The Red Planet (21 page)

“Aren’t there?” I replied, rather lamely.

“We know a good deal about you, Dr Matthews. We knew the scheduled time of your arrival here on Mars.”

“Mars?” exclaimed Lemmy. “Then this is Mars. You admit it?”

“To you, of course.”

“Why to us?” demanded the Cockney. “If this is Mars, why do you go around telling everybody else it’s Australia?”

“Because, Mr Barnet, there happen to be a lot of Earth men and women living up in the Argyre Desert who believe they are in Australia. And, unlike you and Dr Matthews, they are all very happy with the arrangement.”

“But,” I protested, “they live under an illusion the whole time.”

“Down on Earth millions of people live under an illusion,” said the Flying Doctor, “often for the whole of their lives.”

“Well, you haven’t illusioned us,” said Lemmy defiantly.

“No, and more’s the pity. You might have been a lot happier if we had. Now, let’s get downstairs, shall we?”

“One moment,” I said. “You said just now that you knew our scheduled time of arrival here. How?”

“Full information was passed to us at regular intervals.”

“By Whitaker?”

“That’s right. Pity about him--he was very valuable to us.”

“So Whitaker was one of you,” I said.

“Yes. Since 1924. Before then he was on Earth, leading the normal, dull, earthly life. But we gave him something to live for--something to achieve.”

“And look how he ended up,” observed Lemmy.

“Yes,” said the Flying Doctor. “We hadn’t allowed for Peterson. With the exception of yourself, Doctor Matthews, and Peterson, there wasn’t a man in the Fleet Whitaker could not, given the time, have brought completely under his influence.”

“So that’s why we had all those nightmares whenever he was around,” said Lemmy.

“Yes,” replied the Doctor. “It’s easier to get control of a subject once he is asleep. But if they won’t sleep . . .” He broke off, then said abruptly: “Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

“Just one thing more,” I insisted. “Where did you come from?”

He turned to face me. “From Earth.”

“How long ago.”

“Twenty-five years. Until then I was what I now pretend to be--a Flying Doctor in the Australian bush.”

“But the way you talk you might be a Martian,” said Lemmy.

“I decided a long time ago that there is no point in fighting the inevitable. So I threw in my lot with them. As a doctor I have a way with people. It may be a bit rough and ready but it serves. I’m a go-between; between them and the people who’ve been brought here. I see to it that their illusion is not shattered.”

“Them? Who are them?” I asked.

“The Martians, of course; for whom and by whom the rest of us up here exist.”

“But who are they?” persisted Lemmy. “What do they look like?”

“I wouldn’t know,” replied the Doctor flatly. “I’ve never seen them.”

“Never seen them!” For a moment I was speechless. “Supposing,” I asked at length, “you had the chance to go back to Earth. Would you?”

“If I were on Earth now I would be twenty-five years older, and I was no chicken when I came here. What prospect would be there for me if I returned?”

“But how much longer,” I argued, “can you expect to remain as active as you are now?”

“I don’t know. But I do know that in the city of Orphir are people who came here from Earth during the opposition of 1879. It is, of course, during the oppositions that our ships leave to pick up new personnel--that is, approximately every fifteen years.”

It was all perfectly clear to me now. Whitaker had been picked up in 1924. That’s why his memory of Earth and all his associations with it were allied to that date, like the Exhibition at Wembley and the song ‘When it’s Night-time in Italy’. The sheep farmer and his wife must have come up at some other opposition and I had no doubt that could we have searched the planet and visited every city, we would have found people who had been brought up during the oppositions of 1896, 1909 and 1956.

I must have unwittingly spoken the last date out loud because the Flying Doctor added: “And 1971.”

“But we, the clever lot, said Lemmy bitterly, “had to bring ourselves.”

“Yes--you were the first,” said the Flying Doctor. “The others came by the usual method--as I did. In my day,” he I went on, “there were many reports of Flying Saucers being seen, particularly in America.”

“That’s right,” I said, “I remember. When I was a kid a fellow in California wrote a book about it.”

“Yes,” said the Doctor, “a lot of eye-wash--or so I thought at the time. And then I saw one for myself. Actually on the ground in the Simpson desert west of Bundooma. Naturally I was curious and approached close enough to photograph it. Then the door opened and a man I came out. He spoke good English and invited me in to look to around. Five minutes later the sphere took off with me inside. And now I’m here, I make the best of it. And, if you take my advice, you’ll do as I’ve done and do as you’re told. There’s no escape. Neither you nor your Fleet will ever get back to Earth. Now, is there anything else?”

