IV

The Martians hadn't wanted them to to come. That much, at least, was

clear. But having gotten here, the Martians had no intention of letting

them return to Earth again. They didn't want them to carry back the

word that it was possible to navigate across space to the outer planet.

Maybe the Martians were committed to a policy of isolation. Maybe there

was a "Hands Off" sign set up on Mars. Maybe a "No trespassing" sign.

But if that had been the case, why had the Martians answered the radio

calls from Earth? Why had they co-operated with Dr. Alexander in

working out the code that made communication possible? And why did they

continue sending messages and rockets to the Earth? Why didn't they

sever diplomatic relationship entirely, retire into their isolation?

If they didn't want Earthmen to come to Mars why hadn't they trained

guns on the two ships as they came down to the scarlet sand, wiped

them out without compunction? Why did they resort to the expedient of

forcing Earthmen to bring about their own destruction? And why, now

that Harry Decker and Jimmy Baldwin were dead, didn't the Martians wipe

out the remaining two of the unwanted race?

Perhaps the Martians were merely efficient, not vindictive. Maybe they

realized that the remaining two Earthmen constituted no menace? And

maybe, on the other hand, the Martians had no weapons. Perhaps they

never had held a need for weapons. It might be they had never had to

fight for self preservation.

And above and beyond all ... what and where were the Martians? In that

huge building? Invisible? In caverns beneath the surface? At some point

far away?

Maybe ... perhaps ... why? Speculation and wonderment.

But there was no answer. Not even the slightest hint. Just the building

shimmering in the unsetting Sun, the metallic bugs buzzing in the air,

the lilies nodding in the breeze that blew across the desert.

* * * * *

Scott Nixon reached the rim of the plateau and lowered the bag of

roots from his shoulder, resting and waiting for Hugh to toil up the

remaining few yards of the slope.

Before him, slightly over four miles across the plain, loomed the

Martian building. Squatting at its base was the battered, pitted space

ship. There was too much ozone in the atmosphere here for the steel in

the ship to stand up. Before many years had passed it would fall to

pieces, would rust away. But that made little difference, for by that

time they probably wouldn't need it. By that time another ship would

have arrived or they would be dead.

Scott grinned grimly. A hard way to look at things. But the only way.

One had to be realistic here. Hard-headed planning was the only thing

that would carry them through. The food supply was short and while

they'd probably be able to gather enough for the coming winter, there

was always the possibility that the next season would find them short.

But there was hope to cling to. Always hope. Hope that the summer would

bring another ship winging out of space ... that this time, armed by

past experience, they could prevent its destruction.

Hugh came up with Scott, slid the bag of roots to the ground and sat

upon it.

He nodded at the building across the desert.

"That's the nerve center of the whole business," he declared. "If we

could get into it...." His voice trailed away.

"But we can't," Scott reminded him. "We've tried and we can't. There

are no doors. No openings. Just those little holes the bugs fly in and

out of."

"There's a door somewhere," said Hugh. "A hidden door. The bugs use it

to bring out machines to do the work when they shoot a rocket out for

Earth. I've seen the machines. Screwy looking things. Work units pure

and simple but so efficient you'd swear they possessed intelligence.

I've tried to find the door but I never could and the bugs always

waited until I wasn't around before they moved the machines in or out

of the building."

He chuckled, scrubbing his bearded face with a horny hand.

"That rocket business saved my life," he said. "If the power lead

running out of the building to the cradle hadn't been there I'd been

sunk. But there it was, full of good, old electricity. So I just tapped

the thing and that gave me plenty of power ... power for heat, for

electrolysis, for atmospheric condensation."

Scott sank down heavily on his sack.

"It's enough to drive a man nuts," he declared. "We can reach out

and touch the building with our hand. Just a few feet away from the

explanation of all this screwiness. Inside that building we'd find

things we'd be able to use. Machines, tools...."

Hugh hummed under his breath.

"Maybe," he said, "maybe not. Maybe we couldn't recognize the machines,

fathom the tools. Mechanical and technical development here probably

wasn't any more parallel to ours than intelligence development."

"There's the rocket cradle," retorted Scott. "Same principle as we use

on Earth. And they must have a radio in there. And a telescope. We'd

be able to figure them out. Might even be able to send Doc Alexander a

message."

"Yeah," agreed Hugh, "I thought of that, too. But we can't get in the

building and that settles it."

"The bugs get under my skin," Scott complained. "Always buzzing around.

Always busy. But busy at what? Like a bunch of hornets."

"They're the straw bosses of the outfit," declared Hugh. "Carrying out

the orders of the Martians. The Martians' hands and eyes you might

say."

He dug at the sand with the toe of his space boot.

