped to his feet.
    "They're already building cities in the Congo!" he yelled. "Lord knows how many other places. They're taking over the Earth! The Martians are invading the Earth, but Earth doesn't know it!"
    "Hold on," Hugh yelled back at him. "How could flowers build cities?"
    "They can't," said Scott breathlessly. "But the bugs can. Back on Earth they are wondering why the Martians don't use their rockets to come to Earth. And that's exactly what the Martians are doing. Those rockets full of seeds aren't tokens at all. They're colonization parties!"
    "Wait a minute. Slow down," Hugh pleaded. "Tell me this. If the lilies are the Martians and they sent seeds to Earth twelve years ago, why hadn't they sent them before?"
    "Because before that it would have been useless," Scott told him. "They had to have someone to open the rockets and plant the seeds for them. We did that. They tricked us into it.
    "They may have sent rockets of seeds before but if they did, nothing came of it. For the seeds would have been useless if they weren't taken from the rocket. The rocket probably would have weathered away in time, releasing the seeds but by that time the seeds would have lost their germinating power."
    Hugh shook his head.
    "It seems impossible," he declared. "Impossible that plants could have real intelligence ... that flowers could hold the mastery of a planet. I'm ready to accept almost any theory but that one...."
    "Your mind sticks on parallel evolution," Scott argued. "There's no premise for it. On Earth animals took the spotlight, pushing the plants into a subordinate position. Animals got the head start, jumped the gun on the plants. But there's absolutely no reason why plants should not develop along precisely the same lines here that animals developed on Earth."
    *       *       *       *       *
    "But the Martian lily lives only one season ... ten months ... and then it dies," Hugh protested. "The next season's growth comes from seed. How could plants build intelligence? Each new crop would have to start all over again."
    "Not necessarily," declared Scott. "Animals are born with instinct, which is nothing more or less than inherited intelligence. In mankind there are strange evidences of racial memory. Why couldn't the plants do the same thing with their seed ... progress even a step further? Why couldn't the seed carry, along with its other attributes, all the intelligence and knowledge of the preceding generation? That way the new plant wouldn't have to start from scratch, but would start with all the accumulated knowledge of its immediate ancestor ... and would add to that knowledge and pass the sum total on to the generation that was to follow."
    Hugh kicked absent-mindedly at the sand.
    "There would be advantages in that sort of development," he agreed. "It might even be the logical course of survival on a planet like Mars. Some old Martian race, for all we know, might deliberately have shaped their development toward a plant existence when they realized the conditions toward which the planet was headed."
    "A plant society would be a strange one," said Scott. "A sort of totalitarian society. Not the kind of a society animals would build ... for an animal is an individual and a plant is not. In a plant race individuality would count for nothing, the race would count for everything. The driving force would be the preservation and advancement of the race as a whole. That would make a difference."
    Hugh glanced up sharply.
    "You're damned right that would make a difference," he said. "They would be a deadly race. Once they got started, nothing could stop that singleness of purpose."
    His face seemed to blanch under the tan.
    "Do you realize what's happening?" he shouted. "For millions of years these plants have fought for bare existence on Mars. Every ounce of their effort has been toward race preservation. Every fall the bugs carefully gather all the seeds and carry them inside the building, bring them out and plant them in the spring. If it hadn't been for some arrangement like that they probably would have died out years ago. Only a few scattered patches of them left now...."
    "But on Earth...." said Scott.
    And the two of them, white-faced, stared at one another. On Earth the Martian lilies would not have to carry on a desperate fight for their very existence. On Earth they had plenty of water, plenty of sunlight, plenty of good, rich soil. On Earth they grew larger and stronger and straighter. Under such conditions what would be the limit of their alien powers?
    With the lilies multiplying each year, growing in every fence row, every garden, crowding out the farmers' crops, lining every stream, clogging every forest ... with swarm after swarm of the metallic bugs driving out into space, heading for the Earth ... what would happen?
    How long would the lilies wait? How would they attack? Would they simply crowd out every other living thing, conquering by a sort of population pressure? Or would they develop more fully those powers of forcing animal minds to do their bidding? Or did they have, perhaps, even stronger weapons?
