Chapter 6

Jamison declaimed, wearing a throat-mike as Bell zestfully panned his camera and the ship swung down. It was an impressive broadcast. The rockets roared. With the coming of air about the ship, they no longer made a mere rumbling. They created a tumult which was like the growl of thunder if one were in the midst of the thunder-cloud. It was a numbing noise. It was almost a paralyzing noise. But Jamison talked with professional smoothness.

“This planet,” he orated, while pictures from Bell’s camera went direct to the transmitter below, “this planet is the first world other than Earth on which a human ship has landed. It is paradoxic that before men have walked on Mars’ red iron-oxide plains and breathed its thin cold air, or fought for life in the formaldehyde gales of Venus, that they should look upon a world which welcomes them from illimitable remoteness. Here we descend, and all mankind can watch our descent upon a world whose vegetation is green; whose glaciers prove that there is air and water in plenty, whose very smoking volcanoes assure us of its close kinship to Earth!”

He lifted the mike away from his throat and framed words with his lips. “Am I still on?“ Cochrane nodded. Cochrane wore headphones carrying what the communicator carried, as this broadcast went through an angled Dabney field relay system back to Lunar City and then to Earth. He spoke close to Jamison’s ear.

“Go ahead! If your voice fades, it will be the best possible sign-off. Suspense. Good television!”

Jamison let the throat-mike back against his skin. The roaring of the rockets would affect it only as his throat vibrated from the sound. It would register, even so.

“I see,” said Jamison above the rocket-thunder, “forests of giant trees like the sequoias of Mother Earth. I see rushing rivers, foaming along their rocky beds, taking their rise in glaciers. We are still too high to look for living creatures, but we descend swiftly. Now we are level with the highest of the mountains. Now we descend below their smoking tops. Under us there is a vast valley, miles wide, leagues long. Here a city could be built. Over it looms a gigantic mountain-spur, capped with green. One would expect a castle to be built there.”

He raised his eyebrows at Cochrane. They were well in atmosphere, now, and it had been an obvious defect--condition--necessity of the Dabney field that both of its plates should be in a vacuum. One was certainly in air now. But Cochrane made that gesture which in television production-practice informs the actors that time to cutting is measured in tens of seconds, and he held up two fingers. Twenty seconds.

“We gaze, and you gaze with us,” said Jamison, “upon a world that future generations will come to know as home--the site of the first human colony among the stars!”

Cochrane began to beat time. Ten, nine, eight--.

“We are about to land,” Jamison declaimed. “We do not know what we shall find--What’s that?” He paused dramatically. “A living creature?--A living creature sighted down below! We sign off now--from the stars!”

The ending had been perfectly timed. Allowing for a three-second interval for the broadcast to reach the moon, and just about two more for it to be relayed to Earth, his final word, “Stars!” had been uttered at the precise instant to allow a four-minute commercial by Intercity Credit, in the United States, by Citroen in Europe, by Fabricanos Unidos in South and Central America, and Near East Oil along the Mediterranean. At the end of that four minutes it would be time for station identification and a time-signal, and the divers eight-second flashes before other programs came on the air.

The rockets roared and thundered. The ship went down and down. Jamison said:

“I thought we’d be cut off when we hit air!”

“That’s what Jones thought,” Cochrane assured him. He bellowed above the outside tumult, “Bell! See anything alive down below?”

Bell shook his head. He stayed at the camera aimed out a blister-port, storing up film-tape for later use. There was the feel of gravitation, now. Actually, it was the fact that the ship slowed swiftly in its descent.

Cochrane went to a port. The ship continued its descent.

“Living creature? Where?”

Jamison shrugged. He had used it as a sign-off line. An extrapolation from the fact that there was vegetation below. He looked somehow distastefully out the port at a swiftly rising green ground below. He was a city man. He had literally never before seen what looked like habitable territory of such vast extent, with no houses on it. In a valley easily ten miles long and two wide, there was not a square inch of concrete or of glass. There was not a man made object in view. The sky was blue and there were clouds, but to Jamison the sight of vegetation implied rooftops. There ought to be parapets where roofs ended to let light down to windows and streets below. He had never before seen grass save on elevated recreation-areas, nor bushes not arranged as landscaping, and certainly not trees other than the domesticated growths which can grow on the tops of buildings. To Jamison this was desolation. On the moon, absence of structures was understandable. There was no air. But here there should be a city!

The ship swayed a little as the rockets swung their blasts to balance the descending mass. The intended Mars-ship slowed, and slowed, and hovered--and there was terrifying smoke and flame suddenly all about--and then there was a distinct crunching impact. The rockets continued to burn, their ferocity diminished. They slackened again. And yet again. They were reduced to a mere faint murmur.

There was a remarkable immobility of everything. It was the result of gravity. Earth-value gravity, or very near it. There was a distinct pressure of one’s feet against the floor, and a feeling of heaviness to one’s body which was very different from Lunar City, and more different still from free flight in emptiness.

