I could feel the city as I stepped from the Mars-car. There's a kind
of sensation you get when you're approaching a large metropolis, and
it holds true on earth as well as on Mars. It's much different from
the way you feel in the wide open spaces--on the prairie or in the
mountains. Maybe it's extrasensory perception. Or maybe the soles of
our feet transmit seismic vibrations of living people to our nerves. I
had the feeling now.
Gripping my rifle I moved toward a little ridge just ahead of where
I'd stopped the car. This ridge, I'd hoped, would protect the car from
radar detection on the part of the Martians, but I believed I could
risk a glance at the highway over the top of it without exposing our
location.
I was about a half mile from the road and, from the ridge, I could see
it, crowded with Martians, trotting in formation eastward toward the
canal. They walked five abreast and there must have been hundreds of
them.
I didn't have to be a Martian to recognize that this was a military
group. Soldiers. Ants march to war like humans do. It's another
fundamental that may have its roots in atomic energy, or in the nuclear
intelligence that has formed all life so that atoms can control their
destiny.
No local war was to be fought by these troops. They were off to meet
the earthlings, in the first interplanetary war of the solar system.
So interested was I in watching the Martians that I didn't realize I
was standing in full view; and I'd been seen, but not by the marching
Martians, of which there were at least fifteen hundred.
A small patrol probably had been put out to protect the flanks of the
main army, or even to look for us, since my approach probably hadn't
been as concealed as I'd thought.
Three Martians of this patrol had started toward me, joining "hands" as
they charged. And behind them were a dozen others.
_Chapter 16_
The Martians came galloping toward me, each grasping the extended
trunklike appendages of the creatures on either side. I didn't notice
now, but when I saw them in this kind of formation later, I noted that
it was the second pair of appendages used for this particular business,
the reason for which soon was to become apparent.
They were about sixty feet from me when the Martian on the extreme left
raised his second appendage, which of course was unattached to any
other Martian. From the end flashed long, crackling flame, the nearest
thing I'd seen to lightning since my last thunderstorm on the earth.
It wasn't quite as good as a lightning bolt, however, because it fell
short of my position by about six or eight feet.
Now I knew why they grasped "hands." Each Martian was, for all
practical purposes, an electrical cell, and the three of them joined
together were in series. If one Martian could produce a hundred volts,
three Martians could produce three hundred. This voltage is for
illustration purposes, of course. I don't know how much they produced
and quite probably it was more than one hundred volts, in view of what
happened later. It may have been a thousand.
But, although I knew the Martians were trying to electrocute me, I felt
safe. My spacesuit had enough metal in it to carry a pretty good size
charge to the ground and, since I was inside it, I could suffer no harm.
I raised the rifle to fire and they flashed another jarring charge
at me. This time it hit. The blue flame licked down the barrel of my
rifle, shot to my suit and, as I expected, grounded itself through my
boots. I felt no shock, but I noticed with alarm that my rifle was
suddenly so hot that I felt it burn through my gloves. Then I realized
the danger. They could, literally, cook me inside my spacesuit by
making it red-hot.
Before they could use their bizarre natural weapon again, I fired. The
bullet hit the center Martian when he was less than thirty feet from
me. He exploded as if he'd had dynamite for lunch and that broke the
circuit.
The other two Martians dug their feet into the ground and slid to a
stop. As I lifted the gun again, their radar apparently detected the
motion. They broke and fled, unashamed, back to their flanking patrol.
I didn't shoot after them. I had only one explosive shell left, plus
eighteen nonexplosive standard rifle shells. I might need 'em, I
thought.
And I was thinking right for a change. The two survivors were screaming
in _AM_ or _FM_, whatever they used for private conversation and cuss
words. I could see their antennae waggle, but I wasn't tuned in on
their network. The other twelve seemed to understand. They all joined
appendages and started toward me.
It looked like the camel corps storming Khartoum, except that these
weren't camels and they were slinging enough electricity to light a
small city. I hated to think of the heat that would be generated if a
bolt hit me. Even if they didn't get enough of a charge into me, my
Achilles heel would be obvious once they saw that voltage, continually
applied to a resistance unit, will make it rosy red-hot.
On came the Martians. Their soft, padded feet, looking so much like
those of camels, sent a dust cloud rolling behind them. I lifted my
rifle and aimed carefully at the middle of the line. This was my last
explosive bullet and it had to produce spectacular results. I pressed
the trigger and a flash of flame marked the spot where one of their
number had ended his last charge.
The line was broken, the others hesitated. But six or seven Martians
could swing heavy lightning and I had to break the two segments again.
Had they attacked in two groups they could have fried me where I stood,
but they didn't realize it.
I flipped my gun to automatic while the two groups consolidated. Now I
cut loose. I didn't aim. Who knows what's a vital spot in a Martian? I
just held down the trigger and swept the line from left to right. Half
the Martians fell thrashing to the ground.
But my magazine was empty. I transferred the rifle to my left hand and
pawed at the automatic in the holster at my side. The seven or eight
uninjured Martians were trying to consolidate, and I wasn't having any
of it.
Again I aimed at the center, to cut the voltage in half. The Martians
had just managed to form a series again and flame lashed into the
ground at my feet, but they were crazy with fear or rage or some
Martian version of a terrestrial emotion and they didn't aim true. Then
I banged at them until my pistol was empty. The line was chopped in
three places but there were still five Martians left.
They were game creatures, for they came on desperately.
Self-preservation, race-preservation, all the things we talked about
including heroes and martyrs, were in this final charge. My pistol was
empty, my rifle was empty and I was a sitting duck with no time to
reload.
But I worked at it and as I did I heard a faint puffing sound, like the
pop of popcorn. Mars is almost silent, but not quite. There is enough
air to transmit the sound of a loud noise near at hand. Even though
every split instant was precious, I glanced quickly to my right.
Gail Loring was there, clad in a spacesuit, holding her automatic
pistol with both hands. The gun was bucking and kicking and making that
puffing noise.
I glanced back. Two of the five Martians were on the ground. It wasn't
luck, it wasn't good shooting, it was a goddamn miracle.
Gail broke up the party.
The three surviving Martians had had enough and, as Gail emptied that
enormous .45 without hitting anything, they broke and ran in all
directions, waving their trunklike arms in sheer terror. My earphones
gave the cricket-burp. Martian cuss words, no doubt.
Still holding my rifle in my left hand and my pistol in my right, I
clasped Gail in my arms, yelling things like "sweetheart, darling,
angel."
"Sweetheart--darling--angel!" screamed the Martians.
I tried to kiss Gail through my helmet and hers, too. And we laughed
and cried as we ran back to the Mars-car. Tears were streaming down her
cheeks as I helped her into the locks.
As we entered the car again, we stopped laughing. A half mile away
fifteen hundred Martians were leaving the highway and advancing toward
us with joined arms.