Destination Mars

by the same author
Stories about Chris Godfrey and his friends
EXPEDITION VENUS
MURDER ON MARS
THE CAVES OF DRACH
THE LAST DISASTER

Destination Mars
by
HUGH WALTERS
FABER
FANFARES

First published in 1963
by Faber and Faber Limited
3 Queen Square, London WCi
First published in Fanfares edition igyg
Printed in Great Britain by
Jarrold and Sons Ltd, Norwich
All rights reserved
© 1963 by Hugh Walters
CONDITIONS OF SALE
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the
publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Walters, Hugh
Destination Mars.—( Faber fanfares )
I. Title
823'-9''3 PZ7W1715
ISBN 0-571-11333-8

1
"So it's come through at last!"
Chris Godfrey and his companions were looking at the piece
of paper which Chris had taken from the buff-coloured enve-
lope. It was from the United Nations Exploration Agency in
New York. Briefly, the message was that UNEXA had re-
ceived permission from the General Assembly to carry out the
proposed exploration of the planet Mars.
As the probable crewmen, Chris, Morrey, Serge and Tony
had been anxiously awaiting this decision. For more than a
fortnight the United Nations had been debating the issue.
Some members advocated completing the exploration of
Venus, but their opponents stressed the near disaster which
Earth had suffered not long before. Then spores, brought back
by a Venusian probe, had accidentally escaped destruction
and had taken root on Earth.
As a result, a grey mould had grown from them which had
threatened to blot out civilization by its rapid growth under
terrestrial conditions. Only an expedition to Earth's twin
planet by the young men now reading U N E X A's message had
saved Mankind. From the home of the creeping grey horror
they had brought a means of destroying it. But the terror of
those ghastly weeks was still strong in the minds of many, so
it had been decided to leave Venus alone for the time being
and to concentrate on exploring the Red Planet.
"I wonder when.the expedition will leave," mused Serge
Smyslov, the Russian member of the team.
5

"What I'd like to know is—how can we make sure of being
picked for it?" Morrey Kant, the American, asked.
Chris smiled.
"If I can pull strings in certain quarters we're certain to be
chosen," he promised them.
They all knew that he was referring to Sir George Benson,
a very old friend of his, who was director of UN EX A. Be-
tween Benson and the younger scientist there had grown up
a strong affection, forged in the fires of peril and adversity. If
the choice of crew was left to the Director, then Chris and his
friends could count on making the long voyage to Mars. For
Benson knew that no crew was more experienced or better
fitted to make the hazardous journey than the four young men
who so badly wanted to go.
"When shall we know?" asked the youngest member of the
quartet, the mechanic Tony Hale.
"Any day now," answered Chris. "Of course this expedi-
tion will be different from some of the others. There's time to
plan every detail carefully."
His companions knew what he meant. In the past they had
been called upon, at short notice, to make emergency voyages.
This had meant hurried preparations and a crash programme.
Now there wasn't the desperate urgency of some of their
previous trips. Planning could, therefore, be meticulous and
unhurried. This was all to the good, for Man's first venture to
a new world demanded the utmost care.
"Are we likely to blast-off from Lunaville or somewhere
down here?" asked Morrey.
"Oh, from Lunaville undoubtedly," Chris declared. He had
little doubt that the expedition to Mars would be launched
from the great man-made base on the Moon. On our satellite
gravity is only one-sixth as strong as on Earth. For long voy-
ages needing vast quantities of fuel, this was a decided advan-
tage. The journey to Mars would be at least forty million
miles, the greatest distance any human being had yet travelled.
6

Unless the expedition was to last many weary months, the
rocket would have to build up a fantastic speed so that the
time for the journey could be reduced. A tremendous weight of
fuel would be used for the outward and return journeys, to say
nothing of a possible landing.
"We must stand a good chance of selection," ventured Serge.
"Otherwise we should not have received this message."
"Perhaps Sir George has already worked the oracle,"
Morrey said hopefully, but Chris shook his head.
"If I know anything of Uncle George," he declared, "he'll
come himself to tell us if we've been chosen."
"What if we're not?" asked Tony.
"I think he'll still come," Chris said stoutly.
*****
The telegram from Sir George Benson asking Chris to bring
his companions along to the Air Ministry in Theobalds Road,
London, came two days later. They had been two miserable
days, passing terribly slowly. Sometimes the quartet would be
filled with confidence that they would be chosen as the crew
of the Mars rocket. At other times they became despondent,
knowing how many more young men were fishing for the same
job.
At times they would all go to Morrey's rooms. The Ameri-
can's landlady would produce numerous cups of coffee while
they talked endlessly about Mars and the possibility of going
there. When they walked round to Serge's quarters the
Russian scientist himself would brew the drink. But always they
returned to Chris's lodgings, which he was sharing with Tony,
to see if any news had come. At the end of the two days Tony
was almost at the stage of tearing his hair when at last it
came.
The telegram was addressed to Chris; it was brief and enig-
matic.
"ALL MEET ME TOMORROW NOON AIR MINISTRY. BENSON."
7

That was all. Did it mean that Sir George was going to give
them the great news that the choice had fallen on them? Or
was he going to break it to them as gently as possible that this
time they'd been passed over? The telegram gave no clue.
They would have to wait another twenty-four hours before
knowing their fate.
Next morning, long before it was necessary, Chris had
rounded up his friends and now they were sitdng in his car,
which was parked in Hyde Park.
"How much longer?" Tony asked.
"Forty-five minutes. You know it isn't any use getting there
before time," Chris pointed out. "Uncle George is very pre-
cise."
"Mustn't be late, either," Morrey put in. "I remember
getting into very serious trouble with him once when I was
two minutes late for an appointment."
"We must arrive at noon precisely," advised Serge, but
Chris argued that they ought to reach the building two minutes
to zero to allow time to contact Uncle George. The earnestness
with which the quartet discussed this problem was an indica-
tion of the tension they all felt about the coming interview.
Would they be informed that they had been selected to blaze a
trail to an unknown World? Would they soon be making a
voyage, the excitement of which was only surpassed by its
danger? Or would they be told that some other crew had been
chosen to be first to set foot on Mars?
Tony looked at his watch impatiently as the minutes
dragged by. The park was crowded with people enjoying the
morning sunshine. Was it barely a year since the park had
been even more crowded with terrified refugees from the grey
mould? The lucky chaps for the Mars trip wouldn't be working
with the same fearful urgency that he and his friends had had
to contend with on the Venus expedition. Now the World
wasn't in danger. No longer did every hour count. So this new
venture would be a piece of cake.
8

"Let's go," Chris said at last, and he drove his car slowly
out of the park and along Oxford Street. Getting through the
traffic of this busy thoroughfare took longer than they
thought, so Chris had to put his foot down once they were
clear. By the time he'd parked the car they had no time to
spare.
"We have an appointment with Sir George Benson," Chris
told the uniformed commissionaire.
The man took all their names and they had to sign a book.
Then he went into a little office and they could see him tele-
phoning. A few minutes later he came out and informed
them that Sir George would see them at once. At the com-
missionaire's signal a messenger appeared and was instructed
to conduct the party to Room 407. Up in a lift and along
seemingly endless corridors they went until at last they
stopped outside a door bearing the correct number. The
messenger tapped on it and then led them inside.
This was evidently an outer office, for its only occupants
were two girls busy at typewriters.
"Mr. Godfrey and party for Sir George Benson," the
messenger announced.
One of the girls looked up and smiled.
"Would you come this way," she said, leaving her machine
and walking towards an inner glass door. A discreet knock, and
Chris heard a familiar but muffled voice saying "Come in".
The girl led the party through the door into the private office
of the famous scientist.
Sir George Benson's tall figure was now getting a little
stooped. When Chris first met him, Benson's hair had been
black. Now it was quite white—witness not only of the passing
years, but also of the tremendous strains and anxieties which
his job entailed. Yet his smile was as warm and his grip as firm
as ever. It did Chris a power of good to be with Uncle George
again.
"Sit down. Sit down all of you," Benson ordered after he'd
9

greeted them all cordially. "One minute late, Chris," he went
on with a twinkle in his eye as they settled into their chairs.
"Sorry," apologized the young man. "Traffic in Oxford
Street was worse than I expected."
"I thought you'd have learned by now to allow for all
eventualities," Sir George chided him good-humouredly, and
Chris smiled back ruefully.
"Now come on, Uncle George. Out with it," he said. "Have
we been chosen for the Mars expedition or not?"
It was the foremost question in all their minds—the one they
were all burning to ask. Immediately Benson's manner
changed and his face became serious.
"Please be patient, all of you," he said. "Many things have
had to be considered in selecting the personnel for this under-
taking."
With what patience they could muster the quartet listened
whilst the famous scientist spoke.
"I'm going to begin by quoting something written by
Patrick Moore many years ago. It sets out the situation
exactly."
Sir George pulled from his wallet a piece of paper from
which he read.
" 'All things considered, Mars is undoubtedly the most
fascinating of all the planets. It is basically similar to the
Earth; it is tolerably warm, it has atmosphere and water; and
it has vegetation, so that even if it has long since passed the
prime of life it is still far from being a dead or dying world.
Though it is true to say that we have no proof of intelligent
fife upon it, it is equally true to say that we have no proof that
advanced forms of life do not exist.' "
The scientist carefully folded up the paper and returned it
to his wallet before speaking.
"The main object of this expedition is to resolve the doubt
in Patrick Moore's last sentence—to find out if advanced
forms of life exist."
10

"I thought that there were only lichens or moss on Mars,"
exclaimed Morrey.
"So did I—once," Benson answered. "Now, however, I'm
convinced that a much higher form of vegetable life exists."
"Why is that, please?" asked Serge.
"Now that we can take photographs and make spectro-
scopic analyses from observatories in satellites and on the
Moon we are no longer hampered by Earth's atmosphere.
Proof has been mounting that a higher form than mosses
exists. One of the first proofs of life on this wonderful planet
was that the great yellow dust clouds that sometimes cover
great areas do not obliterate the greenish regions. It is argued
that these regions must consist of something regenerative like
vegetation. Otherwise they would have been covered over
long ago.
"I believe the argument can be pushed farther. If the vege-
tation consisted only of lichen and moss, then I think it would
have been swamped with dust. To my way of thinking some
larger, more active type of vegetation would be required to
hold the Martian deserts at bay.
"What about the canals?" asked Tony.
"Ah," smiled Sir George, "those canals! No, Tony, there
aren't really any canals there. Years ago astronomers thought
they detected long straight lines criss-crossing the deserts, and
they assumed these were waterways built by the Martians.
Better telescopes and satellite photographs have proved that
these are not continuous straight lines, but rather a series of
disconnected dots and dashes. What they are we still don't
know. Another of the tasks of the Martian expedition will be
to find out."
"Come on, Sir George," Morrey burst out, unable to con-
tain himself any longer. "Let's have it. Are we to do the job
or not?"
"I've been trying to show you", Benson said seriously,
"what an exacting and important job this undertaking will
ii

be, and what a tremendous contribution it can make to our
knowledge of this mysterious world."
"So—you don't think we could do it?" Tony gasped in dis-
may.
"I didn't say that," Sir George declared, his face suddenly
breaking into smiles. "On the contrary, my young friends,
you've been chosen to go!"
12

"Yippee!"
It was Tony who gave expression to all their feelings.
Though his three companions were all experienced scientists
in their late twenties, their reaction to Sir George's announce-
ment was only a shade more restrained than that of the young
mechanic. Chris had more than half feared that, having had
so many great adventures in the past, the quartet would have
to stay behind and watch some other crew undertake this ex-
citing task. That Uncle George had told them they'd been
chosen was a tremendous relief and a great joy. No wonder,
then, that they were all laughing and talking together.
"When you've calmed down a bit, perhaps I may be per-
mitted to give you some more details," Benson said with a
long-suffering sigh. The four were instantly silent.
"Well, now I can get a word in edgeways let me give you a
rough outline of the plans," Sir George smiled.
"Briefly—this is to be a well-planned, unhurried explora-
tion of the Martian surface. The planet approaches to within
less than thirty-five million miles in July next. Thanks to the
Jodrell Bank fellows we can calculate the distance to within an
error of plus or minus a thousand miles. This is pretty good
considering the tremendous distances involved. But of course
it isn't accurate enough for a fully automatic landing to be
made. So the space ship will have to be under manual control
for the last and most vital part of its journey."
13
2

"Is that why we've had such difficulty in landing instru-
ments?" Morrey asked.
"Precisely," the scientist agreed. "We have only twice
succeeded in making a soft landing with an automatic probe.
That's why we don't know a great deal about surface condi-
tions. It will be your job, as the space ship's crew, to take over
the flight for the last ten thousand miles and to put your
vessel down on to the planet."
"How long shall we remain on Mars?" Serge wanted to
know.
"You can decide that for yourselves," Benson told him, "or
rather Chris, who will be your leader, will have the responsi-
bility of deciding. We expect that your stay will be for between
two and four weeks, but if need be you can blast off as soon
as you like."
It was Chris's turn to ask a question.
"From where do we take off? Lunaville or Cape Can-
averal?"
"Neither," was Benson's astonishing reply. "You won't
start your journey from the Moon Base, or from any of the
rocket stations on Earth. As we've more time available than
usual, we're going to try out several new techniques. You will
set out in your space ship from Alpha, our new manned
satellite. We've launched several probes from it, but yours
will be the first manned flight."
"But why from there?" asked Chris, puzzled. "Why not
from Lunaville?"
"Ah—now that's where another new technique comes in.
You're going to use an ion rocket."
This time all four of Benson's audience expressed astonish-
ment. Although an ion rocket, using atomic radiation as its
means of propulsion, had often been talked about, it had
never actually been tried. For one reason, the thrust was very
low compared with the latest chemical rockets. But it had the
great advantage that it can be applied almost indefinitely. By
14

building up a very high velocity it would be possible to reduce
to a minimum the duration of the voyage.
"But we have no experience with ion rockets," Serge
pointed out.
"Neither has anyone else," was Benson's reply. "Oh, your
space ship will have the conventional chemical drive as well,
so you'll have nothing much to worry about. Briefly, the flight
plan is this. You'll be ferried to Alpha, where your ship is
now being assembled. Then you will break orbit with your
chemical motor, which will boost up your speed from the
orbital one of 18,000 m.p.h. to about 25,000 m.p.h.
"At that point you will switch to the ion motor. As the
acceleration from it will only be one-tenth of a 'g', you will be
under power for two and a half days. By that time you should
be travelling at 500,000 m.p.h. You will then switch off and
coast along for two days. After that you will decelerate with
the ion motor, making the final part of the journey and the
landing with the chemical rocket. Simple, isn't it?" the
scientists smiled.
"Makes the old Moon trips look like Saturday afternoon
outings," Morrey grinned. "Hope we'll pick up the technique.
What happens when we land?"
"You'll have quite a bit to do before you leave the ship—
atmospheric sampling, for example. Then you'll explore the
immediate area on foot, very much as you did on the Moon.
Yes, I'm afraid you'll have to wear your space suits, for as far
as we can tell the oxygen content of the Martian atmosphere
isn't enough to support our kind of life."
"What will things be like on Mars?" Tony asked.
"The physical conditions won't be too much unlike that of
Earth," Benson answered. "Mars is 4,200 miles in diameter,
so it is much smaller than our planet. Gravity is roughly one-
third of ours, and the temperature is just a little cooler. The
atmosphere consists largely of nitrogen, with carbon dioxide
and oxygen also present. As I've already told you, we don't
15

think there's enough oxygen to live on for many seconds with*
out your helmets."
"Is it true that there's no water on the planet?" Morrey
enquired.
"Not quite—unless you mean 'free water'. There are cer-
tainly no open pools or seas as on Earth. What water there is
seems to be concentrated as ice in the two polar caps. Of course
there's a narrow strip along the borders of each where the ice
has probably been melted. Even so there doesn't seem to be
any open water. We think it must be absorbed by vegetation
as the ice melts. Certainly the dark areas advance and recede
as the polar caps shrink or grow according to the season. Any-
way, that's enough for the moment. I'm not an astronomer,
but you'll soon meet one and have plenty of opportunity to
get 'genned-up'."
"The usual training?" Chris asked with a twisted smile.
"The usual training," Uncle George agreed pleasantly, and
they all knew that this meant an uncomfortable time at the
Space-flight Training Centre at Farnborough.
"Thought as much," Morrey groaned, but Sir George
hastened to remind them all that training schedules had been
very much modified since the early days of space flight. In-
stead of the many fearsome ordeals that a prospective astro-
naut then had to face, modern space travellers only had to
undergo a general toning up. True, they still had rides in the
giant centrifuge, but this was more to condition their internal
muscles than to fit them for blast-off.
"Man is a wonderfully adaptable piece of mechanism," Sir
George concluded. "Space crews are tolerating conditions
never dreamt of ten years ago. Maybe in a generation or so
we shall be able to dispense with training altogether. But for
the moment, it's Farnborough for you, my lads."
Promising he'd visit them in a day or two down at the
Training Centre, Benson said good-bye to his young friends.
As soon as they had gone he turned to his desk, for if the expe-
16

dition to Mars was to be a success he would have a great deal
to do in the next few months.
It was not until they were outside the Air Ministry building,
standing in the bright winter sunshine, that the four astro-
nauts realized how hungry they were. Nearly two o'clock!
Practically two hours with Sir George—and the time had
gone like a flash.
"Let's eat," Morrey called to the others, and they made
their way with alacrity to a restaurant in Southampton Row.
Thick juicy steaks with mountains of chips, followed by apple
pie and cream, made them all feel better.
"Might as well collect our gear and get off down to Farn-
borough," Chris suggested as they drank their coffee. The
others agreed eagerly, and after the ritual of tossing coins to
decide who would pay for the lunch, they piled into Chris's
car and were driven round to their various lodgings. At six
o'clock that evening they pulled up outside the gates of the old
familiar establishment.
The sergeant in the guard room saluted smartly.
"Back again sir?" He smiled at Chris, who returned his
cheery greeting.
"Where are you off to now, Mr. Godfrey?" the sergeant
asked. He knew there could be only one reason why Chris
and his companions had reported to the Training Establish-
ment.
"Don't you know better than to ask, sergeant?" Chris
laughed back.
"No panic on, is there, sir?" the N.C.O. inquired.
"Not this time. Why, do you think there's trouble whenever
I come here?"
"Only going on past experience, sir. I hope you have a good
trip this time, Mr. Godfrey—wherever it is," the sergeant
smiled as he lifted a telephone.
Farnborough, once the centre of British aeronautical re-
search, was now the main training school for astronauts in
17

Great Britain. At any time one could meet scores of young
men preparing for the strains and stresses of rocket travel.
Here congregated budding space travellers alongside ex-
perienced rocketeers. Newly qualified scientists, eager to
take up the challenge of the solar system, rubbed shoulders
with men from Lunaville or one of the orbiting space
stations.
In the lounge or bar of the Mess one could always be sure to
hear some hair-raising story of adventure in space—stories of
exciting experiences, of miraculous escapes from danger, and
occasionally, of disaster and death. As astronauts-extra-
ordinary, Chris and his companions were welcomed en-
thusiastically and were soon the centre of a friendly crowd
who plied them with innumerable questions about their next
venture. Laughingly Chris protested that they had better
address their questions to Sir George Benson, who would be
there in person next day or the day after.
The spells on the centrifuge, the periods in the hot and cold
chambers, the constant medical checks, were all now so much
dull routine to Chris, Morrey, Serge and Tony. Even the
centrifuge, that huge machine which whirled them round
and round at tremendous speeds, no longer had any terrors for
them. It was just uncomfortable—and boring.
It was not until they had been at Farnborough for four days
that Sir George Benson turned up.
"Sorry I've been so long," he apologized to them in one of
the small rooms that had been set aside for briefing. "Since I
saw you in town I've had to make a quick trip to Cape
Canaveral. Seems as if the chaps making the ion motor for
your rocket can't make up their minds how much shielding
they'll want. That is, of course, one of the disadvantages of
this type of propulsion. The crew has to be protected from
radiation from the motor."
"Does that create much of a problem?" asked Chris.
"Not too much," Benson assured him. "We're having to
18

give you a little extra shielding from cosmic rays in any case,
so the additional protection can be incorporated."
"Any precise dates yet?" Morrey wanted to know.
"Yes. You'll be ferried out to Alpha on July 15th, and will
blast-off on the 21st. All being well, you will touch down on
Mars at 1300 hours on July 27th. Your return journey may
take a little longer, depending on the length of your stay,
because Earth and Mars will be drawing farther apart. In
any case, you should be back on Earth by the end of August,"
Sir George told them.
"What are your plans for us until we leave for Alpha?"
Serge asked.
"Naturally I want you to keep quite fit," Benson answered,
"so you will come here for a couple of days each week. Apart
from that you will spend a great deal of time learning all you
can about your destination. Finally you'll all have to have a
great deal of instruction in the operation of the ion motor.
This will probably be at Cape Canaveral. I hope the pro-
gramme will keep you happy."
"And how!" whistled Morrey.
"Come, come, it won't be too bad," chided Sir George.
"Now, is that all?"
"Er—is this trip hush-hush?" asked Tony.
"Not particularly. We shall be making an official announce-
ment about it after I get back to America. Perhaps you'd
better be a bit discreet till then," Benson advised.
Soon after Sir George had gone, Chris and his friends were
surrounded by a score of astronauts who asked if they could
now say where they were going. As spokesman Chris informed
them that there was nothing very secret about their voyage,
but that Sir George Benson had asked them to keep silent
until after the official announcement in a few days' time. In
spite of the grilling to which they were subjected, the quartet
managed to keep faith with Uncle George.
It was four days after Benson's visit to Farnborough that
19

"Smokey" Thompson, one of the men in training, came
bursting into Chris's bedroom shortly after seven o'clock in the
morning.
"So you're going to Mars!" he called out, dragging the
clothes off Chris.
"How do you know?" his victim asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Just been on the seven o'clock news," Smokey told him.
"So the cat's out of the bag," Chris sighed, putting a reluc-
tant foot over the side of the bed. "What did it say?"
"Oh, just a brief announcement from the United Nations
Exploration Agency that a manned expedition to Mars was
scheduled for July. It is you, isn't it?" Thompson asked ex-
citedly.
" 'Fraid so," admitted Chris, yawning and stretching his
arms. "Anyone else know?"
"Not yet, but they soon will," laughed Smokey as he
hurried from the room to spread the news.
Chris had barely finished dressing when there was a knock
on the door.
"Come in," he called.
The door opened and a man in a dressing-gown stepped in.
It was Van der Veen, a Dutchman to whom Chris had
scarcely spoken before. His face was pale and strained.
"I haf just heard you are going to Mars," he burst out.
"That's right," Chris agreed, puzzled at the man's obvious
emotion. "What's the matter?"
"For God's sake, don't go," the Dutchman said earnestly.
"Tell them to cancel the expedition."
"But why?" asked Chris, completely mystified.
"I—I cannot tell you," Van der Veen answered in a hoarse
voice. "But I know you will be in terrible danger if you go!"
20

"What's biting him?" Chris murmured. Van der Veen had
left abruptly after delivering his strange warning. The young
scientist was troubled by this surprising visit. Not because of
what the Dutchman had said, but because one didn't expect
anything like that from a member of the carefully selected
band of astronauts. Each man had been chosen for mental as
well as physical fitness. Yet here was one of them behaving as
if he was deranged. Come to think of it, Van der Veen had
always seemed a little aloof from the others. He hadn't the
same "hail-fellow-well-met" outlook that was typical of these
men who lived so dangerously. At times he'd seemed drawn
into himself, as if he was absorbed in secret thoughts that no
one else could share. Now, for some reason, he'd come to
Chris and given him that astounding warning. Why?
Thoughtfully the young scientist looked into his mirror. He
must certainly try to have another talk with Van der Veen.
Then he would either find out what the chap was on about, or
get confirmation that he was psychologically unfit for space
travel. Why—the Dutchman must have come to his room the
very minute he'd heard the news from Smokey! Hope he
hadn't been to any of the others, trying to scare them.
When they met for breakfast it was obvious that Van der
Veen had confined his warning to Chris. It was also obvious
that Smokey Thompson had spent a busy half hour. The
quartet was surrounded by many of the other men, who
questioned them enviously about the coming venture. Only
21
3

the eight o'clock news bulletin saved Chris and his friends
from the barrage.
The statement from the United Nations was repeated and
everyone listened to it intently.
"Sir George Benson," it said, "Director of the United
Nations Exploration Agency, has announced that a landing
on the planet Mars is to be undertaken. The operation is
scheduled for late July. The members of the expedition have
already been selected and have commenced their training. A
news conference will be held at 3 p.m."
And that was all. Without listening to the rest of the bulletin
the other astronauts resumed their questioning, and it was
only after a strong protest by Chris that he and the other
three were able to get any breakfast.
During the meal Chris's eyes wandered over the various
tables. He couldn't see Van der Veen at any of them. The
Dutchman didn't seem to be interested in breakfast that
morning. Perhaps he'd have time to find out where the man's
quarters were and pay him a visit, Chris thought. He was due
for a run on the centrifuge, but not for a couple of hours.
Plenty of time to go to the office, inquire the number of Van
der Veen's room and then call on him.
Excusing himself to his three friends, Chris left the table
when breakfast had barely finished. He soon found out that
the Dutchman's room was number 34D. Determined to dis-
cover what lay behind his early visitor's strange actions, Chris
strode along to D block. Outside number 34 he stopped and
knocked firmly on the door.
There was no reply. Again Chris knocked, but without
result. Tentatively he tried the door. It was unfastened and he
pushed it open. There was no one inside, but the room looked
very untidy, as if Van der Veen had hurriedly packed his
belongings. Drawers and cupboards were open and mostly
empty. Where had the Dutchman gone?
Now really concerned, Chris closed the door behind him
22

and walked quickly back to the administrative building. The
Commanding Officer hadn't yet come on duty, but the
Adjutant saw him at once. Briefly Chris explained about his
early morning visitor and how he'd found Van der Veen's
room empty. Was he still in the Establishment? Chris asked.
The Adjutant was equally puzzled. As far as he knew the
Dutchman should be following his normal routine. He'd
check with the guardroom. Picking up the telephone, he
dialled a number and in a few seconds began to speak.
"Sergeant, can you tell me if Mr. Van der Veen has passed
through the gates?"
There was a pause during which the sergeant was probably
making inquiries.
"Hello, yes," the Adjutant said suddenly. "He has? How
long ago? I see. Er—sergeant, did Mr. Van der Veen seem—
well—all right?"
Again the wait.
"Right. Thank you, sergeant. No, that's all."
"Well, that's strange," the Adjutant exclaimed as he re-
placed the receiver. "Van der Veen went through the gates ten
minutes ago. He was carrying a suitcase and the sergeant says
he seemed upset. I think perhaps we'd better get after him."
"May I come?" Chris asked.
"Certainly. I'll tell the C.O. and get a car round. He can't
have gone far yet."
While the officer made his phone calls Chris wandered
round the office, completely mystified by the strange actions
of the Dutchman. It was strictly against regulations to leave
the Establishment without reporting to the C.O. or Adjutant.
Besides—what had made Van der Veen pack his kit as if he
were not coming back? The fellow was in the middle of a
training course! Must have had some sort of mental up-
heaval, was Chris's conclusion.
"Ready?" the Adjutant called. A car could be heard out-
side. Chris nodded and the two men strode out quickly. At the
23

gate the Adjutant stopped to speak to the sergeant who was
waiting for them.
"He went that way, sir." The N.C.O. indicated the direc-
tion, and the car shot off along the road.
"Must be making for the railway station," the Adjutant
remarked, but there was no sign of the Dutchman anywhere
along the road. They reached the station and Chris and the
officer jumped out. A quick word to the ticket collector and
they were allowed through on to the platform.
"He says no trains have left for the last ten minutes," the
Adjutant told Chris as they hurried along, looking into all the
waiting-rooms. In seven or eight minutes they had assured
themselves that Van der Veen was not on the station. A train
pulled in and the two men watched carefully but their quarry
certainly didn't get aboard.
"Let's tour the roads for a bit. Perhaps he's walking,"
suggested Chris, and the officer agreed. The corporal who was
driving the car had seen no sign of the missing man while
they'd been on the station, so for the next hour they cruised
around every road in the vicinity. It was no use. Van der
Veen had disappeared into thin air.
"We'd better get back," the Adjutant observed. "The C.O.
will be wanting a report." As the corporal drove them back to
the Training Centre both men were busy with uneasy
thoughts. What could Van der Veen mean about the terrible
danger of the forthcoming expedition to Mars? How could he
know anything about conditions on the planet? Was his
warning the outcome of a sick mind? Chris asked himself.
For his part the Adjutant wondered where the Dutchman
could possibly have gone. Why had he suddenly crocked up in
spite of regular psychological examinations? Why should he
want to run away from the Training Centre?"
While the Adjutant reported to the Commanding Officer,
Chris went for his spin on the centrifuge. When it was over he
found Morrey, Serge and Tony waiting for him impatiently.
24

