Sleepers Of Mars

By common consent they looked to Vinski for immediate guidance. None of the four was a leader by nature, but for the moment the Ukrainian, whose official status was that of recorder and historian of the expedition, appeared to dominate by reason of his physical size.

Zhatkin, the sad-looking Kirghizian, was happiest when he was involved in his complex figuring; when not so engaged, he tended to regard the things about him with a detached studiousness of no practical value, as far as anyone could see.

Platavinov, the doctor, had the scientific mind. He observed, he inquired, he classified; he was interested in a great many things, but he did not initiate.

There remained Gordonov, the engineer. He had started as Gordon when he was christened on Clydeside. His engines and machinery were the joy and pride of his life. Save for that period when a burning sense of injustice and a passionate desire for equality of opportunity—and opportunity on a larger scale than he could find at home—had led him to become a Soviet citizen, he had shown little interest in things outside his profession.

So it came about that the three turned their inquiries upon Vinski—and Vinski had little to offer. It looked to him as if the expedition had come to a finish. It was unlikely that the four of them could contrive to raise their rocket to the perpendicular, and that had to be accomplished before the return journey could be begun. His present forecast was that they would stay where they were until food or air failed them, and the end came.

He wondered how the men in the English rocket saw the situation, and was tempted to send over an offer of mutual assistance in raising their rockets. The memory of the shooting incident which had concluded the previous visit deterred him, however, for the time being.

During the night, as they lay in their hammocks, came a bewildering sensation that the world about them was turning topsy-turvy. It took the crew of the Tovaritch some little time to realise that the machines outside were solving their greatest problem for them, and were raising their ship to the vertical. The darkness outside gave them no chance to see how it was being done, but daylight revealed that both rockets had been treated alike.

The four stood by one of the fused quartz windows. Little over a mile away the shell-like shape of the Gloria Mundi gleamed at them.

‘At least they’re making no distinctions; that’s some consolation,’ Gordonov said.

‘A poor sort of consolation,’ the doctor thought. ‘It looks to me like a pretty pointed hint that we’re not welcome.’

‘Nothing that has happened to us yet could give any other impression,’ said Vinski.

‘But surely they can’t mean to get rid of us before we’ve made any contacts? They’ve not even heard what we’ve got to say. Damn it, it’s not every day that visitors turn up from another planet,’ Platavinov objected.

Vinski crossed the room. He took his mask and oxygen tank from their locker, and put them on. The doctor, after a momentary hesitation, did the same, and the two men stepped into the airlock together.

Now that the rocket stood erect, the entrance was raised more than a hundred feet in the air. When the outer door was open it was possible, by leaning well out, to see what was happening around the base flanges in an area which was out of range of the inclined windows.

A metallic chatter accosted them as they peered down. It sounded thin and distorted in the rarefied air, but there was no doubt that it was a mechanically-produced voice of some kind. Looking for its source, Vinski became aware that one of the glittering, coffinshaped machines was standing apart from the rest: its tentacles were extended, and its lens pointed directly up at them.

The chattering voice seemed to emanate from some part of it. Vinski nudged his companion, and pointed. The two of them gazed at it in silence for some perplexed seconds.

‘Well, I suppose it means something,’ Platavinov said at last, ‘but it doesn’t seem to help much. Try it in English. It may have picked some up from our Empire-building friends over there.’

But the machine did not respond. However, it did occur to it, or to its operator, that not much progress was being made. The chatter broke off abruptly. With two great sweeps of the flexible metal arms it smoothed the surface of the sand before it, then with lightning movements of one tentacle it scribbled a row of characters.

‘It’s a trier, anyway,’ said Vinski, as they watched the queer signs taking form. ‘Though why it should assume we can understand its writing, when we can’t get a line on its lingo, is more than I can say. As it is, not even being able to tell which way up the stuff is, we don’t look like getting far.’

The machine’s tentacle whipped back and curled itself close to its side. The lens swivelled and trained itself on them. It took no more than a few seconds to appreciate that its second attempt at communication had been no more successful than the first. Undismayed, it swept the sand level again.

This time it started by making a single circular impression in the middle; then, extending a tentacle from its other side, it stood motionless for some seconds, one long arm resting on the mark and the other pointing at the Sun. The upper tentacle suddenly re-curled itself. The other rapidly drew three concentric circles about the original mark. Again the second tentacle uncurled, and pointed directly at them while the first rested on the outermost of the circles.