Cat Country (4 page)

I wondered, Shouldn’t we be going somewhere now? No sooner had I thought this than they kicked me in the leg, as if to show me that they too could do things quickly when they had to. That kick was my marching order. My ankles had already been choked numb and the kick caused me to stumble forward involuntarily, making their hands, which seemed like hooks that were soft and hard at the same time, dig into my ribs. Behind me I heard a hissing sound, something like the noise a cat makes to scare his enemy as he prepares for a fight. There were several sounds like that in succession. I concluded it was probably the way that the Cat People laughed. It was, no doubt, an expression of their pleasure in tormenting me. My body was soon a mass of sweat.

If they were really in a hurry, they could carry me easily enough, and that would suit me to a tee, for I was barely capable of any more walking. This, of course, was precisely the reason they insisted on my walking – that is, if it’s not an insult to the word ‘reason’ to use it in such a context.

By now there was so much perspiration that I couldn’t open my eyes, and my hands were handcuffed uselessly behind my back. I couldn’t even shake my head to throw off the beads of sweat, for they still had a firm chokehold on my neck. I walked erect. No. You really couldn’t call it ‘walking’, but I can’t find another word capable of depicting a movement that is a combination of twisting, turning, stumbling and jumping all rolled into one.

After we had moved only a few paces, I heard that flock of birds descend with a great whoosh; it sounded like a group of soldiers making a banzai charge on the battlefield. Obviously they had all gone down to get a share of . . . I began to hate myself. If I had only acted a little sooner, perhaps I should already have my friend buried by now. Why had I wasted so much time staring like an idiot at my new environment? My friend, I thought, even if I don’t die, by the time I am able to find this place again, I probably won’t even be able to find a scrap of you left! All of the sweet and beautiful reminiscences of an entire lifetime will never be able to make up for the bitter shame of this one memory. Whenever I think of it in the future, I shall always consider myself the most worthless of all human beings.

It was something like having a nightmare: although I was suffering great physical pain, I was still able to think of other things. All of my thoughts were centred on my late friend. When I closed my eyes I could still see those birds pecking at his dead flesh, and feel them pecking at my own living heart. Where were we going? In my present situation, even if I had been able to force my eyes open, I really wouldn’t have been able to look at anything, much less remember the landmarks clearly enough to make my escape later. Was I walking, or jumping, or rolling? Only the Cat People could have answered that one. My mind was not on any of this; it was as though my body no longer belonged to me. I was only conscious of sweat pouring off my head. There was only a little bit of consciousness left in me; I was like a man who has been wounded but has not yet passed out. Everything had gone hazy and I couldn’t tell where my body began or ended – I was only conscious of sweat leaving it at various points. It seemed that my life was no longer in my own hands, and yet I did not feel that I was suffering.

Everything went blank. Then, after a while, the darkness passed, and I forced my eyes open the way a man does when waking up from a drunken sleep. I became conscious of an excruciating pain in my ankles. Instinctively I started to feel for them, but discovered that my wrists were still handcuffed. It was only at this point that things began to come slowly into focus before my eyes, although they had already been open for some time. I was on a small boat, but had no idea as to when or how I got there. I must have been on the boat for a long time, for my ankles had regained their feeling and I was acutely conscious of the pain occasioned in them by the leg irons. I tried turning my head. Those clammy hands weren’t on my neck any longer! I turned around and looked, but there was nothing behind me. Above was the silver-grey sky and below, a warm, sticky river of deep leaden hues. It made no sound but seemed to be flowing very rapidly, and I was out in the middle of it going downstream.

HOW DO YOU GET OUT OF HERE?

I
DIDN
’
T
have time to worry about the danger that I was in; at a time like that, the idea of danger doesn’t even occur in a man’s mind. Heat, hunger, thirst and pain – none of these matched in intensity the feeling that I had of utter exhaustion (I had just finished a journey through space that lasted over half a month). I couldn’t sleep on my back because the handcuffs prevented me from laying my spine flat, but somehow or other I managed to work my way into a lying position on one side and went to sleep. I entrusted my life to the mercies of this steamy, oily river, and simply concentrated on getting to sleep, for in my situation, there was little point in hoping for sweet dreams or any other embellishments.

