over to stare at the dial that indicated the charge remaining in Chuck’s battery. A small hand came up over a round mouth, while the chest heaved and contorted, showing every symptom of strangling.
Then he shrugged and walked casually out the entrance.
CHAPTER 18
Martian Gesture
Chuck pulled his knees up and dropped his helmet against them. In his ears, the faint whir of the blower made a background to his thoughts, reminding him of the minutes ticking away. It seemed that his whole life had been made up of minutes ticking away and reprieves that came to nothing. But this one hurt more than all the others.
Sptz-Rrll was only a Martian, and Chuck had been wrong in expecting human motivation of him; he knew that now. He’d read too much into mannerisms which might have had nothing to do with the emotions he’d believed them to mean. He’d been almost certain that the Martian would show gratitude in some way; he’d even begun to like the creature, even though he was a captive. To have his death dramatized and then shrugged off as unimportant…
Rule for understanding alien races: Don’t read human feelings into nonhuman actions!
Sokolsky could probably have saved him the trouble of learning it the hard way. Sokolsky would have gone off on a long lecture on the subject.
Sptz-Rrll came back as casually as he had left, carrying a heavy porcelain plate in his hands. The others immediately dropped what they were doing to cluster around, with soft twitting and chirping noises. Then the old Martian came over toward Chuck and bent down to begin unfastening his bonds!
For the second time in one minute, Chuck cursed his own foolishness. He’d been making up a rule—which he violated while he thought of it; he’d been taking it for granted that the first interpretation of Sptz-Rrll’s shrugging gesture had been the only possible one, because it seemed completely human.
Or was he still misinterpreting, and not being freed, after all?
The Martian put an end to that worry almost at once. He squatted on the floor and drew a square, waving his hand around the workshop to indicate that it was being symbolized. A series of zigzag lines followed. At the other end, there was a crude sketch of the space ship.
Sptz-Rrll stood up then and reached for one of Chuck’s hands. Without more ceremony, he headed for the entrance which opened at once. Five of the other Martians followed as they moved into the darkened tunnels; each of them carried one of the illuminating squares Chuck had seen on the walls.
The squares gave off only a dim, weak light, but it was enough for him to see. The way was twisting, as they struck down side passages, through straight sections and curves, and seemed to wander aimlessly. It was probably exactly as Sptz-Rrll had drawn it, and he had no reason to doubt that it was the shortest route to the ship.
He wondered whether they had known of his wanderings around the tunnels before? If they had, why hadn’t they made an earlier effort to capture him? He tried to find some way to ask it of the Martian, but it was too complicated.
A screech sounded from behind them, and the procession stopped until another Martian could catch up with them. The lamp for Chuck’s helmet was in its hands, and it extended the useless object to him gravely. It was not so useless at that, he realized. There’d be fresh batteries on the ship. He took it with an attempt at equal formality and inserted it into the catches on his helmet.
They must have known of his stumbling around; the helmet was a giveaway to that. Then be realized that there were seven of the Martians with him—the same number as the crew of the
There would be mysteries for years to come. Man had never been fully able to understand different customs among various groups of his own people. How could complete understanding be achieved with a race which grew up under such utterly different conditions?
Maybe they were going to act as a formal dickering group to get the best price for the return of the equipment the ship needed—if they’d consent to give them up after having spent so much trouble to accumulate all the gadgets they wanted.
They passed an open door, and an arm slipped out, quickly dropping Chuck’s knife into his hand. That arm had been covered with a silvery coating of fur, totally unlike those of all the Martians Chuck had seen.
There were too many unsettled things to worry about such mysteries, or to let him feel particularly happy. Strangely, his deepest pleasure was not at being returned safely to the ship, but at finding that Sptz-Rrll had been all that he had believed.
They were on an inclined ramp now, moving upward. Chuck couldn’t tell whether it was the one on which he had come down, but there was something vaguely familiar about it He kept looking around for something familiar, but there was nothing he could identify.
Sptz-Rrll reached for one of the illuminating squares and moved it close to the floor, pointing. There were the dim prints of Chuck’s boots there. Apparently the Martian had interpreted his glances correctly and was reassuring him.
They came up through the same mosaic pattern that had first shown Chuck the way down, into late afternoon sunlight. The boy realized that less than twenty-four hours had gone by.
The seven Martians dropped back to let him lead the way. He stopped, though, for another look at the mosaic. The silhouettes of the humanoids on if were crudely done, but they gave enough details, if all were studied, to show that the race had changed very little since the floor was laid. Chuck wondered if there were records or legends that went back to the time when they had lived on the surface, before they found a refuge from the extremes of Martian temperature by going underground?
Sptz-Rrll tugged at his hand, pointing to the indicator that showed the charge of the blower battery was almost exhausted.
Chuck shook himself. The Martian was right—he had no business lingering here while his battery ran down. He began a quick lope toward the ship. He’d have to go ahead and warn the ship that the Martians were coming if he could make Sptz-Rrll understand that it would be better to wait.
The Martian caught his hand again, and pointed to the blower. He made a fast whirl of his hand in a roughly circular motion, then went slower and slower to follow it with his strangling gestures.
The sprint had taken more out of Chuck than it should have done. But he had to make it to the ship.
Two of the Martians gravely reached for his legs, two more tried to take his arms, and another pair were linking hands around his middle. Sptz-Rrll was motioning toward the helmet. With a quick, well-coordinated motion, they had him stretched out horizontally, and were carrying him—giving him a chance to rest and get by with the smaller amount of air the motor could pump in now.
They came over the top of the dune toward the ship and into full view of the whole ship’s crew. Chuck could barely see them, at the angle of his head. He tried to wave an arm, but it was securely held by one of the Martians.
The men were facing toward the procession now. Vance’s hand went for his automatic, and the metal of it flashed bluely in the sunlight. Chuck groaned. But the little form of Sokolsky had leaped in the way of the shot, motioning frantically.
A second later, the doctor was running toward them, his face a picture of misery. Then his eyes fell on Chuck’s smile, and his own expression underwent a lightning change. His mouth opened and shut, shouting out the news over the radio to those who were watching.
Sptz-Rrll motioned to the indicator as the doctor bent over, and Sokolsky fell into a trot beside them, touching helmets. “We thought they’d captured you and killed you—that this was some kind of funeral procession. But I had to be sure before we gummed up the works. What gives?”
“They’re friendly—they let me go.”
Steele came bounding toward them, waving a new battery, and Chuck motioned his bearers to put him
