The Red Journey Back (9 page)

—the
Center. His agitated explanation
 . . .
and so
a first glimmering of the nature of the Cloud. But this came later—I can resume
now the account of our progress from the time of Malu’s discovery of us on the
plain: there is less attempt tonight at control.
 . . .

We
traveled with him to the new community established in a range of mountains far
to the north of our landing place. Because of the lesser gravitational pull I
was able to carry sufficient food to last the Doctor and myself for many months
and, as will be known, this store could be augmented from the edible leaves of
the foothill trees.

So
once more we entered into the life of the Beautiful People; re-encountered the
tall, Malu-like shape of the Center himself—were welcomed solemnly as he sat
(crouched, rather) on his great
central humus pile
in the largest of the bubble houses.

I
had brought a small tent with me from the
Albatross
—the identical tent in which we all
had lived on our last visit. And so we dwelled through the long months of Mac’s
gradual recovery, contentedly enough in our communication with our old
friends—bathed once more in that strange sense of quiet benevolence we all had
experienced and commented on before as being a quality of life among the
Beautiful People. In the long balmy summer season we restored our faith; once
more, as time passed and Mac came back to normal, the unaccustomed fragrance of
his pipe went drifting in the rare Martian atmosphere and, lying back by his
side, I watched the two little moons go circling above our heads
 . . .
and
described to him as well as I might the alien but familiar scene surrounding us
as the quiet slender shapes of the Martians went gently about their business.

Yet
I hardly needed to interpret to him in this way after a time. Except for the
occasional lapses into lethargy, it was as if, in his blindness, he had
developed the art of telepathic contact with Malu and the Center to an extent
which I, imperfectly equipped because I
had
all my usual senses, could never
achieve. The immense mass of knowledge gained in this way by McGillivray will
become available in due course to humanity, when once we return to the Earth—if
indeed, from our present impasse, that will ever be possible! I pray to heaven
that it will; for now that we confront the Vivore—now that it surrounds us,
makes veritably to swamp us
 . . .
the
children, perhaps the children—

(Message broken. This irrelevant
reference to the children—MacFarlane always thought of Paul, Jacky and Mike as “children”—kept
recurring from now to the end. What it meant we did not know—the reference
invariably followed a spell of fragmentary reception, broken messages. And
sometimes there were periods in MacFarlane s account which made no sense at
all—were frankly a kind of gibberish. Thus on one occasion, after some further
nights of silence,
a
message came which, literally transcribed, ran as follows:)

“—No—not
 . . .
pera—requuullian
 . . .
jeje jeje
 . . .
but the
children—if children children—cont att at cont
 . . .
will
try but try but trrry buuttt—chil—chiiilll
 . . .
save
save save
 . . .”

(One more night of comparatively
uninterrupted reception followed—a long session lasting almost four hours, all
at high speed. It will be noted how abrupt MacFarlane’s narrative style had
become; as if, as the Vivore approached—whatever the Vivore might be—a sense of
growing panic swamped all other considerations, forcing him to be
straightforward, even brusque in his manner of delivery.

The narrative continues, therefore:)

And so once
more, as on the last visit, the
Albatross
was
dragged across the plain by the willing Martians, to rest as closely as
possible to the Center’s headquarters without being in any danger from possible
further volcanic eruptions. She was little worse after her months of isolation
in the long mild summer, but with winter now nearer, and bitter as we knew, she
had to be brought to shelter in a small range of foothills. She was needed
moreover for living accommodation for Mac and me, who could not stand the
overheated dampness of the bubble houses.

Mac was now
almost himself again. His long “conversations” with the Center; and at last the
hint of danger, over.

Mac had spoken
with the Center on one occasion for a long long time; and when he and I, later,
were settled together for the night in the cabin of the
Albatross
,
his expression grew serious. For my part, less skillful in communication with
the Center than he was, I had not fully understood the significance of the
session. I knew only that at last Mac had been
trying to find out the nature
of the Yellow Cloud where it came from and what it was.

