Chapter 10
Axel and I did not get a chance to have our talk immediately. For one thing, I was completing my disciplinary tours of duty imposed by Dr. Spartan and, for another, I was faced with the extra duties imposed on me by the death of Morrie.
Spartan had not attempted again to take my life, a fact that seemed very strange to me. He continued to thrive on his hatred for all of us, particularly Axel and me. Understandably, he wasn’t quite as harsh with Gail. Toward Joel he seemed to have adopted a special manner. On the surface he was as curt toward him as toward the others, but I noticed that Joel was given light duties, while the rest of us got the menial tasks and the tough ones. Not that this mattered, because to be busy was not to be bored. But Joel was Spartan’s fair-haired boy, there was no doubt about that. Perhaps Spartan saw need for an ally, or maybe he planned to use him for things that were to come.
Joel was elated because his chief often invited him into the chartroom for a meal, or to discuss adjustments in our orbit. And I am sure Joel reported every slip of the tongue Axel and I made which showed our true feelings toward Spartan.
Before my extra duty—and Gail’s—ended, we reached the middle part of our voyage. At this point we had achieved the maximum speed for the trip, which was 40,000 miles per hour. This was far short of the ship’s theoretical speed of 100,000 miles per second, but Mars was too near the earth for that kind of travel.
Planners of the trip had computed several possible routes to Mars. The shortest, a mere 40 million miles, would be undertaken when our earth and Mars were nearest each other. Such a route would be like cutting across a vacant lot from one street to the next parallel street. However, there would be fences to climb in the form of the sun’s pull of gravity. The ship would have to use power from the first day till the last, and much pay load would have to be sacrificed.
The second route would use a minimum of fuel and maximum time. We would accelerate to an orbit intersecting the paths of the earth and Mars. Then the motors would be cut and we would coast in free flight to our destination, where we would decelerate. But such a trip would take from five to seven years.
Our actual path was a compromise between the two. We would use a minimum of fuel and a minimum of time. It was faster than plan 2, but more economical than plan 1. We would accelerate to a good speed, coast awhile on the planned orbit, then decelerate. Had we enough supplies, we might have remained on Mars about three months. However, every ounce of supplies we would use on Mars had to be shipped separately on conventional, unmanned rocket ships which were now orbiting Mars. Three ships of this type had been fired from the earth two years before. One of these would take us from the Jehad and back again, just as we had boarded the Jehad from the earth. The other two would be left on Mars.
But only three weeks of supplies could be shipped. After our return to the Jehad, we would orbit for about 75 days, when Mars and the earth would be in position for our return trip.
Even though we had more work than usual, the trip grew boring after Gail and I completed our disciplinary duty. Then we changed our “day” from 25 to 24 hours, replacing the five-hour shifts, which had included a shift for Morrie, to six-hour shifts. Following through on our dull routines, we realized why Morrie had cracked up. But the rest of us showed no signs of this, and even Joel bore up well. Perhaps the headshrinkers who passed on us were entitled to one mistake. We figured one despite the fact that Dr. Spartan could not be considered a direct hit on the psychological target. However, Spartan was a good spaceman, just as Nero had been good at his job, though more than slightly cracked.
Then, as we neared the end of the middle stage of the trip, we picked up a new kind of signal from Mars on our electronic equipment. The first, undoubtedly a radar beam, continued as before. But the second was on a longer wave length and was undoubtedly a radio transmission. It came to us as a deep chirping sound, and Axel suggested the Martians were trying to communicate with us.
“Maybe words of welcome,” he said, adding, “or warning against trespassing.”
Then the middle portion of our voyage ended. Mars was now a discernible disc and the gyroscope twisted the ship around so that its tail was headed toward our destination. The motors were fired and the long period of deceleration began.
While this was being done by Spartan, with Joel assisting him in the control room, Gail, Axel and I were together in the main cabin, and we had our first full discussion on what might lie ahead.
“Spartan might have had a change of heart,” Gail said, always hopeful. “He really hasn’t done anything out of line since he tried to take Bill’s life.”
“At that time,” said Axel, “we believed—and he did, too—that there would be suffering from lack of water. However, we have been able to distill water for irrigating the garden by using the vacuum of the air locks. There is plenty to drink—if we’re careful not to waste it—and for our dehydrated food. We can even do a washing once in a while.” He smiled and rubbed his hands over his dirty T-shirt. “Now it is not necessary to reduce the size of the crew because of lack of water.”
“Why didn’t he wait before trying it in the first place?” I asked.
“Morrie Grover had to be eliminated,” Axel explained. “Spartan gave his reasons. He said there was no prison aboard the ship, hinting that Morrie should be confined. He figured that what had happened once could happen again; that Morrie might very well flip under further pressure.”
“And was I dangerous or unstable?” I demanded.
“Neither,” Gail broke in to answer for Axel, “but he considered you expendable and in his way.”
“You fought for Gail,” Axel said. “Spartan wants no interference when he tries to have his way.”
“He’s as crazy as poor Morrie,” said Gail.
“In a different way,” said Axel, “I’ve known Doc a long time. Went to the moon with him. He’s pushed by ambition and the dislike of sharing credit for a job well done. He was very disturbed when the newspapers gave a bigger play to the Loring-Drake wedding than to the objectives of the Mars flight. Spartan wanted to be the only hero.”
“Isn’t that why we’re all making this trip? To win credit, fame, glory—or whatever else you want to call it?”
“Partly. There is also something else,” said Axel.
