Something that might -have been a tree was worked into the center. They cleaned some of the dirt and rubble away to examine it more closely, and Sokolsky let out a shout
“Humanoid!”
It was true enough. Standing around the tree were about a dozen creatures, each vaguely manlike. They carried themselves upright, with a rounded head, two arms, and two legs. Sokolsky pointed out that the elbow and knee joints were similar to those of men—a remarkable case of parallel evolution. “Probably didn’t look this much like us—all we’re seeing is silhouettes in rather bad art—but they are still more like us than you’d think. Look—is that a spear?”
They studied it while Ginger took endless pictures, but couldn’t make up their minds. Lew drew out a knife from his tool pouch and started to dig out some of the mosaic.
Vance stopped him. “Let it alone. If people have to vandalize this planet so that future generations who know more won’t have any real evidence, we’re not going to be the ones to start it. We can take back pictures, if we get back—but we won’t destroy the evidence.”
There were no idols, or evidence of religion, unless the tree thing was worshiped. It might have been, though Lew thought that it was probably another geometrical design, showing some relationship among peoples or tribes.
Nor was there any evidence of what had happened to the Martians; they might have vanished, or they might simply have moved on to other locations. Steele didn’t believe the last He pointed to the wear on the stones. “It must have been at least ten million years ago when this was built. That’s hard stone, and there’s only the thin wind and sand to wear it away. They must have died off. Maybe that basin over there held some of the last of their water, and when it went from the atmosphere, they couldn’t adapt. ‘Gone with the snows of yesteryear’ would be more truth than poetry in their case.”
Night was falling when they turned back. They knew now as much as they had known before, and no more, except that the original people might have looked vaguely human. But Vance had proved right. The day of rest had been more important than even the pressure of the work.
Ginger broke down enough to tell them where a few precious canned steaks were hidden, and they made a sort of community picnic out of it, broiling them over the little hot plates. The tomatoes and lettuce from the gardens hadn’t been seriously hurt, and the salad was officially tossed by Vance.
Rothman alone seemed to have gained no lift from the day. He moved off, still worrying, toward the control room. Apparently the only trace of a sense of humor in his make-up came out only under extreme danger. Chuck followed. His own family had been on his mind more than he’d cared to let the others see, and the radar set might be repaired more easily than much of the rest of the equipment. After all, it wasn’t really work; electronics had always been a hobby.
He found Rothman fussing over the communications set The man jerked up quickly, his dark face flushing faintly. Chuck looked at what he had been doing, and lifted his eyebrows.
“No test instruments?” he asked.
Rothman shrugged. “I worked my way through college— eight years of it—designing these things for a little electronics firm. You get a sixth sense about the inside of them, even if you can’t make them sit up and purr. You’ve lost one of those tubes—someday they’ll make them out of nothing but crystals—I’d say; what do you think?”
Chuck wondered how many other talents the man held in check, but he simply nodded. “Maybe. Either that, or (here’s real trouble. I’ve been thinking about it. If the spare isn’t ruined, well soon know.”
He located it, and could see no evidence of damage to the case in which it was so carefully packed. At better than
He plugged it in with the little tool needed to handle it, and cut on power. The indicator light flashed on, and a hum began to come from the small speaker.
Rothman nodded. “Just that I’m fine—my wife…”
He saw the surprise in Chuck’s eyes, and nodded again. “I got married three days before take-off; I didn’t lie to the Commission when I said I was single. She insisted on it I suppose it doesn’t matter now who knows.” 91
Vance found them there just as the answering signal came through with its frantic excitement. They’d been given up as dead. Chuck sent quick assurances and a brief report before demanding connection to the Space Commission. Then he turned the instrument over to Vance, who began reeling off facts and figures. They were in luck—there was almost no static.
The others were doing odd jobs; now that some of the shock and fatigue were gone, they couldn’t be expected to escape the work completely when they couldn’t turn around without seeing something that desperately needed doing. But they were carefully avoiding physical effort as much as possible. Vance had apparently decided to accept the compromise.
The captain came down later, to join them in (he mess hall, which was slowly being turned into the chief room. A couple of the inflatable plastic chairs had been set up, and the table had been folded back into the wall. Nothing could make the stem, utilitarian walls of the ship look like home. No room which is designed so that any one of its six walls may be the deck can be given a homey touch. But it was better than the narrow alcoves where their hammocks were set up.
Vance shook his head. “They’re trying to figure out the margin I have with the fuel left. It would take us two days to get an approximation, but they’ll let us know tonight.”
He dropped onto a bench with the fatigue back on his face, though not as badly as the day before. Sokolsky made a gesture toward him and then checked it Vance would probably worry more in bed than out, his expression said.
But Chuck had gotten fed up with the depression. He’d been hit hard enough himself, and his mood was still one of loose ends and futile gestures. Still, sitting around and watching other men go back to their blues didn’t help. He turned toward the hammocks to lie and think by himself, or to sleep if he could.
Suddenly a high, keen wailing sound cut through the room, seeming to come from outside. Chuck felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He jumped to the hull, placing his ear against, it while the others rushed over to follow his example.
There was nothing for a few minutes. Then it came again—a thin, piping sound that rose to a quivering shriek and died away slowly.
Their faces were gray and taut as they faced each other. “It came from out there,” Chuck said, unnecessarily.
The others nodded. Sokolsky laughed nervously. “The wind—there must be a hollow stone. No living lungs could have power enough to make that carry through this atmosphere!”
“There’s no wind,” Vance told him quietly. “Up in the control room, I could see the sand out there lying completely still”
The doctor shrugged. “It must be blowing out there, even if it isn’t here. It’s just the wind.”
Nobody could dispute him, though Chuck wondered what force of wind would be needed.
Vance stood up and moved back to the control room. Chuck started toward the hammocks, and then swung after his captain. He arrived just in time to hear the speaker come to life. There was a long preamble about the difficulty of getting exact estimates, but the message finally got down to brass tacks.
“You have fuel enough to reach Earth it you take off in seventy days. Otherwise, you’ll have to use too much to reach us, and won’t be able to land.”
Vance cut the set off sharply and snapped off the lights. He sat staring out toward the desert as Chuck turned and moved softly back toward his hammock.
Seventy days to do work that couldn’t be done in a hundred! And if they couldn’t do it, they’d have to wait month after month until their supplies ran out before they had another chance.