“And
there came from him,” said Mac slowly, referring to the Center, “—there came
from him, Steve, such a wave of fear as I have never known these creatures to
express before!”

“What
was it?” I asked. “What was the Cloud, Mac?”

“I
don’t know—even yet I don’t know. The Center did not know—not fully. It was as
if—and you must realize that I am only groping here, Steve, for the Martians
plainly cannot communicate anything of which they themselves have had no
experience—it was as if the Cloud were some kind of legend among them. It’s
something deeply feared that lingers on only as a race memory—and even then
only in such highly intelligent creatures as the Center himself. You find the
same thing on Earth, among certain primitive tribes—a lingering something that
their ancestors knew and feared and passed on to them in the form of myths
through the years.”

“But
what
kind
of myth, Mac? There must have been
something
—some
kind of image from the Center?”

“There
was! A very strange one. I hardly dare to think of it, Steve, for it connects
with a dreadful kind of
 . . .
vision
I had
when I was snatched into the Cloud—something that comes back to me now only
imperfectly, although I have the impression that I understood it better then,
when my mind was gone, than I do now.
 . . .
There
were two images from the Center—rather three. The first was a picture,
transmitted from his mind to mine, of the Yellow Cloud itself, as we saw
it—sweeping at immense speed across the plains. The second image was
vaguer—less understandable—and the only words that came into my mind to express
it were, ‘The lines—the creeping lines
 . . .’ ”

“The
lines
?”

“The
only words, Steve, except that in my mind they had a double translation. You
remember I told you during the flight about the Italian astronomer,
Schiaparelli—his discoveries in the 1870’s—”

“The
Canals,” I said. “It was Schiaparelli who discovered the Canals—”

“Quite
so—but he used the word
canali
to mean only lines or markings—veritable
channels
on the Martian surface which he
thought he saw. That was the other word which came into my head during my
session with the Center:
canali
,
Steve—the creeping
canali
.”

“But
Mac, it doesn’t make sense!”

“It
might—it might make devilish sense before we’re done! Steve, tell me—you can
see, old friend, and I cannot—as you look out across the plain sometimes—”

He
broke off—a look of bewilderment came across his face. I recognized the
symptoms too well. The old lethargy was returning, the lingering effect of his
immersion in the deadly Cloud—perhaps in the association between his
conversation with the Center and his terrible experience. Desperately I tried
to bring his thoughts back to the moment.

“Mac—Mac!
The third image—you said there was a
third
image from the Center—”

But
all that came from him was the one word from his old nightmare:
Discophora
 . . .
and a
sudden impression in my own mind once more of something
monstrous—white—jellylike
 . . .

I
looked out through a porthole in the dying evening light. Did I imagine it? Or
was there, far out on the plain, verily on the horizon, a new strange tinge of
darker green—a kind of
ridge
 . . .
?

So
little time, so little time! When morning came I saw indeed that there was, on
the far plain, a belt or band of some dark green substance—and that it was
larger a little than I had supposed the night before.

Mac’s
illness worse—no sign of recovery from the new bout that had assailed him. Two
days
 . . .
and in
those two days, before he did recover, and I could tell him, the darkness on
the horizon had intensified—was something that
moved
—and
moved nearer and nearer toward us.
 . . .

Among
the Beautiful People a rising sense of uneasiness—a continuing quivering fear
from the cactus plants nearby.

Mac’s
recovery at last; and an intensification of our experiments to contact you on
Earth. The exposed seam of mineral deposit in the foothills: our hastily rigged
transmitter here in the cabin of the
Albatross,
the
leads going down to the seam
 . . .
night
after night—my messages into space, as always and always the menace approached
across the plains. At last the first imperfect return messages—the fabulous
coincidence of the airstrip
 . . .
and so
I have told you our story as always
It
has
drawn nearer
 . . .