"Where have you been all morning?" the American burst
out. "We heard you'd scuttled out of the gates with the
Adjutant. What's cooking, Chris?"
Chris gave them a full account of the strange happenings of
the morning, and he was able to confirm that it was only to
him that the agitated Van der Veen had spoken.
"Do you think he knows something we don't?" asked
Tony.
"Surely not. The astronomers have more information about
Mars than he could possibly have," Serge pointed out. "We
should have been told already if we are likely to meet a par-
ticular danger."
"I'm sure Uncle George would have given us the 'gen' on
any special hazards," Chris declared, and the others agreed
with him.
No. Van der Veen must have had a mental breakdown. For
his own sake he must be found, so that he could receive treat-
ment. Poor chap! He was finished now for space travel.
Mental health, as everyone knows, is as vital as physical fitness
for the strains of rocket travel.
"Someone's coming," Tony called out suddenly. "Probably
it's you he's after, Chris."
They all turned and saw an orderly walking rapidly towards
them. The man saluted smartly and immediately confirmed
Tony's guess.
"Mr. Godfrey, the C.O. would like to see you right away,"
he said.
"Morning, Mr. Godfrey," the Air Commodore greeted
Chris a few moments later. "Take a seat. It's about this Van
der Veen business."
Chris returned the C.O's. greeting as he walked towards a
vacant chair. There were about half a dozen men in the room,
most of them in Air Force uniform. The Adjutant was sitting
at the table beside the C.O.
"Well, gentlemen," the Air Commodore began, "let's see if
25

we can get a picture of these disturbing events. I understand,
Mr. Godfrey, that Van der Veen came to your room early
this morning in an agitated condition; that he said something
which you couldn't understand and that he left your room
abruptly?"
"Yes, sir, that's precisely what happened," Chris answered,
and went on to repeat the Dutchman's strange warning as
nearly as he could remember it.
"You think he did this because he'd heard that you are to
explore Mars?"
"I believe so, sir. He came to my room a few minutes after
Smokey—er Thompson—came in to tell me it had been on the
seven o'clock news."
"Is Thompson available?" asked the C.O.
"He's just outside, sir," the Adjutant answered, jumping
up. "I'll fetch him."
"Ah—Thompson," the C.O. said as Smokey came in. "Sit
down and just tell us what happened this morning."
"Well, sir," Smokey began a trifle nervously, "I usually
listen to the seven o'clock news. When the announcement
came through about the expedition to Mars, I guessed it was
Godfrey and his friends who were going. I rushed along to his
room and he confirmed it. Of course I had to let the other
chaps know, so I went along to tell a few of them."
"Did you include Van der Veen in your—er—itinerary?"
"Yes, sir. I was calling out to all the chaps on our corridor.
Van der Veen's room is the last but one before the stairs,"
Smokey answered.
"What happened when you told the news to Van der Veen?"
the Air Commodore asked.
"He was still asleep when I pushed my head round the door,
but he woke up at once. I told him what I'd heard on the
seven o'clock news and that we knew now where Godfrey and
his crew would be going. Now I come to think back, he did
look rather peculiar, but I didn't stop two seconds in his room
26

and never thought any more about it till I was told he'd left
the centre."
"Did he speak to you at all?"
"No, I don't think he did. Not that I gave him much
chance. I was in and out of his room very quickly," Smokey
told the C.O.
"Thank you, Thompson. Now is there anything more you
can tell us about this affair?" the Air Commodore asked.
Smokey thought for a few seconds.
"No, sir. I don't think there is anything else," he said at
last and, with permission, he saluted and left.
"What information can you medical chaps give us?" the
C.O. asked, turning to two Squadron Leaders.
The first one, Lambert, opened a file of papers he was
carrying.
"Physically," the medical officer said, "Van der Veen was
about ninety-eight per cent fit. He'd had a fairly rough time
on his last assignment, but he was responding well to his
training and would have been a hundred per cent in about
two weeks' time."
Lambert then went on to give details of the Dutchman's
condition, quoting masses of figures and readings from the
many instruments with which Van der Veen had been tested.
"I would say", Squadron Leader Lambert concluded, "that
there's nothing here that could explain this extraordinary
conduct."
"Now let's hear from you, Slattery," the C.O. said, turning
to the other officer.
"Well, sir, Van der Veen has been under my care off and on
for two years and I've made a close study of his mental pro-
cesses. He's always been a good subject and psychologically
suited in every way to the tasks required of him. However,
after his last job—to which Lambert has already referred—I
did find him in a very poor state. This might not be altogether
surprising, as we well know, sir. But it was with Van der Veen.
27

Normally he was a most phlegmatic individual, but he was in
a state of considerable tension when he came here some weeks
ago.
"Had he improved?" the C.O. asked.
"Very considerably. I would say that his mental condition,
like his physical, was almost back to normal. I just can't
understand this sudden relapse," the psychologist sighed.
"Excuse me, sir," Chris cut in, "just what was Van der
Veen's last mission?"
The Air Commodore turned to the Adjutant for the answer.
That officer fumbled among his papers for a few seconds be-
fore extracting a typewritten foolscap sheet. He passed it
silently to his Chief.
It took the Air Commodore about two minutes to read the
page. In turn he handed it over to Chris. Eagerly the young
scientist scanned the typewritten lines to try to find a clue to
the Dutchman's behaviour. Before he reached the bottom of
the page he let out an exclamation and the others all looked at
him keenly.
"He was on a manned space probe, sir," Chris explained.
"He made a solo journey of four and a half weeks, during
which time he must have travelled out as far as the Le Prince
layer of intense radiation lying between our orbit and that of
Mars. He must have had a pretty hefty dose of radiation, sir."
"He did, but we'd treated him for that," Squadron Leader
Lambert declared. "That wouldn't make him go off the rails."
"I agree," Chris answered, "but something must have
happened on that voyage that left a deep impression on his
mind. The news of the Martian expedition seems to have
triggered off his strange behaviour."
"But what could it have been?" asked the C.O.
"I've no idea, sir. But one thing's pretty certain. Van der
Veen has been nearer to Mars than any other human being.
He's observed the planet from closer range than anyone. I can
only guess that with the powerful optical telescope he had
28

with him in the probe he picked up something that upset him
terribly."
The Air Commodore was just about to say something when
the phone bell rang. At once the Adjutant picked up the
receiver and spoke briefly into the instrument. He listened for
a few seconds and then, with a murmured word of thanks,
returned it to its rest.
"That was the civilian police, sir," he told the C.O. "They
have picked up Van der Veen and are bringing him here."
29

"The poor chap is suffering from amnesia," Chris told his
three companions later that day.
"What's that?" asked Tony.
"Loss of memory," explained Morrey. "Haven't they been
able to get anything out of him?"
"Not a thing," Chris answered. "Both the Squadron Leaders
have been with him since they brought him back and put him
into hospital. He doesn't know who he is or anything about
himself."
"Where did the police find him?" Serge wanted to know.
"Huddled up in a bus shelter about four miles away,"
Chris told him. "They brought him straight here."
"Do you think there really is some danger on Mars and the
Dutchman's found it out?" asked Tony.
"I don't know," Chris admitted. "If he did, why didn't he
report it at once by radio or at least on his return? Maybe the
whole thing was just poor old Van der Veen cracking up."
"But you can't be sure?" Tony persisted.
"No, we can't be sure—not until we go there ourselves,"
Chris concluded.
"Maybe if you saw him he'd tell you something," suggested
Morrey.
"I don't think it will be any use," Chris answered doubt-
fully, "but I'll try."
It wasn't any use. When the scientist was taken into the
ward by Squadron Leader Slattery he found the Dutchman
30
4

just lying in bed and staring at the ceiling blankly. The
patient made no reply when Chris spoke to him and the white-
coated orderly who was on duty at the bedside reported that
Van der Veen had been silent since admission. As Chris looked
down on those wide, blank eyes he wondered what it could
have been that the astronaut had seen on his last fateful
voyage.
*****
The training of Chris and his friends went on apace, and as
Van der Veen was soon removed to another hospital the inci-
dent was forgotten—almost. After another week at Farn-
borough the four were flown out to Cape Canaveral, the vast
American rocket base in Florida. There one of the most ex-
citing parts of their preparations began. It was the introduc-
tion to that new development in space travel, the ion motor.
When Chris saw this novel means of propulsion he was
amazed at its compact size. The ion motor was scarcely any
bigger than a large oil drum; it had been made possible be-
cause an Anglo-American research team had discovered an
amazing new plastic. This provided complete protection
against radiation, a bare quarter-inch being required com-
pared with thicknesses of several inches of lead or two or three
feet of concrete. A tremendous saving in the size and weight of
the protective shield covering the motor was thus ensured.
In the mock cabin, built to represent the inside of their
space vessel, a whole batch of novel instruments and controls
was included. These were to operate and control the new
motor. It was fascinating work learning to use them all. Tony
was interested, for it would be his job as the mechanic to keep
his eye on the motor during the voyage.
As soon as they had mastered the intricacies of the ion drive,
the quartet had their first trial run. They were sealed inside
their cabin and though they never left the ground they went
through all the routine as if they had been in flight. At a radio
3i

signal from Sir George Benson in the control room they
switched on the ion motor just as they would have to do in
their flight.
Because of the low thrust there was no danger of the cabin
being blasted-off from the test bed. Their main duty was to
report on the dial readings and to monitor the cabin for any
radiation that might be escaping. After six hours the signal
came through to switch off the motor, for the test had been
satisfactory in every way. As they all stepped out of the cabin
Chris found it hard to contain his excitement, for here in this
new device was a means of building up the fantastic speeds
that would take Man beyond the solar system. Perhaps even
to the nearest star.
sjc	sjc	s|c	sjc	sjc
As their training on Earth was drawing to its close, Chris and
his crew became more and more impatient for their adventure
to begin. By July ist, exactly a fortnight before they were due
to make the first stage of their journey—to the manned
satellite—they felt the waiting becoming intolerable. Once
Chris thought seriously of asking Sir George Benson if the
date of departure could be brought forward, but a moment's
sober thought convinced him that it would be out of the
question to disarrange the complicated plans. So the request
was never made.
Instead Chris asked his friend what they could do to make
the period of waiting bearable. Benson was really too busy to
have any time for devising plans to keep the crew occupied.
Though he knew the strain this period of waiting could be, he
also knew that it was anxiety to get on with the job that was
causing their restlessness. In the early days of space travel even
the boldest spirit quailed before the uncertainties and dangers
of venturing beyond the Earth. Now that such journeys were
commonplace, pre-blast-off nerves were no longer caused by
the fight against fear.
32

"Why not take a short holiday back in England?" Sir
George suggested to Chris. "You could get back here for the
8th or ioth. That should leave ample time for a final brush up
before take-off."
"We'll do that," Chris agreed readily. All the crew had
many friends back in the old country, and it would be good to
make a round of visits before returning to Cape Canaveral. Of
course, number one on the visiting list of all of them was
Whiskers Greatrex, their old friend who had been a constant
companion in times gone by. Now, to his great disgust,
Whiskers had no part in this latest adventure. The quartet
knew how badly the ex-fighter pilot must be feeling, for he'd
loved nothing better than to be their guide, philosopher and
friend whenever they'd been training for important missions
in the past.
Next morning Chris and his friends made the flight to
London. Before the afternoon was over Chris had collected his
car and met the others with bags ready packed.
"Shall we send him a wire?" asked Morrey.
"No, let's surprise him," Tony suggested, so they set out
for the Wing Commander's cottage near Aylesbury.
"What does Whiskers do now?" Serge enquired as they
drove along.
"Nothing," Chris sighed, "and he's finding it jolly hard
work. Oh, I suppose he has his family and his garden to look
after, but retirement is tough for a character like Whiskers."
The town of Aylesbury was a busy place that afternoon and
once Chris almost overran a traffic signal, so intently was he
watching a little knot of pedestrians. About half a mile out of
the town he slowed down.
"The cottage is a couple of hundred yards down the first lane
on the left," Chris explained to his passengers. "I hope
Whiskers is at home."
"Maybe he'll be on vacation somewhere," Morrey said.
"Hope we haven't come for nothing."
33

"If we wish to surprise our good friend Whiskers, that is a
chance we have had to take," pointed out Serge.
Chris turned down the lane and drove very slowly along.
Round a bend they could see the black and white half-
timbered building where the Greatrex family lived. Chris
switched off the engine, and they coasted along silently for the
last fifty yards.
"There he is," Morrey called suddenly, for he'd spotted
their old friend through a gap in the hedge. Whiskers, they
could see, was staring with disgust at the lawn mower which
he'd just finished using. A smell of new-mown grass advertised
the Wing Commander's recent occupation. Now, a little
warm from the exercise and with the famous moustache
drooping a little disconsolately, he was preparing to clean the
mower before putting it away.
Quietly, without closing the car doors because of the noise,
the four companions climbed out and stood silently watching
their old friend begin his hated task. Then, when they were in
danger of betraying themselves, Tony put his fingers to his
mouth and let out a piercing whistle.
Instantly Whiskers stopped his job and stood up, looking
around. For a few seconds he couldn't make out where the
sound had come from. Then he spotted four grinning faces the
other side of the hedge. With a tremendous whoop of joy, the
Wing Commander abandoned his task and bellowed to his
friends to come right in. Almost falling over himself in his
enthusiasm, he rushed forward to greet them.
Sylvia, Greatrex's long-suffering wife, had emerged from
the cottage to see what all the noise was about. When she saw
Chris and his companions she joined her husband in making
the young men welcome.
"Where are you staying tonight?" Whiskers demanded over
their long cool glasses of cider.
"Oh, we'll get off back to town later," Chris answered for
them all.
34

"You jolly well won't," the indignant Wing Commander
protested. "We can squeeze them in somewhere, can't we,
Sylvia?"
Mrs. Greatrex gave a resigned smile. She was quite used to
her husband's gestures of hospitality, which he made without
thinking of the domestic upheaval that might be caused. Be-
sides, she too was very fond of these four young men.
"Yes, I think we can manage it," she said. "The boys are
away at school. You can have their rooms if you don't mind
squeezing two in a bed."
So it was arranged. After supper they sat talking till far
into the night. The Wing Commander listened enviously to
the plans of the four young men. He questioned them closely
about their expedition to Mars and speculated with them on
what they would find. Chris and his companions were full of
confidence in the success of their forthcoming venture and
they told Whiskers of the meticulous care with which all
preparations were being made.
Quite by chance Chris mentioned the incident of poor Van
der Veen during their training at Farnborough. Like his
guests, Whiskers was puzzled by the affair and said it was a
pity that the Dutchman couldn't give a coherent account of
his fears. When Chris mentioned Squadron Leaders Lambert
and Slattery, the ex-fighter pilot beamed, for he knew them
both well.
"I believe they spend quite a bit of time at Halton," he said,
mentioning the big R.A.F. station a few miles away. Attached
to the station was a large hospital which took all kinds of cases
from plastic surgery to psychiatric illness. "Maybe I could
look them up and find out how the poor chap is."
"Do that," Morrey said. "He was a decent fellow, that
Dutchman. We were all sorry he cracked up that way."
Next morning Mrs. Greatrex allowed her guests to sleep on,
but insisted on her reluctant husband rising at his usual time
to get on with his regular chores.
35

"Wish I was back in the Service," Whiskers grumbled
silently to himself. "At least I did the ordering about then."
It was nearly eleven o'clock when all four young men
appeared, looking rather sheepish.
"Slept like tops," Morrey explained on behalf of them all.
"Thought you were never going to get up," the Wing
Commander growled, but Sylvia greeted them with an ex-
cellent breakfast.
"Think you'll be able to come again before you go back to
Cape Canaveral?" Whiskers asked wistfully as his friends were
taking their leave.
"I don't know, but we'll try," Chris promised. "You see,
we're off to Wolverton now to see Aunt Mary, then we're
going to Birmingham to call on Tony's parents. Morrey and
Serge both want to look up some friends in London, so we'll
be pretty busy in the short time we have left."
"Do try," pleaded the Wing Commander. "But if you can't,
Sylvia and I wish you all the very best on the Mars trip. When
you're up there, think of me cutting this confounded lawn."
After they'd gone, gloom settled on the unhappy Whiskers.
For the next few days he was like a bear with a sore head.
Even his wife's threat to give him a good beating failed to
restore his good humour. When he heard from Chris that they
would be unable to call again before flying back to the Cape
his despondency became deeper. Even a chance meeting with
his old friend Squadron Leader Lambert in the Bull Hotel at
Aylesbury did not cheer him.
"What's biting you?" the Squadron Leader demanded over
their tankards.
"Oh, just fed up with being on the shelf, I suppose,"
Whiskers confessed. "Those four young blighters have made
me feel more browned-off than ever."
"Chris Godfrey and his friends? So they've been to see you,
have they? I might have guessed they wouldn't have gone on
this flip without looking you up. How were they?"
36

Whiskers told his friend about the quartet's flying visit and
mentioned that Chris had told him about the strange incident
with the Dutchman.
"Yes, poor chap," Lambert said. "He's here at Halton. I
come and see him every week, but he's not much better.
Slattery hasn't managed to sort anything out either."
"Does he have any visitors? Has he any people over here?"
"His parents did come and see him a fortnight ago, but
they've gone back to Amsterdam now. I don't think anyone
else visits him," answered Lambert.
"Any objection if I call some time?" Whiskers asked. "It
would give me an excuse to dodge cutting the lawn."
"By all means," the Squadron Leader agreed. "If you'll let
me know when it's to be I'll invite you to lunch in the Mess."
"That's clinched it," Whiskers chuckled. "Now let me pay
for the next drink on the strength of it."
37

"Van der Veen is in Ward 23B," Squadron Leader Lambert
told Greatrex a few days later. Whiskers, feeling miserable,
had suddenly remembered his undertaking to visit the Dutch-
man, and when he phoned the hospital he learned that it was
Lambert's visiting day also. The two men had just finished
lunch at the adjoining Mess and Whiskers was now ready to
make his call.
"Sorry I can't be with you," the Squadron Leader went on.
"I've some more patients to see, but Sister will take you along."
Whiskers followed his friend's directions and made his way
to "B" Block. Just inside he was met by the nursing sister.
"This way, sir," the sister said briskly, and Whiskers
followed her along a corridor. She opened a door and he
followed her inside.
"A visitor for you, Mr. Van der Veen," she called to the
patient.
Whiskers saw a pale, still figure in the bed. The big dark
eyes were staring up at the ceiling. At first he thought the
Dutchman hadn't heard, but gradually, as if with a tremen-
dous effort, Van der Veen lowered his eyes and rested them on
the visitor. The few seconds during which they looked at him
intensely made the Wing Commander feel vaguely uneasy.
Then, without speaking, Van der Veen turned his gaze back
to the same spot on the ceiling.
"He hardly ever speaks," explained the sister as she pushed
a chair forward. "Don't stay too long, will you?"
38
5

Whiskers thanked her and promised not to. Then he sat
down and looked at the strange man in the bed. He was alone
now with Van der Veen, for the sister had gone, closing the
door quietly behind her.
So this was the man who had been farther from Earth than
any other human being! This was the astronaut who had
made the deep probe in the direction of Mars. Was his present
derangement a result of his voyage? The doctors didn't seem
certain. Suppose there was a terrible danger awaiting Chris
and his companions. How tragic it would be if this sick man
knew about it and was unable to pass on the information!
"Hello, old chap," Whiskers said quietly. "Is there anything
I can do for you?"
The Dutchman gave no sign that he'd heard and con-
tinued to stare blankly ahead. His visitor tried again.
"I'm not a doctor," he said. "I'm a very close friend of
Chris Godfrey—the fellow who's going to Mars."
Whiskers fancied he detected a quiver on the patient's face,
and his fixed gaze faltered for a moment.
"Chris has told me about you," Whiskers went on. "He said
you gave him a warning. What was it, old chap?"
This time he was sure the Dutchman had responded. For a
moment the dark eyes were switched to the visitor's face before
returning to the ceiling overhead.
"You asked him not to go to Mars, to cancel the expedi-
tion," Whiskers continued relentlessly. He had stood up now
and was bending over the man in the bed, who was forced to
look into his face.
"You said he would be in great danger. What is that
danger?" Whiskers asked. His words were slow and forceful.
With every ounce of his willpower he was trying to capture the
patient's attention and to penetrate the intangible barrier he'd
drawn across his mind.
"Chris is my friend," Whiskers repeated, trying to hold the
Dutchman's eyes. "What—danger—is—he—in?"
39

A spasm as of pain flashed over Van der Veen's face. His
mouth worked and Whiskers thought he was going to speak.
But no words came and he turned his head away in torment.
Whiskers altered his position to recapture the patient's atten-
tion. Beads of perspiration were standing on his forehead—so
intense was his effort of concentration.
"Chris is my friend. You must tell me about the danger," he
insisted.
Van der Veen's face was working pitiably.
"D-danger!" he gasped.
"Yes—danger," Whiskers repeated. "You must tell me
about the danger. Then I will tell Chris."
"He—he must not go," the tortured voice gasped. "There
is—great danger."
"Yes, yes. But what is the danger?" Whiskers asked earnestly.
Van der Veen's face was twisted with anguish. The Wing
Commander was deeply sorry for the distress his questions had
caused, but for the sake of his friend and the other members of
the crew he felt he had to get an answer from the sick man at
all costs.
"What is the danger?" he repeated. "If you will tell me I can
pass it on to Chris. Maybe it's not too late to stop the expedi-
tion."
Now the Dutchman's eyes turned and looked on his visitor
like two burning coals.
"You—can—stop—him?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes. If you can tell me all you know. Not otherwise."
Again Van der Veen's features were contorted by his
memories, and as the seconds ticked by Whiskers began to
doubt whether his efforts had been worthwhile. Then the
patient, slowly and painfully, began to speak.
"The voices," he gasped. "I heard voices."
Whisker's first reaction was that Van der Veen's mind had
given way altogether and that he was suffering from a kind of
delusion common in mental cases.
40

"What voices?" he asked patiendy.
"On the radio," the man in the bed replied, his eyes plead-
ing for belief. "I heard voices on the radio."
"Of course you did," Whiskers agreed soothingly. "They
came from Control."
"No, no," the Dutchman cried, "they were voices from
space—not human voices."
"Come, now, old chap. Of course they were human voices.
Probably the ground staff giving you instructions."
Desperately the sick man sat up and grasped his visitor's
lapel.
"They were voices from space, I tell you. I was through the
Le Prince layer."
"What has the Le Prince layer to do with it?" the Wing
Commander asked gently.
Van der Veen sank back on to his bed wearily. He closed his
eyes but continued to speak.
"Communication with Earth was normal for five million
miles," he said in a voice so low that his visitor had to bend
forward to catch the words. "Then the ship entered the Le
Prince radiation belt. Radio blotted out both ways. Nothing
for many hours. It was—horrible."
"Go on," Whiskers urged.
"Then the ship passed beyond the belt. At once I heard
them."
"It must have been Earth again, old chap," Whiskers
said.
"No. The belt cuts off radio completely. No waves can pass
through it. They were different voices—horrible voices."
Whiskers was puzzled. He was inclined to treat the Dutch-
man's words as the product of a sick mind, but he felt a grow-
ing doubt whether they could be brushed off so lightly.
"Did you report this?" he asked.
"I—I tried to," Van der Veen answered, "but I was sick
and people thought I was mad. When I heard your friend was
41

going to Mars, it all boiled up inside me again. I do not know
what happened until I found myself in hospital."
In spite of himself Whiskers was almost convinced. The
patient's words had seemed rational enough—allowing for
the terrible memories that accompanied them.
"Could you understand the voices?" he asked. "Did you
record them?"
"The voices were speaking, but not in any earthly language.
I did record them, but the magnetic force in the Le Prince
layer wiped the tapes clean each time I passed through. There
is only my word for it," Van der Veen concluded. He was
exhausted now and his voice was barely audible. Whiskers
knew he would drag out nothing more that day. Perhaps if he
came back tomorrow he'd be able to get more sense out of the
poor chap, for he was sure now that to do so was vital.
When was it Chris and his friends were being ferried out to
Alpha on the first stage of their journey? Heavens! It was
tomorrow, July 15th. Whiskers was very troubled as he drove
the few miles from Halton hospital back home. He knew that,
somehow, he'd had more information from Van der Veen
than the doctors had had. Was it only the Dutchman's ram-
bling?
If it was true, it would certainly be a pretty shattering ex-
perience to overhear conversations from other worlds. Even
if they couldn't be understood, it would be creepy to hear
voices of beings from space. He'd often heard it argued that
there couldn't be intelligent life on other worlds, otherwise
we should have had messages from them. Or at least we should
have been able to pick up some of their radio signals. Now, if
Van der Veen was right, the Le Prince layer effectively
blanketed all radio waves, and only beyond was it possible to
hear the multitudinous voices of space.
When Whiskers reached home he garaged his car thought-
fully.
"What's biting you?" Sylvia asked as she saw the unaccus-
42

tomed frown on her husband's face. "I know. You wish you
were off with Chris and the others."
The Wing Commander smiled and kissed his wife.
"No, darling. That isn't what's nagging at me—though I'd
be lying if I said I don't miss being along with them. No. The
trouble is, I just can't make up my mind whether or not to pay
any attention to that Dutchman."
He told his wife what had happened at the hospital and
repeated the strange tale of the patient.
"Well, suppose there is something in what he said. How are
strange voices on the radio going to be a danger to Chris?"
asked the practical Sylvia.
"It would prove the universe is peopled with intelligent
creatures," Whiskers pointed out, "and they may, or may not,
welcome our intrusion. But what I'm chiefly worried about is
the shock it will be to our friends if they hear these strange
sounds without being warned. Maybe they would have the
same effect on them as they did on Van der Veen."
"Rubbish," Mrs. Greatrex insisted. "They're all level-
headed young men, and they wouldn't be scared."
"Van der Veen was level-headed before he went on his last
trip," Whiskers pointed out. "He wouldn't have been selected
otherwise."
"Well, he's a sick man now," Sylvia insisted, "and I
wouldn't pay any attention to his ramblings."
"I don't know what to do," her husband confessed with a
sigh. "If only Benny was here I'd let him sort it out."
"Can't you call him on the phone, or something?"
"At Cape Canaveral? Some call that would be!" Whiskers
moaned.
"If you're so worried it would be worth it. Oh! Can you get
yourself something to eat? I'm due at the Vicarage in five
minutes," Sylvia said.
"You buzz off, old girl. I'll manage. Yes. I think I'll put
that call through," the Wing Commander muttered as his
43

wife closed the door behind her. "It'll be a bit expensive
though."
He reached for the phone and spoke to the operator.
"Did Sir George sort it out for you?" Sylvia asked as she
hung up her coat.
"How did you know I'd called him?" asked her mystified
husband.
"Go on with you, you great baby," Mrs. Greatrex laughed.
"I knew you'd be on the phone before I was out of the house.
Come on. What did Sir George say?"
"I had a bit of a job to get him," Whiskers confessed, "but
in the end I managed it. He was very busy, of course. Chris
and company leave for Alpha tomorrow. Anyhow, I told him
all Van der Veen had said. He suggested I take a tape of what
he lets out when I visit him tomorrow and send it on to him."
"Good. Then you needn't worry any more," Sylvia said
briskly.
"Oh, but I am worried," Whiskers complained. "I haven't
got a spare tape for my recorder."
"Aren't you just the limit?" Sylvia said with a heavy sigh.
"There's a new tape in the top drawer of the sideboard—just
where you put it a fortnight ago."
*****
The telephone bell rang at i .30 a.m. It took several nudges
from Sylvia before her husband ceased snoring and returned
to consciousness sufficiently to hear the bell. Grumbling and
cursing the unknown caller, Whiskers padded along to take the
call, while his wife strained her ears to catch what was said.
Mrs. Greatrex heard her husband's querulous voice as he
picked up the receiver. The next instant it had changed com-
pletely. Whiskers was talking excitedly.
"Hello, Benny," she heard him say. "No, don't apologize.
44

