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Title: The survivors
Author: T. D. Hamm
Illustrator: Douglas
Release date: March 30, 2024 [eBook #73288]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1961
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SURVIVORS ***
THE SURVIVORS
By T. D. HAMM
Illustrated by DOUGLAS
_Step by gruelling step the four of them slogged
their way toward a perilous safety. It was a
magnificent display of the will for survival.
The only question was_, whose _survival_?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories August 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There were only four of them now. Soames and Rutherford had literally
gone down with the ship in a roar of cascading rock and sand. Out of
fifty square miles of the Martian plateau they had been unlucky enough
to sit down on the egg-shell thin roof of a sector honey-combed with
caves. Scant moments after the exploring party had disembarked, Soames'
comments on their resemblance to a Sunday School picnic were suddenly
broken off by a cacophonous medley of yells, the rolling thunder of
sliding rock, and over all the agonized metallic shrieking of tortured
metal as the ship fell, crushed and twisted. There came a final
tremendous roar as the fuel tanks blew. The ground heaved convulsively,
and shuddered into silence.
Stunned and deafened, Bradford, Canham, Palmer and Rodriguez pulled
themselves to their feet, staring dazedly at the towering column of
dust hanging like a malevolent genie over the half-mile wide chasm.
Palmer, white with shock, lunged forward, turning indignantly as
Bradford's arm jerked him back.
"Soames--and Rutherford--" he stuttered. "We've got to do something!"
Bradford's lip twisted mirthlessly.
"What're you going to do--jump in after them? If there was anything
left of them the fuel tanks took care of it. They're gone--we're here.
And we'd better start figuring out what we're going to do about it."
The four of them looked at each other silently. They knew as well as
he, what they faced. Theirs had been the task of setting up a temporary
exploring base till the supply ship arrived in three months--with luck.
Supplies for six months and all their equipment except their emergency
rations had gone down with the ship. No hope there--as well explore the
Grand Canyon with a teaspoon as to try to salvage anything under that
million tons of rock. Compressed food they had, two weeks supply per
man; their extra oxygen tanks; an extra battery apiece for the suit
heaters. Water would be their worst problem.
Bradford looked at the miles of barren, reddish wasteland and shrugged
fatalistically.
"If there's any water at all, it will be at the Polar cap. We might as
well get going--we've got a long hike."
Palmer grimaced wryly. "Forward, you Eagle Scouts. We can get our merit
badges easy."
"Yeah, we can get them from Santa Claus at the Pole--" Rodriguez made a
valiant attempt at his usual sardonic humor.
They piled a small cairn of the red rocks and Bradford planted
the green and white flag of the Federated Nations. Encased in its
protective covering he placed a note at its foot indicating their
destination.
"We ought to sign it 'Kilroy,'" Canham grunted as they trudged forward.
"Say, how far do we have to walk?"
"Around a hundred and fifty to two hundred miles."
Their concerted whistle of dismay echoing oddly in their ear-phones,
they set out in thoughtful silence across the red face of Mars, the
hovering dust blotting out their footprints as they went.
* * * * *
Three days and seventy five miles later, they huddled wearily against
the face of a small cliff shivering in the icy chill of the night wind.
They had found a desiccated bush or two in a protected nook during the
afternoon and carried it with them. Now, they fed the wiry twigs into
the fire with miserly care glad of its meager light against the haunted
dark.
Rodriguez held a branch to the firelight. "Looks like a sort of
poorhouse cousin to birch," he hazarded. "Wonder if they ever had
forests on this God-forgotten planet?"
Palmer grinned. "Well, at least there is still life of sorts.
Rutherford would have flipped his lid over those comical little
fellows we saw today."
A half dozen times they had seen furry little marsupials, downy as
chinchillas, their young poking out inquisitive snouts toward the
interlopers and as promptly getting them slapped down again.
A flicker of motion on the perimeter of firelight caught his eye.
"We've got a visitor," he whispered. "There's one of the little beggars
now."
He tossed a crumb from his plate toward the peering head. Flicking a
tongue like a lizard's, the visitor fielded it neatly in midair and
advanced, peering hopefully at the circle of grinning faces. Palmer
stretched out a stealthy hand and gripped it gently about the middle as
it sniffed at his food can.