"Another swarm of them took off just before we started out on this

trip," he said. "While you were in the ship. I watched them until they

disappeared. Straight up and out until you couldn't see them. Just like

they were taking off for space."

He kicked savagely at the sand.

"I sure as hell would like to know where they go," he said.

"There've been quite a few of them leaving lately," said Scott. "As

if the building were a hive and they were new swarms of bees. Maybe

they're going out to start new living centers. Maybe they're going to

build more buildings...."

* * * * *

He stopped and stared straight ahead of him, his eyes unseeing. Going

out to start new living centers! Going out to build new buildings!

Shining metallic buildings!

Like a cold wind from the past it came to him, a picture of that last

night on Earth. He heard the whining wind on Mt. Kenya once again,

the blaring of the radio from the machine shop door, the voice of the

newscaster.

"_Austin Gordon ... Congo Valley ... strange metallic city ...

inhabited by strange metallic insects!_"

The memory shook him from head to foot, left him cold and shivery with

his knowledge.

"Hugh!" he croaked. "Hugh, I know what it's all about!"

His brother stared at him: "Take it easy, kid. Don't let it get you.

Stick with me, kid. We're going to make it all right."

"But, Hugh," Scott yelled, "there's nothing wrong with me. Don't you

see, I know the answer to all this Martian business now. The lilies

are the Martians! Those bugs are migrating to Earth. They're machines.

Don't you see ... they could cross space and the lilies would be there

to direct them."

He jumped to his feet.

"They're already building cities in the Congo!" he yelled. "Lord knows

how many other places. They're taking over the Earth! The Martians are

invading the Earth, but Earth doesn't know it!"

"Hold on," Hugh yelled back at him. "How could flowers build cities?"

"They can't," said Scott breathlessly. "But the bugs can. Back on Earth

they are wondering why the Martians don't use their rockets to come to

Earth. And that's exactly what the Martians are doing. Those rockets

full of seeds aren't tokens at all. They're colonization parties!"

"Wait a minute. Slow down," Hugh pleaded. "Tell me this. If the lilies

are the Martians and they sent seeds to Earth twelve years ago, why

hadn't they sent them before?"

"Because before that it would have been useless," Scott told him. "They

had to have someone to open the rockets and plant the seeds for them.

We did that. They tricked us into it.

"They may have sent rockets of seeds before but if they did, nothing

came of it. For the seeds would have been useless if they weren't taken

from the rocket. The rocket probably would have weathered away in time,

releasing the seeds but by that time the seeds would have lost their

germinating power."

Hugh shook his head.

"It seems impossible," he declared. "Impossible that plants could have

real intelligence ... that flowers could hold the mastery of a planet.

I'm ready to accept almost any theory but that one...."

"Your mind sticks on parallel evolution," Scott argued. "There's no

premise for it. On Earth animals took the spotlight, pushing the plants

into a subordinate position. Animals got the head start, jumped the gun

on the plants. But there's absolutely no reason why plants should not

develop along precisely the same lines here that animals developed on

Earth."

* * * * *

"But the Martian lily lives only one season ... ten months ... and then

it dies," Hugh protested. "The next season's growth comes from seed.

How could plants build intelligence? Each new crop would have to start

all over again."

"Not necessarily," declared Scott. "Animals are born with instinct,

which is nothing more or less than inherited intelligence. In mankind

there are strange evidences of racial memory. Why couldn't the plants

do the same thing with their seed ... progress even a step further?

Why couldn't the seed carry, along with its other attributes, all the

intelligence and knowledge of the preceding generation? That way the

new plant wouldn't have to start from scratch, but would start with all

the accumulated knowledge of its immediate ancestor ... and would add

to that knowledge and pass the sum total on to the generation that was

to follow."

Hugh kicked absent-mindedly at the sand.

"There would be advantages in that sort of development," he agreed. "It

might even be the logical course of survival on a planet like Mars.

Some old Martian race, for all we know, might deliberately have shaped

their development toward a plant existence when they realized the

conditions toward which the planet was headed."

"A plant society would be a strange one," said Scott. "A sort of

totalitarian society. Not the kind of a society animals would

build ... for an animal is an individual and a plant is not. In a plant

race individuality would count for nothing, the race would count for

everything. The driving force would be the preservation and advancement

of the race as a whole. That would make a difference."

Hugh glanced up sharply.

"You're damned right that would make a difference," he said. "They

would be a deadly race. Once they got started, nothing could stop that

singleness of purpose."

His face seemed to blanch under the tan.

