gathered from this that Jet was not too happy about Lemmy’s hearing what we were saying. I followed him over to the bunk, but Lemmy didn’t seem to be particularly interested in us and kept his eye glued to the telescope.
Once we had settled ourselves, Jet said: “When we set out on this journey, Doc, I was looking forward to six months of uneventful, perhaps even dull, routine while we were coasting here, but this trip has been anything but that and I have a feeling that our exploration of Mars is not going to be quite what we expect, either.”
“In what way?” I asked him.
“I wish I could tell you. I can hardly wait to set foot on Mars and yet, at the same time, I’m full of apprehension about it.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I’ve been checking up. You remember I told you that in my dream Whitaker kept talking about an exhibition?”
“Yes.”
“Well, from the impression I got of the London I was dreaming about I guessed the period to be some time in the 1920s. So I asked Control to find out if an Exhibition had taken place during that decade and, if so, whether it was possible to reach it by train from Baker Street.”
“And had there been an Exhibition then?”
“Yes. The Empire Exhibition of 1924--at Wembley.”
“Good grief!” I exclaimed.
“I had no idea such an Exhibition had ever been held.”
“Well, it was a little before your time,” I reminded him.
“After that, I asked them to check up on the song--the one that Whitaker sang. Apparently it was a popular song of the same year, 1924--the year in which he disappeared.”
“But that’s fantastic, Jet. What did Control say about it? Weren’t they curious to know why you wanted the information?”
“I told them I needed it to settle an argument.”
“Do you think it was wise not to tell them everything?”
“Yes, I do. Suppose I did tell them. About Whitaker making that phoney call and trying to get us to turn back, isn’t there a chance that Control might tell us the same thing? On the face of it, somebody, something--using Whitaker as a go-between, maybe--seems to have been trying to do exactly that, and somebody on Earth might consider that the risk of carrying on is too great and order us to return.”
“They’d be more likely to scoff at the whole thing and put it down to imagination.”
“That, Doc,” said Jet with a laugh, “is a polite way of saying I’m unstable, mentally unbalanced.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” I began, but Jet cut me off.
“I’m not so sure that Control wouldn’t. Nor the rest of the Fleet.”
“Surely, Jet,” I argued, “you don’t think the crews imagine that you . . .”
“Why shouldn’t they? Only three of us have been really seriously affected by Whitaker; Frank Rogers in Number Two, Lemmy and myself--and both Lemmy and Rogers seem to have got over it long since.”
“And you haven’t?”
“I’d have thought no more about it, Doc, but for the information I got from Earth less than an hour ago.”
Our discussion was brought to a close by Lemmy’s leaving the telescope and walking over to where Jet and I were sitting. “Well,” he said as he approached, “it won’t be long now, and I won’t be sorry.”
“What won’t be long, Lemmy?” I asked.
“The landing on Mars. I can’t wait to get my feet on terra firma again. Pity about the atmosphere down there, Doc. I’d give anything to have a good, deep breath of fresh air.”
“You’ll have to do without that, Lemmy,” I told him with a laugh. “The oxygen content of the Martian atmosphere is far too low. One breath of it would probably kill you.”
“Too low to support life, do you think, Doc?”
“Almost certainly.”
“I wonder I I’ll lay you six to four that there’s a couple of Martians sitting down there at this very moment looking up at the Earth and telling each other that there couldn’t possibly be any life on our planet because the oxygen content of its atmosphere is too
Once we had settled ourselves, Jet said: “When we set out on this journey, Doc, I was looking forward to six months of uneventful, perhaps even dull, routine while we were coasting here, but this trip has been anything but that and I have a feeling that our exploration of Mars is not going to be quite what we expect, either.”
“In what way?” I asked him.
“I wish I could tell you. I can hardly wait to set foot on Mars and yet, at the same time, I’m full of apprehension about it.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I’ve been checking up. You remember I told you that in my dream Whitaker kept talking about an exhibition?”
“Yes.”
“Well, from the impression I got of the London I was dreaming about I guessed the period to be some time in the 1920s. So I asked Control to find out if an Exhibition had taken place during that decade and, if so, whether it was possible to reach it by train from Baker Street.”
“And had there been an Exhibition then?”
“Yes. The Empire Exhibition of 1924--at Wembley.”
“Good grief!” I exclaimed.
“I had no idea such an Exhibition had ever been held.”
“Well, it was a little before your time,” I reminded him.
“After that, I asked them to check up on the song--the one that Whitaker sang. Apparently it was a popular song of the same year, 1924--the year in which he disappeared.”
“But that’s fantastic, Jet. What did Control say about it? Weren’t they curious to know why you wanted the information?”
“I told them I needed it to settle an argument.”
“Do you think it was wise not to tell them everything?”
“Yes, I do. Suppose I did tell them. About Whitaker making that phoney call and trying to get us to turn back, isn’t there a chance that Control might tell us the same thing? On the face of it, somebody, something--using Whitaker as a go-between, maybe--seems to have been trying to do exactly that, and somebody on Earth might consider that the risk of carrying on is too great and order us to return.”
“They’d be more likely to scoff at the whole thing and put it down to imagination.”
“That, Doc,” said Jet with a laugh, “is a polite way of saying I’m unstable, mentally unbalanced.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” I began, but Jet cut me off.
“I’m not so sure that Control wouldn’t. Nor the rest of the Fleet.”
“Surely, Jet,” I argued, “you don’t think the crews imagine that you . . .”
“Why shouldn’t they? Only three of us have been really seriously affected by Whitaker; Frank Rogers in Number Two, Lemmy and myself--and both Lemmy and Rogers seem to have got over it long since.”
“And you haven’t?”
“I’d have thought no more about it, Doc, but for the information I got from Earth less than an hour ago.”
Our discussion was brought to a close by Lemmy’s leaving the telescope and walking over to where Jet and I were sitting. “Well,” he said as he approached, “it won’t be long now, and I won’t be sorry.”
“What won’t be long, Lemmy?” I asked.
“The landing on Mars. I can’t wait to get my feet on terra firma again. Pity about the atmosphere down there, Doc. I’d give anything to have a good, deep breath of fresh air.”
“You’ll have to do without that, Lemmy,” I told him with a laugh. “The oxygen content of the Martian atmosphere is far too low. One breath of it would probably kill you.”
“Too low to support life, do you think, Doc?”
“Almost certainly.”
“I wonder I I’ll lay you six to four that there’s a couple of Martians sitting down there at this very moment looking up at the Earth and telling each other that there couldn’t possibly be any life on our planet because the oxygen content of its atmosphere is too
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