"Look at him," he cried delightedly. "He doesn't even squirm. He likes
me!"
He tickled its ears, sliding his fingers down through the heavy, silky
pelt. "You could make a fortune with these...." he dropped it abruptly
with an anguished yelp and a string of blistering oaths, while his
friends clung to each other and howled mirthfully.
"Your little friend, he pulled a knife on you. No?" queried Rodriguez
sympathetically. The grin faded from his suddenly startled face.
"_Amigo, que lo es?_ Hey, fellows--something's wrong!"
Palmer, his face shocked and dazed had dropped to his knees, whimpering
and retching painfully.
"My God, look--his hand!" whispered Bradford.
They had removed their bulky gloves before eating and Palmer's exposed
hand was black and swollen beyond recognition. Even as they watched,
the skin split, leaking watery fluid. His body contorted, he rolled on
the ground screaming with unbearable agony.
Bradford's hand dropped to his pistol and fell away again. He looked at
the others pleadingly.
"We can't let him suffer this way. But my God--I _can't_ do it...."
Canham looked at him dully. "You won't have to--he's finished."
The rigidly contorted body relaxed inertly, the tortured eyes open and
glazed. Rodriguez crossed himself and burst into childish sobs.
Bradford put out a restraining hand toward Canham.
"Let him alone--I wish to God I could do the same thing. Give me a hand
with Palmer--we'll have to bury him the best way we can."
Shaken with more than the night chill, they removed the clumsy oxygen
and water containers and piled a protective cairn of rocks above the
silent figure. Behind them, Rodriguez sobbed bitter Spanish curses and
hurled rocks at telltale flickers of movement in the dark.
* * * * *
Through the next day and the next, they trudged on doggedly, speaking
little as they put the reluctant miles behind them, taking what shelter
they could during the bitter nights. During the day under the thin
Martian sunlight, they turned off the suit-heaters, conserving the
batteries; hoarding their remaining food and water with miserly care.
Bradford, assuming tacitly acknowledged leadership, pondered the
situation wearily. Even with Palmer's supplies, it was doubtful that
the three of them could last out the ten weeks or so remaining before
the arrival of the second ship. If they could only make it to the
Pole--there they were sure of water at least, in the vegetation belt
surrounding the shallow icecap. If it was ice and not frozen carbon
dioxide which some of the experts held out for. In their initial swing
around the planet they had seen the narrow green belt dotted with
shining pools. Plants meant oxygen, too; and it was possible that in
a temperature supporting some kind of growing life, it would be warm
enough so that they could remove their helmets for breathing, if only
in the brief daylight hours.
Bradford, lost in thought, started as Canham touched his arm, motioning
him to open his faceplate and turn off the head-phones.
"What's the matter with you?" he jerked impatiently.
Canham turned a thumb toward Rodriguez.
"Nothing's the matter with me. Him--I think he's going off his rocker."
Bradford looked at Rodriguez plodding unheedingly ahead. Since his
first outburst after Palmer's death, he had gone mechanically about
each day's routine, outwardly calm. He said little, but neither had the
others. The only indication of his inner torment was when one of the
deadly little marsupials peered at them as they went on their way. With
deadly fury, he would hurl a barrage of rocks through the air, while
the little animal eyed them in indifferent curiosity. Occasionally he
scored a hit, laughing grimly as the dying animal erected the ruff of
lethal spines through its silky fur.
Bradford snorted mirthlessly. "I doubt if either of us would pass a
sanity test at the moment," he grunted. "What's so special about him?"
Canham's normally cheerful face retained its solemn worry.
"I know what you mean--but, watch him next time one of those
dust-devils comes by."
The day before they had descended the northern slope of the high
plateau onto the long, sandy plain that extended northward. Everywhere
there were the dancing, careening dust-devils, tall columns of the
brick-red sand; faintly menacing forms, pursuing some unseen purpose of
their own. From time to time, one would swerve close, seeming to keep
pace with them for a few steps before whirling off in its erratic dance.
One approached them now. Rodriguez turned toward it making a furtive
gesture with thumb and forefinger and deliberately trickled a stream
from his water bottle upon the sand.
Bradford came forward on the run, shouting into the hastily adjusted
helmet mike. Angrily he jerked the bottle out of Rodriguez' unresisting
hand.
