No snow was on the rounded roof, but the light northerly wind bringing the haze towards them might have blown it away. That was quite possible… Could there be heat inside?
Staring through the glasses, Holt's eyes burned with curiosity and concern. Now they seemed to tell him that the upper portion was more lightly shaded than the gray of the lower. Sure enough, he detected a marked line of separation running horizontally around the roof at mid-height. Where the building ended hemispherically, the line ran upward and across the rotund gable. The central portion of the roof was unmistakably of a different material and seemed to have been let into the main structure.
Holt ordered the caterpillars to disperse, one at each end of the weird building, while he with the Panther took position fifty yards from the long, curved southern wall. Useless as they seemed, the tiny gun barrels swung around toward the giant mass.
Calling to Billingsley in the compartment behind him, Holt suggested a little sally to the placid Briton.
"Quite so.. Might be rather fun, you know," came back the imperturbable voice.
Slipping on their pressure helmets, they airlocked themselves out into the wet snow and took a tall ladder from the loaded trailer. Dragging it behind them, they approached the curving wall with the floating step which characterized the light Martian weights of their bodies. Holt drew a heavy knife from his belt and scratched at the strange material.
"Harder than concrete," he remarked with a shake of his head.
They pushed the ladder carefully up the sloping surface before them and mounted to a point at which the angle was flat enough to prevent their slipping on the roof itself. As they reached the mysterious line, the waiting crews saw them throw themselves down with their heads just across it, gazing fixedly at the surface.
What they saw took away their breath, for the whole upper part of the roof was of transparent, glass-like material! Below it was a huge engine room, reminiscent of a giant terrestrial power plant! They counted fourteen huge, circular, red-painted shapes, neatly ranged within the silver-glittering hall!
"Pumps, or I'm a Chinaman!" said Holt after getting his breath again. "Old man Hansen was right…"
"And your Percival Lowell, God rest his soul," chimed in Billingsley.
Holt pressed his helmet to the glass.
"Feel it? The machinery's running."
"Look, old fellow," grunted Billingsley, "I'm sure I just saw one of their chaps running about down there."
A diminutive, dark-haired figure of human bearing and carriage was walking down the length of the great room. He stopped and inspected one pump after another as he gradually approached the spot above which they kept their watch.
The Martian wore a white garment reminiscent of a Japanese kimono with multicolored ornamentation. The man, for no other name could be applied to him, was beardless. His face was swarthy, with warm and friendly eyes and delicate features. His arms and legs showed nothing different from those of homo sapiens, as exemplified by the quaking observers on the transparent roof.
"Almighty God must have found that our species has some good points, if He chooses to plant something so much like us on Mars," meditated Holt.
"But look at the enormous skull the fellow has!" whispered Billingsley as though he feared eavesdroppers. "My dear chap, if what that skull contains is all intelligence, we may be able to learn something yet from these bally Martians!"
Holt gazed solemnly at the creature below who still seemed unaware of his brethren from another planet.
"John," he finally remarked, "now I think I've got my theory working. These Martians are undoubtedly subterranean, and cannot live in the open. The whole pumping station is pressurized. Why else the curvature of this roof? Their whole civilization is pressurized and air conditioned! Otherwise, how to explain the rest of it? No streets, no cities, no life above the surface but this huge pumping station, and the radio music Lussigny picked up the other day?"
Billingsley brought his hand up as though to scratch his head through the plastic of his hermetic helmet.
"Bergmann," he said, "once confided to me that he believed this to be the answer. But he was a bit bashful about declaring it openly. Probably thought it rather on the fantastic side, you know. But I don't see why they shouldn't have done it judging from this…"
"Do you think we should try and communicate with the lad down there?" asked Holt.
"If we're right about their civilization, we shall run into similar structures anywhere we go and have similar difficulties. We can't get in, and they may not come out! Wouldn't that be a joke on us, if we sailed half-way through the solar system to find that we can do no more than look at a Martian through several inches of glass!"
"I jolly well don't see why the blighter shouldn't come out," huffed Billingsley. "If his bally job is to pump water, he must look southward once in a while to see how the melting snow is holding out, and how much more water he can expect before the pumping season is over. Or do you think that might be a blooming terrestrial point of view?"
"You're probably quite right about it. We'll dash back to our caterpillar and make a report to Tom Knight who ought to be hanging around somewhere above us right now. He can retransmit what we've seen to Earth. Our voyage will have had some value, no matter what happens from here on. We'll tell him to bracket the big 'scope on us while we make a racket which the fellow down there'll be bound to notice. Then we'll see what happens."
"Jolly good idea," said BiUingsley. "Perhaps our Martian here in the frozen south will be a bit more pleased with interplanetary visitors than the authorities of some large town.
They might be frightfully annoyed if we were to drop in on them unannounced."
"Well," concluded Holt, "if our friend down there should have some kind of death ray, or otherwise make it hot for us, the caterpillars can always retreat in a hurry and send the bad news to Knight. Let's
Chapter 23 — Contact
Holt, after having heard the circling convoy in the satellite orbit confirm his exciting report, ordered Jaguar and Leopard to station themselves a thousand yards to the west of the Martian pumping station. Sam Woolf took over the command of Panther, which remained where she was, close to the station's well. Her living compartment was depressurized and the crew sat within in pressure suits, ready to respond to any call for help. Woolf had connected his walkie talkie to the antenna of the caterpillars so that he could speak with the men outside.
Gudunek accompanied Holt and Billingsley back to the pumping station and up the ladder. The white-clad figure below still stood before one of the great pieces of machinery. The great moment had come.
Holt moved two steps onto the transparent roof and then stamped thrice upon the thick pane.
The Martian glanced up, a look of amazement flooding across his features. In a moment, his face reassumed its calm and he waved up at them as though interplanetary visitors were an everyday occurrence. Holt waved back, pointing to himself and his companions, then down into the hall. The Martian stared, then passed his hand horizontally before his forehead in an indescribably graceful gesture and walked to a small doorway through which he disappeared.
Ten tense minutes passed.
Suddenly they became aware that a door in the chimney-like turret at the end of the building had opened. Looking through, they could see a second, unopened door of glass, some five feet inside. Behind it was their Martian, inviting them with easy gestures to enter what was evidently an airlock. They could now see him clearly. Aside from his stature, which was shorter than their own by a foot or so, and his large cranium, he exhibited no major differences from terrestrial man.