"Do you realize what's happening?" he shouted. "For millions of years

these plants have fought for bare existence on Mars. Every ounce of

their effort has been toward race preservation. Every fall the bugs

carefully gather all the seeds and carry them inside the building,

bring them out and plant them in the spring. If it hadn't been for some

arrangement like that they probably would have died out years ago. Only

a few scattered patches of them left now...."

"But on Earth...." said Scott.

And the two of them, white-faced, stared at one another. On Earth the

Martian lilies would not have to carry on a desperate fight for their

very existence. On Earth they had plenty of water, plenty of sunlight,

plenty of good, rich soil. On Earth they grew larger and stronger and

straighter. Under such conditions what would be the limit of their

alien powers?

With the lilies multiplying each year, growing in every fence row,

every garden, crowding out the farmers' crops, lining every stream,

clogging every forest ... with swarm after swarm of the metallic bugs

driving out into space, heading for the Earth ... what would happen?

How long would the lilies wait? How would they attack? Would they

simply crowd out every other living thing, conquering by a sort of

population pressure? Or would they develop more fully those powers of

forcing animal minds to do their bidding? Or did they have, perhaps,

even stronger weapons?

"Hugh," Scott rasped, "we have to warn Earth. Somehow we have to let

them know."

"Yes," Hugh agreed, "but how?"

Together, limned against the harsh horizon, they stood, looking across

the desert toward the Martian building.

Tiny figures, dimmed by distance, scurried about the building.

Scott squinted his eyes against the desert glare.

"What are those?" he asked.

Hugh seemed to jerk out of a trance.

"The machines again," he said wearily. "They're getting ready to shoot

another rocket out to Earth. It'll be the last one of the season. Earth

is drawing away again."

"More seeds," said Scott.

Hugh nodded. "More seeds. And more bugs going out. And the worst of it

is that Earth doesn't know. No man in his right mind on Earth could

even dimly speculate upon the possibility of high intelligence in plant

life. There's no reason to. No precedent upon which to base such a

speculation. Earth plants have never had intelligence."

"A message is all we need," declared Scott. "Just get word to the

Earth. They'd root up every plant on the face of the entire globe.

They'd...."

He stopped abruptly and stared out across the desert.

"The rocket," he whispered. "The rocket is going to Earth!"

Hugh swung on him fiercely.

"What are you...."

"We could send a message by the rocket!" yelled Scott. "They always

watch for them ... always hoping each one will carry something new.

Some new thing from Mars. It's the only way we can get a message back

to Earth."

"But they won't let us near," protested Hugh. "I've tried to get up

close to the cradle when they were launching one and those machines

always drove me away. Didn't hurt me ... but threatened."

"We have guns," said Scott.

"Guns," said Hugh, "wouldn't be worth a damn against them. The bullets

would just glance off. Even explosive bullets wouldn't harm them."

"Sledges then," said Scott. "We'll make junk out of the damn things.

We've got a couple of sledges in the ship."

Hugh looked at him levelly.

"Okay, kid, let's get going."

V

The machines paid them no attention. No higher than a man's waist, they

curiously resembled grotesque spiders. Gangling rods and arms sprouted

out all over them and from their trunks sprouted waving, steel antennae.

Overhead hung a swarm of the metallic bugs evidently directing the work

of making the rocket ready.

"It takes just three minutes or thereabouts from the time they finally

have her ready until she blasts," said Hugh. "Whatever we are going to

do has to be done in those three minutes. And we've got to hold them

off until the rocket blasts. They'll suspect there's something wrong

and will try to stop it but if we can hold them off...."

"They must already have radioed Earth the rocket is coming," said

Scott. "We always got word days in advance. Probably they won't follow

up with their location messages but Doc will be watching for it anyhow."

They stood tensed, waiting, each grasping a heavy hammer.

The space about the cradle was a scene of intense, but efficient

activity. Last minute adjustments were made. Readings and settings were

checked. Each machine seemed to act by rote, while overhead hung the

cloud of humming bugs.

"We know what we're to do," said Hugh. "We've simply got to do it."

Scott nodded.

Hugh shot a glance at him.

"Think you can hold them off, kid? It'll take a while to unscrew the

inner and outer caps and we have got to get that message inside the

inner container or it'll burn when the rocket hits atmosphere."

"You just get that message in and the caps back on," said Scott. "I'll

hold them off for you."

Suddenly the machines scurried back from the cradle leaving a clear

space of several yards around it.

"Now!" Hugh shouted and the two men charged.

The attack was a surprise. Their rush carried the line of machines

between them and the cradle.

One machine barred Scott's way and he smashed at it savagely with the

heavy hammer. The blow flung it aside, crippled, dented, half-smashed.

Hugh was already at the cradle, clambering up the superstructure.

