He felt a flicker of apprehension. There could be no turning back now. He’d set his foot on a road which led on forever. And ever. And ever…
It was afternoon. The war chariot was trundling across a typical Venusian plain. George had found the telescope where Senilde had left it, in an open compartment, and employed it continually, hoping to spot the ship somewhere ahead.
Mara was up there with him now. Suddenly, she said: “Listen.”
They both listened. Gradually rising above the throb of the engine and the clanking of treads was a booming hum.
“Planes!” George exclaimed. “The war’s begun again. Senilde must have gotten free.”
The sky became a great sounding board for maybe more than a thousand planes. Their droning chorus had an ominous refrain: doo-oom, doo-oom, doo-oom, … It was the most menacing sound George had ever heard. It chilled his soul.
Howling, the bombs began to fall.
Captain Freiburg and his men heard the planes and the far off bombing. They ran out to the tanks. Renewal of the war must mean the power was on again. They confirmed that it was.
Freiburg told them: “This is it—maybe our last chance. We can’t afford to muff it. For Pete’s sake stick to the drill I laid down. Never mind the fireworks—just concentrate on doing your own part of the job. Remember to keep your tanks in bottom gear. Avoid jerking: it might snap the cables. Watch my tank closely on your TV screens. When I raise this, start. When I drop it, stop —promptly.”
“This” was Freiburg’s old stand-by, his shirt, this time tied like a flag to a long cane.
They settled in their seats. All engines were performing smoothly. Freiburg thrust the cane up through the open hatch above his head. Slowly, the tanks moved forward in concert. The cables became taut.
The prostrate ship seemed to groan aloud. Then a widening sliver of daylight showed between it and the ground. All the cables held. Operation Hoist had begun well.
The war was hotting up in the vicinity of the war chariot, which didn’t deviate in the slightest from its course. Nothing was deliberately aimed at it, for it was registered as everyone’s friend. But the air was full of missiles and some came dangerously close.
A wheeled torpedo overtook the lumbering monster like an express train. Its jet glared white-hot as it shot past.
Small tanks weaved around, sometimes as thickly as bugs, and collisions seemed constantly imminent. But always they skipped out of the giant’s path at the last moment. Gun flashes danced around the horizon like jumping squibs. The bombing was the chief hazard. George got the impression that it was becoming quite indiscriminate. It was as though Senilde, via the control room, was lashing out wildly, hoping to hit the space-ship by blind chance. George made Mara stay below, while he confined himself to only occasional swift surveys of the storm-ridden plain.
The straining tanks, like so many dogs on leashes, were making heavy going of it, but none had failed or lost ground. The critical point was attained, with the ship canted at an angle of 45 degrees. If they got it past that, with the center of gravity moving in their favor, the task would become progressively easier.
… 46… 47… 48… 49… 50 degrees. And still the cables held. The spidery legs of the landing gear were beginning to set down their flat feet, ready to bear the main load in their turn.
Shells from huge, long-range cannon now and then sighed overhead on their high trajectory, bound for unknown targets.
The bombing had gone marching off madly to the north. It became reasonably safe for George and Mara to resume the lookout from the high platform. From somewhere way off on the half right quarter came a thin screeching. George swung his telescope that way. He sighted a queer erection standing solitary on the plain. It was largely a pyramid composed of innumerable gears. Strung along the axle at its apex were several of the great knife-edged wheels. They appeared to be spinning with the axle at an incredible speed. As George watched, a forked arm reached up from the machine’s interior and gradually edged one of the outer wheels off the free end of the axle. The wheel dropped to the ground, remained upright and darted off at terrific speed. As the slight earth drag began to slow it a little, the note of the whirling flutes dropped from the almost ultrasonic screech.
When the wheel became small with distance, it began to howl. Wheeee-eeeee
.
George gave the telescope to Mara. “Take a look at that natty launching gear.”
She did so. “So those are the dreadful cutting wheels you told me about.”
“Yes. Fascinating to watch, so long as you happen to be in an armor-plated chariot. However, they’re not bowling our way.”
They watched alternately until the last dully-gleaming wheel dropped and rushed off. By then the launcher had become a misty blur. It faded from view.
“Darn it, I wanted to see how that thing gets its refills,” said George. Mara consoled him with a kiss. They hugged for a while. Then George returned his attention to the landscape ahead. Almost immediately: “Good griefl”
He’d seen the spaceship. It was still a long way off, looked no bigger than a splinter, a mere darkish stroke against the mist. The cables were invisible at this distance. To George the ship seemed magically held at an angle of some twenty degrees from the perpendicular.
Then, of course, he realized what was happening— the very thing which he had to prevent happening. It seemed a life-time ago when he, Freiburg, and the mate had discussed using the cables to raise the ship. More vividly he recalled Senilde’s prediction: “The moment the tanks finish the job, they’ll register the ship as an enemy again, and turn around and blast it point-blank.”
He fought back his panic, and peered intently, trying to see beyond the limits of his vision. He just discerned the arc of tanks. Then, presently, he could see the hairlines of the cables stretched back from them. But he couldn’t make out whether the ship was stuck temporarily at that angle or whether it was imperceptibly moving.
He thumped the platform rail with his fist. “If only we could make this blasted crate accelerate!”
“What is troubling you?” asked Mara.
He sketched the position.
She took the telescope. “My sight is keener than yours, George.” Then: “I’m afraid the ship is still rising. Very slowly, but steadily. If it continues at the same rate, and if we can’t better our speed—which we can’t—then the ship will be standing upright before we can get there. It’s just a matter of simple—”
The word came through the Teleo as an amalgam of “counting” (Mara’s term) and “arithmetic” (George’s term).
“How can we warn them?” asked George, in agony.
“They must be able to see the chariot coming now,” said Mara. “Maybe they’ll stop and take cover.”
Before the skipper saw, on his TV screen, the huge bulk of the distant chariot, the instruments in his tank detected it with a flutter of nervous movements. But the tank made no atempt to take up a battle position. It continued to respond to his manual control.
Retrospectively, Freiburg wondered why. Did the other vehicle belong to some neutral force? To some sane Venusians coming at last to help?
Or was he kidding himself again with wishful thinking?
Could be it was a new kind of trick attack.
The spaceship was coming up faster now. If he halted the operation at this juncture, the cables might give.
He looked up at the white flag hanging limp in the air. He knew the crew, in their tanks, were watching it, poised to switch off the moment he yanked it down.
“Hell!” he swore, and left it.
First get the ship erect and balanced. Then he’d be free to give his full attention to this approaching monster vehicle, whatever it might be. The ship continued to rise smoothly.