Nothing but swirling masses of smoke could be seen out the ports. They had landed in a forest, of sorts, and the rocket-blasts had burned away everything underneath, down to solid soil. In a circle forty yards about the ship the ground was a mass of smoking, steaming ash. Beyond that flames licked hungrily, creating more dense vapor. Beyond that still there was only coiling smoke.

Cochrane’s headphones yielded Babs’ voice, almost wailing:

“Mr. Cochrane! We must have landed! I want to see!“

Cochrane pressed the hand-mike button.

“Are we still hooked up to Lunar City?” he demanded. “We can’t be, but are we?”

“We are,” said Babs’ voice mutinously. “The broadcast went through all right. They want to talk to you. Everybody wants to talk to you!“

“Tell them to call back later,” commanded Cochrane. “Then leave the beam working--however it works!--and come up if you like. Tell the moon operator you’ll be away for ten minutes.”

He continued to stare out the window. Al, the pilot, stayed in his cushioned seat before the bank of rocket-controls. The rockets were barely alight. The ship stayed as it had landed, upright on its triple fins. He said to Jones:

“It feels like we’re solid. We won’t topple!”

Jones nodded. The rocket-sound cut off. Nothing happened.

“I think we could have saved fuel on that landing,” said Jones. Then he added, pleased, “Nice! The Dabney field’s still on! It has to be started in a vacuum, but it looks like it can hold air away from itself once it’s established. Nice!”

Babs rushed up the stairs. She gazed impassionedly out of a vision-port. Then she said disappointedly:

“It looks like--”

“It looks like hell,” said Cochrane. “Just smoke and steam and stuff. We can hope, though, that we haven’t started a forest fire, but have just burned off a landing-place.”

They stared out. Presently they went to another port and gazed out of that. The smoke was annoying, and yet it could have been foreseen. A moon-rocket, landing at its space-port on Earth, heated the tarmac to red-hotness in the process of landing. Tender-vehicles had to wait for it to cool before they could approach. Here the ship had landed in woodland. Naturally its flames had seared the spot where it came down. And there was inflammable stuff about, which caught fire. So the ship was in the situation of a phoenix, necessarily nesting in a conflagration. Anywhere it landed the same thing would apply, unless it tried landing on a glacier. But then it would settle down into a lake of boiling water, amid steam, and could expect to be frozen in as soon as its landing-place cooled.

Now there was nothing to do. They had to wait. Once the whole ship quivered very slightly, as if the ground trembled faintly under it. But there was nothing at which to be alarmed.

They could see that this particular forest was composed mainly of two kinds of trees which burned differently. One had a central trunk, and it burned with resinous flames and much black and gray-black smoke. The other was a curious growth--a solid, massive trunk which did not touch ground at all, but was held up by aerial roots which supported it aloft through very many slender shafts widely spread. Possibly the heavier part was formed on the ground and lifted as its air-roots grew.

It was irritating, though, to be unable to see from the ship so long as the fire burned outside. The pall of smoke lasted for a long time. In three hours there were no longer any fiercely blazing areas, but the ashes still smouldered and smoke still rose. In three hours and a half, the local sun began to set. There were colorings in the sky, beyond all comparison glorious. Which was logical enough. When Krakatoa, back on Earth, blew itself to bits in the eighteen hundreds, it sent such volumes of dust into the air that sunsets all around the globe were notably improved for three years afterward. On this planet, smoking cones were everywhere visible. Volcanic dust, then, made nightfall magnificent past description. There was not only gold and crimson in the west. The zenith itself glowed carmine and yellow, and those in the space-ship gazed up at a sky such as none of them could have imagined possible.

The colors changed and changed, from yellow to gold all over the sky, and still the glory continued. Presently there was a deep, deep red, deep past imagining, and presently faint bluish stars pierced it, and they stared up at new strange constellations-some very bright indeed--and all about the ship there was a bed of white ash with glowing embers in it, and a thin sheet of white smoke still flowed away down the valley.

It was long after sunset when Cochrane got up from the communicator. Communication with Earth was broken at last. There was a balloon out in space somewhere with an atomic battery maintaining all its surface as a Dabney field plate. The ship maintained a field between itself and that plate. The balloon maintained another field between itself and another balloon a mere 178.3 light-years from the solar system. But the substance of this planet intervened between the nearer balloon and the ship. Jones made tests and observed that the field continued to exist, but was plugged by the matter of this newly-arrived-at world. Come tomorrow, when there was no solid-stone barrier to the passage of radiation, they could communicate with Earth again.

But Cochrane was weary and now discouraged. So long as talk with Earth was possible, he’d kept at it. There was a great deal of talking to be done. But a good deal of it was extremely unsatisfactory.

He found Bill Holden having supper with Babs, on the floor below the communicator. Very much of the recent talk had been over Cochrane’s head. He felt humiliated by the indignation of scientists who would not tell him what he wanted to know without previous information he could not give.

When he went over to the dining-table, he felt that he creaked from weariness and dejection. Babs looked at him solicitously, and then jumped up to get him something to eat. Everybody else was again watching out the ship’s ports at the new, strange world of which they could see next to nothing.