A machine rushed at Scott, steel arms flailing. Ducking a murderous

swipe, the Earthman brought his sledge into play. It sheared through

the arms, smashed into the body of the machine. The stricken mechanism

seemed to reel, staggered erratically, then collapsed upon the sand.

In two leaps Scott gained the superstructure, scaled it and straddled

the cradle. His sledge smashed savagely upon a climbing mechanism,

flung it to the ground. But others were swarming up the steel lattice

work. Tentacles snaked out, seeking to entrap him. A wicked blow on the

leg almost brought him down.

His sledge worked steadily and at the foot of the cradle broken

mechanisms bore testimony to its execution.

[Illustration: _The spider-machines attacked in a grim deadly silence._]

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Hugh had inserted the envelope

carrying the message in the inner container with the seeds, was

tightening the screwcap. All that remained was to screw on the larger,

heavier outer cap.

But only seconds must remain, precious seconds before the rocket

blasted. And before that happened they had to be away from the cradle,

for the backlash of flames would burn them to a cinder.

Scott felt perspiration streaming over his body, running off his

eyelids, blearing his sight, trickling down his nose. He heard the rasp

of metal as Hugh drove home the cap with savage thrusts of the wrench.

A machine rushed up the lattice at him and he smashed at it with

unreasoning fury. The head of the sledge bit deep into the metal body.

A tentacle wrapped about his leg and jerked. He felt himself losing

his balance, tumbling off the cradle into the melee of threshing metal

things beneath him.

* * * * *

Then he was on the ground, buffeted and pounded by the maddened

metal creatures. He fought savagely, blindly staggering forward. The

shatterproof glass in his vision plate had been "broken," its texture

smashed into a million tiny crisscross lines, until it was like frosted

glass.

He heard the tough fabric of his suit rip with a screeching sound. The

bugs still were hammering against him.

The thin, acrid atmosphere of Mars burned into his nose and his lungs

labored.

Unseeingly, he swung his sledge in swathlike circles. Shrieking like a

wild Indian, he felt it smash and slam into the bodies of his metallic

opponents.

Then the world was blotted out by a resounding roar, a Niagara of sound

that beat in waves against one's body.

That was the rocket leaving.

"Hugh!" he yelled insanely. "Hugh, we did it!"

The attack had fallen away and he stood unsteadily on his feet,

panting, stiff from punishment, but filled with exultation.

They had won. He and Hugh had sent the message. Earth would be warned

and Mars would lose its hope of conquering a new and younger world.

Whatever dreams of conquest this old red planet may have nurtured would

never come to be.

He put his hands up and ripped the helmet from his head, flinging it on

the ground.

The metallic machines were ringed around him, motionless, almost as if

they were looking at him. Almost as if they were waiting for his next

move.

Wildly he whooped at them. "Start something, damn you! Just start

something!"

But the line in front of him parted and he saw the blackened thing that

lay upon the sand. The twisted, blasted, crumpled thing that huddled

there.

Scott dropped his sledge and a sob rose in his throat. His hands

clenched at his side and he tottered slowly forward.

He stood above the body of his brother, flung there on the sand by the

searing backlash of the rocket blast.

"Hugh!" he cried, "Hugh!"

But the blackened bundle didn't stir. Hugh Nixon was dead.

Eyes bleared, Scott stared around at the machines. They were breaking

up, scattering, moving away.

"Damn you," he screamed, "don't you even care?"

* * * * *

But even as he spoke, he knew they didn't care. The plant civilization

of Mars was an unemotional society. It knew no love, no triumph, no

defeat, no revenge. It was mechanistic, cold, logical. It did only

those things which aimed at a definite end. So long as there was a

chance of protecting the rocket, so long as there was hope of halting

its flight after it had been tampered with, that civilization would

act. But now that it was in space, now that it could not be recalled,

the incident was over. There would be no further action.

Scott looked down at the man at his feet.

Harry Decker and Jimmy Baldwin and now Hugh Nixon. Three men had died

here on Mars. He was the only one left. And he probably would die, too,

for no man could for long breathe that Martian air and live.

What was it Hugh had said that first day?

"_It plays hell with the tissues of your lungs._"

He stared around him, saw the interminable red deserts and the scarlet

patches of Martian lilies, nodding in the breeze. Saw the humming bugs

flashing in the pale sunlight. Saw the shimmer of the mighty building

that had no doors or windows.

His lungs were aching now and his throat was raw. It was harder and

harder to breathe.

He knelt in the sand and lifted the blackened body. Cradling it in his

arms, he staggered along.

"I have to make another cross," he said.

Far overhead, in the depths of space, twinkled the blue planet whose

life would never know the slavery of the emotionless race of a dying

world.