The planet had not changed its mind. It was going to fight. It was willing to be destroyed, rather than give up its way of life. The black dots grew swiftly larger, became roaring blazing metal disks puffing awkwardly along. A pathetic sight. Rogers felt strangely moved, watching the jet-driven ships divide up for the contact. The Class-One battleship had secured its orbit, and was swinging in a lazy, efficient arc. Its banks of energy tubes were slowly rising, lining up to meet the attack.
Suddenly the formation of the ancient rocketships dived. They rumbled over the Class-One, firing jerkily. The Class-One's tubes followed their path. They began to reform clumsily, gaining distance for a second try, and another run.
A tongue of colorless energy flicked out. The attackers vanished.
Commander Ferris contacted Rogers. "The poor tragic fools." His heavy face was gray. "Attacking us with those things."
"Any damage?"
"None whatever." Ferris wiped his forehead shakily. "No damage to me at all."
"What next?" Rogers asked stonily.
"I've declined the mine operation and passed it back to Relay. They'll have to do it. The impulse should already be --" Below them, the green and blue globe shuddered convulsively. Soundlessly, effortlessly, it flew apart. Fragments rose, bits of debris and the planet dissolved in a cloud of white flame, a blazing mass of incandescent fire. For an instant it remained a miniature sun, lighting up the void. Then it faded into ash.
The screens of Rogers' ship hummed into life, as the debris struck. Particles rained against them, and were instantly disintegrated.
"Well," Ferris said. "It's over. North will report the original scout mistaken. Williamson's World wasn't found. The legend will remain a legend."
Rogers continued to watch until the last bits of debris had ceased flying, and only a vague, discolored shadow remained. The screens clicked off automatically. To his right, the Class-One battleship picked up speed and headed toward the Riga System.
discolored shadow remained. The screens clicked off automatically. To his right, the Class-One battleship picked up speed and headed toward the Riga System.
"Good job," the Relay trace web whispered. North was pleased. "The fission mines were perfectly placed. Nothing remains."
"No," Rogers agreed. "Nothing remains."
Corporal Pete Matson pushed the front door open, grinning from ear to ear. "Hi, honey! Surprise!"
"Pete!" Gloria Matson came running, throwing her arms around her husband. "What are you doing home? Pete --"
"Special leave. Forty-eight hours." Pete tossed down his suitcase triumphantly. "Hi there, kid."
His son greeted him shyly. "Hello."
Pete squatted down and opened his suitcase. "How have things been going? How's school?"
"He's had another cold," Gloria said. "He's almost over it. But what happened? Why did they --"
"Military secret." Pete fumbled in his suitcase. "Here." He held something out to his son. "I brought you something. A souvenir."
He handed his son a handmade wooden drinking cup. The boy took it shyly and turned it around, curious and puzzled. "What's a -- a souvenir?"
Matson struggled to express the difficult concept. "Well, it's something that reminds you of a different place. Something you don't have, where you are. You know." Matson tapped the cup. "That's to drink out of. It's sure not like our plastic cups, is it?"
"No," the child said.
"Look at this, Gloria." Pete shook out a great folded cloth from his suitcase, printed with multi-colored designs. "Picked this up cheap. You can make a shirt out of it. What do you say? Ever seen anything like it?"
"No," Gloria said, awed. "I haven't." She took the cloth and fingered it reverently.
Pete Matson beamed, as his wife and child stood clutching the souvenirs he had brought them, reminders of his excursion to distant places. Foreign lands.
"Gee," his son whispered, turning the cup around and around. A strange light glowed in his eyes. Thanks a lot, Dad. For the -- souvenir."
The strange light grew.
Survey Team
Halloway came up through six miles of ash to see how the rocket looked in landing. He emerged from the lead-shielded bore and joined Young, crouching down with a small knot of surface troops.
The surface of the planet was dark and silent. The air stung his nose. It smelled foul. Halloway shivered uneasily. "Where the hell are we?"
A soldier pointed into the blackness. "The mountains are over there. See them? The Rockies, and this is Colorado."
Colorado... The old name awakened vague emotion in Halloway. He fingered his blast rifle. "When will it get here?" he asked. Far off, against the horizon, he could see the Enemy's green and yellow signal flares. And an occasional flash of fission white.
"Any time now. It's mechanically controlled all the way, piloted by robot. When it comes it really comes."
comes."
It was a lot different from the way he remembered it when he was a kid in California. He could remember the valley country, grape orchards and walnuts and lemons. Smudge pots under the orange trees. Green mountains and sky the color of a woman's eyes. And the fresh smell of the soil ...
That was all gone now. Nothing remained but gray ash pulverized with the white stones of buildings. Once a city had been in this spot. He could see the yawning cavities of cellars, filled now with slag, dried rivers of rust that had once been buildings. Rubble strewn everywhere, aimlessly ...
The mine flare faded out and the blackness settled back. They got cautiously to their feet. "Quite a sight," a soldier murmured.
"It was a lot different before," Halloway said.
"Was it? I was born undersurface."
"In those days we grew our food right in the ground, on the surface. In the soil. Not in underground tanks. We --"
Halloway broke off. A great rushing sound filled the air suddenly, cutting off his words. An immense shape roared past them in the blackness, struck someplace close, and shook the earth.
"The rocket!" a soldier shouted. They all began running, Halloway lumbering awkwardly along.
"Good news, I hope," Young said, close by him.
"I hope, too," Halloway gasped. "Mars is our last chance. If this doesn't work we're finished. The report on Venus was negative; nothing there but lava and steam."
Later they examined the rocket from Mars.
"It'll do," Young murmured.
"You're sure?" Director Davidson asked tensely. "Once we get there we can't come running back."
"We're sure." Halloway tossed the spools across the desk to Davidson. "Examine them yourself. The air on Mars will be thin, and dry. The gravity is much weaker than ours. But we'll be able to live there, which is more than you can say for this God-forsaken Earth."
Davidson picked up the spools. The unblinking recessed lights gleamed down on the metal desk, the metal walls and floor of the office. Hidden machinery wheezed in the walls, maintaining the air and temperature. "I'll have to rely on you experts, of course. If some vital factor is not taken into account --"
"Naturally, it's a gamble," Young said. "We can't be sure of all factors at this distance." He tapped the spools. "Mechanical samples and photos. Robots creeping around, doing the best they can. We're lucky to have anything to go on."
"There's no radiation at least," Halloway said. "We can count on that. But Mars will be dry and dusty and cold. It's a long way out."Weak sun. Deserts and wrinkled hills."
"Mars is old," Young agreed.
"It was cooled a long time ago. Look at it this way: We have eight planets, excluding Earth. Pluto to Jupiter is out. No chance of survival there. Mercury is nothing but liquid metal. Venus is still volcano and steam -- pre-Cambrian. That's seven of the eight. Mars is the only possibility a priori."