Harry Decker! Scott felt his brain swimming crazily.
Harry Decker here! Harry Decker under the red sand of Mars! But that
couldn't be. Harry Decker's name couldn't be here. It was back on
Earth, graven on that scroll of bronze. Graven there directly beneath
the name of Hugh Nixon.
He staggered to his feet and stood swaying for a moment.
From somewhere far away he heard a shout and swinging around, ran
toward the corner of the building.
Rounding it, he stopped in amazement.
There, in the shelter of the building, lay a rusted space ship and
running across the sand toward him was a space-suited figure, a figure
that yelled as it ran and carried a bag over its shoulder, the bag
bouncing at every leap.
"Hugh!" yelled Scott.
And the grotesque figure bellowed back.
"Scott, you old devil! I knew you'd do it! I knew it was you the minute
I heard the rocket blasts!"
* * * * *
"It's nice and warm here now," said Hugh, "but you'd ought to spend
a winter here. An Arctic blizzard is a gentle breeze compared with
the Martian pole in winter time. You don't see the Sun for almost ten
months and the mercury goes down to 100 below, Centigrade. Hoar frost
piles up three and four feet thick and a man can't stir out of the
ship."
He gestured at the bag.
"I was getting ready for another winter. Just like a squirrel. My
supplies got low before this spring and I had to find something to
store up against another season. I found a half dozen different kinds
of bulbs and roots and some berries. I've been gathering them all
summer, storing them away."
"But the Martians?" protested Scott. "Wouldn't the Martians help you?"
His brother looked at him curiously.
"The Martians?" he asked.
"Yes, the Martians."
"Scott," Hugh said, "I haven't found the Martians."
Scott stared at him. "Let's get this straight now. You mean you don't
know who the Martians are?"
Hugh nodded. "That's exactly it. I tried to find them hard enough.
I did all sorts of screwy things to contact that intelligence which
talked with the Earth and sent the rockets full of seed, but I've
gotten exactly nowhere. I've finally given up."
"Those bugs," suggested Scott. "The shining bugs."
Hugh shook his head. "No soap. I got the same idea and managed to
bat down a couple of them. But they're mechanical. That's all. Just
machines. Operated by radium.
"It almost drove me nuts at first. Those bugs flying around and the
building standing there and the Martian lilies all around, but no signs
of any intelligence. I tried to get into the building but there aren't
any doors or windows. Just little holes the bugs fly in and out of.
"I couldn't understand a thing. Nothing seemed right. No purpose to any
of it. No apparent reason. Only one thing I could understand. Over on
the other side of the building I found the cradle that is used to shoot
the rockets to Earth. I've watched that done."
"But what happened?" asked Scott. "Why didn't you come back? What
happened to the ship?"
"We had no fuel," said Hugh.
Scott nodded his head.
"A meteor in space."
"Not that," Hugh told him, "Harry simply turned the petcocks, let our
gasoline run into the sand."
"Good Lord! Was he crazy?"
"That's exactly what he was," Hugh declared. "Batty as a bedbug. Touch
of space madness. I felt sorry for him. He cowered like a mad animal,
beaten by the sense of loneliness and space. He was afraid of shadows.
He got so he didn't act like a man. I was glad for him when he died."
"But even a crazy man would want to get back to Earth!" protested Scott.
"It wasn't Harry," Hugh explained. "It was the Martians, I am sure.
Whatever or wherever they are, they probably have intelligences greater
than ours. It would be no feat for them, perhaps, to gain control of
the brain of a demented man. They might not be able to dominate us,
but a man whose thought processes were all tangled up by space madness
would be an easy mark for them. They could make him do and think
whatever they wanted him to think or do. It wasn't Harry who opened
those petcocks, Scott. It was the Martians."
He leaned against the pitted side of the ship and stared up at the
massive building.
"I was plenty sore at him when I caught him at it," he said. "I gave
him one hell of a beating. I've always been sorry for that."
"What finally happened to him?" asked Scott.
"He ran out of the airlock without his suit," Hugh explained. "It took
me half an hour to run him down and bring him back. He took pneumonia.
You have to be careful here. Exposure to the Martian atmosphere plays
hell with a man's lung tissues. You can breathe it all right ... might
even be able to live in it for a few hours, but it's deadly just the
same."
"Well, it's all over now," declared Scott. "We'll get my ship squared
around and we'll blast off for Earth. We made it here and we can make
it back. And you'll be the first man who ever set his foot on Mars."
Hugh grinned. "That will be something, won't it, Scott? But somehow I'm
not satisfied. I haven't accomplished a thing. I haven't even found the
Martians. I know they're here. An intelligance that's at least capable
of thinking along parallel lines with us although its thought processes
may not be parallel with ours."
"We'll talk it over later," said Scott. "After we get a cup of coffee
into you. I bet you haven't had one in weeks."
"Weeks," jeered Hugh. "Man, it's been ten months."
"Okay, then," said Scott. "Let's round up Jimmy. He must be around here
somewhere. I don't like to let him get out of my sight too much."
* * * * *
The silence of the dreaming red deserts was shattered by a smashing
report that drummed with a mighty clap against the sky above. A gush of
red flame spouted over the domed top of the mighty building and metal
shards hammered spitefully against the sides, setting up a metallic
undertone to the ear-shattering explosion.
Sick with dread, Scott plunged to the corner of the building and felt
the sick dread deepen.
Where his space ship had lain a mighty hole was blasted in the sand.
The ship was gone. No part of it was left. It had been torn into tiny
fragments and hurled across the desert. Wisps of smoke crept slowly
from the pit in the sand, twisting in the air currents that still
swirled from the blast.
Scott knew what had happened. There was no need to guess. Only one
thing could have happened. The liquid oxygen had united with the
gasoline, making an explosive that was sheer death itself. A single
tremor, a thrown stone, a vibration ... anything would set it off.
Across the space between himself and the ship came the tattered figure
of a man. A man whose clothes were torn. A man covered with blood,
weaving, head down, feet dragging.
"Jimmy!" yelled Scott.
He sprinted forward but before he could reach his side, Jimmy had
collapsed.
Kneeling beside him, Scott lifted the man's head.
The eyes rolled open and the lips twitched. Slow, tortured words oozed
out.
"I'm sorry ... Scott. I don't know why...."
The eyes closed but opened again, a faint flutter, and more words
bubbled from the bloody lips.
"_I wonder why I did it!_"
Scott looked up and saw his brother standing in front of him.
Hugh nodded. "The Martians again, Scott. They could use Jimmy's mind.
They could get hold of him. That blasted brain of his...."
Scott looked down at the man in his arms. The head had fallen back, the
eyes were staring, blood was dripping on the sand.
"Hugh," he whispered, "Jimmy's dead."
Hugh stared across the sand at the little glimmer of white in the
shadow of the building.
"We'll make another cross," he said.