daylight).
We
saw no gleam—no sign of the Albatross itself. But —we
did see, even in the imperfect conditions of the landing (it was extremely
difficult to keep the Comet entirely steady as we approached the Martian surface, because of the different
nature of the gravity pull of which, despite my careful calculations, I had had
no previous practical experience)—we did see, may I repeat, a long, an interminably
long line or ridge of an unmistakable deep olive-green color stretching across the vast plain
beneath.
When
we came to rest, we were close to a range of mountains—as, indeed, I had
intended. From our ground-level viewpoint the ridge was no longer visible. But,
if it were indeed the mysterious ridge to which reference had been made in the
MacFarlane messages, we knew it lay some distance to the south.
Toward
it, making full use of the protective measures I had had the foresight to carry
with us, we proposed to travel, after the necessary attention to certain
details connected with preparing the Comet for
a return journey to Earth—perhaps even a hasty one.
In
the event, as will be discovered in due course, my calculations had been as
nearly accurate as one could hope for in such conditions.
What
had not been foreseen—what no reasonable man could have foreseen—was the terrible, the
truly terrible nature of the Ridge!
I
thank heaven that we did make all due preparations for a hasty departure in the Comet Alas that that departure befell so
soon after our arrival—far, far too soon for any satisfactory scientific
exploration of the planet Mars.
But— I
shall return! And when I do I will be equipped at
every point to deal with the unspeakable horrors of those Living Canals, as I
must, as I only can call them. It is a subject to which I have given
much thought; and when I feel myself ready to surmount the last intolerable
difficulties—
I SHALL
RETURN!
3. A Final Editorial
Interlude
So,
then, we have followed out the story of that desperate Red
Journey Back . For my own part at this stage of the
adventure (J.K.C. now writing), I can only say that back once more in Britain,
I was in a continuous state of almost unbearable suspense. I fear that I made
myself extremely troublesome to the good Roderick Mackellar for, needless to
say, although he was engaged in his further work on the airstrip as an
airstrip, we still continued in our endeavors to use the vast metallic surface
as a means of contact with Mars. Every available moment that either of us could
spare was spent in the small wireless hut beside the main laboratory; and when
we were both engaged elsewhere we still kept the apparatus manned by
trustworthy assistants. Night and day the receiver was switched on in readiness
for possible messages from across the void; at periodic intervals we sent out a
call sign on the beamed transmitter—that ancient code signal which Stephen
MacFarlane and I had used in our boyhoods.
But
the void was empty. Only once—and then perhaps only illusorily—did I hear, or
fancy I heard, a thin remote chattering which might have been Morse. And the
message, if it was one, made little sense: it consisted of two words, received
very imperfectly, with some letters missing, thus:
GUI— —A P—GS
The
only thing I could make of it, after much bewildered thought, was the quite
impossible: “Guinea Pigs.” Plainly, I felt, we had been deceived—had picked up
somehow a cross message from a ship, or, even more probably, from one of the
many amateur radio stations operating all over the globe.
The
nerve-racking months went by—the suspense continued through all the summer. All
I knew—and the knowledge haunted me day and night—was that millions and
millions of miles away two separate groups of my friends were lost and
wandering—if indeed the rescue party had reached Mars at all through the
hazards of interplanetary flight. My friend and cousin MacFarlane, with his
blind, enfeebled companion, McGillivray, were
We
saw no gleam—no sign of the Albatross itself. But —we
did see, even in the imperfect conditions of the landing (it was extremely
difficult to keep the Comet entirely steady as we approached the Martian surface, because of the different
nature of the gravity pull of which, despite my careful calculations, I had had
no previous practical experience)—we did see, may I repeat, a long, an interminably
long line or ridge of an unmistakable deep olive-green color stretching across the vast plain
beneath.
When
we came to rest, we were close to a range of mountains—as, indeed, I had
intended. From our ground-level viewpoint the ridge was no longer visible. But,
if it were indeed the mysterious ridge to which reference had been made in the
MacFarlane messages, we knew it lay some distance to the south.
Toward
it, making full use of the protective measures I had had the foresight to carry
with us, we proposed to travel, after the necessary attention to certain
details connected with preparing the Comet for
a return journey to Earth—perhaps even a hasty one.
In
the event, as will be discovered in due course, my calculations had been as
nearly accurate as one could hope for in such conditions.
What
had not been foreseen—what no reasonable man could have foreseen—was the terrible, the
truly terrible nature of the Ridge!
I
thank heaven that we did make all due preparations for a hasty departure in the Comet Alas that that departure befell so
soon after our arrival—far, far too soon for any satisfactory scientific
exploration of the planet Mars.
But— I
shall return! And when I do I will be equipped at
every point to deal with the unspeakable horrors of those Living Canals, as I
must, as I only can call them. It is a subject to which I have given
much thought; and when I feel myself ready to surmount the last intolerable
difficulties—
I SHALL
RETURN!
3. A Final Editorial
Interlude
So,
then, we have followed out the story of that desperate Red
Journey Back . For my own part at this stage of the
adventure (J.K.C. now writing), I can only say that back once more in Britain,
I was in a continuous state of almost unbearable suspense. I fear that I made
myself extremely troublesome to the good Roderick Mackellar for, needless to
say, although he was engaged in his further work on the airstrip as an
airstrip, we still continued in our endeavors to use the vast metallic surface
as a means of contact with Mars. Every available moment that either of us could
spare was spent in the small wireless hut beside the main laboratory; and when
we were both engaged elsewhere we still kept the apparatus manned by
trustworthy assistants. Night and day the receiver was switched on in readiness
for possible messages from across the void; at periodic intervals we sent out a
call sign on the beamed transmitter—that ancient code signal which Stephen
MacFarlane and I had used in our boyhoods.
But
the void was empty. Only once—and then perhaps only illusorily—did I hear, or
fancy I heard, a thin remote chattering which might have been Morse. And the
message, if it was one, made little sense: it consisted of two words, received
very imperfectly, with some letters missing, thus:
GUI— —A P—GS
The
only thing I could make of it, after much bewildered thought, was the quite
impossible: “Guinea Pigs.” Plainly, I felt, we had been deceived—had picked up
somehow a cross message from a ship, or, even more probably, from one of the
many amateur radio stations operating all over the globe.
The
nerve-racking months went by—the suspense continued through all the summer. All
I knew—and the knowledge haunted me day and night—was that millions and
millions of miles away two separate groups of my friends were lost and
wandering—if indeed the rescue party had reached Mars at all through the
hazards of interplanetary flight. My friend and cousin MacFarlane, with his
blind, enfeebled companion, McGillivray, were
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