"What the hell do you think you're playing at?" Bradford panted.
Rodriguez eyed him sullenly.
"I know these things, as my people know them. Los _Bailerines del
Diablo_--the devil-dancers. One gives them what is most precious. _Es
muy necessario._" More and more he was losing his usually fluent,
faintly accented English and reverting to his native tongue.
Bradford eyed him sternly. "Rodriguez, you are a good Catholic. You
wear a holy medal. What's all this talk about sacrifices to the devil?"
Rodriguez' gaze slid away. "I don't think God knows about this place.
This is of _El Diablo_."
"So now you want to get in good with the Devil," Bradford grunted.
"Well, you can do it some other way than with the last of the water."
He jerked his head at Canham waiting wearily behind them.
"Come on, you two. We'll all feel better when we get out of
this--desert." He ended with a wry twist of the lips. He had nearly
said 'god-forsaken.' Maybe Rodriguez had the right idea after all.
* * * * *
During the afternoon, some chance convection of air currents sharply
increased the dust whirls. The desert seemed full of their erratic,
spinning shapes. Rodriguez plodded along, ignoring Canham's sporadic
attempts at conversation. The chilly sunlight was waning and Bradford's
face lighted with relief at the sight of a small sand hill. At least
they could dig a hole to get their backs into and break the whistling
winds. He felt an irrational comfort at the thought of the coming
darkness--at least they wouldn't be able to see the dust-devils. Maybe
they could get some talk going and snap Rodriguez out of his melancholy
silence. Perhaps they had all been getting too introverted since the
series of disasters.
They made camp before dark, digging themselves well in; Bradford and
Canham forced themselves into a semblance of cheerfulness as they
worked. Rodriguez's face remained dark and unsmiling. Like one of those
damned stone images in the Yucatan jungle, Bradford thought with a
brief burst of irritation. You wouldn't think that the little Mexican
had been the ship's humorist, his face one perpetual white-toothed
smile.
As they huddled cold and uncomfortable in the gathering darkness,
Canham grinned apologetically and with the air of a conjuror producing
trained seals from a hat, gravely presented three crushed and bent
but undeniable cigarettes, distinctly contraband on the ship. He eyed
Bradford with mock contrition.
"I can't imagine how I got these in my kit. I guess when I was packing
everything just went black. Of course, if you'd care to be my companion
in crime...?"
Bradford frowned darkly. "I ought to have you in irons for this, Mr.
Canham! Now give me one of those things before I break your arm!"
With a muttered word of thanks, Rodriguez laid his carefully aside on
a handy rock and slid out of the shelter into the early dark. Canham
tossed a facetious remark after him and received the usual unprintable
reply.
The other two sat, inhaling luxuriously. Bradford sighed comfortably.
"I think he's snapping out of it. Good thing you noticed what was
happening. We'll all have to keep an eye on each other from now on."
"It's enough to drive anybody nuts. Have you noticed anything funny
about--well, about the _feel_ of the place?"
Bradford looked at him uneasily.
"What do you mean 'funny'!"
"It's just a feeling I get; you know how a brand-new house that's never
been lived in feels different than an old house that's been deserted?
They're both empty, but it's a different emptiness. It's the same way
with pieces of country--where we trained on that high desert country in
Arizona, it had a new, sort of _unused_ feeling about it."
Bradford felt an unacknowledged tingling along his nerve ends.
"Well, this is a lot like it--" he tossed out defensively. In spite of
himself he slid a sidelong glance at the surrounding dark.
Canham went on unnoticing.
"That's what I mean--it's a lot _like_ it, but it's different too. Like
it had been lived in for God knows how long, but everybody moved out."
"But there's no ruins, or anything--"
"Maybe there wouldn't be any after a million years or so. And how do
we know what's under the sand? You can't even find your own footprints
fifteen minutes after you've made them."
Bradford laughed shortly. "Well, keep your spooky ideas to yourself. We
don't want Rodriguez going clear off his rocker."
* * * * *
They sat watching the fading landscape where the dust-devils still
swooped and swung. Finally, with a faint frown, Bradford glanced at his
chronometer.