“I think that’s enough to be going on with, thanks,” said Lemmy miserably.

Once down in the lower cabin we were ordered to leave the ship by the door which was standing open and, stepping out, we found ourselves on the uppermost terrace of the giant pyramid. Lemmy and I walked over to the wall to get a better view of what lay below. But, almost at once, the Flying Doctor came over to us.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “if you wouldn’t mind stepping this way I’ll take you down to the Intake Section where you will be categorised for the work most suited to you.”

“Work?” said Lemmy, clearly both surprised and appalled at the prospect.

“Of course. You don’t think this is a free hotel, do you? Once you’re here you have to work for your keep.”

“But what at?” I asked.

“That is something I don’t decide. But you are more fortunate than most. You are all skilled in your own particular professions and should be very useful to us. In fact, your long stay here could be extremely pleasant.”

“Who are you kidding?” asked Lemmy.

“Look down there at the city,” said the Doctor. “What do you think goes on down there in all those buildings?”

“How should we know?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. Each pyramid is a little city within itself; has its own citizens, a couple of hundred in each; with their own domestic and medical staffs, and directors of culture, leisure and sport. Our aim is to see that every worker is happy, well fed and highly efficient.”

“Sounds marvellous,” said the Cockney; “just like a colony of ants.”

“But what are they working for?
”
I asked.

“To go back to Earth--eventually.”

“Eh?” interjected Lemmy incredulously.

“For nearly a hundred years.” went on the Doctor, “they have worked to that end. And, when they return, they will carry the true Martians with them--in the largest space fleet the universe has ever seen.”

“You mean they’re building ships down there--to invade the Earth?” asked Lemmy, his eyes widening.

The Flying Doctor didn’t answer the question directly. But he said: “Mars is a dying planet. If its inhabitants are to live they must move elsewhere. And the nearest and best place for them is the Earth.”

“But what about the people who already live on the Earth?” asked the Cockney in alarm.

“And when will this ‘invasion’ take place?” I asked.

“The next close opposition, 1986, should see the beginning.”

“Good grief!” It was all I could say.

“So you see how important it is that none of your expedition gets back.”

“It’s all too horribly clear,” agreed Lemmy.

“If people on Earth knew what was in store for them,” went on the Doctor calmly, “they might make preparations to resist and . . .” The Flying Doctor broke off and followed our gaze as Lemmy and I turned our eyes skywards.

While we had been talking the distinctive sound of a flying machine had been gradually filling the air. It approached very rapidly, and we had hardly heard the noise and looked up when Freighter Number One passed directly overhead, went shattering by and quickly disappeared.

“Blimey,” said Lemmy excitedly, “it’s Frank’s ship!”

The Flying Doctor took hold of his arm. “I’ve got to get you down to the Intake Section at once,” he said firmly.

“What’s the hurry, mate?” asked Lemmy, pushing the Doctor away. “Are you afraid Frank might see us?”

“Come on,” said the Doctor, “do as you’re told. Head down those steps to the next terrace.”

“We’re not Whitakered yet, you know,” said Lemmy, aggressively. “Lay a finger on me and I’ll give you a righthander.”

The Doctor ignored the threat and moved forward to take the Cockney by the shoulder.

Then Lemmy’s fist flew out and hit him full in the face. He gave a cry, fell backwards against the low wall of the terrace and disappeared over it. Lemmy and I ran to the wall and looked below.

“Oh blimey, Doc,” said the Cockney, “he went over, straight down on to the next terrace.”

“It was a lucky blow,” I told him.

“Lucky?” repeated Lemmy anxiously. “But I might have killed him. Look--he just lies there and doesn’t move.”

“Come on,” I urged, pulling him. “We’ve got to get away before anybody else comes up here.”

At this point Mitch came out of the sphere and walked towards us. “Hey,” he said as he approached, “What’s going on out here? Where’s the Doctor?”

“He’s--er--gone down to the next terrace,” said Lemmy. “Says we’re to wait in the sphere until he gets back.”

“And what was that that flew over just now? It was pretty low, wasn’t it?”

