Part 29 (1/2)

Untrustworthy; it was hard to spark fire in the Martian air. One theodolite. One aneroid barometer, which appeared to be broken. Three first-rate telescopes and two boxes of lenses, cleaning supplies, and other spare parts. Eighteen boxes of John Redding & Co. matches, which were slow to light, quick to burn out; but at least they could smoke, a little. A bottle of champagne. Thank you very b.l.o.o.d.y much, Your Lords.h.i.+p, Frank said, that'll be a lot of b.l.o.o.d.y use. Four thin blankets.

Their climbing supplies were gone. Ditto their dynamite.

Maps, but not useful ones. A map of London, a map of England, two maps of the world-Earth, that is ... well, perhaps they could trade them with the natives. Two copies of the Bible and one of the Collected d.i.c.kens. a.s.sorted toy soldiers. Powdered chocolate, snuff, and a tin of Lyle's Golden Syrup. The snuff-case burst when Vaz picked it up, and he staggered off coughing again. Two pocket-watches, and one Modell 1890 folding knife. A case of fine artist's paper, and another case of paints and variously coloured pencils. All intact. Frank confessed, somewhat embarra.s.sed, that it had been his ambition to produce maps of Mars, or perhaps even watercolours. Seemed stupid now, he said. Magical supplies, sometimes hard to tell apart from the trading goods. Herbs and candles. Opium. A knife, thrice-blessed and edged with silver. Et cetera. Ritual paraphernalia-the painted cards, the metronome, the coloured candles. Pages and pages of calculations and observations; tables and logs.

It was madness, that heap of clutter, all quite shockingly unnatural under that alien sky, that sinister light. Even saying the names out loud seemed blasphemous-Remington, Lyle's, Taylors, Benson & Hedges. They worked through the night, laying out little piles, as if-Arthur thought-they were making a magic circle to keep out the darkness.

With every moment that pa.s.sed-with every moment that Atwood and Sun didn't return-Arthur's foreboding deepened.

”Shaw,” hissed Vaz. ”Shaw-what are we doing?”

”I don't know. Keeping busy.”

”A vision of the heavens, Lord Atwood said. An opium-dream, I thought. Well, I will take His Lords.h.i.+p's money. Since the fire I have been hard up, and London can be an unfriendly place.”

”I'm sorry, Mr Vaz. I did look for you, after the fire. How did you escape?”

”By the window. It's the ordinary method, I think.”

”Well, I'm glad.”

”And now here we are.”

”Yes. I hope Atwood's paying you well.”

”Well enough. My services are not cheap, I said-not after what happened at Mr Gracewell's. Money is nothing, he said. I said that it was not nothing to me. He said, if you come with me on this voyage, Mr Vaz, you will never want for money again. The world and all its riches will be yours, if you still care for them. What would you want with money, he asked; all the money you could dream of, if you could have it? What would you say, Mr Shaw?”

”A place by the sea, with Josephine. Leisure; peace.”

”A s.h.i.+p, I said; a s.h.i.+p of my own.”

”Yes. You told me. It sounds very nice.”

”A fleet of s.h.i.+ps, his Lords.h.i.+p said. Why not a fleet? If you want them. Why not? I believed him. Perhaps I still do. He never denied the danger. But I am not a coward. Mars, he said.”

”Yes.”

”Is it true? You seem to know Lord Atwood. Is it true?”

”In a manner of speaking. It's rather metaphysical.”

”Metaphysical?”

”Spiritual.”

”Spiritual? I am cold, Mr Shaw, and hungry. Does the spirit suffer from cold, or hunger?”

”Shut up,” Payne interjected.

”If this is a dream, Mr Shaw, why can't I wake from it? What will happen to us here? What does Lord Atwood have to say for himself, now that we're all here?”

”He's right,” Frank said.

Ashton moaned.

Dimmick returned from his wanderings. ”Nothing,” he said, then sat in silence on the ground, toying with his knife.

Arthur looked around for Atwood. He was off in the distance, huddled with Sun. Typical. Swanning off, leaving Arthur behind with the men-who were probably on the verge of mutiny. And who could blame them? He felt more than a little mutinous himself. Jumpy; paranoid. The cold was getting to him, and the weird light, and the awful sensation that someone, somewhere, was whispering, senseless and almost inaudible words carried on the cold wind.

Well then. He made a small speech. Importance of morale. Keeping busy. Not the British thing (nor, he supposed, the way of Mr Vaz's seafaring folk) to panic in adversity-now was it? Their return was a simple matter of calculation-of will. Atwood would see to it. Naturally. No cause for doubt. They'd soon be home, back in London, returning in triumph. The thrill of scientific exploration. The glory. First eyes to see. Et cetera. Even to him, it sounded cheap and threadbare. Frank and Payne eyed him with open contempt.

Vaz found needle and thread and set about mending the tents. Arthur went off in search of Atwood. Behind him, Ashton started to whimper softly, like a child gripped by a nightmare, but the wind quickly swallowed the sound.

At one edge of their camp-call it south, why not-there was a rough circle of stones. They swam out of the haze as Arthur approached, looking at first rather like tree-trunks-tall, thin, jagged. If some natural process had deposited them, it was not one Arthur was familiar with. On the other hand, if they were the work of Martian Man, they looked at least as old as Stonehenge, and there was no sign of their makers now.

Sun sat on the ground with his back against one of those stones. His legs were outstretched and his eyes half-closed. He looked the very picture of confidence and relaxation. Like Buddha, Arthur thought, asleep beneath the whatever-it-was tree.

Atwood paced, still smoking. At that rate, he'd exhaust his supplies in no time. He tensed as he saw Arthur approach, then relaxed.

”Shaw.”

”Atwood. Sun.”

Sun opened his eyes. ”Join us, Mr Shaw. Lord Atwood and I are discussing our situation.”

”So are the men,” Arthur said. ”Frank and Payne are close to mutiny.”

Atwood shook his head. ”I don't have time for that sort of idiocy. Where would they go? You read too much romantic fiction, Shaw.”

”Ashton's unwell.”

”The terrain is inhospitable, I'll admit. But, for G.o.d's sake! The man was in Africa.”

”Well, Africa wasn't so b.l.o.o.d.y-” Arthur didn't know how to finish that sentence. He waved a hand, to indicate everything in sight that was unearthly about the surface of Mars.

Atwood wore something that vaguely resembled a military uniform-or at least the splendid regalia of some unknown Guards regiment. He wore a pistol at his waist. He was having a great deal of trouble relighting his cigarette. He cursed the thin Martian air.

Sun closed his eyes again. He appeared to be meditating.

”Well, Atwood?”

”Well what?”

”I've been taking an inventory of our supplies. I supposed you were thinking. Putting your genius to work. What have you determined? What happened?”

”Archer! Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say it would be disaster to invite her into our circle? Didn't I warn everyone? Her and her b.l.o.o.d.y son. That-thing she calls her son.”

”What are you talking about?”