down. He changed batteries quickly, then touched helmets. “Get me a radio,” he explained tersely, and headed for the ship.
It was a sloppy job of installation, but a quick one. He came out again, to find the Martians waiting quietly, while the men stared at them. Only Sokolsky seemed happy about having the Martians around; the others were filled with the worry and suspicion they had picked up from sad experience.
One of the younger ones was watching Sokolsky apparently trying to burrow into the sand. Suddenly, the young Martian made a wiggling dive and began to melt from sight. There was a little ripple on the surface, and he came up at Sokolsky’s back, chirping busily. The doctor laughed as the Martian shook himself, sending a cloud of dust flying.
Vance cut through the chatter. “We’ll hear your story later. Chuck—I gather you’re in their good graces. But how can we trust them? And is there any chance we can get back the stuff they stole from us?”
“Your answer is already coming up the dune,” Sokolsky told him quickly.
They turned to see a procession of more than fifty Martians drawing near. Some were carrying the welders, others were burdened with a miscellaneous collection. One, Chuck noticed, held four cans—the missing corned beef, including the can that had been dropped in the tunnel. Sptz-Rrll tapped the welding tanks and made an elaborate ritual of the gesture which Chuck had considered a shrug. From one of the Martians, he took a small handful of bits of broken copper and offered them to the boy.
“Take them,” Sokolsky advised. “This seems to be a typical culture of its kind; formality and high-dignity are the big things. And we’d all better start thinking of them as men or Martians, if we’re going to get along well—no more of this ‘humanoid’ business, or we’ll find ourselves looking down on them, and that won’t go.”
Dick Steele came over. “And somebody might offer some food to Chuck—it’s considered good manners in our society. Come on, kid. We’ve been on short rations, but I think we can rustle up some decent food for you.”
Sokolsky waved them off, and turned back to the young Martian. Chuck looked doubtfully at Sptz-Rrll, but he knew the Martians had been on board the ship without invitation. He gestured, and the three of them headed through the air lock. There was no sign that the heavy air or high temperature bothered the Martian, except that his coat suddenly flattened down against his skin.
“It isn’t so good. Chuck,” Dick told the boy as he began pulling food out of the galley and setting it out in the mess hall. “Even Vance has had to admit that with everything, we can’t make the return trip. We can’t do it, even with all the stuff returned to us. Even getting the winches back— which we can’t, naturally—wouldn’t help much. We’re stuck—and we’re down to two meals a day, without much then.”
The engineer held out some of the food toward the Martian, who shoved it aside politely. “Anybody who expects to survive better learn to eat sand. Go ahead and eat—you need it. None of us wanted to eat much since you disappeared,”
He took out a pencil and some paper and began drawing a diagram of the solar system. Then he tossed it aside. “It’s easier to do this outside, where I can point the sun out I might as well let your friend know where we’re from.”
Sptz-Rrll reached out inquiringly for the pencil and paper. He chattered his teeth together as he saw the marks that it made, and began drawing busily, while Chuck tried to tell about the things that had happened to him. The Martian interrupted, offering the pad to Chuck. Crude as all Martian drawing seemed to be, it was easy enough to follow. The first showed a diagram of the Martians turning the space ship over, with another below it showing them pouring acid over the winches. Sptz-Rrll again went through his shrugging gesture, which apparently had something to do with an apology. He turned the page over.
This time the ship was drawn part way toward the vertical, with ropes leading back toward a whole horde of the Martians. Other Martians were busily digging out a hole for it, and still others were swarming all over the ship while seven rather strange-looking humans stood by and watched.
He handed it to Dick, who looked it over quickly, with a surprised expression that gradually changed to a wide smile. The engineer picked up the pencil and made a series of rapid strokes beside the big picture; in almost exact imitation of the style the Martian had used, there was a procession of Martians going back from the ship, carrying goods of various kinds.
“Well have to get Vance’s okay,” he told Chuck quietly. “But it would work. With unlimited labor, even unskilled labor that can’t speak our language, we could make it with time to spare. And we have plenty of things they can use.”
That night, the floodlights had been brought out from the ship and were directed at a wide spot on the sand near by. Seven men from Earth and seven others from Mars were busily at work, tracing patterns in the sand and wiping them out. They were also using signs which increased as they went along; there was no attempt to organize a common language yet, but one was growing into existence there, all the same.
Vance grinned at Chuck, who sat across from Sptz-Rrll. “I guess I’ll get used to the fact that you’re acting captain, Chuck, while they’re around. I’m not sure but what I like it—you’ll have to do all the settling of disagreements between the two groups.”
“He won’t have any trouble from the Martians,” Sokolsky said. “Not until we get them so civilized that their own natural culture goes to pieces, and not then, if we go at it right. These people regard friendship as an absolute, all-out thing.”
Chuck nodded. They’d already proved that. Once Chuck had helped them with the welding, they were compelled to risk their lives, if necessary, for him and for his people, according to their codes.
It would require constant vigilance to make sure that only the highest type people from Earth came in contact with them, but the United Nations was set up now to handle such situations, even in cases of national trusteeships and planets beyond the Earth.
Things would work out, he was sure. Earth could give Mars the metal and the power needed, and some of the Martian plants would pay for all the trouble, with more than equal value. Both cultures could become richer because of the relationship. Men from Earth and men from Mars could rise together—some day even to the stars that filled the sky overhead.
But all that was in the background of his mind. In the foreground, he knew that he was no longer worried about having been a seventh man on the ship. He’d finally earned his way. He no longer cared whether he was a man or a boy—and maybe that was what being a man meant.
He leaned back on the sands, looking up at the
On the next trip there’d be no trouble. He was eighteen now, and he was experienced. He knew he’d be back.
Copyright
First Printing: February, 1967
Copyright © 1952 by Lester del Rey
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 52-5497.
This Paperback Library Edition is published by arrangement with Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc.
