Marooned on Mars

Suddenly he sat bolt upright, cursing himself. With six mouths to feed, they might make the long wait, if they had to. But his extra burden on their partly ruined supplies would, probably weigh the scales against them. Vance’s first lecture came back, accusingly. He had no right on Mars. The others had been sent, but he’d stolen his place, and bad no rightful claim on the food and water he’d consume.

He got to sleep finally, but it wasn’t a restful sleep. His dreams were worse than his waking thoughts had been.

He saw six graves out in the red Martian desert. There should have been seven, but someone had built a gallows instead, and a straw image of himself was hung there with the accusing details of his murder of the others written on it. As he looked, the straw man came to life and ran after him shrieking in a high wail that his ears couldn’t stand.

CHAPTER 11 Eyes in the Night

It was exactly six o’clock when the sound of a gong woke Chuck. He turned over, growling at the noise, but the gong went on until sleep was impossible. Wearily, he dropped from the hammock to see the rest of the crew doing the same.

Vance’s voice was the crack of a drillmaster as it followed the ending of the gong’s clatter. “Everybody up and out. We’re going to work!”

Ginger was reaching for his clothes, mumbling and grumbling, staring through eyes still foggy with sleep for his missing pants. ” ‘Sa dirty trick. Nobody told me Mars would be like this.”

“It’ll be worse. Ginger,” Vance stated. “From now on, you’ll be up half an hour earlier to prepare breakfast for the others. I took care of it this time.”

They stumbled into the mess hall, to a heavy breakfast of powdered-egg omelet, bacon, and carefully toasted canned bread. At least Vance didn’t mean to starve them to death, as Steele commented.

The captain grinned tightly. “That will come later, if we don’t finish in time. Now I expect you to work until you drop dead and then get up and try again. You’ll need the food. We’ve got less than seventy days to get this ship headed back to Moon City—my figures were wrong.”

He stared at them, his mouth determined.

“It can’t be done,” Sokolsky told him. “Men aren’t robots—you can’t work them twenty-four hours a day.”

“Eighteen,” Vance stated. “And I wouldn’t expect robots to work the way you’re going to. We’ll let everything go that we can—if it can be fixed after we’re space-borne, we’ll skip it. We’ve got to get the Eros level and straighten her out. Doc, Lew and Ginger will form the digging crew. I’ve got a diagram here of where I want the digging to be done. Use what metal you must, but take it easy. The rest of us will start cutting where I’ve marked the places with chalk. Dick, you can give me a hand for half an hour to make sure I’m right in my figuring; you’re a better structural engineer than I am.”

He marched them out on the half-hour, assigned them their stations, and came back to pick up one of the welding torches himself. The big acetylene-compressed oxygen rigs were the heaviest took they carried, and there were four of them. The Space Commission had insisted that four was the minimum number of men needed to repair a major meteor rip in space before they lost more than half their air, and the precaution was useful now.

At noon, when the gong sounded again, Ginger came out with their lunches. Vance set the example by eating his with one hand while he went on cutting through beams with the other. There was another pause for an afternoon snack, and then they worked on until ten in the evening.

“Get to bed,” Vance told them. He wiped his hand over his forehead and tried to grin encouragingly. “We’ve got more done than I expected today—but we’ll have to do even more tomorrow.”

After three days of that, they were finished with the cutting, and Vance sent the whole crew out to dig, except for Rothman and Steele, who were improvising jacks to lift the section that had sagged.

Chuck’s arms lost all feeling after a few hours. He kept telling himself that there was a limit to what the human animal could stand. Then his eyes would go to Vance, who was determined to drive himself hardest of all, and he would realize again that Vance had been right. Robots couldn’t do it, but men had to.

He bent forward trying to step up the count he was using to keep himself going. Beside him, Lew matched his work scoop for scoop.

That night they finished with the sand, although it took them until two in the morning. Vance pointed out that a single storm would undo half their work unless they did finish, and they went on. Every man grumbled, and most of them protested. But all of them worked.

Chuck unbent his back and beaded for the air lock. Then his glance fell on Vance, conferring with Rothman and Steele, who had been turning the huge jacks that were raising the middle section. Vance reached for one of the levers, counting. Chuck took it out of the captain’s hands. The man was swaying as he moved.

Vance didn’t protest “You’re ‘right, kid. I’m being a fool. If I collapse, I’m a liability on everyone’s hands. Five inches more, Dick, then I’m going to bed.”

Dick stared after him, shaking his head. The three men exchanged brief, weary glances, and bent to the levers. The ship moved up, a slow fraction of an inch at a time. And at last that was finished. The Eros was still a wreck, but she rested levelly on the jacks and the sand, ready for repairs.

Chuck had expected it to take over a week, and it had been done in four days. But he knew they could never keep it up. And even if they did, they would barely make their deadline.

He sighed slowly, dropped down onto the sand, and fell asleep. Some eddy of semi consciousness told him that was picking him up, undressing him, and putting him to bed. But he didn’t have energy enough to protest.

Vance was up as usual the next morning. “Easier work today—we’re all about shot. We’ll take a ten-hour day, welding the girders back together. The three non-welders will go back to supplies and separate what’s good from the rest. They can carry the damaged stuff outside and get rid of it We don’t need extra weight.”

He grinned at them, daring them to claim he wasn’t being kind to them. But no one said anything, though there were plenty of unvoiced opinions.

It took them one week to get the Eros back in sound condition, as far as her frame was concerned. It was fine progress. But the lifting of the middle section had revealed a series of gashes and separated seams that would require at least five days of welding that had not been on the original schedule. The holes were calked temporarily with the last of the tent cloth and some of the paint that wouldn’t stay long.

Vance gave no sign that it had upset his plans. He went over the group, one man at a time as they sat at supper, pointing out weakness and indicating strengths. He was a living balance sheet, and there could be no complaint of lack of justice in his statements. He went over his own work, as coolly and honestly as that of the others.

Then he put down his pencil. “Vacations are just as important as work. I learned that a long time ago. Chuck, you and Sokolsky have tomorrow off; I’d suggest that you explore a bit—you’ll get more rest than just sitting around. Report in the next morning. Next week, I’ll pick two others, and they’ll be the men who have been the steadiest. But even if I think you’ve been slacking, you still get a vacation—you just go to the bottom of the list.”

For the first time there was a brief, mutter of approval, and answering smiles as Vance got up from the table.

He turned back to them. “Thanks for that. I needed a vacation from ugly looks too. Go to bed,”

They laughed weakly as he walked out Steele grinned after him. “You know, I’ll bet we work harder next week. But I’m out for that vacation.”

They got up in a body and turned toward their hammocks. There was no delay nowadays when it came time