“Bill,” said Cochrane fretfully, “I’ve just been given the dressing-down of my life! You’re expecting to get out of the airlock in the morning and take a walk. But I’ve been talking to Earth. I’ve been given the devil for landing on a strange planet without bringing along a bacteriologist, an organic chemist, an ecologist, an epidemiologist, and a complete laboratory to test everything with, before daring to take a breath of outside air. I’m warned not to open a port!”

Holden said:

“You sound as if you’d been talking to a biologist with a reputation. You ought to know better than that!”

Cochrane protested:

“I wanted to talk to somebody who knew more than I did! What could I do but get a man with a reputation?”

Holden shook his head.

“We psychiatrists,” he observed, “go around peeping under the corners of rugs at what people try to hide from themselves. We have a worm’s-eye view of humanity. We know better than to throw a difficult problem at a man with an established name! They’re neurotic about their reputations. Like Dabney, they get panicky at the idea of anybody catching them in a mistake. No big name in medicine or biology would dare tell you that of course it’s all right for us to take a walk in the rather pretty landscape outside.”

“Then who will?” demanded Cochrane.

“We’ll make what tests we can,” said Holden comfortingly, “and decide for ourselves. We can take a chance. We’re only risking our lives!”

Babs brought Cochrane a plate. He put food in his mouth and chewed and swallowed.

“They say we can’t afford to breathe the local air at all until we know its bacteriology; we can’t touch anything until we test it as a possible allergen; we can’t.”

Holden grunted.

“What would those same authorities have told your friend Columbus? On a strange continent he’d be sure to find strange plants and strange animals. He’d find strange races of men and he ought to find strange diseases. They’d have warned him not to risk it. They wouldn’t!”

Cochrane ate with a sort of angry vigor. Then he snapped:

“If you want to know, we’ve got to land! We’re sunk if we don’t go outside and move around! We’ll spoil our story-line. This is the greatest adventure-serial anybody on Earth ever tuned in to follow! If we back down on exploration, our audience will be disgusted and resentful and they’ll take it out on our sponsors!”

Babs said softly, to Holden:

“That’s my boss!”

Cochrane glared at her. He didn’t know how to take the comment. He said to Holden:

“Tomorrow we’ll try to figure out some sort of test and try the air. I’ll go out in a space-suit and crack the face-plate! I can close it again before anything lethal gets in. But there’s no use stepping out into a bed of coals tonight. I’ll have to wait till morning.”

Holden smiled at him. Babs regarded him with intent, enigmatic eyes.

Neither of them said anything more. Cochrane finished his meal. Then he found himself without an occupation. Gravity on this planet was very nearly the same as on Earth. It felt like more, of course, because all of them had been subject only to moon-gravity for nearly three weeks. Jones and the pilot had been in one-sixth gravity for a much longer time. And the absence of gravity had caused their muscles to lose tone by just about the amount that the same time spent in a hospital bed would have done. They felt physically worn out.

It was a healthy tiredness, though, and their muscles would come back to normal as quickly as one recovers strength after illness--rather faster, in fact. But tonight there would be no night-life on the space-ship. Johnny Simms disappeared, after symptoms of fretfulness akin to those of an over-tired small boy. Jamison gave up, and Bell, and Al the pilot fell asleep while Jones was trying to discuss something technical with him. Jones himself yawned and yawned and when Al snored in his face he gave up. They retired to their bunks.

There was no point in standing guard over the ship. If the bed of hot ashes did not guard it, it was not likely that an individual merely sitting up and staring out its ports would do much good. There were extremely minor, practically unnoticeable vibrations of the ship from time to time. They would be volcanic temblors--to be expected. They were not alarming, certainly, and the forest outside was guarantee of no great violence to be anticipated. The trees stood firm and tall. There was no worry about the ship. It was perfectly practical, and even necessary simply to turn out the lights and go to sleep.

But Cochrane could not relax. He was annoyed by the soreness of his muscles. He was irritated by the picture given him of the expedition as a group of heedless ignoramuses who’d taken off without star-charts or bacteriological equipment--without even apparatus to test the air of planets they might land on!--and who now were sternly warned not to make any use of their achievement. Cochrane was not overwhelmed by the achievement itself, though less than eighteen hours since the ship and all its company had been aground on Luna, and now they were landed on a new world twice as far from Earth as the Pole Star.

It is probable that Cochrane was not awed because he had a television-producer’s point of view. He regarded this entire affair as a production. He was absorbed in the details of putting it across. He looked at it from his own, quite narrow, professional viewpoint. It did not disturb him that he was surrounded by a wilderness. He considered the wilderness the set on which his production belonged, though he was as much a city man as anybody else. He went back to the control-room. With the ship standing on its tail that was the highest point, and as the embers burned out and the smoke lessened it was possible to look out into the night.

He stared at the dimly-seen trees beyond the burned area, and at the dark masses of mountains which blotted out the stars. He estimated them, without quite realizing it, in view of what they would look like on a television screen. When light objects in the control-room rattled slightly, he paid no attention. His rehearsal-studio had been rickety, back home.