“A plant society would be a strange one,” said Scott. “A sort of totalitarian society. Not the kind of a society animals would build … for an animal is an individual and a plant is not. In a plant race individuality would count for nothing, the race would count for everything. The driving force would be the preservation and advancement of the race as a whole. That would make a difference.”
Hugh glanced up sharply.
“You’re damned right that would make a difference,” he said. “They would be a deadly race. Once they got started, nothing could stop that singleness of purpose.”
His face seemed to blanch under the tan.
“Do you realize what’s happening?” he shouted. “For millions of years these plants have fought for bare existence on Mars. Every ounce of their effort has been toward race preservation. Every fall the bugs carefully gather all the seeds and carry them inside the building, bring them out and plant them in the spring. If it hadn’t been for some arrangement like that they probably would have died out years ago. Only a few scattered patches of them left now. …”
“But on Earth. …” said Scott.
And the two of them, white-faced, stared at one another. On Earth the Martian lilies would not have to carry on a desperate fight for their very existence. On Earth they had plenty of water, plenty of sunlight, plenty of good, rich soil. On Earth they grew larger and stronger and straighter. Under such conditions what would be the limit of their alien powers?
With the lilies multiplying each year, growing in every fence row, every garden, crowding out the farmers’ crops, lining every stream, clogging every forest … with swarm after swarm of the metallic bugs driving out into space, heading for the Earth … what would happen?
How long would the lilies wait? How would they attack? Would they simply crowd out every other living thing, conquering by a sort of population pressure? Or would they develop more fully those powers of forcing animal minds to do their bidding? Or did they have, perhaps, even stronger weapons?
“Hugh,” Scott rasped, “we have to warn Earth. Somehow we have to let them know.”
“Yes,” Hugh agreed, “but how?”
Together, limned against the harsh horizon, they stood, looking across the desert toward the Martian building.
Tiny figures, dimmed by distance, scurried about the building.
Scott squinted his eyes against the desert glare.
“What are those?” he asked.
Hugh seemed to jerk out of a trance.
“The machines again,” he said wearily. “They’re getting ready to shoot another rocket out to Earth. It’ll be the last one of the season. Earth is drawing away again.”
“More seeds,” said Scott.
Hugh nodded. “More seeds. And more bugs going out. And the worst of it is that Earth doesn’t know. No man in his right mind on Earth could even dimly speculate upon the possibility of high intelligence in plant life. There’s no reason to. No precedent upon which to base such a speculation. Earth plants have never had intelligence.”
“A message is all we need,” declared Scott. “Just get word to the Earth. They’d root up every plant on the face of the entire globe. They’d. …”
He stopped abruptly and stared out across the desert.
“The rocket,” he whispered. “The rocket is going to Earth!”
Hugh swung on him fiercely.
“What are you. …”
“We could send a message by the rocket!” yelled Scott. “They always watch for them … always hoping each one will carry something new. Some new thing from Mars. It’s the only way we can get a message back to Earth.”
“But they won’t let us near,” protested Hugh. “I’ve tried to get up close to the cradle when they were launching one and those machines always drove me away. Didn’t hurt me … but threatened.”
“We have guns,” said Scott.
“Guns,” said Hugh, “wouldn’t be worth a damn against them. The bullets would just glance off. Even explosive bullets wouldn’t harm them.”
“Sledges then,” said Scott. “We’ll make junk out of the damn things. We’ve got a couple of sledges in the ship.”
Hugh looked at him levelly.
“Okay, kid, let’s get going.”
V
The machines paid them no attention. No higher than a man’s waist, they curiously resembled grotesque spiders. Gangling rods and arms sprouted out all over them and from their trunks sprouted waving, steel antennae.
Overhead hung a swarm of the metallic bugs evidently directing the work of making the rocket ready.
“It takes just three minutes or thereabouts from the time they finally have her ready until she blasts,” said Hugh. “Whatever we are going to do has to be done in those three minutes. And we’ve got to hold them off until the rocket blasts. They’ll suspect there’s something wrong and will try to stop it but if we can hold them off. …”
“They must already have radioed Earth the rocket is coming,” said Scott. “We always got word days in advance. Probably they won’t follow up with their location messages but Doc will be watching for it anyhow.”
They stood tensed, waiting, each grasping a heavy hammer.
The space about the cradle was a scene of intense, but efficient activity. Last minute adjustments were made. Readings and settings were checked. Each machine seemed to act by rote, while overhead hung the cloud of humming bugs.
“We know what we’re to do,” said Hugh. “We’ve simply got to do it.”
Scott nodded.
Hugh shot a glance at him.
“Think you can hold them off, kid? It’ll take a while to unscrew the inner and outer caps and we have got to get that message inside the inner container or it’ll burn when the rocket hits atmosphere.”
“You just get that message in and the caps back on,” said Scott. “I’ll hold them off for you.”
Suddenly the machines scurried back from the cradle leaving a clear space of several yards around it.
“Now!” Hugh shouted and the two men charged.
The attack was a surprise. Their rush carried the line of machines between them and the cradle.
One machine barred Scott’s way