"Roddy's been gone quite a while," he said uneasily. He stood suddenly
and lifted his voice sharply.
"Rodriguez! Hey, amigo--andale Ud.!" He glanced at Canham. "I don't
like this--we don't know what we're liable to run onto in this damned
country...."
They set out, trotting clumsily in their heavy suits, circling the
mound where Rodriguez footprints were already fading in the shifting
sands. Canham gave a sudden convulsive clutch at his companion's arm.
There was no need to speak--scattered over the sand were the component
parts of a space-suit; the heavy gloves, the helmet, the shoes. And
neatly wrapped in the padded coverall the oxygen tanks. Ahead, nearly
invisible, were the prints of naked feet.
Bradford groaned. "Good God, he's gone completely nuts. He'll be frozen
stiff in ten minutes!"
They saw the crumpled heap at the same moment and with a thrill of
undefinable terror they saw the stooping, whirling shadow, spinning
dizzily over the huddled shape.
Bradford wrenched his faceplate open, yelling frantically. Gasping, he
slammed the mask shut against something like a rain of fiery sparks on
his unprotected skin. It was all too evident that Rodriguez would never
hear again.
Gathering his strength to turn the inert figure, he nearly
over-balanced--there was no weight to it at all! Beside him, Canham
cried out hoarsely, "My God--he's like a mummy--!"
The whole figure looked strangely unhuman. Completely dehydrated, the
flesh molded tight over the protruding bones, Rodriguez lay peacefully,
both stick-like hands clasped over the holy medal on his chest.
Sick and shaken, they bent to the task of scooping sand over the
shrunken body, glancing sidelong at the devil-dancers whirling
exultantly in the shadowy night.
Bradford with a defiant look at his companion, unhooked Rodriguez'
half-empty water bottle from his own belt and placed it upright at the
head of the mound.
"He knew what they wanted and I took it away from him. I guess we can
spare him this!"
Retrieving the oxygen tank and the heat batteries as they went, they
trudged wearily back to their meager shelter, sickeningly conscious of
the vacant space beside them.
Canham gave a sudden choked exclamation.
"He didn't even get to smoke his cigarette--"
Bradford caught his up-thrown arm. "He left it for us. When things get
tough we'll share it."
Canham gave an hysterical giggle. "When 'things get tough'--!
Goodnight, Hardrock!"
* * * * *
The two days following went by in a continuous waking
nightmare--putting one foot in front of the other foot, inching their
way monotonously toward the still invisible Pole. They had left the
dust-devils behind--due to some freakishness of the wind, so they
figured.
Canham looks like Death on a pale horse, Bradford thought dully. And I
probably look worse. He rubbed absently at the dry, scaly pits on his
face where the unholy dust had stung him and reverted to his private
worry. Suppose the carefully theorized solar compass was wrong? Suppose
this double-damned planet possessed a field of its own that would
throw their calculations out and they were going in circles? If they
were heading North, the Pole couldn't be more than another day or two
distant even if his reckoning had been off.
Unconsciously he lengthened his stride for a few paces, and was
reminded by his quickened breathing that he was wasting his scant
oxygen supply. They already had tapped their original spare tanks,
thankful for the lessened weight as they jettisoned the empty. Even
with Palmer and Rodriguez' partly filled tanks they only had enough for
a couple of days full time use. Since they had left the region of the
whirlwinds, they had been able to experiment cautiously with leaving
their faceplates open a few minutes at a time, even though the thin,
oxygen-starved air caused their lungs to labor painfully.
Bradford was roused from his musings by an astonished exclamation from
his companion. Down on his knees, Canham was babbling incoherently,
"--green! It's green!"
Bradford knelt beside him in awestruck silence. A tiny growth scarcely
large enough to be dignified with the title of shrub, here in this arid
plain and undeniably--green! Canham touched it caressingly.
"Baby, I hope all your brothers and sisters and the rest of the kinfolk
are just over the hill!"
Clambering to their feet, they set off, lumbering awkwardly in their
heavy suits, breath coming in labored gasps to halt abruptly at the
edge of a steep downward slope. Before them lay another belt of arid
sand and beyond a ring of marshy, pool-dotted soil encircling a solid
belt of vivid green--and faintly visible on the horizon, the glimmer of
the shallow snowcap.
