"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling
there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.
You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce
pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some
fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me
from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place--"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about
scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming
to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew
of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a
precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?
Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?
Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful
climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up
there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why
should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The
challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend
going before something bigger than you are stops you--it doesn't
interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up
straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,
I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was
shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either
that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the
window--something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at
first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,
almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling
it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in
my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking--"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked
me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.
Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,
or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up
his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran
after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do
you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I
could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.
Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.
That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest--don't take any chances with
aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill
everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill
everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun
away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe
that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and
that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would
if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small
wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what
do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit
him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia
is caused by inner conflict--indecision between the older values and
our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case
history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would
say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why
he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense
which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era
values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings
of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action?
Doran must have seen something--"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak
personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He _imagined_ he saw
something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did _you_ see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't
anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there
is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything
else. A shadow maybe--"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law
regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you
a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from
you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left
food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the
mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the
others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of
us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they
come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
* * * * *
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of
the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them
disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like
convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much
if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative
prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so
pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as
long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were
climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and
that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for--to
accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen
masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness
and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I
can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just
to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!
What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain
at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't
seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on
going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our
computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this
high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so
smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice
that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other
four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any
of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb--"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food
concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He
had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to
take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser
a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most
dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether
we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on
climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused
to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.
So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning
anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for
us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the
weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.
Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What
a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,
it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but
that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can
see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be--"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he
was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long
time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking
the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more
real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but
Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real
any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
* * * * *
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to
worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence
was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His
dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had
left it, and it was the same--allowing even for the time difference
necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:
Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to
him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could
also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.
Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green
valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing
their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there
were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them
that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
'_... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,
shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the
delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love--and all our
own!--than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known...._'
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the
dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would
look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing
but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.
The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he
couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would
die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into
himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one
compensation--he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them
who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way
across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him
much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He
could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce--Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure
to be five hundred thousand feet! It _is_ impossible. We keep climbing
and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is
going up and up--"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the
matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps
laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.
Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled
softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce--"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember
how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I
never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't
matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and
hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish
I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?
I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest
mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and
warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What
are you doing--reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was
that, Bruce--that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last
night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
* * * * *
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the
mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.
Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she
looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with
Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of
that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,
as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren
rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound
of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?"
Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into
any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our
destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and
we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're
going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the
top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a
thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this
world--the top of _everything_. The top of the UNIVERSE!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or
other--Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all--and turned into
crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe
they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He
knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration
break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an
instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film
negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was
out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet
sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there
was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the
softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,
drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass
wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,
but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this
one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from
that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl--Helene--was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a
cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but
now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between
them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.
She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at
because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only
what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row
of spaceships--not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd
relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships
instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,
and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
* * * * *
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and
he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,
and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it
again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through
that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he
wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the
lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever
again, you know."
"I didn't _know_ that, but I didn't _think_ we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe
it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was
not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"'_Is all that we see or seem_,'" he whispered, half to himself, "'_but
a dream within a dream?_'"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still
don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I
can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of
understanding of the human mind--after they've accepted you, and after
you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers--we can see
now--it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child
of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but
they'll never get the chance--the chance we seem to have here, to live
decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and
smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their
chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.
Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming
here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It
won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene
walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back
and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and
drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the
mountain had been, or still was--he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,
naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding
green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure
on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the
third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb
the mountain--" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the
pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the
fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind.
I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill
a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned
the horror we're capable of from the first ship--the Conquerors,
the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on
into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own
sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable
of hypnosis--no, that's not really the word, only the closest our
language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it
seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to
the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those
ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to
see and feel--but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,
was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the
suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the
mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by
instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But
you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the
mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no
Conqueror will ever see."
* * * * *
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When
they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,
actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on
walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that
there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,
either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is
given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the
Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had
to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded
hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied
together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond
them were those from _Mars V_, too freshly dead to have decayed
much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and
Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed
to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched
out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,
red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve
miles from the ship--horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the
fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace
beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that
other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so
much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of
Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently
flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she
was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd
been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the
leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never
seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm
city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet
I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.
Are--are the climbers still climbing--somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the
Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.