“Not as low as we would have liked,” said the Cockney.

“It sounds like it’s coming back again,” went on the Australian.

I looked up to see the freighter approaching rapidly. It was considerably lower than before and skimmed over our heads no more than a couple of hundred feet above the top of the pyramid on which we were standing.

Mitch, too, looked up at the craft and, as he did so, I heard him say above the roar of the motor, “Number One ---Freighter Number One.”

“Mitch,” I asked urgently, “do you recognise that ship? Does it mean anything to you?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch replied, “I never saw a plane of such a size and yet it seems familiar. Has its picture been in the papers or something?”

“It certainly has,” I said, “but not on this planet.”

“On this planet?” asked Mitch vaguely.

“Mitch,” I said, “go back to the sphere.”

Mitch meekly turned on his heel and went. “I’m all mixed up,” I heard him say. “What place is this? It’s not Adelaide, is it?”

“Now come on, Lemmy,” I went on, turning to the radio operator, “this is our chance to escape.”

We had hardly started walking towards the sphere when the familiar voice of Frank Rogers was heard in my ear.

“Hullo, Jet,” it said. “Number One calling.”

Lemmy and I stopped dead in our tracks.

“Hey, listen, Doc, said Lemmy excitedly, “that’s Frank calling Jet up on the radio. And we can hear him. Hullo, hullo--hullo, Frank.”

“Hold it, Jet, will you?” I heard Frank say. “I could have sworn I heard Lemmy’s voice then. And pretty strong, too. Hullo, Lemmy--come in, please.”

But before Lemmy had the chance to reply to Frank, I was talking to him. “Hullo Frank--that was Lemmy you heard, and this is Doc. We can hear you, but not Jet. Can you hook us up to him?”

“Yes, Doc,” came Frank’s voice, “you bet I will. Where are you?”

“On the roof of the highest pyramid in the city you just flew over.”

Almost immediately Jet’s voice came on. “Hullo, Doc, I can hear you now. What pyramid?”

“In the Lacus Solis, Jet,” I told him. “A whole city of them. And Lemmy, Mitch, Dobson, Harding and I--and the sphere we came in--are up here on the roof. Lemmy has laid out the Flying Doctor, and . . .”

“Yes, mate,” interrupted Lemmy. “And we’ve got to get out of here and back home pretty quick. The Martians are planning to invade the Earth.”

“Whatl”

“It’s true, Jet,” I said. “Watch McLean--he’s been instructed to bring you here.”

“But he does everything I tell him, Doc. He hasn’t disobeyed any of my orders up to now.”

“Watch him just the same,” I urged. “The Martians aim to get us--to prevent our warning Earth of their intentions.”

“Doc,” said Jet slowly, “are you quite sure you haven’t been conditioned?”

“You must believe us, Jet,” I said. “Let me tell Frank the whole story and have him relay it to the rest of the Fleet so they can tell the Earth.”

“Very well, Doc,” said Jet after a pause, “go ahead. Frank, did you hear that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then hook Doc up.”

While Frank was switching over to his main transmitter to contact the freighters still flying in free orbit a thousand miles or more above the Martian surface, I called Jet again. “Where are you now?” I asked him.

“Still crossing the Argyre desert--heading in your direction.”

“Well, don’t,” I told him. “Stay where you are. If Frank has enough juice he can drop down, pick you up and take you back to Polar Base.”

“But what about you and Lemmy and Mitch?” asked Jet.

“With luck we might make it, but we have to hurry.”

“I’ll say we have,” said Lemmy suddenly. “Look--there’s four men coming up the steps from the next terrace.”

“Into the sphere--quick,” I ordered.

Together we ran across the terrace and through the open door.

Once inside the cabin Lemmy and I paused near the circular opening. “Well, how do we close the perishing thing?” asked Lemmy. “We haven’t a clue how this ship works.”

“We haven’t,” I told him, “but Dobson and Harding have.”

Dobson and Harding were, in fact, still seated at the control panels. Like McLean, apparently, they wouldn’t do anything without being ordered. I now tried my hand with the two conditioned members of our crew. “Dobson,” I said, “close the door.”

Dobson’s hand moved to a control on the little panel before him; there was a high-pitched whine and the sphere’s door slowly closed.

Lemmy gave an audible sigh of relief. “Well, now what do we do?” he said.