When I woke up again, I found myself propped into a sitting position in the corner of a small room. No, it really wasn’t a small room; it was more like a little cave. There were no windows and no doors. Four wall-like pieces of something or other surrounded a bit of ground from which the grass hadn’t even been weeded. The roof was a small bit of gunmetal sky. My hands were free, but now there was a thick rope around my waist. I couldn’t see the other end of it. Maybe it was tied to something on the other side of the wall. Perhaps since I’d descended from the sky, they thought that it would be a good idea to anchor me to the ground. How odd – the pistol was still in my shirt!

What did they have in mind? Kidnapping? Demanding a ransom of Earth? No, they’d never go to all that trouble. Maybe they thought they had captured a monster? Perhaps they planned to train me and then put me on display at the local zoo. Or perhaps they planned to send me to a biological institute as a specimen for dissection; that would make more sense. I smiled at my own imagination. I really seemed to be going a bit mad. Why hadn’t they taken my pistol away? I felt both surprised and comforted by their failure, but neither of those feelings added any saliva to a dry mouth. I was exceedingly thirsty, and looking all about – just as I stood on the edge of despair – I spotted a lifesaver.

In the corner parallel to the one I was sitting in, there stood a stone jar. Could it be . . . ? My instinct told me not to waste time wondering, but to simply get over there and see. (Instinct is really more intelligent than intellect.) But my ankles were still fettered. Perhaps I could hop across. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I tried to stand, but couldn’t. After several attempts, I discovered that my legs would no longer obey my orders. All right, I’d sit down then. I was so thirsty that I thought my dried-out trunk would begin to split apart. My physical needs had stripped me of all my usual vanity and I decided that perhaps I could crawl. The little room wasn’t very wide, and if I got down on my belly, I’d probably be within a few inches of my goal. Just by stretching out my hand, I’d be able to attain the highest hope that my life had ever known – that precious jar! But before I could get down flat, the rope around my waist warned me that it would not permit it. If I insisted on going forward, the rope would leave me hanging in mid-air. It was hopeless.

But the fire in my mouth caused me to use my wits again: feet foremost, I advanced flat on my back, like a beetle that has been turned upside down and can’t right itself. Although the rope was very tight, by using all my strength I should be able to force it up over my rib cage. (At first I had considered trying the same trick head first, but decided not to because my hips were broader than my rib cage and would not have allowed me to force the rope very far in that direction.) If I distributed the rope evenly over my rib cage, I might be able to reach the jar with my feet. Even though the rope might rip and tear my skin, it would still be preferable to dying of thirst. I made my move, the skin on my chest did start to break, but I couldn’t afford to worry about it. I just kept struggling towards the jar. I was in great pain, but I didn’t have time to let it concern me. I continued struggling forward, and finally my feet reached their treasured destination. Although I could reach the jar by straightening out my feet, the leg irons were so tight I couldn’t spread my legs apart far enough to grab hold of it. By curling my legs up slightly, I was able to take enough pressure off my ankles to spread the tips of my feet a bit, but then, of course, I could no longer reach far enough to do any good. It was hopeless.

The only thing I could do was lie there and gaze helplessly at the sky. Without thinking, I pulled out my pistol. Dying of thirst, I gazed at that graceful and handy little instrument. I closed my eyes and placed its shiny little mouth against my temple. A single movement of my hand and I should never be thirsty again.

Just at that point an idea suddenly dawned on me. I bolted upright and turned around towards the corner of the wall. I aimed carefully at the rope.
Bang! Bang!
The heavy rope was partially torn and badly singed. Like a mad man, I tore at it with my hands and chewed with my teeth. Finally, I succeeded in breaking the rope apart. In my delirious joy I completely forgot that my feet were still fettered; I got up quickly and just as quickly fell to the ground. Taking advantage of the position I had fallen in, I crawled towards the stone jar. I took it in both hands. There was something bright and shiny inside. It was water! Well, perhaps it was water, or perhaps it was . . . This was no time to hesitate. It was very difficult to handle the heavy jar, but I succeeded in getting a mouthful. It was quite cool and, of course, to me it was tastier than any nectar of the gods. It came to me, as though I had discovered some kind of truth about human life, that diligence is usually rewarded in the end. There wasn’t much water in the jar to begin with, and before long there wasn’t a single drop left.