Canham gulped audibly. "If Cortez really wanted a thrill, he should
have discovered this overgrown duckpond. The Pacific--phooey!"
Bradford slapped him on the back. "I feel like I could flap my wings
and fly down! Last one in's a rotten egg...."
* * * * *
Laughing with almost hysterical relief, they ran, waddled and slid,
heedless of bumps and oxygen wastage. They picked themselves up at the
bottom, grinning sheepishly.
"If Space Authority could only see us now!" Canham chortled. "Let us
now with due dignity take possession of our kingdom."
Jubilantly they strode ahead, bowing to imaginary cheering crowds.
"We've got it made, Hardrock. We got it made!"
Bradford's grin wavered. "Well ... we've got it made this far anyway,
with two months and half to go. Let's hope there's duck on that pond!"
Suddenly sobered they went on; before them the semi-arid belt seemed to
stretch interminably toward the barely visible green area. The horizon
seemed to retreat as they advanced.
"Another night in this damned desert," Bradford groaned. "At least we
may be able to get a fire going with this brush--and a real swallow of
water apiece. I hope that stuff we saw out there wasn't a mirage," he
added disconsolately.
"Not that--that was real honest-to-God water. Wish I'd brought my duck
gun. These damn supply sergeants never do send out the right equipment."
Towards dusk they scooped out a shallow hole in the sand and roofed it
with green branches.
"With our luck this stuff will probably turn out to be poison ivy,"
Canham predicted gloomily. "Join me in my thatched hut, oh beauteous
one--and look out for sandburs."
They slept fitfully, shivering through the long night hours. Bradford
announced that this was undoubtedly the North Pole and they had arrived
at the beginning of the six months night. With the first of the thin,
cheerless rays of the distant sun, they clambered out of their cramped
sleeping place, some of yesterday's enthusiasm waning as they stumbled
about, relaxing stiffened muscles.
Vaguely uneasy and depressed they started out; the very nearness of
their goal somehow seemed to make their chances of reaching it doubly
unsure.
Afternoon brought them to the edge of the marshy area; they halted,
surveying it doubtfully. Any such region on Earth would have been busy
with life--frogs croaking on lily pads, water rats and fish making
small plopping sounds in the water, tall reeds swaying. Here there was
nothing that breathed of warm-blooded life. Only the shallow pools
lying stagnant, reflecting stubby water-grasses, dotted here and there
with small mounds growing a stunted bush or two.
Canham shivered suddenly. "This is more dead than a cypress swamp. How
I'd love to see a little old cottonmouth rearing his ugly head out of
that puddle."
Bradford shifted his shoulders uneasily.
"Well, here goes! Shall we circle around a bit to see if there's a
dryer path?"
* * * * *
An hour's walking brought no change; always before them lay the
silent marsh, inimical in its unending desolation. And beyond it,
tantalizingly green, lay the only growing things on Mars.
With some difficulty they managed to find a branch apiece long enough
for a probing pole and started out reluctantly, wincing as their feet
sank deep in the fetid ooze.
"These boots are damned heavy," Bradford remarked doubtfully.
"You take yours off if you want to," Canham returned emphatically. "I'm
damned if I'm going to step on some slimy, poisonous species of fauna
in my bare feet."
They forged ahead doggedly, tapping with their poles, making for a
stunted shrub lifting itself above the rest. Bradford, slightly in the
lead, whirled as Canham gave a stifled yelp and hauled himself up on
the mound, looking slightly green.
"Felt like a whale turned under my foot," he panted. "Let's get out of
this so I can be sick--"
Foot by foot, they heaved and plunged their way through the relentless
sucking mire.
"We must be nearly to the other side," Bradford wheezed. "We've got to
make it before dark. It's a cinch we can't camp here."
Canham looked across the few hundred yards remaining and shook his head
wearily.
"This thing is like a moat; I get the feeling that we're being kept out
by one defense after another. Those harmless looking, poisonous little
beasts that killed Palmer, the wind-devils that got Rodriguez and
now--this."
Bradford repressed a shiver.
"Come on!" he said roughly. "Don't start telling your ghost stories
here, for the love of heaven! Save them for your kids."
They plopped off the further side of the mound, their feet making
gobbling noises as they lifted them one after the other in the
tenacious, clinging mud. Bradford halted suddenly.
