Collected Short Fiction, page 288
What was it? Who had built it? Everyone connected with the Colony here carefully avoided all mention of it, as if it were something shameful, something to hide from sight.
Aherne knew that he’d have to find out all the details before he committed himself on any final decision about Mars Colony. No matter how promising the Colony seemed, and no matter how many Miss Greers they threw in his way, he’d have to be in control of every information-factor before he could allow himself to file his report.
The Colonists had given him a pleasant room, with a soft-looking bed and attractive furnishings. There was a bookcase, in which half a dozen scarlet-bound volumes leaned at an angle against one wall, and when he drew the first out he saw it was a novel by a colonist, published there in the Colony.
They don’t miss a bet, he thought, feeling another forbidden tingle of pride go through him. It wouldn’t be hard to recommend continuation of a colony that showed such enterprise and such drive—provided everything else held up. So far, so good.
Aherne slept soundly that night for the first time in weeks.
He expected the guided tour first thing in the morning—in fact, was positively looking forward to it. And so, when he heard a soft, gentle rapping at his door the next morning, he rolled out of bed and tried to look wide awake. He was almost positive that it was Miss Greer at the door.
He was wrong. He threw the door open and was confronted by a small, swarthy, almost copper-coloured man, with deep-set eyes and jet-black hair.
“Good morning, senor,” the stranger said blandly.
“Good morning,” Aherne replied, somewhat taken aback.
“I have been sent to get you,” the small man said. Aherne noticed, as the other stepped into the room, that he had an enormous barrel of a chest—the chest of a six-footer, not a man barely five-two in height. He spoke with a distinct Spanish accent.
“To get me?”
“Si. Please come quickly.”
Too puzzled to protest, Aherne dressed, washed—the colonial plumbing, he noted, was none too good—and followed the small man out on the street. It was still early in the morning, and few of the colonists were to be seen.
“Where are we going?” Aherne asked.
“With me,” the other said noncommittally.
Aherne wondered vaguely just where he was being taken, but decided to follow without argument. It was just possible that he might find out something about the Colony that he might not have known otherwise, had he limited himself to the official guided tour.
He patted the cold butt of the Webley blaster, nestling safely in its shoulder-holster. He could hold his own with that, in case of trouble.
The little man seemed to be in a considerable hurry. He led Aherne speedily through the streets toward the outer edge of the Dome—toward the airlock.
Several of the colonists he passed on his way smiled at him, but no one seemed to want to stop him, to find out where he was going. It was just as well, Aherne thought.
They came to the airlock, and Aherne saw a sandcrawler parked outside. The little man had not said a word during the entire walk.
Now he indicated a rack of spacesuits hanging invitingly at the entrance to the airlock. “Take one,” he said. “Put it on.”
Obediently, Aherne did so, and his strange guide climbed into one of the smaller suits. Together, they passed through the airlock and outside the Dome.
“We go in this,” the other grunted, and got into the sandcrawler. Aherne, suspecting at last where he was being taken, got in also, and the vehicle rocked smoothly to life and started to undulate away.
The crawler slid through a gap in the hills, and followed a twisting, sharply-banked sand path in the desert. An hour later, they arrived at their destination—the second Dome.
It seemed to be constructed along the lines of the other. Aherne stared around curiously as he and his silent companion went through the by-now familiar process of passing through the airlocks. At last, he was out of his suit, and within the second Dome. It looked much like the first, inside and out.
But after a few steps, Aherne found himself panting for breath, and a few more and he could sense his pulse quickening. There was a difference: the air-pressure here was considerably lower than earth-normal. He felt his body gasping to take in the quantity of oxygen to which it was accustomed, and he swallowed hard to relieve the pressure on his eardrums.
As he stood there, reeling slightly from the change in pressure, he saw another, more familiar face approaching. It was another small, swarthy, Spanish-looking man, but this time it was one that Aherne knew well.
“You’ll get used to the low pressure soon, Aherne,” the newcomer said as he drew near. “We maintain it here for the benefit of our colonists.” He extended a box of tablets. “Here,” he said. “Aspirin. It’ll relieve the reaction a little bit.”
Aherne took the box, fumbled out one of the white tablets and swallowed it, dry. He waited a moment while the pounding in his head subsided a little, and then looked at the other.