It's quite all right. Yes, I'm sure I could. I'll fix it with Sylvia
now. Be seeing you. 'Bye."
"What was all that in aid of?" Mrs. Greatrex asked, as a
flushed and excited Whiskers returned to the bedroom.
"It was Benny. He thinks there may be something in the
Dutchman's ramblings after all. He—he wants me to fly out
with that tape tomorrow."
For a few moments Sylvia was silent while her husband
watched her face anxiously. Then a slow smile of resignation
spread over it.
"Then you'd better get a good night's sleep before the
journey, hadn't you?" she said.
First thing in the morning Whiskers was on the phone to the
hospital asking how soon he could see Van der Veen. Ten
minutes later, complete with tape recorder, he set off with his
car.
This time the patient looked at his visitor at once. As soon
as they were alone Whiskers spoke, trying to keep his voice as
calm and soothing as possible.
"I've news for you, old chap," he said. "I phoned Sir George
Benson at Cape Canaveral yesterday evening and told him all
you said. He must believe you, because he phoned me back in
the early hours and spoilt my beauty sleep. I'm to get you to
repeat everything you can remember while I record it on this
tape. Then he wants me to fly it to him at once."
The Dutchman's face flushed, and for an awful moment
Whiskers thought the man was going to weep, so great was his
relief that the famous scientist thought there was something in
his story.
"That's good," he said after a while. "Set the machine
going and I'll tell you all I can."
45

Sir George Benson had been surprised to receive a telephone
call from his old friend. Had it been anyone else on the line he
would have refused to take the call, for he was desperately
busy with the final preparations for the Martian expedition.
He couldn't refuse to speak to old Whiskers, however, but the
call would have to be a brief one.
When Benson had heard the Wing Commander's account of
what Van der Veen had said, he was frankly puzzled. Of
course he'd heard all about the incident at Farnborough, and
had been sorry to learn that an astronaut had cracked up so
badly. But now it seemed that Whiskers was half inclined to
take the Dutchman seriously.
For some time after he'd said good-bye to his friend, Sir
George Benson turned the strange story over in his mind. He
recalled the discovery of this distant belt of radiation by the
French scientist Jules-Robert Le Prince. Its presence had first
been suspected way back in 1985, when deep space probes
registered an unexpected increase in radiation at a distance of
some five million miles from the Earth. Even before that, he
recalled, a Venus probe launched by the Russians in 1961 had
become unaccountably silent when about this distance on its
journey. Not only had Jodrell Bank definitely bounced signals
back from Venus but also Mariner II, launched in 1962, had
radioed back, and—much later—Chris and his friends had
communicated from Earth's twin planet.
It was quite evident that the Le Prince layer was not distri-
46
6

buted uniformly. Like the well known Van Allen layer, it had
certain gaps, if these could be charted. Van der Veen had
certainly passed through the thick of it. Then, if there was any
substance in the Dutchman's ramblings, space was full of
voices which can never reach the Earth.
Benson wished he had time to fly back to Britain and see
Van der Veen for himself. He regretted very much that he
hadn't done so before, for he would have liked to form his own
opinion on whether there might be any substance in what the
sick man was saying. However, he had a great deal of confi-
dence in the plain common sense of Whiskers, and the fact
that the Wing Commander had thought it necessary to phone
him showed that he thought there might be something in it.
But it was out of the question for the scientist to leave his job.
In less than twenty hours the ferry rocket would leave, carry-
ing the Martian expedition to Alpha.
Then Sir George had an idea. If he couldn't go to England,
why not get Whiskers to come out to the Cape? He smiled to
himself as he pictured his old friend's reaction to the suggestion.
He'd be as excited as any schoolboy about to make his first
trip in a rocket. Bit rough on Sylvia, perhaps, dragging her
husband away. But Sylvia was a very understanding woman.
She had to be—with Whiskers!
It was eight thirty in the evening when Sir George put
through his call. Though he knew it would be 1.30 a.m. in
England he had no qualms about rousing the Greatrex house-
hold. To hear an account of the Voices in the Dutchman's
own words was really important. Only then could he decide
what action to take.
Chris and the other members of his crew had spent a quiet
day. Their briefing was over, their training complete. Now
they had only to wait for the take-off, which was timed for
10.00 hours next morning. This was the most difficult time of
all. From experience of many rocket journeys, Chris knew
that the last few hours were deadly. The clock seemed to
47

crawl and nerves began to fray. It was now that they missed
old Whiskers, for he'd always been a great standby during this
difficult period.
They hadn't seen Sir George for some hours. Of course, he
had his hands full with preparations for the launching, but
Chris formed the opinion that his friend was deliberately keep-
ing away. When at last Benson did pay a visit to the crew's
quarters he excused himself and promised to see them all in the
morning. As he was going Sir George caught Chris's attention,
and an almost imperceptible movement of the head indicated
that Chris was to follow him outside.
After an interval of a couple of minutes Chris told his
colleagues he was going outside for a breath of air and left
them to their game of cards. In the shadows he spotted Sir
George and went over to join him.
"Glad you were able to slip away," Benson began in a low
voice. "I wanted to have a talk with you."
He told Chris of Whiskers's visit to the Dutchman, of what
the patient had said, and of Whiskers's telephone call to him.
When he went on to say that he'd asked the Wing Commander
to take a recording of Van der Veen's statement and fly over
to the Cape with it, Chris knew that the scientist was disturbed.
"So you think there may be something in what Van der
Veen says?" he asked.
Benson replied cautiously.
"I can't quite decide. The Dutchman's lapse seems inex-
plicable unless he had some terrible shock on his last voyage.
I've checked up on the evidence available. It does seem to
confirm that the Le Prince layer is blocking off quite a range
of radio waves—certainly those most suitable for communica-
tion. When Van der Veen penetrated the layer he'd be
flooded with all sorts of radio signals from space."
"And you think he did hear Voices?"
"I wouldn't like to say. But even ifit's only remotely possible,
it's a chance I'm not prepared to take," Benson said.
48

"What harm could the Voices do to us?" Chris asked.
"They'd only be sounds on the radio."
"Again the answer is 'I don't know'," Benson sighed, "but
if they do exist they've had a pretty shocking effect on Van
der Veen. We mustn't risk the same thing happening to your
crew."
"Come off it," Chris laughed, "you don't think these sounds
on the radio—however weird they are—could send us round
the bend, do you?"
"The older I get," Benson answered, "the more certain I am
that Mankind hasn't yet even dipped its big toe into the vast
ocean of knowledge. What effect these Voices would have on
humans, I wouldn't like to guess."
"But if we're prepared for them, it won't be any shock if we
hear them," Chris insisted. "You're not altering our plans, are
you?"
"No," Sir George replied, "they're too far advanced to be
modified, except for the most vital reason. Besides—the
Voices may be pure hallucination."
"So Whiskers is coming tomorrow, is he? Don't suppose
he'll arrive till after we've blasted-off. No chance of holding
up the count-down is there?" asked Chris.
Benson smiled.
"You know the answer to that one, don't you? No, I'm
afraid you'll miss our mutual friend, but no doubt he'll be
hanging round for a bit, so you can chatter to him on the
radio," he said. "Well, you'd better turn in now. I'll see you
tomorrow."
"Er—what will happen when you've heard Van der Veen's
tape?" Chris wanted to know before his friend left.
Sir George's face became serious.
"If I think it necessary I'll get in touch with you about it on
Alpha. Meanwhile don't alarm the others. There may be
nothing in it after all."
Long after he'd said good-bye to his friend Chris was think-
49

ing of their conversation. Long after the crew had turned in to
spend their last night for some time in an earthly bed, he lay
awake. Suppose—just suppose—Space was filled with those
creepy voices that had played such havoc with the Dutchman.
What would their effect be on Tony, on Serge, on Morrey, and
even on himself? Were they all of stronger calibre than Van
der Veen? If not, the results might be serious. Ah well, Sir
George would know what to do, he told himself sleepily as he
finally settled down in bed.
Next morning the members of the Martian expedition were
roused early. The time for action had now come. Each of
them had made many journeys into space before but still they
would feel the usual "butterflies" in the stomach until their
ship was on the way. The last hours of the count-down had
always been a miserable time for astronauts.
When the time came for the space suits to be donned, the
last good-byes to old friends, and the final checks of their
equipment, Chris began to think that Sir George wouldn't
come. But just as the crew was about to climb into the jeep
that would carry them to the tall silver space ship, the
scientist came hurrying up.
"Nearly missed you," he apologized, "but I've been arrang-
ing for some extra equipment to be stowed into your ship. I'll
tell you all about it when you're comfortably settled in Alpha."
He shook the hands of all four warmly, for he'd seen these
young men off on many perilous voyages. Their coolness and
courage had won his admiration, and he wished them well on
this latest venture. As he shook hands with Chris their eyes
met. It was more than friendship between these two, but
neither would admit what they felt at this parting.
"I'll let you know," Benson managed to whisper.
Then the astronauts climbed into the vehicle and were
whisked away to the launching site.
"Any idea what the extra payload is?" asked Morrey as
they trundled along.
50

"Not the slightest," Chris was able to answer truthfully,
though he had his suspicions that it had something to do with
the Voices. Couldn't be an instrument, he told himself, for
we'd have been briefed on how to work it.
Serge led the way into the lift at the foot of the gantry. One
by one they were whisked up through the huge lattice work of
metal till they reached the platform against the entrance to
their cabin. Then they followed each other through the hatch
and began the business of settling on to their contour couches.
With some assistance they managed the operation, talking
cheerfully to the mechanics who were fastening them down. A
final check of the radio and the oxygen supply and the signal
was given for the hatch to be closed.
"Everyone all right?" Chris asked with forced gaiety, and
they all replied quickly that they were. It was always a tense
moment before blast-off, for occasionally things still went
wrong among the thousands of complicated parts making up
a rocket. Even if no harm was done, it was very nerve-racking
to hold up the count-down while repairs were made.
This time all was well, and Control signalled that the last
few minutes had arrived. The four friends fell silent as they
heard on their radios the calm distant voice call out the passing
seconds.
It was a perfect take-off. With just the slightest quiver the
rocket rose on its tail of fire and climbed faster and faster into
the sky. Sir George Benson, watching the vehicle grow smaller,
sighed. His young friends were now on their way. He'd have to
be very sure before he cancelled the expedition. So much
labour had been expended, so many new techniques were
being tested, so much information would be obtained! Even if
he believed in the existence of the Voices, would he be justi-
fied in wasting the tremendous effort that had gone into pre-
paring the Martian expedition?
Inside the cabin the crew lay silently on their couches.
Though they could speak with difficulty it was better not to
5i

talk until the tremendous pressure of the acceleration had eased.
The two minutes seemed a long time in passing, but at the end
of them they all sighed with relief and sat up on their couches.
Now they were coasting along in a weightless condition, and
when they released their safety belts they floated grotesquely
about the cabin.
Now they had no sense of "up" or "down". Only reason
told them which was the floor of their cabin. They chatted
gaily while they affixed their magnetic shoes, which would
give them some control over their movements. This done, they
clumped along to their posts and began to transmit data to
Control. From this computers would calculate the exact
manoeuvre required to carry them into the same orbit as the
space station Alpha.
"What's it like?" asked Tony as soon as their immediate
tasks were over. The mechanic was the only one of the
quartet who had never visited the man-made satellite.
"It's like a great big wheel," Morrey told him. "They
assembled it piece by piece out in space. Parts were ferried
out to the right orbit and put together by a team of chaps
specially trained."
"But why is it shaped like a wheel?" Tony wanted to know.
"Because it is designed to revolve slowly to simulate gravity,"
Serge answered. "The rim of the wheel is a huge hollow tube
in which the crew live and do much of their work. Centrifugal
force is a substitute for gravity, and this helps them to operate
inside the station more easily and for longer periods than if
they were weightless."
"There are five passages leading from the rim like hollow
spokes," Chris said, taking up the description. "These end in
the central hub which is the nerve centre of the station."
"Where will our ion rocket be?" the mechanic enquired.
"I expect it's been assembled near the hub," Chris told him,
"In open space?"
"Of course. It would be safer there, because of radiation
52

from the fuel. I expect it's attached to Alpha in some way so
that it doesn't go wandering off into space without us."
"How many people are there on Alpha?" Tony asked.
"More than a hundred, I believe," Serge told him. "Of
course they are relieved at regular intervals. I have heard that
soon the station will be enlarged by adding an outer rim. Then
the establishment will be over two hundred men."
"But what do they all do?" the mechanic enquired.
"Oh, they take masses of observations—astronomic,
radiation, magnetic, meteorologic, and many others," Morrey
answered. "They have launched one or two space probes, but
never one on the scale of ours."
"One last question," Tony said with an apologetic smile.
"How will we locate Alpha?"
"Easily," Chris assured him. "We're being put into the
same orbit. Then a radar beam will lock on to it and guide us
towards it. Just as anti-aircraft missiles operated twenty years
ago."
Now their attention was claimed by the voice of Control
coming from the loudspeaker.
"You are now in orbit and will lock on to Alpha in thirty-
one minutes," it said. "Contact will be made fourteen
minutes later and you will report to Commander Barnwell as
soon as you have transferred."
Tony whistled. In three-quarters of an hour they would be
inside this fabulous space station he'd heard so much about.
And then the final preparations for their journey to Mars
would begin.
53

7
"Hello, Whiskers!"
"Hello, Benny, old boy!"
The two friends greeted each other warmly as the ex-
fighter pilot emerged from the plane that had just touched
down on the Cape Canaveral airfield. Whiskers was carefully
carrying a package which Sir George rightly guessed contained
the all-important tape record. Neither of them spoke about it
as they hurried off to Sir George's quarters, where a meal was
waiting for the new arrival.
"How's the expedition going?" Whiskers asked as they
settled down afterwards.
"They should just about be coming up to Alpha," Benson
replied. "The take-off was uneventful, of course, and Chris
reports everything fine in the rocket."
"How is Chris? Are they all fit?"
"Quite fit. Bit disappointed at not seeing you. At least Chris
was. The others don't know anything about this affair yet.
Maybe I won't have to worry them about it after all."
"I'm afraid you will, Benny," Whiskers said seriously. "I
think when you hear Van der Veen's story in his own words
from this tape, you'll believe—as I do—that there's something
in his story. When do you want to hear it?"
"Might as well waste no time," Sir George replied. "I've
fixed up the machine in my office. Let's get over there now,
shall we?"
Greatrex stood up and the two men walked the few yards
54

to the scientist's office. A tape machine was ready on the table.
Whiskers unwrapped his package and busied himself in putting
the reel into position. Benson watched silently. When the job
was done, Greatrex turned to his companion and spoke
seriously.
"When I visited Van der Veen twelve hours ago, he seemed
much improved," he began. "I think the fact that someone
was paying attention to his story has had a great effect on him.
Because everyone had thought his mind was wandering, he
had begun to believe it himself. This morning I told him you
wanted to hear his report for yourself, and I think that did the
poor chap more good than all the treatment he's had since he
broke down."
"Let it run," Sir George said shortly.
Whiskers switched on the machine and waited.
After a brief silence while the tape was running through,
Whiskers's own voice sounded. He was explaining to Van der
Veen that he'd been requested by Sir George Benson, the
scientist in charge of the Martian project, to record his story
so that he, Benson, could have it first hand. Then it would be
decided what action, if any, should be taken in connection
with the expedition to Mars.
The Dutchman's voice came back, a little incoherently at
first, but under Whiskers's repeated encouragement, with in-
creasing confidence and clarity. He told the story of his deep
space probe, and repeated facts about it quite lucidly. He
described the effect of the Le Prince layer on his instruments
and how it had completely blanketed his communications
with Earth. It was only when he tried to describe the fearsome
Voices that came flooding in as soon as he was beyond the
layer that his voice broke again and his report became dis-
jointed.
The recording revealed that Whiskers had tried to draw more
information from the patient, but without success. Then, as
the Dutchman became calmer, he was able to reveal that all
55

proof of what he'd heard was lost when his rocket returned
through the Le Prince layer and his tape was wiped clear by its
peculiar electrical conditions. But no magnetic field could
wipe away the memory of the Voices, and on his return to
Earth Van der Veen had vainly tried to convince someone of
their existence. His failure to do so had been a major factor in
his breakdown.
At last the recording ended and Whiskers switched off the
machine.
"What do you think, Benny?" he asked his companion.
"I think as you do," the scientist replied thoughtfully. "The
chap seems rational enough until he tries to describe the
Voices, and then he goes to pieces completely. If they exist,
and I'm inclined to believe they do, these Voices must have a
pretty shattering effect on the human mind. According to all
reports, Van der Veen was as normal as you or I before his
journey."
"But what about Chris and the others?" Whiskers asked
anxiously. "If you accept only the possibility of the Dutch-
man's story being correct, won't you be cancelling the Martian
expedition?"
Sir George sighed heavily. Many times before he'd been
faced with a terrible decision such as this. Often it had in-
volved risks to the lives of others—including Chris. To him the
pursuit of knowledge was of paramount importance; it
mattered more than his own life, and even those of his friends.
If the Voices of outer space existed, it was one of the most
important discoveries of all time. The mind positively boggled
at all the implications that would follow. Cost what it might,
the question must be settled. The whole future of Mankind
might well depend on it.
"It's the old, old question," Sir George answered at last.
"The safety of the few weighed against the interests of the
many. All through the ages Man has been faced with this
choice. It is only by choosing the path of danger that he has
56

been able to master the world around him. It is only by a
similar choice that he will get to know other worlds. The
expedition will go on."
"But will they be told of the dangers they face?" Whiskers
wanted to know.
"Of course," Benson assured him. "They will even have the
opportunity of refusing to go if they wish. You and I know
all four too well to believe they would do that, but never-
theless they could."
"What can you do to reduce the danger?" asked Whiskers.
"One way is to tell them to shut down the radio, and then
the Voices won't be able to harm them—though that won't
teach us much about these mysterious sounds from space. The
other way is to prepare them psychologically as much as
possible so that they will be able to listen to, and record, the
Voices without suffering the same fate as Van der Veen."
"How will you do that?"
"It will have to be done over the radio once they are
settled in Alpha. I'll get some specialists to work out a pro-
gramme right away. We shall have six days in which to do the
job."
"Did you say 'record the Voices'? I thought the Le Prince
layer made that useless," Whiskers said with a puzzled frown.
"I made a last-minute addition to their payload," Benson
explained. "One item was a special radio set with ultra-fine
tuning. The other was a heavy plastic container of the same
material as the shield of the ion rocket. The radio set should
help them to tune in to a particular Voice, and the container
will, I hope, ensure the safe return of the tape record."
"Seems to me that confirming or disproving the existence of
the Voices is more important than the landing on Mars," the
Wing Commander mused.
"You may well be right," Sir George agreed, "but we shall
try to do both."
"Asking a lot, aren't you?" Whiskers laughed.
57

"We must do our best with the tax-payer's money," Benson
replied modestly.
* if * * *
"Made it!"
It was Tony who let out the exclamation as the space
station's electro-magnets seized their rocket firmly and held it
fast. After the radar had locked on to Alpha, their rocket had
steadily drawn nearer. By firing small auxiliary rockets they
had drawn right alongside, and now Alpha was clutching
them tightly in its landing bay. Soon they could leave and
climb up into the huge space station where they would pre-
pare finally for the great adventure.
As soon as they heard over the radio that the satellite's
landing crew were ready for them, Morrey and Serge began to
unfasten the hatch of the cabin. Before the final catches were
released they all put on their suits as a routine precautionary
measure. At a signal from Chris the hatch was swung open
and they peered eagerly through it to see the men outside.
His magnetic shoes holding him from floating about, Tony
was the first to climb out of the rocket. He found himself in a
smallish chamber where several space-suited men were wait-
ing to help him. This was the airlock leading into the hub of
the satellite. While the mechanic was exchanging greetings
with the landing crew over his helmet radio, his companions
joined him. A shutter was closed over the way they had
entered, and now they waited to be admitted to Alpha. Tony
was agog to explore this marvellous man-made world.
A switch on the wall pressed by one of the landing crew
caused the air-lock door to open. Through it they could see a
brightly lit passage with several men waiting to assist them
from their suits. Chris and his companions stepped through.
It would be a pleasant relief to be rid of their space gear for a
few days.
"Commander Barnwell is looking forward to meeting you,"
58

one of the satellite's crew told them as soon as they had been
divested.
"Good," Chris answered. "We'd like to see him as soon as
possible."
It was like climbing into a huge submarine. They went
down innumerable steps and along endless corridors before
they reached their destination.
The Commander, whom all but Tony had met before, was
in supreme command of the space station. He was a man of
about thirty-five, and a mathematician in his own right. But,
more than that, he had a gift of leadership, and he inspired
enthusiasm in all his men. Chris thought himself lucky that
the expedition was to be launched during Barnwell's tour of
duty, for Commander Hendriks, who relieved him at three-
monthly intervals, wasn't nearly such a pleasant chap.
"Welcome to Alpha," Commander Barnwell smiled as he
greeted the four newcomers a few moments later. He was a
slight man, of medium height. His hair, brushed smoothly
back, was prematurely grey, but his face was young for his
years. There were lines of humour round his mouth, and when
he spoke he gesticulated in an almost Gallic way.
Chris introduced Tony, and the Commander shook hands
warmly.
"Good trip?" he asked. He was assured that this was so.
"Your ship is almost ready," he told the quartet. "Only the
ion motor to be fuelled now."
For the next half-hour they discussed technicalities, and the
Commander promised to show them over their vessel as soon
as possible. Tony also said he'd like to see over the space
station, and the officer promised that he could.
Because of the artificial gravity caused by the rotation of
Alpha, Chris and his companions were able to walk about and
eat very much as on Earth. It seemed strange to be using a
knife and fork to eat an appetizing meal while hurtling
through space.
59

"What was that?" the mechanic asked Morrey in a whisper
after he'd cleared his plate.
"Algae," the American grinned, and went on to explain to
the astounded Tony that their meal had consisted of some of
the minute plants specially cultivated in the space station. These
tiny plants had the threefold use of absorbing carbon dioxide,
restoring oxygen to the atmosphere, and—suitably prepared—
providing a useful source of food. They were a supplement to
the chemical apparatus used to re-oxygenate the air in a per-
petual cycle. Only occasionally was it necessary to transport
fresh supplies of the gas from Earth. Tony gave a grimace at
hearing what he'd eaten, but had to admit that "it wasn't too
bad".
When the meal was over, Morrey—with the Commander's
permission—began to conduct Tony over the space station,
while Chris and Serge got down to work.
"As you know, Alpha is like a huge wheel with five spokes
leading from the rim to the hub," the American explained.
"We're halfway down one of them now so we'll climb down
the rest of this spoke to the rim and do a tour right round.
Then we'll explore each of the spokes and finally visit the hub."
"Lead on," Tony called gaily, and followed his friend
down the ladder.
It was like descending into the hold of a ship, the metal
rungs projecting from the side wall. When they started, Tony
noticed that the artificial gravity was fairly light, but as they
drew nearer the rim he began to feel heavier and heavier.
"Alpha is revolving at three times a minute," Morrey ex-
plained when Tony commented on the increasing pull.
"Naturally the rim is moving faster than any other part.
There gravity is about the same as on Earth, for it houses
crew quarters and recreation rooms. The hub has the lowest
'g'. I suppose in the centre you might say a person would be
weightless."
They had now reached the rim, and Tony could see in front
60

and behind him a lighted corridor, each end of which curved up
out of sight. As they walked along as naturally as they would
on Earth, they met many of Alpha's crew and exchanged
cordial greetings. Several of them invited Tony and his guide
into their cabins, and they were able to see the pleasant rooms
in which the men relaxed. A bunk was the most prominent
fixture, complete with its safety straps to secure the occupant
during the periods when Alpha had to be stilled. There was a
fairly large common room in which the men gathered for
recreation.
One curious thing Tony noticed. As they walked along the
corridor they never seemed to come to the part which sloped
upwards. Always it receded in front of them, and he was
completely surprised when at last Morrey told him they had
made a complete circuit of the outer rim. Then, in turn, they
explored each of the five spokes. These consisted of stores,
powerhouses and laboratories, Finally came the hub itself in
the shape of a circular control room. Here the station com-
mander worked, constantly in touch with all parts of the
satellite and with Earth. Because of the low rotational speed,
magnetic shoes were an essential for work in the hub. Com-
mander Barnwell, Chris and Serge were wearing them as they
moved from one part of the hub to another.
The Commander smiled at Tony and Morrey.
"What do you think about it?" he asked the mechanic.
"Marvellous," the young man exclaimed. "How was it
built?"
Just as the Commander was about to describe how Alpha
had been built from prefabricated parts ferried up from
Earth, a phone bell rang. He clumped to the wall and un-
dipped the receiver. A moment later he turned to Chris.
"Sir George Benson has an important message for you," he
said.
61