    "Hugh," Scott rasped, "we have to warn Earth. Somehow we have to let them know."
    "Yes," Hugh agreed, "but how?"
    Together, limned against the harsh horizon, they stood, looking across the desert toward the Martian building.
    Tiny figures, dimmed by distance, scurried about the building.
    Scott squinted his eyes against the desert glare.
    "What are those?" he asked.
    Hugh seemed to jerk out of a trance.
    "The machines again," he said wearily. "They're getting ready to shoot another rocket out to Earth. It'll be the last one of the season. Earth is drawing away again."
    "More seeds," said Scott.
    Hugh nodded. "More seeds. And more bugs going out. And the worst of it is that Earth doesn't know. No man in his right mind on Earth could even dimly speculate upon the possibility of high intelligence in plant life. There's no reason to. No precedent upon which to base such a speculation. Earth plants have never had intelligence."
    "A message is all we need," declared Scott. "Just get word to the Earth. They'd root up every plant on the face of the entire globe. They'd...."
    He stopped abruptly and stared out across the desert.
    "The rocket," he whispered. "The rocket is going to Earth!"
    Hugh swung on him fiercely.
    "What are you...."
    "We could send a message by the rocket!" yelled Scott. "They always watch for them ... always hoping each one will carry something new. Some new thing from Mars. It's the only way we can get a message back to Earth."
    "But they won't let us near," protested Hugh. "I've tried to get up close to the cradle when they were launching one and those machines always drove me away. Didn't hurt me ... but threatened."
    "We have guns," said Scott.
    "Guns," said Hugh, "wouldn't be worth a damn against them. The bullets would just glance off. Even explosive bullets wouldn't harm them."
    "Sledges then," said Scott. "We'll make junk out of the damn things. We've got a couple of sledges in the ship."
    Hugh looked at him levelly.
    "Okay, kid, let's get going."
    V
    The machines paid them no attention. No higher than a man's waist, they curiously resembled grotesque spiders. Gangling rods and arms sprouted out all over them and from their trunks sprouted waving, steel antennae.
    Overhead hung a swarm of the metallic bugs evidently directing the work of making the rocket ready.
    "It takes just three minutes or thereabouts from the time they finally have her ready until she blasts," said Hugh. "Whatever we are going to do has to be done in those three minutes. And we've got to hold them off until the rocket blasts. They'll suspect there's something wrong and will try to stop it but if we can hold them off...."
    "They must already have radioed Earth the rocket is coming," said Scott. "We always got word days in advance. Probably they won't follow up with their location messages but Doc will be watching for it anyhow."
    They stood tensed, waiting, each grasping a heavy hammer.
    The space about the cradle was a scene of intense, but efficient activity. Last minute adjustments were made. Readings and settings were checked. Each machine seemed to act by rote, while overhead hung the cloud of humming bugs.
    "We know what we're to do," said Hugh. "We've simply got to do it."
    Scott nodded.
    Hugh shot a glance at him.
    "Think you can hold them off, kid? It'll take a while to unscrew the inner and outer caps and we have got to get that message inside the inner container or it'll burn when the rocket hits atmosphere."
    "You just get that message in and the caps back on," said Scott. "I'll hold them off for you."
    Suddenly the machines scurried back from the cradle leaving a clear space of several yards around it.
    "Now!" Hugh shouted and the two men charged.
    The attack was a surprise. Their rush carried the line of machines between them and the cradle.
    One machine barred Scott's way and he smashed at it savagely with the heavy hammer. The blow flung it aside, crippled, dented, half-smashed.
    Hugh was already at the cradle, clambering up the superstructure.
    A machine rushed at Scott, steel arms flailing. Ducking a murderous swipe, the Earthman brought his sledge into play. It sheared through the arms, smashed into the body of the machine. The stricken mechanism seemed to reel, staggered erratically, then collapsed upon the sand.
    In two leaps Scott gained the superstructure, scaled it and straddled the cradle. His sledge smashed savagely upon a climbing mechanism, flung it to the ground. But others were swarming up the steel lattice work. Tentacles snaked out, seeking to entrap him. A wicked blow on the leg almost brought him down.