I cradled that precious jar in my arms like a baby. And now that I was feeling a bit better, I started indulging in fantasies again. If I could get back to Earth, I would certainly take this jar back with me. But was there really any hope of getting back to Earth? I went blank and stared idiotically, for who knows how long, at the mouth of the jar.

The short, sharp cries of a flock of birds flying overhead snapped me from my reverie. Looking up, I saw that a strand of light-peach coloured evening cloud had appeared overhead. The natural grey of the sky wasn’t completely out-tinted by this new hue, although it did make it seem somewhat higher and clearer, and the top of the wall that surrounded me was edged with a line of fairly strong light. It will be dark before long, I thought.

What ought I to do?

None of the plans that I might have put into practice had I still been on Earth seemed appropriate here. Since I had absolutely no conception as to the nature of my enemy, how could I decide on a course of action? Even Robinson Crusoe hadn’t faced this kind of difficulty. At least he had been completely on his own, but I had the Cat People to deal with. I had to devise a way of escaping from them, and yet I knew nothing of their history and background. I had to do something. What should it be?

Well, the first thing would be to get rid of the leg irons. Up to this point I had not yet looked at them to see what they were made of, because I assumed that leg irons would be made of iron. Now that I took the time to examine them, I discovered that they weren’t made of iron, but rather of some greyish-white material. Now I knew why they hadn’t confiscated my pistol: there was no iron or steel on Mars, and the overly cautious Cat People had feared some danger would descend upon them if they touched something unfamiliar. They hadn’t dared confiscate my gun. I felt the fetters with my hands. Although they weren’t of iron or steel, they were hard. I tried, without luck, to tear them apart with my bare hands. I wondered what they could be made of. A blend of curiosity and the exigency of escape were present in my mind. I rapped the fetters with the muzzle of my gun which produced a metallic sound, but it didn’t sound like iron. Silver? Lead? If it were a material softer than iron, then perhaps I could use something to grind through it. Perhaps I could smash that stone jar and use one of the splinters to . . . At this point I had completely forgotten about my plan to take the jar back to Earth with me. I picked it up, intending to smash it against the wall. But I didn’t dare. What if I were to attract the attention of someone on the other side of the wall? I thought that there certainly must be someone out there guarding me. No. That couldn’t be, for there had been no reaction to the two shots I had just fired. When I had fired the gun, I wasn’t scared. But now, in retrospect, I fearfully imagined what would have happened if a bunch of Cat People had come rushing in after I fired those shots. But since, in fact, they hadn’t come in, what was I being so timid about? I threw the jar against the wall, but only succeeded in chipping off one small splinter. But precisely because it was small, it was also sharp. I set to work.

Perhaps it is true that you can grind a column of steel into an embroidery needle if you’re only willing to put enough work into it, but to hope to saw or grind one’s way through a pair of fetters in a very short time was, I’m afraid, a bit too optimistic. Experience is, for the most part, the offspring of error. All right! Then I’d simply go on erring in an optimistic frame of mind. Experiences that I had brought here from Earth didn’t seem to have much value anyway. I ground away at the fetters for a very long time but didn’t even succeed in marking the surface; it was as though I were grinding a diamond with a piece of stone.

I began feeling about in the rags that were hanging from my body. I felt in my shoes and even my hair on the off chance I might discover something that would be of service in my predicament. It seemed that I had already become a beast without reason – but what was this? There was still a box of matches in the pouch dangling from my belt, and it was a steel box of matches at that. If I hadn’t made my careful search, I certainly would never have thought of it. Since I don’t smoke, I don’t make a habit of carrying matches. Why did I have them on me now? I couldn’t figure it out. Wait a minute! I remembered. A friend had given them to me. He had heard that I was going off on a distant exploration and had come to see me off. Saying that he had nothing that was really worth giving to me, he had stuffed the little box into my watch pocket. ‘It’s a small box and I trust it won’t add too much weight to the spacecraft.’ I still remembered his words. It seemed like years and years ago. Half a month of space travel is not a thing that calms and sharpens the mind.