"Ch ris speaking," the young scientist said.
He'd been shown into a private room just off the main hub
control by Commander Barnwell. Evidently Sir George
wished the message to be for his ears alone, for Chris was the
only person in the room.
"Hello, Chris. Benson here," came back the well-known
voice. "Are you alone?"
"Yes," Chris assured him. "What's it all about?"
"Those Voices," Sir George answered. "Whiskers has
brought me the recording of Van der Veen's latest statement
and I'm inclined to think the chap may not be as mad as
some people thought. Look, Chris, there may be something in
what he said about the Voices, so we'd better take no risks."
"What do you mean? The expedition is still on, isn't it?"
Chris asked anxiously.
"That depends on you—and the others, of course. You know
what Van der Veen said. You know the effect the Voices had
on him. Do you want to run the same risk?"
"I'm game," said Chris stoutly, "and I'm sure the others
will be too. But if there are any Voices, and if they are so
terrible, can't we just leave the radio switched off?"
"You could, of course," Sir George agreed, "but will you?
Even if I ordered you to do so, I doubt whether you could
resist finding out if Van der Veen was right. And I must
confess my curiosity is equally strong; this may be one of the
most significant discoveries of all time."
"Now there's a possibility of proving that Intelligences
62
8

exist elsewhere in the universe—perhaps even of communicat-
ing with them—we must go on," Chris declared. "May I put
it to the others yet?"
"By all means," Benson replied. "Let me know what their
answer is. As if I didn't know it already! But I'd like them to
understand what it's all about."
Morrey, Serge and Tony were waiting for their friend when
he came out of the room.
"What's up?" demanded Tony.
"I want to talk to you all," was Chris's answer, and his
serious tone riveted their attention.
He began by reminding them of the incident with Van der
Veen back at Farnborough and pointed out that it was the
news of their forthcoming expedition that had seemed to up-
set him. Chris went on to say that after they had wished him
good-bye Whiskers had been very fed up, and—for want of
something better to do—had visited Van der Veen in nearby
Halton hospital.
"Whiskers thought he'd like to talk to the chap and see if he
could get anything out of him," Chris said. "Surprisingly, he
succeeded. Van der Veen let out the story that on his last deep
probe towards Mars he'd penetrated the Le Prince layer.
Once he was through, he told Whiskers, he heard Voices on
his radio."
"Voices?" queried Tony.
"That's what he said they were," Chris went on, "and they
couldn't have been voices from Earth, because the Le Prince
radiation belt stops radio communication with the home
planet."
There were gasps from his listeners as he spoke.
"He must have been really crazy," Morrey burst out.
"Sir George doesn't think so," Chris answered drily. "He
asked Whiskers to record Van der Veen's words and let him
hear them. Whiskers is at the Cape now, and Sir George is
almost convinced."
63

"But if there are Voices beyond the Le Prince belt, they
must come from another solar system," gasped the usually
placid Serge.
"Precisely," Chris answered coolly. "If Van der Veen is
right, it's the most exciting thing that's ever happened. It's
positive proof that the Universe is populated with creatures
who can talk and who can transmit messages."
There was silence for quite a time as the little group
struggled to grasp the significance of what they had just
heard. The mind boggled at the idea. If it was possible to
listen in to messages from other worlds, would it be possible to
understand them? What were the Beings who had spoken like?
Where did they live? Would they be friendly or hostile to Man?
How far had their science progressed? Would it be possible to
send messages back?
"Sir George wants us to be prepared," Chris said, breaking
into their thoughts. "Naturally he doesn't want the same thing
to happen to us as to Van der Veen."
"I don't see how listening on the radio to someone talking
can send you screwy," declared Tony.
"Neither do I, but we can't be sure," said Chris. "Oh, I'd
almost forgotten. Sir George asked me to put it to you—would
you still like to go on with the expedition?"
The others looked at him without understanding.
"What does he mean—'would we like to go on?' " Morrey
demanded.
"Oh, just Uncle George's little way of seeing if anyone had
had second thoughts because of the possibility of the Voices,"
Chris smiled.
"He didn't really think we should back out now, did he?"
asked Serge.
"Not really," Chris assured them all. "I think it was just a
matter of form. Any of you scared of the Voices?"
The threatening looks which greeted him at this question
were a sufficient answer.
64

"It's just what I expected," Sir George Benson's voice, said
from the loudspeaker.
Chris had just informed the Director that his companions
were now more determined than ever to carry out the pro-
gramme, and the news of the Voices from space had excited
them immensely.
"Now, of course, there'll have to be some additions to your
programme. I want you all to listen to some talks by one or
two specialists. They are experts on such subjects as psychology,
hypnotism and so on. We hope this will help you to combat
any ill effects when—and if—you hear the Voices. Then I
shall want you to record what you hear. Oh, I know what
you're going to say about the Le Prince belt, but I've had a
special container included in your payload. I believe it will
effectively shield the tape."
"Was that the last minute cargo?" asked Chris.
"Partly," the reply came back. "There's also a special
radio. If you can, I'd like you to use it to fetch in the Voices,
and you may be able to isolate one of them. That would help
us to do some research on it. All clear?"
"We'll get some 'gen' on the radio?" Morrey enquired.
"The special radio for the Voices? Of course. But I don't
want you to use it unless you first pick something up on your
ordinary radio. Well, I think that's all. Can you be ready for
your first lecture in an hour's time?" asked Sir George.
A chorus of assent greeted his question, and with a final
word to each of the crew the Director concluded the con-
versation.
There wasn't time to inspect the ship which would carry
them to Mars before their first lecture from Earth, so Chris and
his companions had to put off the eagerly awaited sight of the
rocket until next day.
"That chap made me feel all creepy," Tony confided at the
end of the first session. They had been listening to a talk
by a psychologist who had explained how the mind works and
65

some of the peculiar tricks it can play. The lecturer had gone
into a fair amount of detail, and it was his description of
various types of mental abnormalities which had impressed
Tony.
"I suppose they think that if we all learn more about how
the mind works we'll be better able to combat any effect of
the Voices," Serge suggested.
They went on discussing what they'd just heard until Com-
mander Barnwell came in to ask if they would now like to
inspect their ship. They agreed enthusiastically.
"Then get dressed up and I'll take you myself," the Com-
mander smiled.
The four made their way to where all space suits were
stored. With the help of the staff they were soon in their own
suits and ready for the Commander.
"Don't forget your belts and lines," laughed one of the
dressers.
"What's he on about?" Tony asked, turning to Chris.
The man answered for himself.
"Everyone venturing outside the station has to wear them,"
he said. "The belt carries a small rocket which you use to pro-
pel yourself about. The line is a safety precaution. It is a long
one and fastens you to the station so that you don't wander off
into space."
"Does such a thing happen?" enquired Serge.
"Sometimes," the man told them. "At least, it did before
the safety lines became compulsory. Until you're proficient
with the rocket belts you might give yourself too big a blast
and get shot away."
"I did hear one chap did just that and hasn't been seen
since," Chris put in with mock seriousness.
"He's probably fallen into the sun by now," the dresser
agreed, returning Chris's wink.
"Coo! Me for the ropes, then!" breathed Tony.
The Commander joined the quartet a few moments later.
66

He wore similar equipment to their own, and when he was
satisfied that they understood how to operate the belts he led
them to a special airlock near the hub.
"We use this lock when we work outside," he explained.
"The rotation is low. If we used an exit on the rim we should
be propelled away from the station before we had time to clip
our safety lines to the rails you'll find outside."
They put on their helmets, tested their radios, and were
ready. The inner door was closed behind them, and now they
were waiting for the air to be pumped out. A red fight flashed
on and the outer doors slid open, revealing the void of space
outside.
Tony looked through the opening. All around was a velvet
blackness, starred with a myriad points of light. He knew that
this was how space looked, but somehow, through the open
door of the airlock, it seemed different. Terrible, but beauti-
ful, were the best words he found to describe it.
"Just step outside after me," he heard Commander Barn-
well telling his companions. He saw the Commander stride
through the opening. Once Tony had been in a plane which
had carried parachutists. He'd seen the men jump out and
fall rapidly away. Now he half-expected Commander Barn-
well to do the same, but the officer's grotesquely-garbed
figure just floated outside. He watched the Commander snap
the clip on the loose end of his safety line to a rail on the out-
side wall.
"Come on," they all heard the officer call.
One by one they stepped out into the void, and now Tony
could really see the space station. Stretching away were the
five spokes, and all around was the rim. The great wheel was
turning steadily. He watched, fascinated.
"Would you like to try out your rocket belts?" Commander
Barnwell asked. "Just press the switch briefly and direct the
flexible nozzle away from where you want to go."
Tony did as he was told and found he was shooting away
67

from the satellite, only to be pulled up sharply when his line
was fully stretched.
"Now, if you hadn't been anchored down you'd be sailing
away into space," he heard Morrey say.
"What did I do wrong?" he asked.
"Fired your rocket too much," Commander Barnwell
answered. "We all do it at first. It's hard to get used to the
idea that only the slightest touch of the switch is necessary.
Try again."
After a few tries Tony was able to control his movements
fairly efficiently, and they all prepared to visit the ship that
was to take them to Mars.
It was on the other side of the hub. Gently propelling them-
selves between two of the spokes, Chris and his companions
followed Commander Barnwell. A fantastic scene met them,
for a score of space-suited figures were buzzing over the
rocket like wasps round a pot of jam. Curiously they gazed at
the vessel which was to take them on their incredible journey.
"Why, it's like a plane," they all heard Tony exclaim, and
the others had to agree with him, for their vessel had a pair of
short, stubby wings.
"There's an atmosphere on Mars," Commander Barnwell
reminded them. "The wings are to assist your entry. 1 believe
it's planned for you to glide at least one orbit before touch-
down."
"Where's the ion motor?" Morrey's voice asked.
"At the tail end, of course," the officer replied. "The heat-
ing elements are just being filled now."
The four propelled themselves towards the rear of their
vehicle, where a number of men were at work. They could
see the technicians hovering over the fuselage or floating
about it like some strange aerial ballet. Jostling with the work-
men, Chris and his friends peered closely at this novel rocket
motor.
"The principle of the ion motor is this," the Commander
68

could be heard explaining. "A quantity of the element cesium
is used as fuel, for cesium atoms are most easily converted to
ions. The vapour of the element is passed over a hot tungsten
element, which ionizes it. The resultant beam propels the
ship just as the conventional rocket does, but, of course, the
thrust is very much less."
"But it can be kept up much longer," Tony suggested.
"Very much longer. That's why you'll be able to build up a
tremendous velocity," Barnwell agreed.
For more than half an hour its future crew explored the
nearly completed rocket. They asked innumerable questions,
and the Commander or one of the technicians supplied the
answers.
"Better come inside again," Barnwell suggested at last.
"It's about time for another lecture from Earth."
Reluctantly they propelled themselves towards the airlock.
Floating about in the void had been an exhilarating experience,
but more than once Tony had been thankful for his safety
line. Not only had it kept him from being swept away into
space, but being attached to the satellite, had also given him
some sense of security. Regretfully they re-entered Alpha by
the airlock.
"Anyway, it won't be long before we blast-off," Tony
observed more cheerfully as they were removing their space
suits. "Only another four days."
69

The four days had passed, and the Mars rocket was ready. It
lay, slung beneath the giant wheel, waiting for its crew before
departing on its ever-faster journey to the regions beyond
where Man had been before.
As always, Chris, Tony, Morrey and Serge were impatient
to blast-off. This cruel period—the last hours when the final
meticulous checks were made—was almost unendurable. They
had spent a busy time in lectures, discussions, briefings, and
visits to their rocket. A score of times they had rehearsed their
duties, and each knew his orders off by heart. It was with a
vast sigh of relief that the quartet received Commander Barn-
well's signal to get into their suits.
"This is it!" Tony declared, and he hoped his voice didn't
betray the turmoil he felt.
"Sure is," agreed Morrey, trying to give him a reassuring
grin.
"Hurry up, you two," Chris urged impatiently. He hated
these last moments.
Serge kept silent. No one knew for sure what the phlegmatic
Russian was feeling.
At last they were safely packed inside their rocket, waiting for
the signal from the Cape that would decide the precise moment
of their separation from Alpha. They had all said their fare-
wells to the satellite Commander and his staff and had ex-
changed greetings and good wishes with their friends on Earth.
Sir George Benson and Whiskers had wished them luck. Now
they were listening tensely for the signal. It came at last.
70
9

"Separation thirty seconds from—now!" an unknown voice
from Cape Canaveral said unemotionally. In half a minute
the crew inside the space station would have released their
connection and from that moment they would be on their
own.
"Twenty seconds."
Chris and his companions settled easily on to their couches,
the leader having his hand on the firing button. They knew
that this time they would not have to endure a long period of
almost unbearable time to break their orbit with Alpha. After
that they would switch to the ion drive for the main part of the
voyage.
"Ten seconds."
The quartet lay silent as the last moments ticked away.
They were about to blaze a trail where no man had been
before—except Van der Veen. Would they hear those eerie
Voices, or would they prove to be a delusion? Chris hardly
knew which he would prefer.
"Zero!"
With lips pursed Chris pressed the button and waited.
The usual quivering of a take-off was missing, but they
could feel their couches pressing into them with growing
force.
"Everyone all right?" Chris asked.
A chorus of replies assured him that his crew was well and
not too uncomfortable. In an amazingly short time the Cape
came through, warning them to be prepared to switch to the
ion drive. At the signal Chris operated the necessary controls,
and the pressure disappeared, leaving them lying lightly on
their couches.
Tony was the first to sit up. As he slid on to the floor of the
cabin he found himself falling lightly just as he had done on
the Moon. The weak thrust of the new motor reproduced
lunar conditions closely, and the crew soon adapted them-
selves to it.
7i

By now they were well and truly on their way. Earth, with
its natural and man-made satellites, was falling rapidly be-
hind. The rocket was dead on course, so the voice from the
Cape told them. Apart from routine observations and the
checking of instruments, there would be little to do for many
hours. Morrey and Serge took the first watch, while Chris and
Tony relaxed on their couches.
"Do you think we shall hear those Voices?" Tony asked his
companion in a low voice. He was tired but not sleepy. He
felt he wanted to talk. Somehow this trip was worrying him
more than any of the others he'd made. Chris could sense his
friend's disquiet.
"I expect so," he answered lightly. "At least I'll be very
disappointed if we don't. I only wish we could tell what they
are talking about. If we can make a recording maybe some-
one back home will learn their language."
Tony moved uneasily on his couch.
"It'll be a bit creepy listening to creatures on other worlds,"
he said. "Will they be able to hear us?"
"Of course not," Chris replied. "If we do hear Voices on
our radio they'll be coming from outside our solar system. The
next solar system is four and a quarter light years away. So
the radio wave must have been at least that length of time
reaching us—and our wave would take as long to return."
"Anything we hear, then, must have been transmitted over
four years ago?" Tony asked with some relief.
"At least that," Chris agreed. "Maybe anything up to a
hundred thousand years ago, depending on the distance of the
source."
"So we could never have a conversation with anyone out-
side our solar system?"
"It doesn't seem like it," Chris agreed, "though it's never
quite safe to be absolutely definite. A new means of com-
munication travelling faster than light may be discovered some
day."
72

After this Tony fell silent, and Chris himself was glad to
relax.
*****
"How are we doing?" Chris asked Morrey and Serge a
couple of hours later when he and Tony went to take over the
watch.
"Everything normal," Morrey answered. "Control is quite
happy about us. Position and speed well within the limits
allowed. The ion motor seems to be going like a bird, and the
radiation is negligible."
"Good. Now you two go off for a spell," Chris ordered.
"Tony and I will take over."
Serge and Morrey did as they were bid, for, unless they
collided with a meteorite, there would be little to do for some
time. They would not approach the Le Prince layer for
another twenty-four hours. Then there'd be no rest for any-
one. They would all be keyed up listening for the first sounds
from space.
Tony completed his routine check of the hull, tanks, valves
and instruments. The fellows on Alpha had done a first-class
assembly job. Everything was working perfectly. Cape
Canaveral was delighted at the way their ion motor was
running. Its thrust hadn't varied by more than i per cent for
more than twenty hours, and the steady build-up of velocity
had been almost exactly as predicted.
"When shall you try the special radio?" Tony asked after
he'd completed his tasks.
"Not until we're beyond the layer," Chris answered. "Our
ordinary set is good enough for communication on this side.
No use risking the special till we must."
"How long will it be now?"
"We'll be approaching the lower boundary of the layer in
eighteen or nineteen hours from now," Chris replied after a
quick calculation. "It will take us a couple of hours to get
73

through it, so you can say that in twenty or twenty-one hours'
time we shall know whether Van der Veen was off his head or
not."
"Ugh!" shuddered Tony.
"Not scared, are you?" Chris asked.
"Don't know. I hope we don't hear anything."
"Cheer up. We probably shan't," Chris said reassuringly.
The crew ate, slept and performed all their tasks exactly as
had been planned, while the gentle pressure of the ion motor
steadily built up their speed.
"We should be entering the layer in about an hour," Morrey
announced during one of the spells when they were all on
duty together. "The radio will begin to fade out as we
approach the fringe."
Tony kept silent. It would be very lonely out there in space
when they were cut off from all human contact. Even though
the messages from the Cape were terse and businesslike, they
came from men like themselves—humans. He prayed in-
wardly that they would not hear any Voices, for in imagina-
tion he shuddered at the thought of the creatures from whom
they might come.
"Better get the tape recorder out and checked over," he
heard his leader saying. He turned to attend to the machine,
but his thoughts were still troubled by speculation on the
strange sounds it might soon be recording.
"Radio has gone dead," Serge suddenly called out. They
could hear only the crackling of the loudspeaker. Had they
entered the layer already? Just as they were asking each other
this question the voice came from the Cape through again.
"False alarm," breathed Tony.
"Perhaps an outlying belt of radiation," Chris suggested.
Whatever it was, the sudden fading of the only means of
communication with Earth was a sobering experience—suffi-
cient to alert the quartet to what was about to come.
Messages from Earth now took nearly half a minute to make
74

their journey. It was strange to think that when they spoke to
Control, their words were thirty seconds on the way, so that it
was at least one minute between question and answer.
"We have lost your signal," the voice from the Cape was
saying. "Are you receiving us?"
"Yes, we're getting you now," Serge answered, but Control
only repeated its question.
"Ah, we've got you again," the voice from Earth said at
last. "What happened?"
"We must be approaching the fringe of the Le Prince
layer," the Russian replied. "Any time now we shall fade
out."
The seconds sped by as they waited for a reply from Earth.
A minute, was it? Or had they already passed beyond human
communication? At last a voice sounded. It was that of Sir
George Benson.
"This may be the last message," it said. "I hope you'll get
it. We all wish you good luck and God speed on your journey.
Tell Chris	"
But the words faded. The radio was silent. Their last contact
with Earth was broken, and now they were on their way
speeding towards—who knew what?
Chris bustled his crew round before there was time for
reaction to set in. They were well and truly inside the radia-
tion belt and there were many observations to make. They all
carried out their duties swiftly and efficiently, but each of
them knew they were waiting for the moment when they
would break through this blanket of silence.
In a spare moment Morrey set the tape recorder running.
Then he took its microphone and began to sing the latest
American pop song. His companions looked at him as if he'd
gone crazy, but Morrey only laughed.
"He's after a job on TV," Tony said to Serge sarcastically.
"The radiation has affected him," was Serge's opinion.
"My guess is that he's in pain," Chris declared.
75

"Wrong, all of you," the aggrieved American snorted.
"Here—listen!"
He ran the tape back and then started up the machine
once more. It should have played back the excruciating
sounds Morrey had poured into it. Instead there was silence.
"Now you see what I was trying to find out," he retorted
triumphantly. "The Le Prince radiadon does obliterate any
recording as fast as it's made."
"So Van der Veen was right on that point," breathed Tony.
"He certainly was," Morrey agreed.
"Then he's probably correct about the Voices," Tony said
uneasily.
The rocket, still accelerating gently, ploughed its way
steadily through the belt of radiation. Inside, the crew worked
quietly, but the tension was mounting. It was nerve-racking
enough to be cut off from the comfort of voices from Earth,
but it was worse still to know that in a very short time they
would burst through the Le Prince layer.
Tony, particularly, was showing signs of strain, and this
worried Chris, for he knew that if they did hear the Voices,
the mechanic would be affected most.
"Cheer up, Tony," he called, breaking into his young
friend's thoughts. "Even if we do hear them they can't hurt
us. We can always switch off, you know."
Tony did not answer. Chris looked at him anxiously. There
were beads of perspiration on Tony's forehead, and his face
looked pale and strained.
"Can't understand it," Chris said to himself. "He's never
been scared of anything before."
"I have the set all ready," Serge announced. "What wave-
length shall we start with?"
"Doesn't matter," the leader answered. "Just wander
round the dial."
"But it will take ages with the micro-tuning," the Russian
pointed out.
76

"So it will. Better see what you can pick up on the ordinary
set first. If you do get anything you can pin-point it with the
micro set."
"Shouldn't be long before we're through," Morrey pointed
out with forced cheerfulness. "If there's anything to be heard
you may get snatches of it in about ten minutes."
Chris himself felt an unusual strain as the critical time drew
nearer. They were about to find out if radio messages from
other worlds did exist or whether they were just the delusions
of a sick mind. Then—if the Voices did exist—could they re-
cord and take them safely back to Earth? What a stupendous
amount of new knowledge Man would get if he could trans-
late these broadcasts from afar.
The young scientist pulled himself together with a jerk. It
wouldn't do to let his mind wander too much. He must be
keenly alert to all that was going on around him, not lost in a
mist of speculation. His forehead felt moist as he determined to
concentrate on the task ahead.
Both Serge and Morrey were now bent over their radio
sets, the Russian operating the rocket's ordinary apparatus,
while his companion waited with the micro-tuning set. Both
Chris and Tony had now left their jobs and were straining to
hear the first sounds from living creatures beyond the Earth.
"Listen!" snapped Tony.
But it was only his imagination. Nerves were taut, stretched
almost to breaking point, as the four held their breath.
"Must be through now," Chris whispered.
And then it happened! From the radio poured a babble of
unearthly sound—the Voices!
77

10
For a moment the crew were too shattered to collect their
thoughts. As they struggled to recover from the shock the loud-
speaker continued to blare out a jumble of weird and horrible
sounds. That they were made by living creatures, and not
mechanically, the listeners had little doubt, but that such
strange noises were never made by humans they were equally
sure.
Tony, his face pale, listened silently. He had never heard
such a variety of sounds. Some of the noises coming from the
radio were high-pitched like birdsong. Others were rough,
low and menacing. There were clicks and squeals; there were
whistles and barks; there were shrill sounds and moans. It was
like a choir of the damned.
Sweat ran down Tony's face. He swayed as if he were about
to faint, so great was the shock of hearing these unearthly
Voices. With an effort he looked around the cabin. Chris and
the others—he could see—were almost equally affected by the
strange noises. No wonder, Tony thought, poor Van der Veen
had cracked up under the shock. He had had no warning of
what to expect. They had all been anticipating the worst.
Nevertheless it was a terrifying experience to listen to sounds
made by creatures from other Worlds.
"Try the micro-tuner," Chris said, and he scarcely recog-
nized his own voice.
Serge read out some figures to Morrey, and the American,
visibly affected, worked on the special radio set. The screeches
78

were blood-curdling, but he continued his task of trying to
isolate one carrier wave. At last he succeeded, and the back-
ground noises died away, leaving just one Voice.
It was alternatively high- and low-pitched, just like a don-
key braying. There were pauses and periods in the broadcast,
followed by a long silence.
"Did you get that on the tape?" Chris asked in a whisper,
but his companions had been too shattered to make the record.
"Let it run in case it comes back," he said, and Serge
obediently put the recorder to work while the crew silently
waited.
Though they were expecting it, they were badly startled
when the braying started again. Somehow the sound was
hostile and threatening. Tony shivered until he forced him-
self to remember that this Voice had spoken many—perhaps
thousands—of years before, and that the creature to which it
belonged had been many light-years away from the solar sys-
tem. The menace in the strange unnatural sound couldn't be
meant for them. Maybe it was the broadcast threats of a dic-
tator in some island universe.
"Try another one," Chris said, and Morrey worked hard to
isolate another transmission. It wasn't an easy task, with so
many sounds pouring from the loudspeaker. It was like trying
to pick out the voice of one man in a cheering football crowd.
How crude their apparatus must be compared with that of the
beings that peopled other worlds! At last the American
succeeded and a series of guttural grunts filled the cabin.
"Is that—something—speaking?" Tony asked hoarsely.
Chris nodded silently. It was hard to believe that these were
sounds made by intelligent creatures. But it must be so, for
their radio communication was much more refined than ours.
There was every reason to believe that the Voices came from
Beings having a very advanced science. If only someone could
understand these strange sounds what a wealth of knowledge
man would get!
79

For the next hour the crew faithfully recorded all manner
of Voices, each seeming more horrible than the last. Then
Tony cracked. He could stand it no longer.
"Turn it off. Turn it off," he cried, his voice pitched high
with emotion. Scarcely any calmer, Chris reproached himself
for not keeping a close watch on the youngest member of the
crew. With a swift movement he stretched across to the radio
and switched it off.
In the silence that followed they all realized that their
nerves had been stretched taut. Each was shivering in the
quiet of the cabin, with Tony making a tremendous effort to
recover his composure.
"Sorry, you chaps," he gasped at last, but the others
assured him that they, too, had been equally affected.
"I think we've enough on the tape for this journey," Chris
declared, and his companions heartily agreed.
"We've other things to do, you know," the leader reminded
them. "We're supposed to be visiting Mars."
*****
After the nerve-racking experience of listening to the Voices,
Chris and his crew found the journey uneventful. Even though
their rocket was carrying them swiftly through the void, there
was little they could do to pass away the time. Because com-
munication with Earth wasn't possible, they were not re-
quired to make the usual instrument checks. It would be many
hours yet before they would re-start the ion motor to slow
down their headlong flight. Meanwhile they coasted along
without weight or sense of movement.
"How far are we from Mars?" Tony asked as he floated past
the American. He was recovering his composure, though the
hideous sounds from the radio still seemed to haunt him.
"We're well on our way," Morrey called back cheerfully.
All the crew were trying to forget their recent shattering ex-
perience.
80

"Eight point six million miles," volunteered Serge. "We
should be able to pick up the target soon by radar."
"See if you can get it on the television Tony," Chris said,
anxious to occupy his young friend.
Tony propelled himself over to the apparatus and spent a
busy few minutes working the set.
"Got it," he called out at last, and his companions floated
over towards the screen. Right in the centre was a globe about
the size of an orange. There was no doubt that this was the
planet they were soon to explore. The white areas at the poles,
the pattern of dark lines and patches, all these were familiar
from the photographs they had studied so intently.
"No wonder the old astronomers thought the planet was
covered with canals," Morrey murmured as he gazed at Mars.
"Those dark lines certainly seem unnatural."
"There are still some people who believe that if they're not
actual water channels they're the remains of what was once an
intricate system of irrigation," Serge said.
"That's one of the things we're going to find out," pointed
out Chris.
"Do you think we shall find traces of people?" asked Tony.
"I mean—well, thing's speaking like those Voices?"
"Still letting the squeaks and grunts worry you?" laughed
Morrey. "Forget them, old chap. They can't do us any harm.
No—Mars is a dead world—almost. There are some people
who believe that once it had living creatures on it, but they
died out thousands of years ago, as the planet dried up. If
they're right, then we should surely find something to prove
it."
"It's creepy, not being able to talk to Earth," Tony mused.
"We really are on our own."
"Let's have another go at reaching the Cape," Morrey
suggested as he pushed himself towards the radio.
"No. No!" Tony cried out. "You'll only get those horrible
sounds again. Don't switch on. Please!"
81