    His sledge worked steadily and at the foot of the cradle broken mechanisms bore testimony to its execution.
    Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Hugh had inserted the envelope carrying the message in the inner container with the seeds, was tightening the screwcap. All that remained was to screw on the larger, heavier outer cap.
    But only seconds must remain, precious seconds before the rocket blasted. And before that happened they had to be away from the cradle, for the backlash of flames would burn them to a cinder.
    Scott felt perspiration streaming over his body, running off his eyelids, blearing his sight, trickling down his nose. He heard the rasp of metal as Hugh drove home the cap with savage thrusts of the wrench.
    A machine rushed up the lattice at him and he smashed at it with unreasoning fury. The head of the sledge bit deep into the metal body.
    A tentacle wrapped about his leg and jerked. He felt himself losing his balance, tumbling off the cradle into the melee of threshing metal things beneath him.
    *       *       *       *       *
    Then he was on the ground, buffeted and pounded by the maddened metal creatures. He fought savagely, blindly staggering forward. The shatterproof glass in his vision plate had been "broken," its texture smashed into a million tiny crisscross lines, until it was like frosted glass.
    He heard the tough fabric of his suit rip with a screeching sound. The bugs still were hammering against him.
    The thin, acrid atmosphere of Mars burned into his nose and his lungs labored.
    Unseeingly, he swung his sledge in swathlike circles. Shrieking like a wild Indian, he felt it smash and slam into the bodies of his metallic opponents.
    Then the world was blotted out by a resounding roar, a Niagara of sound that beat in waves against one's body.
    That was the rocket leaving.
    "Hugh!" he yelled insanely. "Hugh, we did it!"
    The attack had fallen away and he stood unsteadily on his feet, panting, stiff from punishment, but filled with exultation.
    They had won. He and Hugh had sent the message. Earth would be warned and Mars would lose its hope of conquering a new and younger world. Whatever dreams of conquest this old red planet may have nurtured would never come to be.
    He put his hands up and ripped the helmet from his head, flinging it on the ground.
    The metallic machines were ringed around him, motionless, almost as if they were looking at him. Almost as if they were waiting for his next move.
    Wildly he whooped at them. "Start something, damn you! Just start something!"
    But the line in front of him parted and he saw the blackened thing that lay upon the sand. The twisted, blasted, crumpled thing that huddled there.
    Scott dropped his sledge and a sob rose in his throat. His hands clenched at his side and he tottered slowly forward.
    He stood above the body of his brother, flung there on the sand by the searing backlash of the rocket blast.
    "Hugh!" he cried, "Hugh!"
    But the blackened bundle didn't stir. Hugh Nixon was dead.
    Eyes bleared, Scott stared around at the machines. They were breaking up, scattering, moving away.
    "Damn you," he screamed, "don't you even care?"
    *       *       *       *       *
    But even as he spoke, he knew they didn't care. The plant civilization of Mars was an unemotional society. It knew no love, no triumph, no defeat, no revenge. It was mechanistic, cold, logical. It did only those things which aimed at a definite end. So long as there was a chance of protecting the rocket, so long as there was hope of halting its flight after it had been tampered with, that civilization would act. But now that it was in space, now that it could not be recalled, the incident was over. There would be no further action.
    Scott looked down at the man at his feet.
    Harry Decker and Jimmy Baldwin and now Hugh Nixon. Three men had died here on Mars. He was the only one left. And he probably would die, too, for no man could for long breathe that Martian air and live.
    What was it Hugh had said that first day?
    "It plays hell with the tissues of your lungs."
    He stared around him, saw the interminable red deserts and the scarlet patches of Martian lilies, nodding in the breeze. Saw the humming bugs flashing in the pale sunlight. Saw the shimmer of the mighty building that had no doors or windows.
    His lungs were aching now and his throat was raw. It was harder and harder to breathe.
    He knelt in the sand and lifted the blackened body. Cradling it in his arms, he staggered along.
    "I have to make another cross," he said.
    Far overhead, in the depths of space, twinkled the blue planet whose life would never know the slavery of the emotionless race of a dying world.