They passed an open door, and an arm slipped out, quickly dropping Chuck’s knife into his hand. That arm had been covered with a silvery coating of fur, totally unlike those of all the Martians Chuck had seen.
There were too many unsettled things to worry about such mysteries, or to let him feel particularly happy. Strangely, his deepest pleasure was not at being returned safely to the ship, but at finding that Sptz-Rrll had been all that he had believed.
They were on an inclined ramp now, moving upward. Chuck couldn’t tell whether it was the one on which he had come down, but there was something vaguely familiar about it He kept looking around for something familiar, but there was nothing he could identify.
Sptz-Rrll reached for one of the illuminating squares and moved it close to the floor, pointing. There were the dim prints of Chuck’s boots there. Apparently the Martian had interpreted his glances correctly and was reassuring him.
They came up through the same mosaic pattern that had first shown Chuck the way down, into late afternoon sunlight. The boy realized that less than twenty-four hours had gone by.
The seven Martians dropped back to let him lead the way. He stopped, though, for another look at the mosaic. The silhouettes of the humanoids on if were crudely done, but they gave enough details, if all were studied, to show that the race had changed very little since the floor was laid. Chuck wondered if there were records or legends that went back to the time when they had lived on the surface, before they found a refuge from the extremes of Martian temperature by going underground?
Sptz-Rrll tugged at his hand, pointing to the indicator that showed the charge of the blower battery was almost exhausted.
Chuck shook himself. The Martian was right—he had no business lingering here while his battery ran down. He began a quick lope toward the ship. He’d have to go ahead and warn the ship that the Martians were coming if he could make Sptz-Rrll understand that it would be better to wait.
The Martian caught his hand again, and pointed to the blower. He made a fast whirl of his hand in a roughly circular motion, then went slower and slower to follow it with his strangling gestures.
The sprint had taken more out of Chuck than it should have done. But he had to make it to the ship.
Two of the Martians gravely reached for his legs, two more tried to take his arms, and another pair were linking hands around his middle. Sptz-Rrll was motioning toward the helmet. With a quick, well-coordinated motion, they had him stretched out horizontally, and were carrying him—giving him a chance to rest and get by with the smaller amount of air the motor could pump in now.
They came over the top of the dune toward the ship and into full view of the whole ship’s crew. Chuck could barely see them, at the angle of his head. He tried to wave an arm, but it was securely held by one of the Martians.
The men were facing toward the procession now. Vance’s hand went for his automatic, and the metal of it flashed bluely in the sunlight. Chuck groaned. But the little form of Sokolsky had leaped in the way of the shot, motioning frantically.
A second later, the doctor was running toward them, his face a picture of misery. Then his eyes fell on Chuck’s smile, and his own expression underwent a lightning change. His mouth opened and shut, shouting out the news over the radio to those who were watching.
Sptz-Rrll motioned to the indicator as the doctor bent over, and Sokolsky fell into a trot beside them, touching helmets. “We thought they’d captured you and killed you—that this was some kind of funeral procession. But I had to be sure before we gummed up the works. What gives?”
“They’re friendly—they let me go.”
Steele came bounding toward them, waving a new battery, and Chuck motioned his bearers to put him down. He changed batteries quickly, then touched helmets. “Get me a radio,” he explained tersely, and headed for the ship.
It was a sloppy job of installation, but a quick one. He came out again, to find the Martians waiting quietly, while the men stared at them. Only Sokolsky seemed happy about having the Martians around; the others were filled with the worry and suspicion they had picked up from sad experience.
One of the younger ones was watching Sokolsky apparently trying to burrow into the sand. Suddenly, the young Martian made a wiggling dive and began to melt from sight. There was a little ripple on the surface, and he came up at Sokolsky’s back, chirping busily. The doctor laughed as the Martian shook himself, sending a cloud of dust flying.
Vance cut through the chatter. “We’ll hear your story later. Chuck—I gather you’re in their good graces. But how can we trust them? And is there any chance we can get back the stuff they stole from us?”
“Your answer is already coming up the dune,” Sokolsky told him quickly.
They turned to see a procession of more than fifty Martians drawing near. Some were carrying the welders, others were burdened with a miscellaneous collection. One, Chuck noticed, held four cans—the missing corned beef, including the can that had been dropped in the tunnel. Sptz-Rrll tapped the welding tanks and made an elaborate ritual of the gesture which Chuck had considered a shrug. From one of the Martians, he took a small handful of bits of broken copper and offered them to the boy.
“Take them,” Sokolsky advised. “This seems to be a typical culture of its kind; formality and high-dignity are the big things. And we’d all better start thinking of them as men or Martians, if we’re going to get along well—no more of this ‘humanoid’ business, or we’ll find ourselves looking down on them, and that won’t go.”
Dick Steele came over. “And somebody might offer some food to Chuck—it’s considered good manners in our society. Come on, kid. We’ve been on short rations, but I think we can rustle up some decent food for you.”
Sokolsky waved them off, and turned back to the young Martian. Chuck looked doubtfully at Sptz-Rrll, but he knew the Martians had been on board the ship without invitation. He gestured, and the three of them headed through the air lock. There was no sign that the heavy air or high temperature bothered the Martian, except that his coat suddenly flattened down against his skin.
“It isn’t so good. Chuck,” Dick told the boy as he began pulling food out of the galley and setting it out in the mess hall. “Even Vance has had to admit that with everything, we can’t make the return trip. We can’t do it, even with all the stuff returned to us. Even getting the winches back— which we can’t, naturally—wouldn’t help much. We’re stuck—and we’re down to two meals a day, without much then.”
The engineer held out some of the food toward the Martian, who shoved it aside politely. “Anybody who expects to survive better learn to eat sand. Go ahead and eat—you need it. None of us wanted to eat much since you disappeared,”
He took out a pencil and some paper and began drawing a diagram of the solar system. Then he tossed it aside. “It’s easier to do this outside, where I can point the sun out I might as well let your friend know where we’re from.”
Sptz-Rrll reached out inquiringly for the pencil and paper. He chattered his teeth together as he saw the marks that it made, and began drawing busily, while Chuck tried to tell about the things that had happened to him. The Martian interrupted, offering the pad to Chuck. Crude as all Martian drawing seemed to be, it was easy enough to follow. The first showed a diagram of the Martians turning the space ship over, with another below it showing them pouring acid over the winches. Sptz-Rrll again went through his shrugging gesture, which apparently had something to do with an apology. He turned the page over.