His companions looked at him strangely. The Voices had
certainly had him worried. Morrey glanced towards Chris,
and the leader silently shook his head. There wasn't much
chance of finding a gap in the Le Prince layer, and he didn't
want to distress Tony without good cause. They would have to
wait until they were almost home again before they heard
other human voices.
# * * * *
Because of the expected radio black-out, Chris had re-
ceived detailed flight instructions. The time was coming when
the rocket must be turned so that the ion motor, when started,
would push against their momentum and gradually slow them
down. To bring their vehicle round tail-first, small lateral
rockets would be fired. It would be a tricky business to get the
right alignment.
"I think that's about it," the leader observed as he turned
away from the instrument panel and the bank of firing
switches. He glanced up at the chronometer and made a
swift calculation.
"We start the motor in nineteen minutes," he announced.
So they were coming to the end of the period of free fall! For
nearly two and a half earthly days they had been in that
strange condition when neither they nor any of the loose
articles in the cabin appeared to have any weight. Though
they had all experienced it many times before it never failed
to fascinate and amuse them. Tony performed his last acro-
batics before the gentje thrust of the ion motor should give
them once more a semblance of weight.
"Here goes!" Chris called, his eyes fixed intently on the
seconds finger of the chronometer. With a quick movement he
pressed a switch, and a second later the quartet were in a
jumbled heap on the floor. Laughingly they sorted themselves
out and then went about their duties.
It was Chris who had the most responsible job from now on.
82

It was he who would have to calculate the precise moment
when to switch over to the chemical motor. There would be no
computer down on Earth to do the work for him. He'd have
to rely on his instruments and the small computer provided
for them. Still—it wouldn't be for many hours yet.
By common consent no further effort was made to take an-
other recording of the Voices. Morrey removed the tape from
the machine and sealed it inside the special container which,
it was hoped, would protect it from the Le Prince radiation on
the way back to Earth. Not until he'd seen the record packed
away was Tony his old cheerful self. Then, in contrast to his
former tension, he was relaxed and gay.
Attention was now concentrated on the planet they were
about to visit. On the screen Mars had grown in size and its
markings were becoming clearer. Serge compared the view
with photographs from the Palomar telescope and from the
base on the Moon. He was able to point out the various
features to his companions.
"See that dark patch with a spike sticking out? That's
called the Mare Acidalium. This light circular area is called
Hellas, and this long dark area is called the Mare Serpentis,
from its twisting shape. Of course, none of the features are as
well defined as those on the Moon. The Moon was mapped
accurately even before we reached it, whereas the geography
of Mars is still mainly guesswork."
"So they call the dark areas 'mares'—sorry, 'maria'—or
seas, just as they did on the Moon. Yet you say they are not
seas at all," Tony pointed out.
"That's right," Serge agreed. "There are no open stretches
of water on Mars. The names were given by the old astrono-
mers and have remained ever since."
"Where shall we land?" asked Tony.
"We must choose our own spot," Chris answered. "No one
could give us any advice or help. Perhaps we'll orbit for a
while until we see a likely place."
83

They all turned to look at the image on the screen. Some-
where on that strangely-marked planet their rocket would
touch down. Would they discover traces of an ancient civiliza-
tion that had long since died away? Or would moss and
lichens turn out to be the only life form that Mars had
known?
Instrument checks were now of the utmost importance.
Because Earth could not help them the crew must work out
their own flight plan. While Morrey and Serge bent intently
over the rows of dials, Chris noted the readings they called
out. Then for nearly half an hour the leader concentrated on
his calculations. Finally he announced the result.
"When these readings were taken we were 12-7 million
miles from the planet. Our velocity was 410,000 miles per
hour, and our direction three degrees out of a direct line," he
said.
"Will you correct the trajectory?" asked Serge.
"Not yet. Mars is travelling on its own orbit and that will
mean another calculation for me. We can afford to get much
closer before we correct our course."
Routine duties helped to pass away the hours. Tony was
busy testing valves, watching fuel supplies and checking their
equipment ready for the landing. Morrey and Serge concen-
trated on their instruments with only short periods of rest.
Chris continued his everlasting calculations until the others
insisted that he had a break.
So the time crept slowly on. At last came the moment when
Chris decided to correct the rocket's course.
"We'll give No. 17 a five and a half seconds burst," he
declared.
He was referring to one of the small lateral rockets that
were spaced out all round the cabin. The direction of the
flight could only be changed by the thrust of one of these, and
it was a delicate operation, to say the least. Secretly Chris
was wishing desperately for the services of the giant computer
84

at the Cape. There were so many forces at work—the velocity
of their rocket, the orbital speed of Mars, the gravitational
pull of the Sun and other celestial bodies, the pressure of solar
radiation, to name some of them.
The rocket was fired and they all felt the slight kick it gave
to their vehicle. They wouldn't know for some time whether
they were now on the right trajectory, or whether a further
correction would have to be made. Meanwhile their speed and
distance from Mars had to be carefully measured.
Lines of strain were showing on the face of the young
scientist who was responsible for the intricate calculations,
and he made a mental resolve to report that a larger com-
puter would be essential on all future flights beyond the Le
Prince layer.
Tony, having completed his list of checks, was again finding
time hanging heavily on his hands. He wished he could help
the others. At least it would take his mind off those awful
sounds that had poured from the radio. His eyes flicked across,
half fearfully, to the special container housing the tape record.
He hoped he wasn't present when it was played back.
The other two scientists kept feeding to their leader data
obtained from their instruments. Morrey was able to say that
they would soon be within a million miles of their objective,
while Serge announced that their speed had fallen to 97,000
miles an hour. Chris heard these figures with relief. They
were well within the safety limits he'd worked out. He bent
over a table to record them on a graph he'd been plotting
when suddenly a strangled cry rang out.
"The Voices! They're back again. I can hear them!" Tony
gasped, and he fell to the floor in a faint.
85

11
Whiskers Greatrex and Sir George Benson had drunk their
third cup of black coffee before either of them spoke about
what was uppermost in their minds.
"Is there no way of communicating with them?" the Wing
Commander asked, though he knew the answer.
Benson waved his hand wearily.
"I've told you we've tried everything," he said. "We've had
the most powerful transmitters in the world trying to get
through that confounded blanket, but we haven't picked up
so much as a squeak from them, and I expect our beams haven't
penetrated it either."
"It seems awful not being able to warn them," Greatrex
muttered. "Of course it's bad enough being unable to follow
their flight, but to know they're in danger and not to get word
to them is a thousand times worse."
"There's just nothing we can do," Sir George said quietly,
"except hope—and pray."
"Wasn't there any way of predicting the eruption of this
sunspot?" Whiskers persisted.
"None. Sunspots follow an eleven-year cycle. There is a
period of intense activity when many large eruptions appear,
followed by a gradual quietening down until there is prac-
tically no activity. This slowly builds up to a maximum again,
all in a regular eleven-year period," Sir George explained.
"We plan our major space research during a quiet period such
as this should have been now. Unfortunately, for some un-
86

known reason, a giant sunspot has occurred right in the
middle of the minimum activity period."
"Why is it so dangerous to Chris and the others?" the Wing
Commander asked.
"Because sunspots are accompanied by intense solar
radiation. Streams of fast-moving particles—travelling at in-
credible speeds—are ejected from the spots. This radiation is
very harmful to human tissue. On Earth we are, of course,
protected from injury by the atmosphere. Out in space, rocket
crews are exposed to the full effect of this dangerous bombard-
ment. That's why we avoid deep space probes during great
sunspot activity."
"But you've never entirely suspended space exploration,"
Whiskers pointed out.
"No, that's true. However, during dangerous periods the
crews are prepared and well protected. There is special
shielding on the ship, and they wear a different type of suit.
It is only when an unexpected spot like this one occurs that
we're caught on one leg," Benson sighed.
"Won't they find the spot out for themselves?"
"I doubt it. They will be concentrating on Mars and not on
the Sun. I don't see how they can detect the particles until it's
too late," Sir George answered.
"And we're completely helpless," Whiskers said savagely.
Sir George Benson nodded glumly.
*****
Tony lay on the floor of the cabin, his eyes closed and per-
spiration standing out on his pale face. It took his companions
some minutes to revive him. He came to with a shudder
and a groan. Then he opened his eyes and looked around
wildly.
"It's all right, Tony," Chris assured him. "There are no
more Voices. Don't worry about them, old chap. They are
quite harmless."
87

"But—I heard them again," Tony gasped as he struggled to
sit up.
"No, you didn't. You only imagined it. None of us heard
them. Besides—you know quite well they can only come over
the radio. And you also know that the radio was 'off' when
you said you heard them," the leader pointed out.
"I—don't know," Tony muttered wearily. "I'm sure I
heard the Voices ringing in my ears."
"In your memory, old chap," Chris insisted, and Morrey
and Serge joined in the effort to convince their young friend
that he'd been the victim of his own imagination.
"You know, Tony, we've got to see that you conquer this
fear of yours before we land on Mars," Morrey declared. "Do
you know why?"
The mechanic could only look miserably at his three
friends.
"Because we've got to use radio to talk to each other," the
American went on. "We'll have to wear our suits on Mars;
there isn't enough oxygen in the atmosphere to keep us alive
for very long."
"That's true," agreed Serge, "and you think the Voices
will come in over our helmet radios?"
"Probably. So you see, Tony, you've just got to get used to
them—otherwise we can't operate outside the cabin,"
Morrey concluded.
"All right," Tony said in a cracked voice. His friends knew
what courage it had taken for him to agree to listen to those
dreaded sounds once more.
Because he believed in acting at once, Morrey went over to
the radio and switched it on. Chris anxiously watched Tony
tense himself for the expected result.
There was nothing! Try as he could, Morrey couldn't bring
in any Voices. Only an earsplitting crackle came out of the
loudspeaker. Chris and Serge went over to investigate. Tony
followed, secretly relieved that his ordeal was postponed.
88

"Set's all right," Morrey muttered after a rapid examination
of the apparatus. Serge and Chris, too, were puzzled, and they
tried in turn to tune in to those messages from space.
"It's no use," Chris said at last, "we must have entered
another radiation belt. Unless	"
"Unless what?" the others asked in a chorus.
"Unless there's been a solar storm," he said slowly.
They all knew what that meant. It meant that even as they
spoke their bodies were being bombarded by a stream of un-
seen particles and that tiny blood-cells were being destroyed
without their knowledge. Just a few hours of such exposure
would be sufficient to cause fatal damage.
"Into your suits at once," Chris ordered sharply, and the
four swiftly donned their protective equipment. Not until
their helmets were in place could they feel safe. But for how
long had they been subject to this deadly solar radiation?
Without Earth to warn them they might easily have taken a
critical dose already.
Though they were all within an arm's length of each other,
communication by their helmet radios was difficult. Inter-
ference caused by the sunspot made conversation erratic,
though at last Chris did assure himself that all was well. By
means of a special solar telescope they were able to confirm by
direct observation that there was indeed a giant eruption on the
Sun. From its position on the photosphere Chris estimated
that it was of recent origin and that they hadn't suffered too
much damage. It was indeed fortunate that they had tried to
tune in to the Voices at that moment, for then their danger had
been revealed to them. A little later and they would have all
been afflicted with leukaemia, which could have had only one
end.
"How long will it last?" Tony's distorted voice asked.
"It may go on for a few days," Chris answered. "A rotten
nuisance, but one we'll have to put up with. All right, you
chaps. What are the readings now?"
89

In spite of the encumbrance of their suits, the crew resumed
their duties and the rocket drew ever nearer to the planet. The
ion motor was still decelerating steadily, but the chemical
motor would have to be used to kill all but the last few hun-
dred miles of velocity. Excitement in the cabin began to
mount as Mars loomed closer. The telescope revealed a net-
work of strange markings and peculiar shapes on the surface.
In turn the crew peered through the instrument, each wonder-
ing what this new world would have in store for them.
The time came when Chris insisted that they should all eat
and rest, for they were now very close to their destination.
Soon they would be far too busy for relaxation. Once the
landing manoeuvre had begun they would all be fully occu-
pied until their ship was safely on the surface of Mars.
"Starting the chemical motor—now," his companions
heard Chris say when they were safely on their couches.
Immediately they felt pressure as the rocket burst into life.
The young scientist had calculated that this stage of the land-
ing would take four and a half minutes, and he'd set the
rocket's timing switch accordingly. It had seemed a very long
time passing, and Chris had just begun to get alarmed when
the motor cut out, and they all felt themselves falling freely
towards the red planet.
Floating over to the instrument panel, Serge and Morrey
checked their speed and distance from the surface. Chris com-
pared the figures with his chart and seemed quite satisfied,
while Tony measured their fuel supply. As soon as he could the
leader went over to the telescope and gazed intently through
the eyepiece.
Mars filled the field of view. Eagerly he looked at the bright
and dark areas. He could see the blinding whiteness of the
south polar cap, but that of the north one was out of view.
What were these markings? Chris asked himself a dozen times
as he recalled the many speculations about them. Most ob-
servers believed that the bright areas were either sand deserts
90

or vast fields of igneous rock. But even here there was room for
much argument.
Ah! That dark shape must be the famous Syrtes Major.
That blindingly bright area next to it was Aeria, of course. He
searched for the famous canals, and certainly there were some
dark lines that had deceived the early observers. Nowhere
could he see a sheet of water or patches of cloud. That hazi-
ness he could see was not water vapour. He knew it was
probably a sand-storm. But where would he land his ship? He
decided that he would touch down in one of the dark areas,
the nature of which was more uncertain than the bright,
barren patches.
What were these dark areas? Chris knew that the weight of
opinion was in favour of their being areas of vegetation,
though only in some very simple form. Indeed, here was
possibly the only form of life in the solar system outside Earth.
Soon, within a few hours, they would be the first humans to
know for sure.
"I am going to put the ship into orbit," Chris informed the
others over their helmet radios. "It will be an elliptic one,
approaching possibly within a hundred miles of the surface.
Ready?"
In spite of the continued interference from the sunspot, his
companions were able to assure their leader that they were
prepared for this critical operation. An error either way
could spell disaster. They might blast off into space, with a
waste of vital fuel, or they might crash on to the surface if
their orbital speed was too low. The manoeuvre required a
burst from the lateral rockets to turn the vehicle into the
correct position, followed by the ignition of the main chemical
motor to build up orbital velocity. While Chris made the
final calculations the others waited tensely by the controls.
A few seconds before the vital order was given, the inter-
ference on their radios increased to such an extent that com-
munication was impossible. Instantly, regardless of the menace
7i

from the unseen bombardment, each whipped off his helmet
so that they could hear the others' voices.
"Now!" snapped Chris, and Serge pressed a button. At a
second command it was Tony's turn. Finally Morrey got the
order to start up the motor. Then came the need to observe
and check the orbit. A spate of figures from Morrey and
Serge, and Chris was calculating furiously. The other three
eyed him anxiously. What would be his verdict? Had they
worked their ship along a safe path, or had they failed hope-
lessly in this crucial task? Tony felt himself trembling with the
suspense. Serge and Morrey waited silently as their leader
worked on.
"Done it!"
They were all startled by Chris's shout. Yes, he confirmed,
their orbit was a good one. He'd like some more figures a little
later, but preliminary calculations put their apogee at twelve
hundred miles, and perigee at just less than a hundred.
"So we'll be able to use the wings!" Morrey declared.
Tony had almost forgotten the short, stumpy wings with
which their unusual rocket was fitted. But surely the planet's
atmosphere didn't reach so high! It was Serge who explained.
"Earth's gravity is much stronger than that of Mars," the
Russian said. "Therefore it hugs its atmosphere to it more
tightly. At the surface there'is ten times more on Earth than
on Mars. At a height of about twenty-five miles they are about
equal. After that the Martian atmosphere is much denser,
height for height, than at home. And it extends farther, too.
Yes, there will be something for the wings to do at our nearest
point."
"Heavens! We'd better put on our helmets at once," Chris
called. In the excitement of the last half-hour they'd forgotten
the unseen danger. Quickly they donned their equipment and
fortunately found the radio much quieter.
"We'd be able to leave these darned things off if Old Sol
would quieten down," Morrey's voice drawled.
92

Further observations confirmed the accuracy of Chris's
prediction, and the crew waited eagerly as the orbit took them
ever closer to this mysterious planet. Of course, the subject
that filled their minds more than anything else was whether
or not they would discover traces of life—past or present—in a
higher form than the lowly plants they expected to find. If
intelligent life had ever existed on this ageing planet, even
though it had died away thousands of years ago, it would
have left some signs behind.
In turn the quartet peered through the telescope at the sur-
face below them, and when perigee—their nearest approach—
was reached, their interest was redoubled. But the speed of
their flight was too great for them to pick out any details. It
was certain, though, that Mars had no large ruined cities as a
reminder of its past history.
When he was not scanning the Martian surface, Chris was
watching some instruments they hadn't used before. These
were the indicators of the condition of the wings, now being
brought into use for the first time. Definite traces of atmosphere
were recorded even at their height, and the temperature of
the wings' surface rose by a few degrees. Before they realized
it, the rocket was drawing away from the planet once more on
its huge ellipse.
"Why don't we just use the motor to kill our speed and land
right away?" asked Tony.
"By dipping deeper into the atmosphere on each orbit we
are using the drag on the wings to slow us down," Chris
answered. "This saves a good deal of fuel, and at the same
time it provides valuable information about the upper atmo-
sphere as well as giving us the chance of examining the sur-
face."
The next time the rocket drew near to Mars it was some
dozen miles closer than on the first orbit. Already they were
closing in for the final stage of the flight. Fifty miles. Thirty.
Twenty! The wings were really doing their work now. Serge
93

had gone to a set of controls that would alter the pitch of the
wings.
"We're making an aerodynamic approach," explained
Chris.
Still they had seen no definite traces of intelligent life, but
Syrtes Major had been selected for their landing. Though the
atmosphere had greatly reduced the rocket's speed, it would
still be necessary to fire a retro-rocket in the ship's nose for its
touch-down. As they made their last circuit and the dark ex-
panse of Syrtes stretched beneath them, Chris pressed the last
button, which would set them in a steady glide.
The crew were silent now. Within a few minutes their
rocket would land on this strange planet. They would be the
first humans to set foot on Mars; to find at least some of the
answers to the innumerable questions Man had asked about
this mysterious world.
"Any time now," Chris whispered, and even as he spoke the
rocket touched something solid and shuddered to a stop.
94

12
They had landed on Mars!
During the aerodynamic path the rocket had travelled
almost horizontally and now it was resting on its side. This
was the first time any member of the crew had touched down
in such a manner, but Benson and his team had designed the
vehicle to take full advantage of the Martian atmosphere. The
layout of the cabin was such that the couches could be swung
into a more comfortable position, and the instruments and
hatch were well away from the side, which now had to act as
the floor.
The moment had come for the travellers to step out on to
Mars. Outside, the atmospheric pressure was roughly—as
assumed from terrestrial observation—one-tenth that of
Earth. The small percentage of oxygen was insufficient to
support human life. Gravity was two-fifths of that back home.
Temperature was slightly above freezing point.
All these facts were confirmed from instrument readings
inside the cabin. Any further information would have to be
obtained by actual experience—by opening that hatch and
stepping out on to the Martian surface. Seeing that all their
equipment was in order, Chris switched on the pump that
would take out and store the precious oxygen in their cabin,
and at the same time reduce the pressure until it was equal to
that outside. When the barograph showed the correct reading
he turned to his companions.
"Ready?" he asked over his radio.
"Ready," came back the three replies.
95

Chris extended his gloved hand to the catch securing the
hatch. With a quick movement he pulled it and then swung
the door open wide.
None of the crew moved. All four stood gazing out through
the aperture, taking their first look at this strange world.
The first thing they all noticed was that the light was far less
bright than that on Earth—which was not surprising, con-
sidering that Mars is some forty million miles more distant
from the Sun. Yet the light was bright enough to show them
that the rocket was resting on a flat surface, and that it lay on
a carpet of bluey-green.
As Chris was their leader, the rest of the crew stood back for
him to go through the hatch first. With a hand raised in
acknowledgement, he stepped forward and jumped the yard
or so to the ground. Because of the low gravity, he landed
lightly on the soft, springy carpet, and at once bent down,
eager to solve one of the mysteries that had been puzzling
generations of astronomers.
There was no doubt about it. The bluey-green colour came
from a thick growth of some kind of vegetation. It seemed like
moss, but he could push his hand down into it for six inches
before he felt the solid ground. No wonder it was like treading
on some luxurious carpet! He remembered, many years before,
walking across the stubble of a newly-cut cornfield. It was
springy to the tread. This was the same, but the growth was
longer, denser, and even more springy.
Chris stood up again as, one by one, the others leapt down
beside him.
"Gosh!" he heard Tony exclaim, "so there is something
alive on the planet after all!"
Yes, there was something alive. They could see it and touch
it, and of course they must take a sample with them back to
Earth. But that could come later. The most urgent thing now
was to explore their immediate neighbourhood.
Under Chris's guidance the crew first examined the He of
96

their rocket. A long straight scar marked the path where it
had slid along this natural carpet. The wings were slightly
tilted, but they could jack their vehicle into the take-off posi-
tion later. Tony clambered over the ship and reported no
damage—apart from the usual abrasion by interplanetary dust
—to the casing. Neither was there any fuel leak or escape of
radiation from the ion motor.
Now the quartet could begin to look around and explore the
area near the rocket. Chris and Tony went in one direction,
Serge and Morrey in the opposite one. As they walked they
soon became accustomed to the low gravity. On the Moon it
was more practical to progress by kangaroo leaps, but here
long strides seemed more natural.
To Chris—the thick, resilient carpet always underfoot—it
seemed as if they were moving across a moorland covered with
incredibly thick heather. The ground was not flat, but in
small, rolling hillocks. Sometimes they would be on top and
able to see for miles. Then they would look back towards the
rocket to reassure themselves of their position relative to their
link with Earth. At other times they would be in a shallow
depression with only the Martian growth to see. Often they
spoke to Morrey and Serge, and it was strange to hear their
voices sounding in their helmets.
"Back to the rocket," Chris ordered. "We'll compare notes
there."
"Righto! But we haven't much to report," Morrey's voice
said. "Still—I feel hungry, so we can talk and eat."
Half an hour later all four were safely inside the cabin, their
first short exploration of the planet was over. Reduction in
radio interference prompted Serge to take a measurement of
the solar radiation, and even Chris cheered when he was told
that it was safe to remove his helmet.
"Phew! That's better," Tony declared with relief as he
breathed the free air of the cabin. "Hope there isn't another
sunspot while we're here."
97

"Oh, that one hasn't died away yet," Chris warned him-
"It's just that its emission has now fallen below danger level-
It may flare up again—or it may disappear altogether."
While Tony prepared their food, the others dictated to the
tape recorder a careful account of their observations. Morrey
and Serge had seen nothing more than Chris and Tony—only
endless expanse of Martian moss.
"I wish we could speak direct to Earth," Morrey said
peevishly as he completed his account. Suddenly Tony spoke.
"Know something?" he said. "We've lost the Voices."
There was, for a moment, an astounded silence.
"Jumping cats! You're right!" exclaimed Morrey. "I can't
remember hearing them since we landed."
Serge and Chris agreed. In the excitement of the touch-
down they'd forgotten all about those terrifying sounds from
space. Contrary to expectation, their helmet radios had not
been flooded out with the weird words from other worlds.
"I wonder why that is," Chris said thoughtfully to the
other two scientists, but Tony was only too happy to be free
from the sounds that had upset him so much. He was content
to leave discussion of the strange phenomenon to his three
companions.
"When are we going outside again?" he asked at last. He'd
listened patiently while Chris, Morrey and Serge had argued
and theorized about the disappearance of the Voices, until at
last he could stand it no longer. "We did come here to explore
Mars, you know," he reminded the others pointedly.
"All right, Tony," Chris smiled. "But this silence is rather
strange, isn't it? Now, before we go off exploring again, I'd
like to collect samples of the moss and also of the ground
beneath. Feel like boring a hole, Tony?"
"Anything's better than sitting here listening to you three,"
the mechanic retorted. "I'll get the boring machine rigged up
while you collect the moss."
Once more the crew went through the routine of fastening
98

their helmets and then pumping the air from the cabin. With
Serge helping him, Tony carried out the compact little piece
of apparatus that could bore a hole two inches in diameter to
a depth of fifty feet. Some ten yards from the rocket they set it
up on its tripod, and then Tony connected up the cable from
the rocket's batteries. While the Russian went to join the other
two in collecting moss samples, Tony switched on the borer.
He was completely absorbed in his work. Each time the
boring bit was withdrawn he put the sample in a container
and carefully labelled it with the depth. For some eighteen
inches beneath the moss there was a layer of peaty substance,
gradually changing into soft, black soil. At a depth of twelve
feet the bit met an obstruction, and it was some time before a
hole was bored through. This time the sample brought up
was like sandstone rock, but much harder than any Tony had
seen on Earth.
Meanwhile the three scientists had been collecting moss and
examining it under a microscope back in the cabin. Though
none of them were botanists, they were sure that here was
something completely new, for this vegetation was growing
almost without oxygen, with very little moisture and at low
temperatures. Long white roots seemed to extend well into
the ground and were very strong. Samples were packed and
labelled. Then they went over to see how the borehole was
progressing.
"These should interest the geologists back home," Morrey
observed as he looked over Tony's samples. "How deep are
you, old chap?"
"Fifteen feet," the mechanic answered over his radio. "Had
a bit of a hold up with that rock. Sandstone, isn't it?"
They all bent down to look, and as he went on with his job,
Tony could hear his friends speculating about the reddish-
brown stone that had caused the trouble.
"Jumping crickets! Look at that!"
Morrey's voice had just broken in, wild with excitement.
99

"Look at what?" Serge's more restrained voice asked.
"Those marks on the top of the sandstone," gasped the
American. "Am I crazy—or are those artificial?"
Tony saw all three bending intently over his borings. As
excited as the others, he switched off the machine and went
over to see the cause of the commotion. Morrey held the
cylinder of hard rock that had delayed the boring. His gloved
finger was pointing unsteadily to the top face, and the
mechanic saw some strange marks cut into the rock.
"Looks like part of an inscription," the American declared
hoarsely. "So there has been life on Mars!"
"Steady," cautioned Chris. "We can't be sure. What do you
think, Serge?"
The Russian examined the sample carefully before he replied.
"I say Tony should make another hole to see if he can find
another piece like this," he said.
With the help of the other, the mechanic soon moved his
boring machine and they watched tensely as the bit did its
work.
"Never realized it was such a slow job," Morrey grumbled
impatiently. "How much deeper to the rock?"
"Three feet," Tony answered shortly. He, too, was keyed
up. Maybe they would soon be confirming a stupendous dis-
covery—or shattering their hopes.
Two feet! One foot! Now the bit had reached the hard rock,
and its progress was visibly slower. Tony could hear the sharp
intake of breath of his friends as he withdrew the boring bit to
collect the sample. There it was, just like its predecessor, a
reddish brown. Chris quickly took it and his glove wiped the
black soil from the top. He held it up close to his helmet and
examined it for a full minute before speaking.
"There's no doubt about it," he said in a voice brittle with
emotion. "That stone has been carved!"
If only they could have radioed the news of this amazing
discovery back to Earth! But the invisible blanket was as im-
xoo

penetrable as ever. Sir George and his colleagues would have
to wait until the crew was nearly home before they could be
told the staggering news—that intelligent creatures had lived
on Mars at some time in the past.
"Let's get back to the cabin," Chris said shortly after they
had all examined the rock.
Silently the quartet returned to their quarters, taking the
two cylinders of rock with them. They could scarcely wait to
seal the hatch and pump oxygen back into the cabin before
they removed their helmets. Excitedly they studied the
strange markings on the hard red rock.
"You see they follow a definite pattern," Chris pointed out,
"and a number of them are repeated exactly."
"Then they are either some form of decoration or, perhaps,
of writing," Serge said.
"But what brings them so far underground?" asked Tony.
Chris straightened up. His face was flushed with the emotion
of their discovery. It was with an effort that he stilled his
racing thoughts about the implication of those two pieces of
stone. He moistened his dry lips and then carefully chose his
words.
"My guess is that Mars is a much older planet than Earth—
that is, it is at a much later stage in its life. They may have
been formed at the same time, but Life developed on Mars
much sooner than on our planet. Intelligent life had probably
evolved here before life of any kind appeared on Earth. And
now, with the escape of its atmosphere and the evaporation of
nearly all moisture, Mars is a dying world, inhabited only by
the mosses we've already seen. All traces of a higher form of
life have been overgrown and are buried deep by the passing
of a million years."
"You—think these marks are a million years old?" gasped
Tony.
Chris smiled back.
"I don't know," he admitted. "That was just a phrase."
IOI

