from the end of their explorations—the arbitrary limits imposed by time and energy for the ships—there might be fellow races to stir the spark that was dying in mankind.
Then he grinned bitterly and looked out through the window, turning the single workable searchlight on the Martian ruins. Man had found evidence of other life hi his own backyard, and it had carried him for centuries.
But it was not enough to drive him onward forever. There was nothing on Outpost that couldn’t be had here—and no colony had lasted on Mars.
Zeke squinted his eyes as he studied the pylon again, noting the queer, twisted decorations on it. He had seen the report of the scientists, and they had finally given up the riddle. It would take more than this to drive men farther outward. And Miffen’s voice had sounded too doubtful.
But some of the hope remained faintly in him as he stood staring into the Martian night. It would have to wait until he heard more. Now it was only another mystery, like that of the lost race of Mars.
What had happened to them? They had known how to cast tungsten, and there was evidence that nuclear reactions had been used in tempering the pylons. That was high-level science. Where had it gone? There had apparently been no long period of high civilization, since the pylons all over the planet were about alike, with few advances in the later ones. There hadn’t been time enough for the race to become decadent. Nor was there any evidence of war carried on by a race with advanced nuclear physics; there would have been enough signs of that. They couldn’t have settled Earth, of course—it wouldn’t have been suitable then. But they must have had starships. What had kept them from spreading outward—had even wasted them into nothingness in such a brief period of culture on their own planet?
His thoughts were interrupted by a beep from the speaker, and he switched on the automatic ultrawave because that would guide the ship down. Overhead, a thin whine thickened to a stuttering cough, the unhealthy sound of gasping, unshielded rockets that had been used too often and in too many futile landings. It was coming down well enough, though, half a mile away. Zeke watched it land while he was climbing into anti-radiation armor.
The ground was still smoking, but the counter showed the radiation low enough for a quick passage when he went out. He waited for the outer lock to open, then made a dash toward it, his breath reminding him that he was old and had not been rejuvenated. He crawled into the lock and stopped to catch himself before removing the armor, while the inner lock began to open.
Then he was facing four gaunt, weary men. His eyes darted back for the others of the thirty who had gone out, but Miffen was shaking his graybearded head. “Four of us, General. We had a few casualties. But…”
His arm swept out toward the field, now illuminated by the beams of the great ship, and his eyes fixed on the scene of the sand-filled pits and bits of building foundations that showed through the quartz of the entrance port.
Zeke shrugged and reached for his cigarettes. The sudden hunger in their eyes hit him then, reminding him of stores now depleted in all those long years. He passed the package around, careful not to notice the hands that shook as they pulled out the cylinders.
“We’ve had some casualties, too, you might say,” he told Miffen. He lighted his own cigarette finally, and his shoulders lifted and dropped at the other’s expression. “And I’m not a general now—not since Marsport was abandoned. I came out only because we were expecting you back…. What about Outpost?”
“In my cabin I’ve got it on microfilm.” Miffen swung about, waving the three crewmen off. For the first time, Zeke noticed that one of them had the flaming red hair that had always distinguished Preacher Hook.
He lifted an eyebrow and Hook nodded, pulling out a worn Bible and making a circle with his thumb and finger. “All memorized,” he stated. But the grin on his face was uncertain, and the achievement no longer seemed to be important to him.
Zeke had forgotten the size of these star shins as they went up the handrails. The elevators were obviously not working. Miffen swung up the last and turned into a little cabin, kicking the door farther open. He dug into a worn chest and came out with a small package and a little viewer.
“I figured some things from what little we picked up of Earth’s broadcast,” he remarked emotionlessly as he threaded the film into the viewer. “But I ‘didn’t believe it. Not until I saw Marsport. I guess… well, this will give you an idea of Outpost. I explored all the suns around I could reach, but I never learned where the race originated.”
Zeke adjusted the lenses carefully, seeing the unfamiliar two-dimensional flatness of non-stereo for the first time in centuries. It was awkward at first, but his eyes soon relearned the trick of fooling themselves.
There were several scenes, showing a sky of dull green, with grayish sand and something that looked like jumbled blocks of granite. As he stared, a pattern began to show itself. Something had been built there once, and by intelligence. Closer viewing showed that the stones had been shaped geometrically, under all their weathering.
He came to a list of statistics and skimmed through it. Then he reached the final scene.
Miffen’s voice suddenly sounded behind him, awkward and too tense. “What about the other ships?”
“They all got back—they’re piled up beside the field, beyond the reach of your lights. No use to us now. Thirty-nine hulks, and yours makes the fortieth—all we ever built.” He turned back to the film, but again Miffen’s voice interrupted him.
“All? I’d expected… That bad, eh?”
“Worse. I suppose you’re entitled to know what you’ve come back to. You’ll see it soon enough, though—and better than I can tell you.” Zeke clamped the viewer to his eye firmly, and turned to the light once more. “There was purpose when you left. Now that’s all past tense.”
“Yeah.” Miffen let the word hang. He must have seen Zeke’s sudden tenseness and realized there was no use putting off the inspection of the final scene on the film any longer. Zeke was staring at it, but he was unconscious of what his eyes saw, and the last of the hope in him was draining slowly away.
He stared up at Miffen, tapping the viewer. “You know what this is, of course. Or do you?”
Miffen shook his head. “I suspected. But I never paid much attention back here, and it’s been a long time. I kept hoping I was crazy.”
Zeke made no answer. He picked up the viewer and headed toward the control room, with Miffen following. Still silently, he pointed out through the viewports, across the leprous surface of Mars, toward the pitted beryl steel pylon that gleamed in the light from the Star Station. Then he put the viewer to his eyes again.
The sky was green instead of black, and the sand was gray where Mars was covered with red. But the scene was the same. A gleaming metal pylon rose from the rubble of ruined blocks, carrying the queer, twisted decorations that had been typical of all Martian structures. There was no question about what race had tried to colonize Outpost—and had failed.
Suddenly a work-gnarled hand took the viewer from him, and he turned to see Preacher Hook and the other men. They must have-followed Miffen and himself into the control room. But it didn’t matter. They must have suspected. And there was no surprise on their faces as they passed the viewer from one to another, comparing the scene with that outside.
Almost without feeling, Zeke picked up the ultrawave microphone and called the administration building, ordering the robot to bring his rocket down beside the big star ship. He adjusted the dials carefully and spoke terse, coded symbols into the instrument. A moment later, Stendal’s voice answered him.
“I’m bringing the four survivors down in my ship,” he reported in a voice that seemed completely detached from him. “Give us a secrecy blanket until we can report in full. And see if you can nil a few bathtubs with whiskey. We’ll need it.”
Stendal seemed to catch his breath and then sigh, but his words were level when he spoke. “So Pandora’s box was just a fairy story, after all. Well, I never had many hopes. Okay, I’ll get the liquor, Zeke. And about your rejuvenation—I’m getting a private installation here for you. If the others need it, we’ll take care of all of you.”
Zeke looked up at the four men, and then out toward the pylon again—all that was left of a race that had searched the stars in its need to find new frontiers. It must have been a hardy race, since it had dared to set up a colony across all those innumerable parsecs of space, without even the inspiration of other life. Then, when that colony had failed, the race had returned to the loneliness of its own little world, where the stars looked down grimly, no longer promising anything. Now Mars had been dead ten million years, and the pylon stood as the final tombstone on the world which had become a prison. The old puzzle of that race’s end was solved.
