The Red Journey Back (24 page)

And
I was suddenly flying through the air.

And
we landed right at the edge of the clear space in the Yellow Cloud. And at that
moment Old Jellybags’ thoughts were back on us, and he was as angry as angry as
angry. But his thoughts weren’t so strong this time, and we jumped again, right
into
the Yellow Cloud, and then again, and
by now the influence had gone, and the next jump took us clear of the Forest
altogether, and we were out in the open and running and jumping on the plain,
and the air was all clear, and we could move and use our hands and our own
thoughts again, and we fired and fired at the Terrible Ones who were chasing us
after the first surprise, and we saw the others in the tractor far, far away
before the Yellow Cloud came swirling out again all around us, and we ran on
and on and on and on, and suddenly the Cloud all cleared when the tractor came
into it with the flame throwers working full blast and there you have it, kind
friends, you know the rest!

Cut!
Cut!

Triumphant
music!

THE
END.

Next
Week: Another Sherwood Production, featuring Bing Malone and Marlene Hogarth.

Phew!

Phew
indeed!

It
is how I invariably feel when I finish reading Maggie’s contribution here
inserted—quite breathless, as she must have felt when she finished writing it.

So
I resume then (Borrowdale writing again), with all threads in the narrative now
tied, with the story’s progress complete up to the point when we routed the
pursuing Terrible Ones and swung open the trailer covering to admit our rescued
friends.

May
I add only this as a last parenthesis—as a postscript to Maggie’s paper:

The
method used to escape from the influence of Discophora may seem indeed, set
down in cold black and white, to be somewhat trivial, as Maggie herself has
said. But it must be emphasized that the principle lying behind it is more than
sound. Not only did it work in practice in this particular instance, but it
has, we believe, shown us the way in which we might combat the Vivores when
someday we return to renew our contact with them. They are Brain, all Brain. In
close proximity to them one cannot help but fall beneath their gradual
telepathic control. The one way in which release can truly be found is indeed
to contrive some method to divert the intolerably intense attention of that
gigantic living intelligence. Maggie and her companions did so by concentrating
their own intense thoughts on imaginary danger—so powerfully, for one split
second, as to release themselves from the spell long enough to effect an
escape. They thought of Paul Revere, the ancient hero of American history,
because he constituted, to them, something normal and safe. They might equally
well have concentrated on King Arthur, of British legend, or on Charlemagne of
French. The words, the image, were of no importance—it was the sudden
impression
that achieved results, the sudden
diverting of Discophora’s whole attention.

With
this elementary but effective example before us, we have, since our return to
Earth, been attempting to perfect a method operating on the same broad
principle, which might help us to hold the attention of the Vivores for longer
periods. It is, putting it briefly, an apparatus which should be able to oppose
and annihilate the deadly thought-impulses from Discophora. We propose, in
short, to counter the Living Brains of Mars with the noble Electronic Brain
created by Man; and that will be a battle indeed!

It
is a tale that is still to be told. This one must meanwhile be ended; and at
its end, however we may come to control them in the future, the Vivores were
our deadliest enemies.

We
knew that most bitterly as we sped across the Cloud-swept plain toward our
threatened
Comet.
In the excitement of our plunge forward in the tractor to rescue Katey and the
others, we had, of course, ignored the danger signal transmitted to us from the
photo-electric barrier apparatus set up around the rocket’s base. We had
switched off the receivers within our helmets so as to be free from the
distraction of the high-pitched frequency hum. Now, with the rescue completed,
we retuned—and heard the signal again, insistently. The
Comet
was indeed in danger—something had
penetrated the barrier.

And
we knew in our hearts, as we speeded forward through the mist, guided by the
beamed signal itself—we knew what the danger was. We remembered the arrowhead
of Yellow Cloud we had seen from the plain, outthrusting from the “tail” of the
Ridge. We knew it now for what it was: a messenger, sent out by our own
Discophora to heaven knew how many of his fellow Vivores.

The
great Creeping Canals had assembled—across the vast plain they had marched to
surround our spaceship. They had reached the very base itself. To win to safety
we would have to pass through the deadly controlling zone of them—somehow.

We
went forward, always forward, our one hope to reach the
Comet
before,
perhaps, she was entirely surrounded. We were all together again. And yet—and
yet!—

We
were not all together. Two members of our party were missing. The knowledge did
not come to us for some time—until we were well on our way from the original
Ridge. In the seething confusion of the moment when Katey and Mike and Maggie
had clambered into the trailer, two figures had, unnoticed, slipped out into
the swirling Cloud. We in the tractor thought they were in the trailer as we
went forward toward the
Comet
—our
friends in the trailer took them to be in the tractor.