"One of the arguments used many years ago to support the
'Life on Mars' theory was that only something growing
would keep from being covered by dust-storms," Morrey ob-
served. "I guess that would account for these traces of
civilization—if they are such—being buried so deeply."
"You mean that as each layer of dust was deposited, the
moss would grow through it?" asked Tony.
"That's it," agreed Chris, "and these inscriptions would be
covered up and protected before they could weather away."
"So we may be on top of a buried city," Serge concluded.
"How can we find out?"
"Only by digging down to it," the American laughed.
"Feel like a spot of hard work?"
"I'm afraid we haven't the tools and it would take us too
long," sighed Chris. "But I confess I'd dearly like to do it."
"Oh well, I suppose we must leave it to the fellows on the
next expedition," Morrey said despondently. "Imagine what
wonders may be buried below us!"
"Wait a minute," Tony said suddenly. "I've an idea.
Couldn't we use the blast from the motor to clear away most
of the covering?"
His companions looked at the mechanic with admiration.
"By Jove, you've got something there," burst out Chris. "I
wonder if it can be done."
"Of course it can," Morrey said enthusiastically. "Let's
work out how."
"What about fuel?" asked the cautious Serge. "Have we
enough to spare?"
"Won't we have to tilt the ship nose up, tail down?" Tony
demanded.
"Pipe down, everyone," laughed Chris. "This will take a
lot of calculations and planning. What about some refresh-
ment? Then maybe we'll be able to assess the job calmly."
So the crew took their meal as they discussed the possibility
of using Tony's idea. When they had finished Chris set them
102

all to work. While Tony carefully checked the fuel tanks,
Serge calculated the exact weight of the rocket and Morrey
worked on thrust and angles. Chris made the final computa-
tion and the others awaited his decision.
"On paper—we can do it," he told them. "First we must
raise the ship to an angle of thirty degrees. Then we can run
the motor for fifteen seconds at one-seventh of its normal
thrust. Greater power would cause us to blast-off under this
low gravity. We can spare the fuel if, on the journey back, we
cut down on the chemical motor and use the ion motor more.
This will lengthen our flight by over half a day, so we must
watch our oxygen supply. What do you say—shall we have a
go?
The answer was prompt and unanimous. They were all
burning to find out if there really were traces of a long-dead
civilization some twelve feet below the surface.
"I think we should go carefully," the ever-cautious Serge
advised. "We don't know the effect of the blast on the top-
soil, and we should clear the last foot or so by hand to avoid
damaging whatever may lie below."
"Yes, that's sound enough," Chris agreed. "We'll see the
effect of a five-second burst first."
"Can we start now?" asked the eager Tony.
"I suppose there'll be no peace if we don't," the leader
sighed in mock resignation.
Almost before Chris had finished speaking his companions
were putting on their helmets, but he wasn't far behind. Out-
side they set to work to jack up their ship. Then they fixed it in
position with the retractable legs that had been provided to
hold it ready for the take-off back to Earth. Serge checked the
angle, called for a slight alteration, and then declared it
satisfactory.
"Move well away. I'll go inside and run the motor. We'll
wait for the smoke to settle," said Chris, "and then we'll come
and see what's happened."
103

w atching from a distance of five hundred yards, Tony,
Morrey and Serge saw a huge cloud of white smoke issue from
the rocket's tail. Soon all the ship was obscured. Then,
suddenly, it began to die away.
"One five-second burst," they heard Chris's voice announce
in their helmets. "I'll join you outside in five minutes. That
should give the ground time to cool off."
As they watched, the cloud was drifting slowly away. They
made their way back to the rocket and just before they reached
it the hatch opened and Chris appeared. Almost together they
reached the tail end of the vehicle and saw the huge black
scar that had been torn in the mossy carpet. Smoke and steam
were still rising as they looked down into the hole blasted out
by the rocket's motor.
"About six feet deep," Morrey estimated. "So we're half
way there."
The hole was certainly about that depth at its maximum,
but it tapered off sharply to the rocket tail and gradually
away from it. Scattered around, mainly to the rear, was soil
mixed with charred patches of moss which had been flung up
by the vicious blast. Impetuously Tony leapt lightly into the
crater. A cloud of dust almost obliterated him.
"Better come out. It will still be pretty hot down there,"
Chris called, and Tony walked up the gentler of the two slopes.
"Now we'd better check that the ship hasn't moved," the
leader said. "Then we'll give it another blast."
104
13

The rocket still stood firmly on its legs. Chris was satisfied
that all was well and climbed aboard. Retiring as before, the
other three waited for the clouds to billow out.
"I'm giving it a four-second burst this time," Chris's voice
said. "Better not get too close to whatever lies below."
This time the trio outside could scarcely wait for the hole to
cool before they rushed forward to look at the result of this
second burst. Through the smoke and steam they could see
that more debris had been thrown up. Peering into the crater,
they could also see how much deeper it was, but still the
reddish rock remained covered.
"I think we'd better leave it at that," Chris's voice said,
and they saw he'd joined them. For some time they poked
about at the bottom of the pit, which was now about ten feet
deep.
"How many shovels have we?" Morrey asked, keen to make
an immediate start.
"Only one," Tony told them.
"Perhaps it's as well," observed Chris. "Important as this is,
there's other exploring to do. We'll split into two pairs. Tony
and Serge can have first spell with the shovel, while Morrey
and I go for a hike. We'll be back for a bite in three hours, and
then we can change over. Agreed?"
"It is agreed," replied Serge. "We will call each other on
the radio if either party finds anything?"
"Of course. Now I suppose you're anxious for some exer-
cise. We'll get new oxygen bottles and then push off, Morrey."
205	3§6	90S	j|t	3§C
Tony was for digging furiously down to the red rock, but
Serge was more cautious and practical.
"We had better trim up our trench," he told the mechanic,
"otherwise we may have the sides fall in on us."
Reluctantly Tony had to agree, and the first hour's work
was so occupied. When Serge declared the walls were safe the
105

mechanic seized the shovel and began to dig away at the
bottom of the hole.
"Take it steady," the Russian advised. "You'll damage
either your suit or the relics below the soil. Let me have a go."
Tony handed over the implement and Serge carried on
with deliberation. Steadily the hole grew deeper and Tony
was almost dancing with excitement as the twelve-foot level
was approached. Now Serge dug very cautiously, occasionally
bending down to brush away loose soil. If they could unearth
the stone with more inscriptions, then the secret of Mars
would be revealed beyond doubt.
Suddenly the Russian felt the shovel touch something more
solid. Seeing him pause, Tony jumped down the excavation
and began tearing at the soil with his gloved hands.
"We've reached it! We've reached it," he called nervously
over his radio.
"Will you come away?" Serge said sharply. "Control your-
self if you can."
Tony flushed hotly at this rebuke. Fortunately his helmet
concealed his embarrassment.
"Sorry, Serge," he replied meekly, and moved away while
his companion continued his work. But the Russian himself
was scarcely less excited as he gradually cleared a piece of the
red stone. At last he threw his shovel aside and both he and
Tony bent down to see what had been uncovered.
The area exposed was about a foot square—sufficient to
reveal that, in spite of some black soil still clinging to it, it
was highly polished. On this piece there were no scratches or
inscriptions—just a perfectly flat shiny surface.
"Artificial," breathed Serge, for surely no natural piece of
rock could be so flat and polished as this one.
"Shall we call Chris?" asked Tony excitedly.
"No, let's get a bit more cleared first," answered the
Russian. So the two of them worked on unremittingly.
At last several yards of the smooth stone were cleared. Only
106

in one part was the surface broken. Here a groove like the
letter "V" ran across it in a perfectly straight line.
"That clinches it," Tony declared. "We'll tell the others."
This time Serge agreed and the mechanic switched his helmet
radio to a longer range and gave Chris and Morrey the news.
"That's great!" Chris's voice declared. "We'll come back at
once. But we've found something too. Tell you about it later."
While they were waiting for their two companions Serge and
Tony worked on in the excavation. It would be impossible to
expose much more of the red stone because of the sloping
sides and depth of the hole. To reveal a greater area would
require a tremendous amount of work and involve shoring up
the sides and carting away the soil. However, enough had been
uncovered to leave no doubt that this dying world had once
been the home of beings able to build and work in stone.
"We're here," Morrey's voice suddenly said in their helmets.
Tony and Serge looked up to see the other two peering down
at them from the top of the hole. Carefully they made their
way down, the newcomers examining with interest what their
friends had found.
"That groove, that polish! There's no shadow of doubt,"
Chris said. "They can only have been made by—Martians!"
For some time they remained in the hole, closely scrutiniz-
ing their discovery. On Chris's instructions Morrey went to
their cabin and returned with a camera. More than a score of
exposures were made so that a visual record could be carried
back to Earth. At last, somewhat weary but excited, they
climbed from the hole and went to relax in the cabin.
"What did you chaps find?" asked Tony as he lay stretched
on his couch.
"Wondered when you were going to ask," Morrey grinned.
"You tell him, Chris."
"Nothing so dramatic as your discovery," the leader said,
"but pretty interesting. We came across a number of hum-
mocks or small mounds about six feet high. They were
107

covered with moss, of course, but the remarkable thing is—
they were in a dead straight line and exactiy the same distance
apart."
"How many were there?" asked Serge.
"Twenty-one," Chris told him, "stretching over half a
mile."
"Must have been made by the Martians," was Tony's
opinion, and they all agreed.
"What's the drill now, Chris?" the American asked.
"Nothing more for today. The Martian day is almost the
same as Earth's, so it will be dark pretty soon. We'd all better
try and get a good night's rest, ready for tomorrow."
"Had we better keep a watch?" Tony asked.
"No need to," laughed Morrey, "those Mardans have all
been dead a long time."
* * * * *
How long he'd been asleep Tony didn't know. Nor could he
tell what had wakened him. The dim light of a small electric
bulb illuminated the cabin so that he could see the recumbent
forms of his three companions. They seemed to be sleeping
very soundly indeed. It was some seconds before he remem-
bered that he and the other members of the crew were spend-
ing their first night on Mars. Mars—the dead planet that had
once been the home of intelligent beings!
As he lay there in the subdued light, Tony began to wonder
what these beings, these Martians, had been like. That they
had been skilled was already proved by that day's dis-
coveries. But what were they like in themselves? Were they
like humans, or had they developed into some entirely different
shape? Perhaps he and the others might be able to uncover
some picture or statue that would reveal the Martian's
appearance. Perhaps they could unearth some books or
records that would tell people back on Earth something about
the history of this dead world.
108

Try as he might, Tony couldn't sleep again. He was thinking
continually of the planet's former inhabitants. Surely nothing
could be more important in the whole undertaking than to
find out all they could about the Martians. He would try to
persuade Chris to devote all the efforts of the expedition to
this task.
He turned over restlessly on his couch. He shut his eyes and
tried to picture what the Martians might have been like. For
a long time he lay still and allowed his thoughts to wander.
Somehow he couldn't picture what the Martians might have
been like. All the impression he got was of a glow, a ball of
gentle light. One of these glows seemed to have entered the
cabin and wanted to talk to him. He kept his eyes shut tightly
and wondered what the ball of light wanted to say. It was
fantastic, of course, and tomorrow he'd tell the others of his
dream.
"I am a Martian."
It was more a thought that had drifted into his mind than
words he'd heard—even dream words. He wasn't surprised,
for somehow he'd known the glowing ball belonged to this
strange planet. A Martian! Tony wasn't even surprised that
this patch of light was a living thing. Nor did it seem strange
that it could communicate with him and that he could under-
stand its language. He wasn't at all scared, but lay quietly
wondering what the Martian would say. After all, this was
only a dream, wasn't it?
"Will you please arouse your companions," the Martian
communicated. "I want to enter their thoughts also."
For the first time Tony began to feel uneasy. This was a
queer request. If he was to rouse Chris and the others he'd
have to wake up to do it, and then the dream would be over
and the Martian wouldn't exist. If he told the other three
about it, they would laugh at him and tease him. They would
say he'd been having a nightmare.
"You are not dreaming," the Martian insisted. "You are
109

awake and lying with your eyes closed. Open your eyes and
you will see I am not a dream."
This was getting a bit too much, Tony decided. He'd wake
up and then this ball of light would be banished and he'd for-
get all about it. Like a terrier emerging from a swim, he shook
his head violently and opened his eyes. He was awake now
all right, for he could see the electric bulb and his companions
on their couches.
"That's right," the thought came, "now rouse them up. I
want to speak to them."
Tony gave an involuntary gasp. He was awake now and
these thoughts should no longer be coming into his head. He
turned to assure himself that there was no such thing as this
ball of light; that this Martian was only something that had
appeared to him while asleep. But—there was a ball of light,
not three feet away from him. How he held back a cry he
didn't know.
"Keep calm," the Martian told him. "There is no need to
fear. All I wish is to speak to you. Rouse your friends."
"Are you—really a Martian?" Tony gasped. "You're
not	"
"No, I'm not a dream. I am really an inhabitant of this
world. There are many of us. We no longer have bodies and
voices like you. But come—I am waiting."
The young man licked his dry lips. He reached over and, in
turn, shook his sleeping friends. Mumbles and groans were the
response. Hesitantly he turned towards the Martian, for his
friends had been very tired. But again the command came. As
he shook Chris he wondered why he should be meekly obeying
the Martian's orders. Then he told himself it was because he
wanted to find out whether it was he, himself, who was having
an hallucination.
"Wake up, Chris," he called urgently. He'd decided to
rouse the leader first because he'd be the one least likely to
laugh at him if the whole thing was just imagination.
no

"What is it?" Chris said sleepily.
"Wake up. I think we've got a—-visitor."
"Something wrong?" Chris asked, almost instantly awake.
"Can you see anything over here?" Tony's question sounded
foolish, but on the answer depended confidence in his own
sanity. The leader rubbed his eyes and looked. Then he rubbed
his eyes again. He swung off his couch and stared hard ahead.
With some relief Tony saw that his friend was looking towards
the luminescent patch in the dim cabin.
"What's happened?" Chris asked. "Is that some form of
electrical discharge?"
The words came washing into Tony's brain. "I am a
Martian!"
He saw Chris jerk as if he'd been shot.
"What did you say, Tony?" the leader asked.
"I didn't speak, Chris," the young man answered, "it was—
the Martian. He doesn't speak in words, he puts thoughts in
your mind."
Chris stared at the ball of pale light that floated steadily,
and through which he could see the dials of some of the
rocket's instruments. He felt the perspiration spring out on
his forehead, but, overcoming an inexplicable reluctance, he
spoke to the visitor.
"If you are a Martian," he asked, "what do you want?"
111

14
Ch ris Godfrey had always prided himself that he was master
of his own thoughts. If he was concentrating on a problem he
could exclude everything else from his mind. If he found him-
self worrying too much about something, he could switch his
thoughts to other things. When he wanted to relax he could
empty his mind and keep it blank.
The message from the Martian, forcing itself into his con-
sciousness, intruded brutally amidst his thoughts. It was as if
a stranger had elbowed his way into a gathering of old friends.
It was something which he couldn't control.
"Do not fear," the message in Chris's mind said. "I mean
you no harm."
The scientist and the mechanic looked at each other.
"Did you get that, Tony?" Chris asked.
"That there was nothing to fear and he meant us no harm?
Yes. I got that as well. He must be able to get into both our
minds at the same time," Tony answered.
"Certainly. It is the only method by which I can com-
municate with you," the Martian seemed to say. "You can
reply by your voices or by thoughts alone, but as you cannot
speak to each other mentally, it would be better if you used
the spoken word."
"He wanted me to wake you all," Tony told Chris. "I woke
you first because I thought—well, I thought you'd under-
stand."
"Quite right," Chris said, "but now Morrey and Serge must
112

come in on this. We'll all hear what the Martian has to
say."
It took some little time to wake the others and then to con-
vince them that there was an inhabitant of this strange world
present in their cabin.
"But I thought Mars was a dead or dying planet," protested
Morrey when he'd overcome the first shock. "How can there
be living people here?"
"Listen, Earthmen, and I will explain," came the Martian's
words into all their heads.
Before Serge and Morrey could appreciate what was
happening, the Martian continued.
"This planet, which you call Mars, is several million years
older than your own. Life developed here just as it has since
done on Earth. Once creatures like yourselves lived in this
world, evolved from the first speck of life that came from who
knows where."
This mental communication was uncanny, but gradually
the crew became accustomed to it, or at least forgot its
strangeness in their growing absorption in the Martian's story.
"Our people continued to evolve, just as yours will do. We
invented machines that saved the labour of our bodies just as
you have done. But in the passage of countless centuries we
came to use our bodies less and less, and our brains more and
more. At last our bodies were no longer necessary, so they
withered and died away."
"Do you mean that, in the distant future we, too, will be
like that?" gasped Serge.
"It is inevitable," the Martian's reply came into their minds.
"Already you have moved in that direction. Your teeth and
hair are disappearing. Your muscles are less strong. At the
same time your brain is growing larger and more powerful.
Yes, you will follow along the same path as we did, as did
those before us, and as will those after you."
"There is an older planet than Mars?" Chris asked.
3

"There was. Now it has broken up into small pieces and its
remains are what you call the asteroids. We followed this lost
planet, you follow us, and the world you call Venus will
follow you."
"So, in a million years or so people on Earth will have no
bodies—-only minds," breathed Morrey.
"That is so. By that time there will be creatures on Venus
that will look as you do now. When their space ships land they
will find only intelligences inhabiting your planet," the
Martian told them. "Your Earth will have shrunk and dried
up as ours has. Your oxygen will almost have disappeared, but
you will no longer need food or water, or air to breathe. You
will no longer have a physical existence."
Tony was now feeling a little calmer. There were some
questions he wanted to put to the Martian.
"How is it you can speak our language?" he asked.
"I am communicating with you by thought and not by
speech," answered their visitor. "Language is not necessary."
"That's why I couldn't decide whether you were speaking—
I mean communicating—in Russian or English," Serge
interjected.
"How is it I could see you with my eyes shut?" Tony con-
tinued with his questions.
"For the same reason that I could enter your cabin—we of
this planet now have no physical bonds. We can pass through
the walls of your rocket as easily as the lids of your eyes,"
answered the Martian.
"But how is it only you have visited us? Are there many of
you? Have you a name?" Tony's questions came rapidly, and
the Martian seemed willing to supply the answers.
"We have no names," he told them. "You would not under-
stand if I told you how we differentiate between each other,
for there are many thousands of us. I was chosen to speak to
you first."
"Can you tell us what is buried beneath this moss? We have
114

uncovered some stonework that looks like a building," Serge
said.
"You are indeed above the remains of one of our great
cities. When we lost our bodies our dwellings fell into ruin and
our towns became overgrown. As water and oxygen escaped
from our planet, vegetation died away and only moss sur-
vives," answered the Martian.
"Well, where do you- live and how do you move about?"
Morrey wanted to know.
"We do not live in any particular place, for we neither eat
nor sleep as you do," came the reply. "As for movement, we
can travel instantly to any part of our world."
"Can you travel across space?" Tony asked breathlessly.
In that instant all four humans experienced a strange sensa-
tion. It was as if the Martian had suddenly become cold and
hostile—that the question had somehow upset him. None of
the crew could explain this queer feeling, but when Chris was
going to speak again they saw that the glow was no longer
there. The Martian had gone.
"Are you still here?" asked Chris, but there was no response.
"That's rum," commented Morrey, "and just when we were
getting used to him. Your question must have riled him,
Tony."
"What will you do now, Chris?" asked Serge.
"I think the first thing to do is to make notes of all that has
happened," the leader said. "Will you each write your own
account of our visit from the Martian."
For the next hour the crew were busy filling their note-
books. Sir George Benson would be able to compare their four
accounts of this stupendous event when they returned to
Earth. Because the Martian's part in the encounter had been
silent, it would have been impossible to record the interview
fully. Each made his story as detailed as possible, so between
them nothing was missed out.
"The thing to do now," Chris said as they concluded
ii5

their task, "is to make all the observations we can—magnetic,
geological, meteorological, and so on—then to return to
Earth and tell what we know. I don't think we need waste
time on further excavations, for we know only too well that
Mars is inhabited. At least I suppose it is."
"If you can call our friend the Martian an inhabitant,"
smiled Serge. "How long before we can take-off, Chris?"
"A day and a half to two days. We should complete our
observations in that time," the leader answered.
"I wonder if the Martian, or one of his friends, will visit us
again," mused Tony. "Good job they have no bodies. Even if
they didn't like us, they couldn't do us any harm."
But Chris wasn't so sure. However, another visit would be
most interesting, and they'd have to plan what questions to
ask. Funny, though, that the Martian had left them so
abruptly.
It had been a long day for all of them. Of course there was
no sleep for anyone after the strange events of the night. As
soon as it was daylight all four set out to operate a carefully
devised series of observations. They had to learn as much as
possible about the physical conditions on Mars, in spite of
their shattering experience. Though none of them admitted it
openly to the others, they were all anxious to cut their stay as
short as possible.
When the Martian night had fallen swiftly, the travellers
from Earth were resting and eating in their rocket cabin.
Outside it was inky black and cold. Stars shone brilliantly
from a velvet sky. One outshone the rest—Earth. It was as if
their home planet were keeping a watchful eye on its four
sons. The weary explorers sank on to their couches, tired in
mind and body. Some time during the next day, they would
complete their task. Then they would feel free to blast-off for
home.
* * * * *
116

"Chris, arc you awake?"
It was Tony who had whispered the question. Chris had
been dozing, but only lightly. His mind had been too pre-
occupied for sound sleep. The whisper was sufficient to rouse
him, and he raised himself on one elbow to reply.
"What's the matter, Tony?" he asked. "Can't you relax?"
"I feel uneasy and restless, Chris. I keep thinking about the
Martian. Not that I'm scared, of course," Tony added a little
too hastily, "but I've a queer feeling we're in for another
visit."
"Don't worry, we shan't be here much longer," the scien-
tist assured his friend. "Now try and sleep, there's a good chap."
"Sorry, Chris, if I've been keeping you awake," Tony
apologized. "I know I'm a fool."
"Forget it," Chris grinned, "and go to sleep."
But that was easier said than done, Tony found, after he'd
been trying vainly for nearly an hour.
Perhaps he had gone to sleep after all. Perhaps the Martian
was so much on his mind it was inevitable that the strange
creature should speak to him again. But, surely, this time he
was dreaming. Maybe the whole fantastic expedition was a
dream—and he'd never left Earth!
"I have returned!" the insistent thought-message of the
Martian said. "I would speak again with you all."
Tony was shivering. He couldn't tell whether this was a
dream or reality. It wasn't fair. Why was the Martian troub-
ling them again? Why did he come to him first? Not quite sure
whether he was really awake, he once more roused his com-
panions.
There was no need for Tony to explain. As soon as the three
scientists were awake, the Martian announced himself.
"I have returned, Earthmen," flashed their visitor's message
into their minds.
The crew awaited developments with mixed feelings—
anxiety, surprise, curiosity, annoyance. What was the purpose
117

of this visit? What did this Martian want of them? Could his
uncanny power do them any harm? Was he friend or enemy?
It was Chris who voiced their protest and question.
"We are very tired," he said. "Why do you want to wake
us? What is it you want?"
The glowing ball seemed to grow brighter as the Martian
projected his reply.
"When you are roused from sleep your minds are most
receptive," he told them. "The one you call Tony is the most
receptive of all."
"So that explains it!" Tony thought.
"Yes, that explains it," the Martian flashed back. His
friends looked at Tony curiously, for they had no idea what
had prompted the reply which they, too, had received.
"I—I wondered why he always came to me first," Tony
explained lamely. He was still shaken by the knowledge that
their visitor could read his most private thoughts.
"We're waiting to hear what you want," Chris reminded
the Martian.
"You are the first visitors from your planet," he replied in
his thought-language. "We have been awaiting you."
"Do you mean you knew we were coming?" Morrey asked
in surprise.
"It was inevitable. Just as we crossed the void to the planet
that is no more, we knew Earthmen would one day visit us.
We have been awaiting you for thousands of years."
"But you didn't know we were on our way? You haven't
anything like our radar?" the American persisted.
"No. What you call 'radar' belongs to our very distant past.
We had all your devices—and many you cannot yet imagine—
while we still had our bodies," the Martian replied.
"So because you now have no bodies with which to operate
them, you no longer have scientific apparatus," suggested
Serge.
The Martian's reply indicated assent, but again the crew
118

members felt a wave of resentment, as if their visitor were very
"touchy" on the subject.
"So that's why we've never had any messages from you?"
Tony asked.
"We had discarded our bodies and all primitive means of com-
munication long before your species had evolved," the Martian
told them with some asperity. "But do not imagine that we
have not the means of forcing you to comply with our request.
We have powers of which you have never even dreamt."
"What request is that? You haven't made one as far as I
remember," Chris pointed out.
The Martian's reply came flooding into their minds.
"You have a natural barrier against radiations from space,"
he told them. "We had to create one. This barrier now confines
us to the dying planet. Before it disintegrates and becomes
another belt of asteroids, we intend to leave it. You must take
us with you back to Earth!"
119