"There it is," he breathed. "You can see the shore from here...."
Caution forgotten, they plunged ahead, panting with effort. Canham gave
a sudden startled cry.
"Brad! I can't--lift--my foot...! I can't move it!"
Bradford, a few steps to the right, felt his heart leap sickeningly at
the stark terror in the voice.
"Take it easy! Get a grip on my pole--_now_!"
He heaved strongly, feet slipping, unable to get a purchase to make
his strength felt against the pull of the quicksand. The perspiration
trickled into his smarting eyes. Through Canham's faceplate, he could
see his face set in agonized strain as he attempted to free his feet in
their heavy boots, the water level rising from waist to armpits as he
struggled. Bradford redoubled his efforts, muscles cracking as he tried
to heave the other free bodily. Canham relaxed suddenly.
"It's no use," he panted heavily. "Don't come closer--it'll just get
both of us. Don't stay and watch it--it'll just make it harder. Wait a
minute--here, catch!"
With a last convulsive effort, he jerked loose the oxygen tank and gave
it a desperate throw. Bradford automatically caught it, nearly going
off-balance and righting himself with panic-stricken effort.
"Hold on! hold on--" he gritted. "I'll get some branches from that
shrub; you can throw yourself forward so I can get a grip on you."
Canham looked at him palely.
"No use. But, I'm not going under with my helmet on, still alive,
under--_this_!"
He shuddered queasily, and with one quick jerk freed his faceplate as
he went under. For a moment the water boiled furiously as the remaining
oxygen in his suit released. Then Bradford stood alone, staring
stupidly with shock, watching as the bubbles rose more and more slowly
and died away.
He had no recollection of floundering the remaining hundred yards to
the shore. Physically sick and shaking with horror, he ploughed through
the shallowing ooze and fell headlong on wet, but solid earth.
* * * * *
The sun was sinking as he finally stirred, groaning, and pulled himself
further away from the haunted ooze. Incredibly, he slept at last,
waking to the first rays of the sun, dazed and unbelieving. Turning
instinctively for the reassurance of another face, remembrance hit him
like a blow. Bile came up into his mouth as he wrenched his faceplate
open and was grindingly, shudderingly sick.
The spasm over, he heaved himself to his feet, staring about stupidly.
Surely there was something he had to do? Every morning for so long he
had had to lift himself to his feet and force himself to go on till
dark--toward the Pole.
But--here _was_ the green and a few miles away the hoarfrost glitter of
the snowcap. There was nowhere to go!
"We made it--" he said uncertainly, looking around. But there was
no one to share the triumph. Dully, he thought of them all--Palmer,
betrayed by a gentle, kittenlike thing--Rodriguez, a human sacrifice
to something utterly alien--Canham, dead on the edge of victory. He
looked at Canham's oxygen canister and laid his hand on it gently. Then
slowly, with dragging steps, he went on toward the shining green that
had cost them so much to achieve.
The ground and the air above it as he approached were strangely warm.
And the plants too, were warm and oddly different. No biologist, he
dimly sensed a difference from any growth that Earth knew. The stems,
the leaves were veined with pulsing red and at the tip of each stem,
a flower lifted, shaped like an open mouth. There was a space between
each plant, none crowded his neighbor. It was very orderly and pleasant
and so warm--so warm. He opened his faceplate.
Drowsy and relaxed, no longer driven by unrelenting urgency, he found
himself nodding dreamily as he walked between the tall stems. With
a sigh of pleasure, he laid down among them, conscious on the verge
of sleep of an insistent demanding whisper--"More air! Give us air!"
Unhesitatingly, he opened the gauge of the oxygen tank, drifting into a
sea of darkness.
The red-veined plants about him pulsed with a quicker rhythm as the
thousand opened mouths drank in the air, rich with a richness they
had not known for a million years. And about the unconscious form of
the man, poured the carbon dioxide from the lips of a thousand oxygen
breathing creatures.
They had had a million years to learn the technique of survival as
the atmosphere of their planet drained off into space. Retreating,
adapting, eon by eon to their last stronghold: ringed round by their
guardians of the Earth, the Air and the Water.
Here were the Survivors.
THE END
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