The old Martian had seen a chance to get back some of the culture that was rapidly dying away, and had seized it. Now, though, he was finding that all his hopes for fixing the ruined equipment were useless.
The sigh the old Martian made was almost human. He came over and stood in front of the boy again, holding the compressor in his hands. He thrust it toward Chuck doubtfully, and looked at the welder.
Chuck nodded, and wriggled his arms frantically, trying to show that they would have to be free. He saw understanding on Sptz-Rrll’s face too.
But the old Martian only sighed again and turned back. He couldn’t risk it. Chuck slumped down. For a moment, he had almost hoped. If he could get the welder in his hands, he’d have a weapon that would be strong enough to force them to map out a way to the surface!
The others in the workshop were going back to their jobs, molding clay, carving at stone utensils, or carefully trying to shape crude bits of copper. But Sptz-Rrll sat despondently in the center of the floor. He lifted a little stone lid there, and came up with a group of thin porcelain plates all painted in bright colors.
Chuck strained his eyes toward them, and the old creature held them out. They were pictures of the work methods used in the past. The last one showed what might have been a windmill on the surface, with a shaft down to gearing that ran what could only have been the compressor. It was obvious that Mars had fought hard to develop civilization, but that the battle had been lost; they were on the long, downhill road back to savagery. After the windmill they had used the treadmill that still stood against the wall. Now they had nothing that needed power.
Chuck coughed harshly; his nose and throat had been bothering him. The cough only made things worse. He frowned, and then realized that the traces of water left in the blower unit for moistening the air must be gone; probably the Martians had drained that precious fluid off at once.
Sptz-Rrll was staring at him in deep thought now. The creature put the plates back slowly. He got up and moved back to a dark corner of the room. Then he approached Chuck again, hesitantly. He drew nearer, a step at a time, watching for a hostile move. Chuck sat motionlessly. Finally, Sptz-Rrll took the plunge. He darted in, and his quick little hands found the cap without error. Something gurgled, and the air grew more breathable. Sptz-Rrll screwed the cap back on, and again his eyes moved from Chuck to the welder.
Suddenly another weird cry broke from outside. One by one, the Martians began to file from the room. Sptz-Rrll waited until the last, but he obeyed whatever command it was without holding up the parade. Chuck was left alone in the workroom.
He muttered angrily, sure that the old Martian had been about to risk freeing his hands in the hope he would handle the welder. It was too late for that now.
He drew his arms up to his chest, testing the cords without any real hope. He heaved—and the cords snapped!
For a second he stared at them before he began unwinding himself. They’d judged his muscles by his size, not by his Earth origin, where he’d had to adapt to nearly three times the effort that would be required for the same results on Mars.
He slid out of the last of the cords and kicked them aside. With a single jump he was across the room and grabbing the big welding torch. He flicked it on, setting the flame to low. Now let them try to stop him! Even their ridiculous doors would be useless against this.
The tanks were a full load for him, but he had carried the equipment around while the ship was being repaired and he had no doubt of his ability to handle it now. He let the flame spurt out with a roar and brought it back to a clean, hot point again.
His step was almost jaunty as he headed toward the entrance. There’d still be plenty of trouble—but not if he walked into the first meeting room he’d seen and gave them a real demonstration of a welder at work. They’d be happy to get rid of him, then.
He passed the low bench where Sptz-Rrll had laid the ruined compressor. He picked it up and examined it, curious about the odd cleverness that had enabled them to find the best design for the housing and blades while they were still hammering it out of bits of copper by hand.
He knew he wasn’t going to leave the old Martian without granting the request that had been in those big eyes. He’d never be able to sleep nights. From Sptz-Rrll’s view, there had been no destruction or thievery; it had been a blinding hope for a rebirth of some of the culture they had once known, and the creature would have been a fool not to do anything he could to gain his ends. At least, there’d been no murdering involved.
Chuck found the right rod and adjusted his flame. He hadn’t worked too much with copper, and he didn’t like the idea. His experience had been with the hardest, toughest allows known. But the equipment would braze copper, and he’d had some training. He spread the housing section on the floor and began depositing metal on it, smoothing it out as best he could. When it was done, he knew it was probably better than the original. One of the impeller blades was cracked off, and he found it among the broken bits Sptz-Rrll had been saving. It was a little more work to braze it back on, but it left the compressor as useful as it had been when it was first finished.
He felt better as he reassembled it and put it on the bench where the creature would be sure to find it. It had taken only a little time.
He glanced down at the indicator on the blower, at the thought of time. It should have been fully charged, but it wasn’t The Martians must have been fascinated by electrical equipment, judging by his burned-out helmet light and these batteries; probably they shorted them to watch the spark.
He had only an hour’s current left. But it should be enough.
He turned to go, getting the welder ready to tackle the door, if it gave him trouble.
The door swung inward as he started toward it, and the Martians began trooping back!
Chuck lifted the torch and let the flame leap out They halted at the sight, and he pointed it at the floor which steamed faintly, dry as it must have been. He pointed it toward them again and started forward.
They gave ground slightly, studying the situation out of their huge eyes, but without any sign of real fear. Here, on their home ground, the grab and run tactics they used on the surface were not even considered.
They drew backward, keeping as far to the side as they could, so that he had to watch every move they made. They were out of the workshop now, backing down the tunnel. Here the only light was from the torch, and it was a poor one. He’d been staring at it too intently—the plastic of his helmet could save him from the dangerous ultra-violet radiation of the torch, but it couldn’t help his eyes adjust to both the bright spot of light and the shadows around.
The torch sputtered. It came on again, and again it sputtered. This time it went out, leaving him in darkness. He’d forgotten to check the tanks and it had simply run out of fuel.
Knowing the reason didn’t help him any. Knowing that whatever the Martians pilfered seemed to be about to stop working hadn’t helped him, either.
He leaped backward toward the workshop, then reversed field, and plunged forward blindly into them. But it was a useless trick. Hands shot out toward him with the sureness of certain vision, and equally certain knowledge that he couldn’t see. They piled onto him in a mad scramble, avoiding his flailing arms, and always beyond reach of his kicking legs.
A sudden shortness of breath warned him that they had found his vulnerable point. He stopped moving, before they shut off the blower intake completely. There was no use fighting when the other side had all the trumps.
Chuck let them walk him back into the workshop without any attempt to resist them. They chirped busily over the broken cords he had left, and reached a quick decision. Two of them began unfastening the straps of the welder harness, while-three more came up with the unpleasant-looking weapon they had used to threaten him before.
He held out his hands without protest. The straps tightened on his wrists and were gathered neatly into a knot that he could not hope to work loose. Others took care of his legs.
This time there would be no breaking away. He’d played his best trick, and they’d beaten him.
Sptz-Rrll appeared finally, staring mournfully at the empty welder. His eyes were accusing, but the shrug he gave was the same as it had been before. The little Martian turned back to his bench.
He stopped, staring at the compressor, and a torrent of chirps came from his vocal cords, or whatever he used. Chuck’s eyes narrowed as the Martians gathered around, examining the repaired mechanism. If they felt gratitude…
Sptz-Rrll put the compressor back on the table while the others returned to their work. The creature moved