At first Chris doubted whether he'd received and understood
the Martian's request correctly. Before he had time to speak
Morrey had broken the stunned silence.
"You—want us to take you back to Earth?" the American
gasped.
Again the Martian glowed brightly and his affirmation
came crashing into all their minds.
"But we can't do that," Chris answered briskly. "We
should have to get permission from our Control, and we're
not able to contact them. Even if we could, Control would
want to know more about you and the possible effect you'd
have on us before they agreed."
"It is imperative that we enter your ship and return with
you to your own planet," the Martian's message snapped.
"You have no choice."
The four Earthmen felt their anger rising. Resentment had
for the moment overcome their fear of any strange powers that
the Martian might possess. It was unthinkable that they
should convey this strange being and his fellows back to Earth.
More—much more—must be known about them before such a
venture would be possible. To introduce Martians among
human society might well be more disastrous than the deadly
fungus that had come from Venus some time before. Then it
had taken superhuman efforts to cleanse the Earth of that
alien scourge. To get rid of Martians—should they prove
120
15

dangerous—would be even more difficult, for they were im-
material creatures and had uncanny powers.
"We will not take you with us," Chris said firmly, speaking
for them all.
They felt the venom in the message the Martian flashed
back	
"Think again—for you will never return to Earth alone!"
"But how could we get many of you in our ship?" demanded
Chris, playing for time.
"Because we are no longer physical beings, we do not
occupy what you call space," the Martian answered. "Your
ship, with its shielding, could carry millions of us through the
radiation belts to our new home on your planet."
"What would you do on Earth?" asked Serge.
"And if you are not physical beings, why do you want a
physical world to live on?" Morrey wanted to know.
"Because of the way we have evolved we must be associated
with a physical environment," their visitor told them. "You
would not understand if I tried to explain this, but we shall
cease to exist when this planet is destroyed unless we come
with you to Earth. There we shall teach your people many
things, but because we are a higher species than Man, we shall
control him."
"But suppose we don't want you to control us	" began
Tony.
"We shall bring you untold benefits. We shall improve your
technology beyond your imaginadon. We shall change the
face of your planet."
"And, in return, we shall be your slaves," Morrey thought
to himself.
But the Martian had picked it up.
"Earthmen will do our bidding," he snapped into their
thoughts—and then he was gone.
"Whew!" whistled Morrey, "that Mardan's asking for the
Earth—literally, I mean."
121

"Steady," Tony whispered, "he knows what we are saying
and thinking. What can we do if the Martians can even read
our thoughts?"
"Ugh! That's creepy," the American admitted, "but can't
we write messages to each other?"
"We have to form thoughts to write down," Serge pointed
out. "The Martians would know what was in our minds even
before we'd written it down."
"So there's no hope of blasting-off without their knowing, I
guess," Morrey said gloomily. "They probably know all we're
saying and thinking now."
"I'm not so sure," Chris told his companions. "Why isn't
the Martian threatening us now? We're all thinking of escap-
ing, yet I'm not getting anything from him. Are any of
you?"
They all agreed they were not, and they discussed this
phenomenon for some time.
"My theory is that they can only read our thoughts and
communicate with us when they are within a certain range,"
Chris ventured.
"But wouldn't that be awkward when they want to speak to
each other?" asked Tony.
"Oh, I expect they can get across to each other over any
distance," the leader said. "It's just that they have to be fairly
close to us humans to communicate. I suppose our thoughts
are like very weak radios—only able to transmit and receive
over short distances."
"You may be right," the Russian agreed. "Each time the
Martian spoke to us he was here inside the cabin. We haven't
had any messages from outside."
"So maybe these spooks don't know what we are on about,"
Morrey suggested more cheerfully.
"That's my impression," declared Chris. "I'm certain the
Martian or one of his friends would be here glowing at us if
they knew."
122

"Yippee!" yelled Tony. "It's nice to know no one's reading
our thoughts."
The others agreed with him. They had all had enough of
what Morrey had christened the "Spooks".
"But we must expect the Martian back at any time," Chris
warned them seriously, and this possibility damped their
rising spirits.
"Can't we blast-off now while we're free of them?" de-
manded the mechanic.
"You know we can't, Tony," answered Chris. "It will take
at least twelve hours before we can be ready."
"And in the meantime the Martian and his friends will be
back to block our plans," Morrey mumbled despondently. "If
only we could keep a secret from the blighters	"
"We have only one chance," the leader began, and at once
his three companions turned to him eagerly.
"It seems to me," Chris went on, speaking thoughtfully,
"that this visitor of ours comes only when we are asleep—-that
is when our minds are not occupied by external stimuli. He
gets hold of Tony first because he finds that easiest. Then he
captures us when we are newly roused, before our brains are
really awake. Once he's in communication with us it stays
that way until he leaves us."
"So all we have to do is not go to sleep," Morrey observed
bitterly. "How are we going to manage that? We're all dead
tired now."
"Do you think the Martians could control us physically?"
asked Serge, but Chris had to confess he didn't know.
"It's a chance we must take," he sighed wearily.
"What are we going to do, Chris?" asked Tony, yawning.
"Well, I think we're all agreed that we must get back to
Earth without any of these spooks aboard," the scientist said
with forced briskness, and the others nodded their agreement.
"Then we must start work right away to get ready for blast-
off. At all costs we must avoid sleep. We must force our brains
123

into full activity all the time so that the Martians can't get a
foothold," Chris went on. "We must watch each other to see
that none of us wearies enough to give these weirdies a hold
over us—for if ever they do goodness knows what frightful
things might happen."
Tony nodded silently. He knew that he would have the most
difficult job of all in resisting the Martians. No doubt, having
found him the most receptive, they would concentrate their
efforts on him. He must, at all costs, resist. He couldn't let the
others down.
"Let's plan our campaign before they come back," Chris
said to the others crisply, and in spite of their fatigue they
listened eagerly.
"We'll blast-off the very minute we can," the leader went
on. "First job is to jack up the ship to an angle of at least sixty
degrees for launching. Seventy would be better, but sixty will
do. We'll all concentrate on that job first before we get too
tired physically. Then the tanks must be checked as well as
every valve, pump, instrument and electric circuit. Tony,
you'll take the tanks, pumps and valves; Morrey will do the
circuit testing, and Serge the instrument checks. I'll look over
the oxygen system and then concentrate on working out our
flight path.
"Now this is vitally important. We must keep in constant
touch with each other—directly if we're in the cabin, and over
the radios if we're working outside. Each one of us must, in
addition to the job he's doing, be alert for any flagging in any
of the other three. We must help each other to keep awake and
active so that these spooks can't creep into us."
"Suppose the Martian comes back before we're ready?"
asked Tony doubtfully.
"He must find us active and occupied," snapped Chris.
"None of us ipust flag for a second."
"Come on then," Morrey urged, "the sooner we start the
sooner we leave this grisly planet."
124

Each of the crew members knew precisely what he had to
do. With space suits on and with full oxygen bottles, they
climbed out of the rocket into the cold Martian night. It was
inky black outside, with a profusion of brilliant jewel-like stars
scattered over a black velvet sky. Each of the astronauts
looked to see if he could spot Earth, but their home planet
was still below the horizon.
With their excavation tools Morrey and Serge flattened the
ground to take the base of the ship. Chris and Tony began the
process ofjacking-up the rocket from its position, and soon all
four were engaged on this vital task. Slowly the vehicle raised
its nose as the jacks began their work. Inch by inch the rocket
reared up as one jack after another took the strain. It was
tense work, for if the rocket slipped and fell back there would
almost certainly be serious damage to the casing.
As they worked the crew kept up a ceaseless chatter over
their radios. Instructions and questions about the job in hand
were only part of the conversation. The rest was a frantic
attempt to keep each other alert and able to resist any un-
welcome visitor.
"Come on, you chaps," urged Chris. "I think we can get it
almost vertical. How's your jack doing, Tony?"
"O.K.," the mechanic answered from the other side of the
ship. "When will she settle over?"
"Better get your jack under the base," Chris called to
Morrey. "You can steady it down when we've raised it a little
higher. Mustn't leave anything to chance."
After an exhausting two hours' work Chris expressed him-
self satisfied with the position of the rocket. It wasn't quite
upright, but well within the limits of the safety angle. Only
for a moment did the crew pause to look at their faithful
ship, now pointing to the sky and waiting to take them
home.
"Can't we have a breather? I'm dead beat," Tony gasped
over his radio, but Chris's reply was merciless.
125

"No rest for you or anyone else until we've got her off the
ground," he snapped.
With an effort the crew climbed into the cabin and began
the next stage of their preparations.
So far there had been no sign of the Martian, and Chris
wasn't altogether easy about it. He and his fellows must know
what was happening even though they hadn't yet attempted
to read the minds of the Earthmen since they had resolved to
escape. Maybe the Martians were awaiting an opportune
time, when the Earthmen were even more tired, to make their
assault. Chris guessed that perhaps, even now, their would-be
passengers were all around them watching for one of the crew
to relax. He must drive his fellows on relentlessly, for he felt
that this was the only way to keep the weird creatures at bay.
It was Tony who saw the Martian first. The mechanic had
clambered up through a narrow opening between the fuel
tanks to make sure that all was in order. He'd examined the
valves and found them all satisfactory. It was tiring work,
for in the confined space he had to get into some uncomfort-
able positions to reach them all. With the last one checked he
gave a sigh of relief as he wriggled into the more roomy
compartment housing the pumps.
How good it was to be able to stretch his cramped limbs for
a moment and relax. It would be better still when they were
on their way home and he could sleep and sleep—and sleep.
He lifted his head with a jerk. Something had called him.
He looked up and saw the glowing ball he was coming to hate
and fear. The Martian!
Tony heard the visitor's command echoing in his brain.
Desperately he tried to resist its insistent call and to think of
other things. If he succumbed to the Martian's spell he knew
that he and all the others would be lost. Even if this alien
creature failed to establish control over the rest of the crew
through him, he knew that he'd probably be compelled to
perform acts that could jeopardize the flight. With all his will-
126

power he tried to seal his mind, but all he could do was to
gasp out the word "Chris!".
Within the rocket the crew were not, of course, using their
radios. The sound of Tony's desperate cry failed to reach the
leader, who was absorbed in his calculations. A bulkhead
divided the cabin from the fuel compartment and this effec-
tively masked the mechanic's frantic call for help.
Chris concentrated mainly on his own task. Occasionally
he would glance up to see how Morrey and Serge were pro-
gressing. Tony, he knew, was up in the fuel compartment,
squeezing in among the tangle of valves and pipes. But why
was he so long? Chris glanced at his watch. The mechanic
had taken far longer than he ought. The scientist stirred un-
easily. Perhaps it had been wrong to let Tony—the most
susceptible among them—go alone. In sudden alarm he made
towards the hatch leading to the huge tanks.
With a few quick bounds he reached the opening and sprang
up the aluminium ladder leading through the hatch.
"Tony!" he called as he clambered between a maze of
pipes. There was no answer, and Chris's misgivings increased.
He reached the open space around the pumps and valves.
Then he stopped in horror. The tell-tale glow of the Martian
told him of the return of this creature of a dying world. But it
was to his friend that the leader's attention was drawn.
Tony half-crouched, half-leaned, against a row of valves.
His eyes were glazed, his face expressionless. With a feeling of
dread Chris saw that he was completely under the influence of
the invader. Drawing a deep breath, the scientist, ignoring the
baleful glow, lunged across the space and seized Tony's
shoulder. He knew he had only seconds to spare before he,
too, felt the Martian's power, perhaps to fall under his hyp-
notic influence just as Tony had.
Desperately he shook the young man's shoulder and slapped
his face. Tony showed no response, and already Chris could
feel the Martian's commands thudding into his brain. With-
127

out hesitation he leapt back to the hatch and scrambled
through.
"Serge! Morrey!" he called. He felt that only the three of
them together had a chance of resisting the dreadful spell.
There was an instant response from the Russian and the
American, who, from their leader's tone, guessed what was
wrong. In a second they were up the ladder and all three
turned to face the frightful enemy.
128

The Martian had gone; the glow had vanished. But Tony
still crouched against the valves. Between them they carried
him back down into the cabin and laid him gently on his
couch. In spite of all their efforts they were unable to rouse
him from the stupor into which he seemed to have fallen.
Finally, in despair, they left him alone to resume the prepara-
tions for blast-off.
"Whatever happens, we mustn't separate," declared Chris.
"On his own Tony was unable to resist the Martian. Maybe
we shan't, either. But at least we'll stand a better chance.
How are you doing, you two?"
Morrey and Serge reported on the progress of their tasks.
There was still some hours' work before they could possibly
escape from this hateful planet, so all three pressed on grimly
with their jobs.
At frequent intervals one or other would visit Tony on his
couch, but there was no change in the condition of their
friend. There was nothing more they could do except to leave
this dying world behind as speedily as they could. Chris con-
stantly watched his companions, and all three kept up a con-
tinuous report to each other on progress. This was to make
sure that they all kept alert rather than for any technical
reason.
By now a deadly weariness was creeping over them all. First
one and then the other would seem to falter in his task, only to
be encouraged by the other two. What will happen if all three
of us crack up together, wondered Chris anxiously. Far beyond
129
16

reach of a friendly word from Earth, the crew had only them-
selves to keep them going.
During one of their very brief rest periods Morrey confessed
that something was puzzling him. Even while they were not at
work the remaining crewmen dared not relax but had to keep
talking feverishly together. Now the American asked why the
Martians were trying to subdue them. Why couldn't they all
just crowd into the rocket as stowaways? If they did, there was
just nothing the humans could do to rid themselves of these
intangible beings.
"How do we know that they won't invade the cabin just as
we're blasting?" Morrey asked.
Neither of the others could supply the answer, and soon Chris
was urging them back to their jobs. With a quick look at the
mechanic, the leader resumed his calculations.
All three were too busy to notice when it was that Tony first
sat up on his couch. The first they knew of their companion's
recovery was when they saw him making his way towards the
fuel compartment.
"Hello," Morrey called out in surprise. "Are you all right
now?"
"Yes, thank you. I'm going to finish myjob," Tony answered
stiffly. Chris looked at his young friend sharply. Perhaps it was
only his imagination, for neither Morrey nor Serge seemed to
have noticed anything strange in the mechanic's tone. Yet,
somehow	
Uneasily Chris stood up to follow Tony.
"We must all keep together," he murmured to the other
two; but it was as much to test his impression as to maintain
contact that he climbed up after the mechanic. Tony was con-
tinuing his job with complete efficiency, and Chris could see
that he'd soon be free to assist the others. It was surprising, in
view of his fatigue, that he was working so well. His encounter
with the Martian hadn't affected him. Or had it?
"Come and give us a hand in the cabin, Tony," the leader
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called as the mechanic concluded his tasks. Without a word
the young man climbed down briskly to join the others. It was
just as if he'd never known what it was to be tired. Morrey and
Serge were grateful for his help, and Chris was able to return
to his computadons.
"Didn't know you were familiar with that gadget," the
leader heard Morrey say to the mechanic. He looked up and
was surprised to see that Tony had serviced a complicated
piece of apparatus that measured cosmic radiation. Before,
only Serge had been able to master its intricacies, for the
number of instruments in their ship was so great that each
scientist had to specialize in one batch of them. Now Tony had
done the job that was the Russian's, and he'd done it with
uncanny efficiency.
"Here, you can give me a lift over here," called Morrey,
and Tony went over to assist the American.
"He's been foxing us," Morrey called to Chris a little later.
"He knows as much about the job as I do."
Tony's reply was inaudible, but Chris didn't like his strange
smile. Had the young man really recovered from his encounter
with the Martian? Perhaps the spooky creature hadn't used
any of his powers on his young friend. Anyhow—the mechanic
was working as well, perhaps better, than ever.
In another hour they could blast-off! All the crew except
Tony were almost dropping with fatigue. The mechanic
seemed tireless, and he did much of the work his companions
should have done. Serge and Morrey were surprised and
grateful for the help, but Chris didn't like it a bit. However,
he kept his misgivings to himself.
Half an hour to go—and still the Martians hadn't appeared.
Chris couldn't help feeling that the eerie inhabitants of the
planet must be congregated all round the rocket. Perhaps they
were waiting—just waiting till the moment before blast-off so
that they could then come crowding into the cabin ready for
the journey to Earth.
'Si

What would he do if the Martians came aboard? Chris
didn't know. He could see no means of preventing them, and
no means of getting rid of them. Or would theyjust manage to
slip away before the Martians knew it? The odds were heavily
against this possibility, and as every second passed the tension
mounted. Only Tony seemed calm and undisturbed.
"I—I can't go on," cried Serge suddenly. He staggered over
to a couch, half fainting. Chris couldn't blame him, for both
Morrey and he, too, were at breaking point. Thank God they
were almost ready.
"Take it easy, Serge. We'll manage," the leader said
hoarsely. But could they? Even as he spoke, Morrey staggered
and slid to the floor.
" 'Fraid I've had it," the American croaked apologetically.
"Get on your couch if you can," Chris ordered in despair.
Only the strongest will-power kept him from doing the same.
Now he must concentrate on Tony, for the mechanic was his
only hope of getting the rocket off the ground. He went across
and watched him work.
It was incredible and frightening to see Tony, with uncanny
efficiency, checking and servicing instruments, examining
switches and testing cables. Chris had little doubt that, if
necessary, he'd help with the computations too. The scientist
was scared. He had no doubt now that it was the Martian who
was responsible for Tony's incredible ability. It was as if he'd
entered the mechanic's body and taken possession of his mind.
No doubt, to the Martian, their instruments were unbelievably
crude. Acting through Tony, this creature from an ancient
world would have no difficulty in understanding all the
apparatus in the cabin. Involuntarily Chris shrank away from
the mechanic. He must warn the other two of his suspicions.
As he turned to the couches on which Morrey and Serge
were resting Chris gasped with horror. Even as he looked he
could see the sinister glow of a Martian just fading. But it was
the vacant stare in the faces of his two friends that turned the
132

scientist's heart to water. The devilish Thing from this
accursed planet had got Morrey and Serge, too. What could
he, Chris, do now to prevent the Martians riding back to
Earth?
Even as he turned over the problem in his mind, Chris
watched his American and Russian friends get up from the
couches and resume their tasks with silent efficiency. Like
Tony, they seemed more like automata than creatures of
flesh and blood. Like him, they showed no further signs of
strain. Preparations for the blast-off were proceeding swiftly
and smoothly—far more easily than the crew could have
managed alone, Chris told himself bitterly. Would to God
something would go wrong, some mistake be made, so that
they would never leave this dreadful place!
As this thought entered his mind a sudden resolve struck
Chris. Better that all should perish on this dying world than
that they should carry the Martians back to Earth! He would
deliberately destroy the rocket, or its crew!
Swiftly Chris forced himself to think of other things. He
mustn't let his thoughts dwell on his plan or the Martians
would read his mind and learn what he meant to do. Fever-
ishly he finished his calculations and then went over to his
three companions to watch what they were doing. He must
act and think as if there was nothing wrong; as if this slick
efficiency was nothing unusual.
Ten minutes to "Go". Chris steeled himself for action. He
would simply open the air lock and let their precious oxygen
escape into the empty world outside. Within a few seconds all
four humans would be dead. And then the Martians would
have no one to launch the rocket or to obey their commands.
The leader knew that his action would kill his friends and end
his own life. Was he justified?
It was an agonizing decision for him to make. Tony,
Morrey and Serge had been his close friends for a long time.
They had faced incredible dangers together. Time and time
133

again they had saved each other's lives on the dangerous
missions they'd all undertaken. When he looked at the three
silent figures engrossed in last-minute jobs he wondered if they
really were the friends he knew. It was horrible to see them
enslaved by the Martians. That was how everyone on Earth
would be unless he prevented their return.
Slowly, cautiously, Chris edged his way towards the air lock,
His decision had been taken. He would kill his best friends and
himself to save the World! Now he was only three feet from
the air lock switch. He was trying hard to keep his thoughts
away from what he was about to do, but how does one think
of one thing while planning to do another? With a sharp in-
take of breath—it would probably be his last—Chris lunged
towards the switch.
Whether he touched it or not he didn't know. His world
dissolved in a display of flashing lights as he fell to the cabin
floor. A blow had struck him unconscious. Tony? Morrey?
Serge?
134

17
Slowly Chris Godfrey opened his eyes. For a few seconds he
tried to collect his thoughts. A pain from the back of his head
helped him, and the memory of events came flooding back.
Instinctively he tried to sit up but couldn't. He could tell he
was on his contour couch. And the rocket was in flight!
He struggled to turn his head. It was difficult because of the
powerful acceleration, but he managed to see that the other
couches were occupied. Serge, Morrey and Tony lay motion-
less. So, under the influence of the Martians, his companions
had launched the ship on its homeward journey! One of them
had struck him senseless just as he was about to open the air
lock. But Chris felt no resentment against whoever it might be,
for he had been acting under the compulsion of the creatures
of Mars.
This thought made Chris struggle yet again to turn his head
in the other direction. Had the Martians entered the ship?
Were they carrying to Earth its new masters? Or had they
escaped without the stowaways? What he saw made Chris's
heart sink. Myriads of little points of light seemed to fill the
cabin. Instinctively he knew that countless numbers of
Martians were there—an army on its way to conquer a new
world.
Pinned down by the thrust of the motor, Chris could only
think, and his brain raced madly. No need now for caution.
The enemy had won. They had subdued his companions and
had literally taken control of the ship. What could he do to
135

stop the flight? Every thought he had or plan he might make
would be known to them. They could, through the other three
humans, frustrate his every move. No appeals to Tony, Serge
or Morrey would be of avail, for they were completely under
the invaders' influence.
The rocket motor cut out. It had boosted the ship up to the
required velocity. Soon the ion motor would take over—to
build up a great speed under its gentle, but persistent, urge.
Now Chris was free to move from his couch—or should be.
When he tried to sit up he had a horrible feeling. He was
secured, somehow, to the couch and was unable to move.
During the short time of his blackout his companions had
fastened him down so that he couldn't interfere with the
navigation of the rocket. Bitterly Chris realized he was useless.
Quite useless. He couldn't see what was holding him, but he
soon found that his bonds were too strong to permit any hope
of bursting them. There was nothing he could do but subside
on to the couch and watch his enslaved companions carrying
out the orders of their masters.
To Chris's experienced eye the take-off had been perfect.
Under the thrust of the chemical motor they had built up
escape velocity. Now they would be switching to the ion
motor, which would steadily increase the speed to half a
million miles an hour. Whether or not their flight path was
correct he had no means of knowing. But there was little
chance of the Martians making such a simple error, he thought
bitterly. He must lie there impatiently while disaster winged
its way to Earth.
It seemed to him that he'd been secured to the couch for
some time when Morrey came towards him. The American's
face was expressionless. His eyes were still dull and without
life. He carried tubes of food and drink to the prisoner, and
Chris realized that he was certainly thirsty if not hungry.
"I can't hold the tubes like this," the leader said. "Can't
you release me?" He wondered how Morrey would react.
136

"I will hold the tubes for you," the reply came. It was
Morrey's voice that spoke, but the monotonous tone was un-
like the lively American's.
"But you can't keep me fastened here till we get back to
Earth. Aren't you going to release me, Morrey?" Chris asked,
trying to hold his friend's gaze.
The American hesitated visibly, but then turned away with-
out replying. Would Chris have better luck with either of the
others?
"Tony! Serge!" he called. "Aren't you going to let me up?"
Tony ignored his leader's cry, but Serge took several steps
towards the couch. Then he, too, hesitated as if commanded
from within to leave his leader alone. He turned and con-
tinued his tasks.
Wearily Chris sank back. The Martians had full control of
his friends. Even his own close affinity to them seemed useless
against the invaders' power. Though they had faced death
together a score of times, though these four were closer than
brothers, the bond had been broken by the uncanny influence
of the ghastly refugees from the dying world.	\
But why hadn't the Martians enslaved him too? As he lay
there Chris pondered the problem. He doubted very much
that his own powers of resistance were greater than those of
Morrey or Serge. Tony, he could understand, might well
succumb first. How was it that their enemies hadn't robbed
him of his will just as they had the others?
A thought struck Chris. Was it that the Martians weren't
quite sure of their power over the human mind? Were they
taking this opportunity of putting their control to the test
during the voyage? If Chris couldn't free his close friends from
the hypnotic influence of the stowaways then neither could the
Martians' victims on Earth be rescued. Therefore he must try
his utmost to wrest his friends from the hateful power of those
myriad spots of light.
"Serge," the leader called again earnestly, "come over here."
137

The Russian paused in what he was doing, half-turned, and
Chris saw a glimmer in his face. The next moment it was gone
and Serge returned to his job. It was almost the same with
Morrey, but Tony gave no response whatsoever.
"They aren't too deeply hypnotized," Chris muttered to
himself as he sank back on to his couch. "If only I could free
myself maybe I could do better."
He began to turn his attendon for the first time to his bonds.
They consisted, he saw at once, of electric cable—taken, no
doubt, from the spare stock which Tony kept for repairs. The
cable would be much too strong to break, so he must try to find
where it was fastened and endeavour to undo it. As far as he
could he moved his hands, letting his fingers slide along the
cable. Only in the extreme position could he find a place
where two ends had been twisted together.
Relaxing for a few moments Chris felt the soreness where the
cable had bitten into him. To reach the joint in his bonds
he must strain painfully. It would be a long job to free him-
self, but he was confident he could do it. Trying not to call
attention to himself, he began the tedious task.
Not only were the ends of the cable tightly twisted, they
were also fairly thick and stiff. Chris could only maintain his
efforts for a few minutes at a time, for his arms rapidly became
numbed, because the bite of the cable restricted his circuladon.
For the first few spells he achieved practically nothing. The
sweat was standing out on his face with the strain and each
time his struggles seemed to give him more pain. He was
almost in despair when he felt one end of the cable give
slightly.
Encouraged, Chris worked on. It was agony to try for long,
and his fingers were soon bleeding too. What did his circula-
tion or his bleeding fingers matter, Chris told himself, if only
he could free himself and perhaps release his friends from their
less tangible bonds? After what seemed an endless period he
managed to get one end of the wire free.
138

Quietly, carefully, the leader worked on. The other members
of the crew were too busy to see him, but why the Martians
hadn't warned them he couldn't imagine. One arm was free
and then the other. For a few dreadful moments Chris
thought he'd been seen, for Tony had suddenly turned round
and stared straight at him. But the mechanic had turned back
to his valves and gauges, and Chris had heaved a sigh of
relief.
While the circulation was returning to his arms, Chris
planned his campaign. His companions had tied him down
while he'd been unconscious from the blow one of them had
given him. Could they bring themselves to fasten him up
again by force? Would they all attack him after he was free?
Or would the bond between them be strong enough to with-
stand the Martians' power?
Now came the difficult part of the operation. He must untie
his legs secretly so that his freedom would surprise his friends.
Perhaps the shock would help to jolt them back to their own
senses. At least if he was completely free before they knew it, it
would bring matters to a head. Would his best friends use
force to tie him up again? The next few minutes would see that
question answered.
With a sudden bound Chris sprang up from his couch.
"Serge! Morrey! Tony!" he called. "Shake off these Mar-
tians. Don't let us take them back to Earth."
At the sound of their leader's voice the other three members
of the crew had spun round from whatever they were doing
and stood facing him.
"Don't you see," Chris cried hoarsely, "these devils have
got you in their power. Pull yourselves together."
He looked anxiously at his companions' faces, trying to fix
on the eyes of each in turn. Even in Tony there was hesitation,
but in the other two Chris saw real concern. Then, in a flash, it
was gone. All three, faces now set like stone, bore down on him
at their masters' command.
139