“The old college try,” I said. “Just what is the reason for going to Mars? It’s costing six billion dollars. We couldn’t bring back anything worth that much.”
“Knowledge,” said Gail.
“Is it knowledge that’ll do any good?” I asked.
“We don’t know,” said Gail. “Remember Columbus? He was tossed into prison. People accused him of ruining the Spanish government through his crazy trips to far-off lands. There wasn’t much gold, people said, without realizing that wasn’t what really mattered; that the value of the discovery of the new world couldn’t be figured in terms of dollars and cents. So will it prove it be, I’m sure, with Mars.”
“Okay,” I said, “suppose the trip is worth it. Why are we going? Particularly if there’s no real money in it.”
“Soldiers don’t get rich,” said Axel. “And how many of them risk their lives to win wars, or even to save a comrade, or perform other acts of bravery.”
“Couldn’t you call that glory seeking? Selfishness, in other words?”
“Do you call martyrs glory seekers because they die for principles and beliefs?”
“Not many men—sane ones, that is—become martyrs intentionally,” I said.
“There are two kinds of selfishness that rule our lives, Bill Drake,” said Gail. “One is self-preservation, which makes a man kill to defend himself. The other is race-preservation, which includes preservation of ideals and beliefs necessary for race progress. Men will die and become martyrs for that.”
“One kind of preservation makes you kill, another makes you get killed,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” said Axel. “But Gail is right. That is the way it works out. Would you call Willy Zinder a martyr?”
“No,” I told him. “Willy took a chance and got killed. I suppose he was a hero, though.”
“Willy Zinder was murdered,” Axel said bluntly.
“He was what?”
“Murdered, I said. Spartan didn’t intend for Willie to be killed. He only wanted Willy washed out, but he planned the accident.”
Gail gasped.
“He wanted Gail to go to Mars,” Axel added.
“But I thought it was my idea,” said Gail. Then she paused. “But he did fall in with the idea rather suddenly when I suggested it. Maybe he did plan it all along. But how—what makes you think it was murder?”
“Spartan was the last man to inspect the controls on Willy’s capsule. They had been inspected by others before him and called okay. But it would have been easy for Spartan to gimmick the re-entry controls so that Willy would return to the atmosphere ninety minutes too soon. Such an event would make it appear that Willie had become confused, or had panicked. You remember he put Gail Loring on the control board just before the accident? He wanted her to believe she’d been responsible. And for a time, she felt she had been.”
“But you have no real proof, Axel,” said Gail.
He shook his head. “I did not suspect it was anything but an accident until I learned that Spartan killed Morrie Grover and then tried to kill Bill. Also, Bill told me of that little death list Spartan had. Only then did I know that Spartan had killed Willy Zinder.”
“Just to get me aboard!” Gail said. Her voice was almost a whisper.
“He wanted to marry you, of course, but you changed his plans. His objections to your plans would have looked suspect and he did not have unlimited power on the earth to force you into marriage against your will. Besides, the platonic marriage finally decided on did not interfere with his plan. He’d decided Bill would die before the return to earth.”
“He’d made such a big thing of a six-man crew so he could take you along,” I told Gail. “We’re doing okay now with five—” I stopped. Dr. Spartan had entered the room.
He surveyed the group with angry eyes. I wondered how long he had been listening and how much he had heard.
“Relieve Warner Joel in the control room, Ludson,” he said.
Joel had another hour to go before his relief was due, but Axel rose. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Miss Loring, it is time you started preparing our next meal, isn’t it?”
“It’s Bill Drake’s turn in the galley, sir,” she said.
“You will take it this time. Drake will take over the duty the next time it is yours. I wish to talk to him.” He turned to me. “Will you come into my cabin, Drake?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I followed him through the door and we entered the chartroom. You don’t walk into that room, you drop into it. The corridor which separates the two parts of Spartan’s cabin is equipped with small doors opposite each other and in the approximate center of the craft. You must pull yourself up to the opening and slide through by aid of centrifugal force.
Spartan was standing opposite the door when I came through. I dropped to the floor beside him and he gestured for me to sit down on the floor.
“Drake,” he said, “I understand you had some difficulty bringing Grover’s body into the ship after you found it.”
This was the first time he mentioned what I knew he knew. “A very minor difficulty, sir,” I said.
“For your information, Warner Joel saw the entire episode on the television screens in the control room. You were in view most of the time. It looked as if your safety line broke.”
“It became disengaged, sir,” I replied.
“Disengaged? How did that happen?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “And, as you recall, I had a short supply of oxygen in my tank. I used Grover’s tank to jet to the ship.”
He scowled at me in disapproval. “You call that a minor difficulty?” His hand, I noticed, was on the butt of the dart pistol, but he made no move to draw it.
“I survived,” I said, keeping my face noncommittal.
“Then you wouldn’t consider a difficulty serious unless you did not survive it?” Was it my imagination or was he deliberately toying with me?
“Most serious, sir,”
He thought for a moment. “From now on, Drake, you will avoid dangerous tasks. You are slightly accident prone and you might get into serious difficulties, which would not be in the best interests of our mission. I need a full crew to do our work on Mars.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“You may go.”
I returned to the main cabin, realizing that Spartan had spoken plainly enough. He knew that I knew he’d tried to kill me and he was now granting me a reprieve, probably because he figured he might need an extra pair of hands on Mars. However, he had warned me—if I wasn’t a good boy, he might change his mind and decide I was expendable.