They
were in neither. We had gone too far to turn back when, through the
communication apparatus, we heard a cry from Katey. She had come across a folded
note, the script on it spidery and uncertain, its corner held by the lid of one
of the lockers.

It
was addressed to Dr. Kalkenbrenner. He asked her to read it and we all listened
to her voice in silence—and I, in my mind’s eye, saw the stooping, writing
figure of Dr. McGillivray during our long groping journey through the Cloud.
 . . .

Katey
read:

My dear
Kalkenbrenner, the danger signal from your ship can mean one thing only: that
Discophora surround it, probably in considerable numbers. They will do all they
can to prevent your reaching it. But you must reach it, you
must
You must go back to Earth and take my dear young friends out of the terrible
danger to which I feel I have been instrumental in exposing them.

I am
blind and helpless. But there is a way in which I may be able to help you. I
have discussed it silently with Malu. I need him as a guide in my sightless
state, but also he wishes to assist me, and comes out with me in the true
spirit which actuated Captain Oates.

I write
this as we journey to rescue Miss Hogarth and the others. Malu and I will
contrive to slip out of the trailer—with good fortune you may not notice our
absence for some little time. Do not try to come after us. It is my last wish
that you should go forward and win to safety.

My plan
is wild. It may not succeed. But I shall try my best. You will know, when the
time comes, what it is I have done.

God
bless you all. Your true friend in the eternal cause of science—

Andrew McGillivray

The
silence held as Katey finished reading. Her voice was very quiet, imbued with
the strange solemnity of the words of McGillivray’s enigmatic note.

“Captain
Oates,” said Jacqueline softly. “Captain Oates, Paul
 . . . 
?”

And
Paul answered gravely:

“Don’t
you remember, Jacky? In Captain Scott’s last expedition. The one who went out
from the tent into the blizzard to try to save the others—went out to his
death. . . .”

Around
us indeed, in the little moving “tent” in which we clustered, the yellow
blizzard tossed and swirled.

“But
how—
how
?”
asked
Michael. “How can he save us?”

To
that compelling question there was no reply. We knew nothing—not even where to
look for McGillivray if there were any question of going back for him. We could
do no more than obey the final wishes of our lost companion. We went forward,
always forward.

Around
us, as the distance from the Ridge grew greater, the Yellow Cloud was thinning
and dispersing. There came a time at last when it was possible to steer
visually. As the last wreathings of the mist dissolved, we saw far, far ahead
across the plain, the slender gleaming spire of the
Comet.

We
drew nearer. And it was as if, indeed, the great rocket stood at the center of
a gigantic spider’s web. Over the plain had converged a veritable network of
the deadly green Creeping Canals, each housing, as we knew, in its steamy
depths, a single member of the dying race of the Vivores.

The
air was clear now—there were no further traces of Cloud. We still went forward,
nearer and nearer. It was the one course possible. The throb of our engine was
the only sound in all the vast and menacing scene. But, mingling with it in our
heads, at one moment—faintly, infinitely faintly as he made the immense
telepathic effort over the distance separating us, from wherever he might
be—there came the “voice” of Malu: “Farewell, my friends. Again remember Malu
the Tall, Prince of the Beautiful People. Farewell—this time a last farewell.
 . . .”

WE
DREW TO A HALT at a distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile from the base of
the
Comet.
It was evening now, early evening. The silver of the rocket’s slender hull
glowed red and mauve in the long light of the dying sun. Beyond her spear-point
tip the two little moons of Mars went circling, small Phobos joyous in her
haste, contrasting strangely with the stillness of the scene confronting us.

The
Canals converged to form one dense central enclosure around the
Comet’s
gigantic tripod. There were eight of
them—eight Vivores, therefore, lurking close, to control and paralyze us with
their concerted power. More, more perhaps were already on their silent creeping
way across the plain.

The
woods have come up and are standing round in deadly crescent . . .

Deadly
indeed. Even more deadly-seeming in their patient stillness and silence. They
waited—they only
waited.

There
was no hint of Cloud. The Vivores knew by now that we were impervious to its
effect. There was no need even to attempt to use the yellow weapon: the
combined intelligence of so many of those vast and living Brains was enough.
There was no sign either in all the scene of any groups of the Terrible Ones.
Perhaps the Vivores had had no opportunity in their rapid journey across the
plains to collect within their orbit any of those ponderous slaves—again, in
any case, they must have known that we could deal with the Terrible Ones with
the flame-throwing weapons. They had nothing—nothing with which to combat us:
except
 . . .
themselves;
immobile, bodiless, blind, deaf; but knowing everything and possessing an
incalculable hypnotic power.