Quick as a flash Chris dodged under their outstretched
arms. He knew, now, that it was useless to appeal to them—
that he'd lost the battle for their minds. With a sinking feeling
he realized that his friends would obey the Martians, and his
capture could only be a matter of seconds. Seconds? Then per-
haps that would be long enough to send the rocket off course
so that it could miss Earth and lose itself and its crew in the
depths of space. He lunged towards the switches controlling
the lateral rockets. There wasn't time to decide which switch
to press. It really didn't matter. All he wanted to do was to
destroy their planned flight path, even if it cost his own life
and those of his friends.
As his fingers pressed one switch after another, Chris felt his
companions seize him. He hated doing it, but he turned and
lashed out at the first face he saw. It was Morrey—and yet it
wasn't Morrey, Chris told himself as he sent the American
sprawling. But now Tony had grasped him round the knees
and Serge had seized his arms. Struggle as he might, Chris was
only able to resist for a few seconds. Then, with Morrey re-
turning to the attack, he was borne down beneath his strug-
gling friends. He continued the fight, for every second he could
prevent them cutting out the lateral rockets gave his desperate
plan more chance of success.
Even as these thoughts passed through his mind Chris knew
that he'd given himself away and that the Martians would
know his intention as plainly as if he'd told them in words. As
if to confirm this, Serge tore himself away from the struggle
and began work on the switches. Chris didn't think he'd be
able to correct their trajectory, for nothing short of a com-
puter could work out the manoeuvre. Yet the Russian
methodically pressed certain switches as if he was being in-
structed by someone who had already solved the problem.
"The Martians know all the answers," the leader told him-
self bitterly as he allowed himself to be forced back on to his
couch.
140

With Tony's assistance Morrey had soon restored their
friend's bonds, for Chris no longer had the heart to resist. It
was equally useless, he felt, trying again to awaken his com-
panions. The only thing left for him to do was to lie there while
his closest friends obeyed their masters' commands. He was
powerless, it seemed, to prevent the Martians from colonizing
the Earth!
There was no doubt that his effort to divert the rocket had
failed. Serge had reached the lateral rocket controls too
quickly for their ship to have travelled far off its course. The
Russian had made the required adjustment with confidence
and speed—another tribute to the ability of the Martians,
Chris thought.
How long was it since they had blasted-off from Mars? From
where he was, the scientist was unable to see the chronometer
which would have started automatically on launching. He'd
been unconscious for some time. For how long he didn't know.
Now all he could do was to lie there, a prisoner, while the ion
motor steadily accelerated the vessel on its journey home.
Poor Chris writhed in mental anguish. If only he could
warn the people on Earth! Perhaps they would be able to des-
troy the rocket before it came too close. They would be able
to launch an anti-missile missile which would seek it far out in
space and blast it to pieces. Without a vehicle to carry them,
the intangible Martians would be unable to complete their
voyage of conquest. But of course he couldn't warn his friends
on Earth. There was that wretched Le Prince layer that
effectively prevented communication, even if he could free
himself long enough to work the radio.
The young leader subsided on to his couch in despair.
Everything was against him. The uncanny power of their
enemy, the complete subjugation of his friends, his very
effective bonds, even the radiation belts in space, all conspired
to frustrate anything he could do. Inside the cabin his three
friends acting like automata and obeying the wishes of those
141

innumerable specks of light. Outside the rocket just cosmic
radiadon and those hideous Voices of Space!
Suddenly Chris's mind stopped its worried wondering. His
body, for a moment, became rigid with excitement. A plan
had flashed into his brain.
142

Had there been an unseen observer in the cabin of that Earth-
bound rocket, he could not have told that things were amiss.
The quiet, efficient work of three of the crew members could
have been the result of long training together and an absolute
mastery of the job they were doing. The lack of conversation
between them could have been due to sheer concentration on
the tasks in hand. The fourth astronaut, lying quietly on his
couch, could have been inactive because it was his rest spell.
Even the innumerable specks of light might possibly be caused
by some electrical condition. All seemed serene in that small
compartment; all seemed a picture of quiet efficiency. The
observer could not have guessed that here the fate of Earth
was being decided—that the freedom of the human race hung
in the balance.
Morrey, Tony and Serge, completely under the Martians'
control, carried out the physical tasks involved in turning the
ship on its correct flight path. At intervals they would break
off to take refreshment, but never to rest. All three seemed
tireless, and this made Chris wonder—until he realized that
the brains of his companions were already asleep. Because of
his friends' ceaseless activity, Chris found the operation of his
plan most difficult. First he must free himself again without the
others knowing. So that they would have no need to approach
his couch, he preferred not to ask for food and drink even
though, with the passage of time, he badly needed them.
The electric flex which secured him was fastened very tightly.
H3
18

Even if he lay still, the wire bonds restricted his circuladon.
When he moved or strained to free himself, the pain became
excruciating, and he had to desist quickly. Hour after hour he
lay, with short, painful efforts to loosen the wire. All the time
he kept his eyes on the other three, and each time one of them
seemed about to glance in his direction, Chris became
motionless.
If his scheme was to be successful, he had to free himself
within the next few hours. How long he had available he'd no
means of telling, for the passage of time is difficult to measure
without mechanical means. In the cabin there was no night or
day, no set meal times, and the clock was out of sight. Had he
been a prisoner for twelve hours? A day? Or longer? Des-
perately, wincing with pain, he forced his lacerated fingers to
continue their seemingly hopeless task.
After one great effort Chris rested. Suddenly he opened his
eyes and realized he'd either fallen alseep or had fainted. This
added to the uncertainty of the time he had left, and increased
his anxiety. Again and again he forced his bleeding fingers to
wrestle with the cable. Only because he knew what was at
stake was he able to carry on.
Ah! Surely the wire had loosened a fraction! Or was it his
imagination? No, it was definitely slacker, and renewed hope
came flooding over Chris. He worked away at his bonds, but
now he redoubled his care not to let the others see him. He
also tried hard to dissociate his thoughts from what his hands
were doing, for fear the Martians would read them and learn
of his intentions. Every moment he expected the other crew
members to turn round upon him—warned by their masters
even if they'd noticed nothing themselves. Miraculously noth-
ing happened, and as the ship sped across the black void, the
scientist worked painfully on.
One hand was now free. It was as much as Chris could do to
ignore the discomfort of returning circulation while he worked
away at the other. He was glad now that he'd refrained from
144

asking for refreshment. Unless they were warned or observed
something themselves, there was no cause for Serge and the
others to approach his couch. It would be tragic if, so near, his
escape was detected. His eyes followed the movements of his
friends and captors carefully. While his fingers worked on the
last knots he tried to analyse the operations the others were
performing.
With startling suddenness he realized that his companions
were preparing to shut down the ion motor. This meant that
they had been in space for more than two and a half days
and that, having reached the required velocity, the rocket
would now coast along on the main part of its journey. It also
meant that very shortly Tony, Morrey and Serge would have
completed their immediate dudes and would have dme on
their hands to observe him more closely. He must carry out his
plan within the next few minutes. Otherwise its chance of
success would be very much less.
Both hands were now free. As he lay there Chris pondered
over the problem of releasing his legs. To do this without
attracting attention would be much more difficult—almost
impossible, in fact. He dared not risk failure at this point. With
his eyes he measured the distance from his couch to the
various instruments and pieces of equipment. Could he do it
with his legs still secured? It was his only chance.
With a silent prayer for success, Chris steeled himself. Then
in a flash, before the other three could even turn round, he'd
flung himself from the couch and lunged towards the radio.
Even as he saw, through the corner of his eye, his companions
straighten up from their tasks, his hands were on the controls
of the set and he was feverishly switching it on.
Time seemed to stand still. As the others bore down on him
Chris waited. The loudspeaker, silent for so long, blared out.
And the hideous noises it made could only be the Voices of
Space! Horrible as they had been before, they were now a
thousand times more frightening. Though their sounds had
145

been just bearable when he last heard them, Chris felt his
senses going. He turned round and could see that the effect on
the other humans was equally devastating. Morrey and Serge
were reeling like drunken men and Tony—already senseless—
was slumped on the floor. But as his own consciousness deserted
him Chris saw something even more remarkable.
The Martians, those countless specks of light, were whirling
about madly in a dance of death!
*****
Serge was the first to recover. Wonderingly he opened his
eyes and glanced round the cabin. His gaze fell on his un-
conscious companions, but sdll the full impact of the situation
didn't strike him. What had happened to Chris and Morrey
and Tony? Were they still on Mars? Why were his friends
unconscious? What—what had happened to the Martian?
With questions chasing each other through his bewildered
mind, the Russian struggled to his feet. He felt strangely
weak, as if he were recovering from a long illness. Staggering a
little, he made his way to Chris, and as he did so he could tell
from the low gravity that their ship was no longer on the dying
planet, but under the gentle thrust of the ion motor.
As he bent over the still figure of his friend Serge tried
desperately to recall the events leading up to the present
situation. The last thing he remembered clearly was the frantic
effort they were all making to prepare their ship for the blast-
off back to Earth. After that everything seemed hazy until he
returned to his senses a few moments before. Still struggling to
collect his scattered wits, Serge nodced with a shock that his
leader's legs were tied together with wire cable. Further
examination revealed that there were deep weals on his
wrists and his fingers were lacerated. What's happened? Serge
asked himself frantically. What's come over us all?
Chris seemed deeply unconscious, so the Russian turned his
attendon to the others. Morrey was already sdrring, and a few
146

slaps caused him to open his eyes. He stared blankly at Serge.
"What's the matter?" he asked weakly. "Have I been ill?"
"I think we have all been ill," Serge answered. "I don't
know what has happened. It was only a few moments ago that
I came round. Chris and Tony are still unconscious. We've
taken off and we are under ion drive."
At this startling news Morrey sat up. He, too, was unable to
recall previous events, and hadn't the slightest recollection of
their actual launching. Like Serge, Morrey, too, was puzzled
and alarmed at Chris's condition. With the aid of wire-cutters
they removed the bonds on their friend's legs, and while
Morrey massaged their leader, Serge did the same for the
mechanic. Soon Tony responded, but Chris remained as
deeply unconscious as ever.
"He couldn't have tied himself up like that," muttered
Morrey as all three crewmen turned their attention to Chris.
Like the others, Tony was unable to contribute any explana-
tion.
"Then it must have been one of us!" Serge burst out in
horror. "No one else could have done it."
The three friends looked at each other in dismay. How could
they have served their leader like this? To have lost their
memories, to find they were somewhere in space, and now to
discover that Chris had been so treated by them, was almost
more than they could stand. It required a tremendous effort
of will for them all to pull themselves together.
"Anyway—we must have escaped without the Martians,"
declared Morrey in an attempt to cheer up his companions.
"That's surely the most important fact."
"I wonder if we did," mused Serge.
"What do you mean?" Tony and Morrey asked together.
"Well, so many strange things have happened. I wonder if
the Martians are responsible," answered the Russian. "You
see, none of us can remember the blast-off, and none of us
can remember tying up Chris. Yet we must have launched the
147

ship, and we must have tied him up. I feel the Martians are
responsible."
"But how is it they're not with us now?" demanded Morrey,
but no one was able to supply the answer. In spite of them-
selves the three astronauts glanced nervously round the cabin.
"We'd better check the ship," Morrey said with forced
briskness. "Serge, will you see what you can do with Chris
while Tony and I go over the gadgets?"
The Russian nodded and continued his attentions to their
unconscious leader while the other two checked the instru-
ments and apparatus all round the cabin.
"Gosh!" Tony called out a few moments later. "Look at
this!"
He was pointing to the dial indicating the rocket's velocity.
Morrey joined him and stared for a few seconds at the instru-
ment unbelievingly.
"Jumping polecats!" he gasped out, "we're doing seven
hundred and twenty thousand miles an hour!"
Serge left Chris for a moment to gape at the dial before he,
too, was convinced of their fantastic velocity.
"The ion motor must have been running for too long," was
his explanation.
"Perhaps the velocity meter is faulty," Tony suggested
hopefully.
"Not a chance," Morrey answered grimly. "It works on the
Doppler principle—that's the squeezing in or stretching out of
light waves according to whether you're moving towards or
away from the source—and you can't monkey about with the
speed of light!"
"So we really are travelling faster than anyone's ever
travelled before," breathed Tony.
"We must shut down the ion motor, turn the ship round, and
then start it again to slow her down," Serge told the others.
This was the obvious thing to do, so while the two senior
members of the crew were working on this manoeuvre, Tony
148

continued his inspection. Once they had the rocket travelling
at the correct speed they could decide on the next step.
Again it was the mechanic who noticed something unusual.
The radio, though silent, was switched on! Puzzled, Tony
started to examine the apparatus more carefully. Why had the
thing been switched on when the only sound they could pick
up were those frightening Voices? And why weren't they
getting the Voices now? Surely they couldn't have passed
through the Le Prince layer yet. If they had, the speed at
which they were moving would be disastrous. No, he couldn't
think they'd all been unconscious for that long.
Ah! It was the loudspeaker that was faulty. The rest of the
set seemed all right. He'd have to get the loudspeaker repaired
or they'd have to use headphones. Must have picked up some-
thing very powerful to have knocked out the speaker. Tony
switched off while he began his repairs. He didn't care to risk
having those fiendish Voices suddenly blaring out at him.
Screwdriver poised, Tony suddenly stopped. If the radio
had been on the Voices must have been coming through.
Gould they have been responsible for all that had happened?
But who had switched on? His thoughts were interrupted by a
new and welcome sound. It came from Chris, and in a few
moments the leader opened his eyes.
149

19
"All right, you chaps," Chris was saying a few moments
later, "you couldn't help it."
He'd barely recovered consciousness before his three friends
were expressing concern at his condition. He described to
them the happenings up to the time he felt his own sense
slipping because of the awful sounds from the radio.
"I tried to send the rocket off course," Chris told his listeners,
"but the Martians turned you on to me before it could go very
far. You soon set it right again."
Morrey, Serge and Tony looked at each other in bewilder-
ment, for none of them had the slightest recollection of the
events their friend was describing. When he said that the
cabin had been filled with innumerable Martians they could
scarcely believe it.
"Then why aren't they here now?" enquired Tony, for that
was the question they all wanted to ask.
"It was something that came to me while I was tied up,"
Chris told his audience. "It was only a million to one chance—
but better than nothing. You remember when the first
Martian visited us? He was fairly chatty and told us a great
deal about his planet. One thing he let drop was about the
belt of radiation which they had to put round Mars them-
selves. We have a natural one round Earth but the Martians
had to make their own protection. Protection from what? I
guessed it was from the Voices."
"So you thought the Voices might affect them as well as
us?" queried Serge.
!5°

"I thought—maybe more so. Anyway it was the only thing
I could try. But I had a job to undo those wretched knots of
yours," Chris concluded ruefully.
"But you did manage to switch on the radio?"
"Just about. I remember the Voices—more hideous than
ever—coming through. Then I passed out."
"Well, it seems to have worked. There isn't a trace of a
Martian, and we've come back to our senses," Morrey ad-
mitted. "Good job the loudspeaker broke down. We'd never
have recovered if those horrible noises had still been pouring
out. How are you feeling now?"
"Fine," Chris assured him. "Now let's see how the ship's
doing."
What a relief it was for them to be back to their old jobs, all
working as a team to bring their vessel back home. That they
could now do it, Chris hadn't a doubt. The fact that the ion
motor with its almost inexhaustible supply of fuel, had been
left running too long wasn't disastrous, as it would have been
had it been the chemical rocket.
For the next hour, while the others observed readings of the
numerous instruments, Chris pored over a mass of figures.
With the aid of the miniature computer he was trying to work
out a new flight programme based on the longer use of the ion
rocket. Knowing its thrust and acceleration, he was able to
work out how long it had been running and how far they had
travelled, basing his calculations on the velocity of seven
hundred and twenty thousand miles per hour that Tony had
recorded.
"Here's a rough programme," Chris called out to his friends
at the end of an hour's hard work. "Of course I shall have to
check it with more data, but I estimate that we shall be enter-
ing the Le Prince layer in sixty-nine hours. We can switch to
the chemical motor in seventy-two hours, and then—subject
to instructions from the Cape—we can be eating steak and
chips seventy minutes later."
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It was almost a sacred ritual that Chris and his crew, after
all their many voyages, ate a hearty meal as soon as possible
after touch-down. The information that their favourite repast
was within measuring distance removed the crew's last traces
of anxiety. Their relief expressed itself in the jokes and un-
complimentary remarks they exchanged with each other. They
roared with laughter at the slightest excuse. After the strains
and tensions of the past few days a holiday atmosphere pre-
vailed. The quartet discussed enthusiastically all the wonder-
ful things they would do during their coming spell of leave.
Gradually they calmed down a little, for there was much
work to be done. Chris made refined calculations of their
flight programme, Morrey and Serge were busy with observa-
tions, while Tony was occupied in preparations for the final
switching to the chemical rocket ready for landing.
During their spells of rest there were many fascinating
things to discuss. The expedition had established—only too
well—that life had existed on Mars, and they spent much time
in speculating on the course of evolution which allowed
physical bodies to become unnecessary. What must it be like,
they wondered, to be be just intelligences without the need to
eat or sleep, able to ignore physical obstacles and distance?
"I'd like to know more about their technical achieve-
ments," Serge said. "They must have been fantastic."
"Absolutely unimaginable," agreed Morrey. "Pity we
couldn't have brought some of them back to Earth."
"Maybe the next expedition will," suggested Tony. "I
wonder if there are any more Martians left, or whether we've
got rid of them all?"
"I'm interested in what we learned about other planets,"
Chris said. "It's a new conception of their history. What the
Martian told us, in effect, was that the planets were thrown
out by the Sun in their present order of distance. In other
words, Pluto is the oldest planet and Mercury the youngest.
Maybe, some day, the Sun will throw off another."
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"Well, the information we take back will certainly cause a
stir," laughed Morrey. Then he added more soberly, "I
wonder if our people will be able to find out where the Voices
were coming from and what they were saying."
"Ugh! I never want to hear them again," declared Tony.
"Don't forget they saved us from the Martians," Serge
pointed out.
In between spells of duty, rest and refreshment, the crew
chatted on happily. Their rocket was speeding to Earth. They
had survived great physical and mental dangers, and they had
saved their fellow humans from domination by an alien race.
The information they were taking back to Earth would keep
scientists busy for years, and would be of help to future
expeditions.
"How long before we're through the Le Prince layer, Chris?"
Tony seemed the most impatient of them all to re-establish
contact with other humans. Perhaps this was understandable,
for he'd been the one most upset by the Voices and the
Martians.
"Not much more than twenty-four hours," Chris was able
to reply. "Now don't get impatient. There's plenty of work to
do."
There was, of course, but in spite of this Tony found him-
self longing to be back among his own kind. The Martians had
made a deep impression on him and were never far from his
thoughts. When his rest spell came he was still thinking about
the experiences they'd had and he found it difficult to relax,
let alone to sleep.
What if Chris hadn't had that inspiration about tuning in
the Voices? Would he and the others have been permanently
enslaved? Suppose Chris had put up more of a struggle. What
injury might not his friends have done to him on the orders of
the Martians? Would these strange creatures really have en-
slaved the Earth? Sometimes the whole thing seemed like a
ghastly nightmare.
153

Tony tossed and turned on his couch. Of course he could
have asked Chris for a sleeping pill, but he didn't like to, for
that would only have called attention to his disturbed state of
mind. Somedmes he would be about to doze when he'd fancy
he could see the Martian, and wake up with a start.
This really wouldn't do. He mustn't even think such terrify-
ing things. He settled down again full of determination that
this dme he would will himself to sleep. He closed his eyes and
tried to empty his mind completely. For a few moments he
succeeded—and then thoughts of the Mardan came crowding
in more strongly than ever. In desperadon Tony opened his
eyes and sat up.
There, right at the foot of his couch, was a small patch of
light. He barely stifled a scream. The Martian had returned!
154

20
Somehow Tony must have let out a cry or gasp. Chris,
Morrey and Serge turned towards his couch and to their
utter consternation they, too, saw the glow of their visitor.
"Will you please listen to me."
The words came into their brains and they knew the Mar-
dan was speaking. Yet this time there was a subtle difference.
Gone was the arrogant tone of command. Instead the quartet
got the impression of supplication, of an urgent request.
"What do you want?" Chris asked on behalf of them all.
Somehow their apprehension was evaporadng. They felt they
no longer had anything to fear.
"Our enemies from space, with your help, have destroyed
all my fellows. I am the sole survivor, and even I, had I a body
like yours, am badly hurt. Will you carry me back with you to
your planet?"
"No," snapped Chris. "We will not allow you to dominate
our people. We've had a taste of what you can do."
"I'll say we have," piped up Tony, feeling bolder than at
any dme since the first encounter with the Martians.
"There is no longer any question of assuming control of
your race," their visitor's answer came back. "I have that
power no longer."
"Then why do you wish to go to Earth?" Serge asked.
"It is the only place where I can continue to exist. I am the
sole survivor from my planet."
155

"If we could really be sure you're harmless	" began the
leader.
The reply came crashing back with some asperity. "That
you will have to believe. You have no means of knowing."
"We can't risk it, Chris," Morrey said urgently. "This may
be just to deceive us. Think what happened to us three. We
bashed you about because of the Martians."
"You have the choice," the visitor's message came, "either
to take me with you, or to lose for ever the benefits I can bring."
It was a horrible dilemma. Should they take this alien
creature, with all his strange powers, back with them to an
unsuspecting Earth? Or should they drive him away by calling
in the Voices?
As leader of the expedition, Chris knew that the responsi-
bility for a decision was his. Whatever he chose, he was sure
that his friends would back him up. Even though Morrey had
spoken against the Martian, Chris knew that he'd have the
American's loyal support for his actions. He could feel their
eyes on him—waiting. The Martian was waiting too.
A surge of resentment arose within him. Why should he
have to decide such a vital question? However, it quickly sub-
sided, for he knew that he couldn't evade his responsibility.
Moreover, the rocket was rushing headlong on its flight.
Within a very few hours it would be passing through the Le
Prince layer, which would then effectively shield them from
the Voices and so from the means of driving the Martian
away. If the decision was not to take their passenger with
them, it would have to be taken now. Otherwise it would be
too late.
The seconds ticked by as the leader considered the problem.
If only he could be sure that the Martian's powers were gone
and the world was in no danger! What a wonderful source of
information their passenger could be! But could he risk it?
Perspiration was running down Chris's face in the agony of
his mental conflict.
156

"I can pass on to you the technical achievements of a
million years," the Martian's words sounded in his head. The
tone was now urgent, pleading even. What a tremendous
thing it would be to tap the knowledge of this ancient race. His
mind reeled at the prospect. The technical progress of a
million years would be theirs if they took the Martian home
with them. Chris buried his face in his hands, so great was his
anguish.
Quite suddenly all was settled. There was a vivid flash of
light in the cabin and a horrible choking smell. An alarm
sounded that warned the astronauts of the rapid fall in their
atmospheric pressure. The hull of their ship had been pierced
by a meteor, and oxygen was being sucked into the void out-
side.
The value of their emergency training was now obvious.
Even as they began to gasp for lack of air, the crew had
donned their helmets and were seeking out the damaged wall.
It was Tony who spotted the discoloration that betrayed
where the meteor had burnt its way in. He lunged forward,
colliding with the radio in his anxiety to affix the special patch
which would seal the hole and save their precious oxygen from
being drained away.
While the rest of the crew assured themselves that this was
the only damage, Chris checked that the patch was fixed
correctly. Satisfied, he signalled to Tony to open the oxygen
valve. As they were not using their radios, the mechanic didn't
understand at first, but as Chris repeated the sign he went over
and did as he was bid.
The leader went over to the dial which registered the pressure
in the cabin and watched the needle move slowly. At last he
knew it would be safe to remove his helmet and with a quick
movement he released it and whipped it off his head.
There was instant pandemonium. The cabin was filled with
the most horrible noise. It was the Voices. Someone, probably
Tony, had caught the radio switch in the scramble to locate
157

the meteor hole. Accidentally it had been turned on, and the
menacing sounds from space filled the compartment.
His senses already beginning to reel, Chris lunged towards
the radio and threw off the switch. The silence that followed
was uncanny. Gasping, and with perspiradon moistening his
forehead, Chris signalled the others to unmask.
"What's happened?" asked Morrey, for they'd seen their
leader's sudden activity and his exhausted state.
"Someone must have switched on the Voices," Chris ex-
plained weakly. "I got them off again just in time."
For the next few minutes the crew talked excitedly together,
speculating on the size of the meteor and their narrow escape.
It was Tony who suddenly interrupted.
"The Martian," he cried. "What's happened to the
Martian?"
The creature from the dying world had gone for ever! Chris
and his friends were silent for a long time.
* * * * *
"Don't any of you want to speak to the Cape?" Chris asked,
breaking into the thoughtful mood of his companions.
The atmosphere in the cabin changed at once. Again ex-
citement swept through all of them. Soon, within minutes
perhaps, they would hear a human voice. Never before had
they longed so much to hear greetings from their own land.
After their horrible experiences with the Martians and the
Voices it would be bliss indeed to hear a fellow creature speak.
All four astronauts crowded round the set eagerly. Morrey
worked the controls, but only the loud crackling noises of the
Le Prince radiation came through. Even this was music to
their ears after the spine-chilling sounds of the Voices. Their
ears were strained to catch the first sounds from Earth.
The American worked away at the controls. He had the
radio tuned into a long-wave station, for they knew that this
could penetrate the layer farthest. Suddenly, between loud
158

crackles, they caught a snatch of music. It was a male voice
singing a pop song, and was gone again in a couple of seconds.
Though Chris and Serge had never been too keen on this type
of entertainment, like the others they thought it was the most
wonderful sound they'd ever heard.
They almost held their breath, as they waited. There it was
again. The voice of the singer came through clearly with a
well-known song, and even Chris found himself joining in
from sheer joy. But it was soon gone again, and they had to
wait some time before the crackling ceased.
All had been gaiety in the rocket cabin, but now serious
work must begin. Soon the chemical motor would be switched
on to provide the heavy deceleration needed. Contact with
Control must come first. As the others went to their own posts
Chris took over the radio. As leader it fell to him to make the
first report to the Cape. Repressing his excitement, he ad-
justed the set to the Canaveral wave-length. He could imagine
that someone at the other end would be waiting just as eagerly.
Here it was. The voice from Control came through loud
and clear, and for a moment the studied calmness of both
speakers cracked as the first greetings were exchanged between
the Martian expedition and the waiting scientists back on
Earth. As soon as he could Chris recovered his composure and
reported their speed and other data in level tones. Details of
the expedition would have to wait until after the landing.
Meanwhile the Cape would assume responsibility for bringing
them in.
The crisp commands from Earth were welcome indeed, and
as the final phase of their ordeal drew nearer, each of the
crew felt shaky from reaction. Only then, with the end of the
journey in sight, did they appreciate how much the adventure
had taken out of them. As they fastened themselves to their
couches in preparation for deceleration, they listened to gay
talk from Control, and a few moments later the familiar voice
of Sir George Benson came through.
159

After inquiring anxiously about their condition and con-
gratulating them on their safe return, the head of UNEXA
said that he was content to hear details of the expedition after
they had landed. All of them, particularly Chris, were very
glad to hear the voice of their old friend again.
"Now here's someone else who's dying to have a word with
you," the voice of Sir George chuckled. "Don't let him keep
you talking too long, or you'll muff-up the landing."
"Hello, you chaps!" the loudspeaker said.
Whiskers! How good it was to hear him. All four called out
joyful greetings to the ex-pilot and for a time the usual banter
was exchanged.
"Well—what kind of trip have you had?" Wing Commander
Greatrex enquired at last.
"So so," Chris answered noncommittally. How could he
describe their experiences?
"Ah well, if you've had a dull time we've had plenty of ex-
citement here," Whiskers told them. "You'll never guess. At
Wembley Stadium last night it was the Big Fight. For the
first time in living memory Great Britain holds the heavy-
weight boxing championship of the World!"
160