But when Susan awoke, and saw it too every avenue of escape was blocked to him. Susan didn’t scream. Her breath came in a sharp gasp, but her self-control was extraordinary.
“Peter,” she whispered. “Turn on the lights. The light will scare it away.”
Peter’s heart leapt with sudden hope. But when he tried to move his knees came together, and his muscles tightened up.
“I’ll do it, Peter,” Susan said.
He heard her getting to her feet, and panic struck at him again. The light switch was close to the door, and for one awful moment Peter had a sickening vision of Susan being snatched away into the darkness forever, her eyes turned upon him in agonized reproach.
Peter half stumbled, half dragged himself to the light switch. He got ahead of Susan and pushed her back, becoming all at once the recognized leader of an indomitable band of desert-roaming men, scornful of ferocious beasts, and with little thought to spare for his own safety.
The light came on in a sudden, blinding flare.
“I won’t let it catch you, Susan!” Peter cried. “If it catches me run for help!”
With that, Peter leapt back and stared wildly.
The doorway was a square of inky blackness, and there was nothing to be seen beyond it. If lights could kill lights had killed—or convulsed the creature with such instant, overwhelming terror that it had vanished without a sound.
It had vanished so completely that it was remarkably easy for Peter to persuade himself that he had acted bravely from the instant of his awakening.
Lest censure bear too heavily upon him, it should be remembered that even a lion makes haste to hide itself in the impenetrable depths of the forest when alarmed by an unfamiliar scent, or a shadow not quite to its liking.
“Now Mr. Caxton will have to believe me, Susan,” Peter said. “Did you see its claws? Two in front and two in back.”
Susan said nothing. She stood staring into the darkness at Peter’s side, and although there was nothing to be seen there was a great deal to be heard.
Somewhere in the darkness Mr. Caxton was shouting. That did not surprise Susan. Mr. Caxton had no control at all over his anger. The instant he became annoyed he raised his voice, and when he became really furious his shouts could be deafening.
There is a coarseness of speech which strains the credulity of children. Their innocence is spared because adult anger is quite unlike the brief, quickly-aroused belligerency which results in blackened eyes, and bruised knuckles.
Listening, Peter and Susan both knew that Mr. Caxton’s anger was a thing peculiar to himself. It could only have been brought forth piping hot from the kindling of great, smouldering fires deep inside him.
He could be heard shouting and cursing in the darkness for a full minute before he came striding into the shack.
“You little devils!” he shouted. “Next time you scream like that you’ll wish you hadn’t. Oh, how you’ll wish you hadn’t! How can a man get any rest when he can’t hear himself think?”
“It wasn’t me,” Susan said. “It was Peter. If you saw what we saw you’d scream too, Mr. Caxton.”
“Now wait a minute,” Mr. Caxton said. “Stop right there. Before I listen to any of that you may as well know that screaming is a luxury you can’t afford.”
Susan refused to wait. “Peter saw what it was made the clawmarks,” she said, defiantly. “I saw it too.”
Mr. Caxton stood very still, looking at her. “Likely enough,” he said, with derisive malice. “The clawmarks couldn’t just stand alone. You have to work over a gnat to make it bring forth a mountain.”
“It’s true, Mr. Caxton,” Peter corroborated. “We both saw it. It was all covered with feathers.”
“One moment, boy!” Mr. Caxton rasped. “Exactly where was it standing when you saw it?”
“In the doorway,” Peter said.
“In the doorway. How interesting. There’s no animal life at all on Mars. But you saw a bird. How tall was it, boy?”
“Much taller than you are, Mr. Caxton!” Susan said, quickly.
Mr. Caxton bent, and gripped Peter’s arm. “I asked Peter,” he said, shaking him. “Speak up, boy. Is there something wrong with your tongue?”
“It was big, Mr. Caxton,” Tommy managed. “It had four toes. Two in front, and two in back.”
“And a long, curving bill, I suppose.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Caxton.”
“You’ve seen pictures of birds—Earth birds. Did you ever see a bird without a bill?”
“No, Mr. Caxton. But it was dark. It just stood in the door, and looked at me.”
In the human mind deliberate, calculated cruelty can wear many masks. Its range is infinite, its devious twistings and turnings often subtle beyond belief.
Mr. Caxton could have slapped Peter’s face, or so terrified him by shaking him that he would have thrown himself down, and given way to a wild, uncontrollable fit of sobbing.
But Mr. Caxton had a better, and far more sagacious idea. The boy fancies himself an explorer. Teach him a lesson he’ll never forget. Prove to him that his knowledge of the natural sciences would disgrace a four-year-old—no, an infant in swaddling clothes.
“All right, Peter,” Mr. Caxton said. “Suppose we take a look at the planet Mars. It’s the planet of your birth, remember. A boy with real intelligence should know a great deal about the planet of his birth, shouldn’t he?”
Peter gulped and stared, knowing that Mr. Caxton did not really expect an answer.
“Peter,” Mr. Caxton went on. “The first space rocket reached Mars in . This is the year . Fifty years is a long time, Peter. In all those years no man or boy has ever seen a Martian animal.
“Do you know why, Peter?” Mr. Caxton gave Peter’s arm a slight wrench. “I’ll tell you why. A man requires so much gaseous oxygen to support his life that he can’t walk twenty yards on Mars without an oxygen mask. He’d drop