“I’m in better shape now. I think,” he said. “But what are you doing here, Echavarra?”
“You haven’t missed me, Aherne? You haven’t noticed that I’ve not been expounding my crackpot ideas at the United Nations these past three years?”
“No,” Aherne said slowly. “Ever since the defeat of your proposal, I’d assumed you were off doing private research somewhere.”
The man addressed as Echavarra grinned broadly. “Exactly right. I have been doing private research.” He put an arm around Aherne’s shoulder. “Come,” he said. “Let us go to my home. The pressure is easier to take there.”
As they walked into the heart of the colony, Aherne discovered it was populated almost exclusively by the small swarthy men, none of whom seemed at all bothered by the low pressure. The picture was starting to take shape.
Jose Echavarra had been a storm-centre at the United Nations Headquarters during the days of the hot debate over who should build the Mars Colony, and how, Echavarra, a Peruvian geneticist, had bitterly opposed the American, Carter, who seemed to have the inside track on the coveted UN appropriation.
Carter had favoured building pressurized domes on Mars, in which Earthmen could live in comparative comfort. Echavarra, raging, had declared that this was the wrong way to go about it—that man should adapt himself to fit the planet, not adapt the planet to fit himself.
He put forth as an example Andean miners who had been studied by Peruvian scientists. These miners lived all their lives at altitudes of 10,000 to 15,000 feet above sea-level, where the air was thin and the air-pressure low—and they had adapted. They were capable of existing comfortably with a pressure of only eight pounds per square inch. Echavarra had proposed to establish a colony composed of these hardy Peruvians, and gradually to breed them further along the lines they were already heading, until they were capable of living comfortably in the thin air of Mars.
Aherne remembered clearly what had happened. The volatile Dr. Echavarra had spent long hours explaining his plan, and then it had been turned down flat. After all, one delegate remarked, the Echavarra plan meant that only one nation—Peru—could send men to Mars. Other peoples, raised on the customary 14-pounds-per-square-inch pressure air, would be incapable of surviving.
That ended the discussion. Echavarra was rejected firmly, and Raymond Carter had been chosen to head the pioneer expedition that would build the pressure-dome and establish the UN colony, with the colonists, of course, to be chosen from all nations.
Echavarra had disappeared from sight. Now, here he was—complete with his colony of Peruvians, after all. And the air pressure was low, all right. Aherne, weakening, dragged one leg after the other painfully as he followed Echavarra through the streets.
III
“In here,” the Peruvian said. Aherne stumbled ahead as he was told, and entered a small, austerely-furnished room whose warm, rich atmosphere struck his lungs with jarring force.
“I like to keep one room at normal pressure,” Echavarra explained. “I’m still not completely used to the stuff these Andeans breathe myself, and I like to relax in here from time to time.”
Aherne flung himself down on a hammock stretched tautly from wall to wall, and waited for his metabolism to return to normal.
“Whew!” he managed to say after a moment. “I’m not built for these pressure changes.”
“You’re suffering from anoxia,” Echavarra said. “Lack of oxygen. The decreased pressure in this dome makes it harder for your lungs to get oxygen, and the quantity of red cells in your blood increases to compensate. It’s rough for a while, but you’ll adjust.”
Aherne nodded. “I’ll say it’s rough.”
“I’d say you’d passed into the second threshold of anoxia,” the Peruvian commented, bustling around nervously. “Which is about what I expected would happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“We grade the levels of oxygen need on three thresholds,” Echavarra explained. “The first is the reaction threshold. On Earth, it’s generally encountered above 6,000 feet altitude. Pulse quickens; capillaries relax, allowing more blood to reach the cells. Some dizziness. And then comes stage two, as you go a little higher—disturbance threshold. You were just passing over that level when I got you in here. Characteristics are fuzziness of sight, dulling of the senses, slowness of muscle reaction. You know what it’s like. It’s unpleasant, but not dangerous.”
“I see,” said Aherne. He was still recovering his strength, and lay there unmoving. “Is there a third stage?”
“There is,” Echavarra said. “Critical threshold. It’s encountered when the pressure gets down to about one-half atmosphere. Loss of vision, pounding of heart, nosebleed, loss of muscular co-ordination, blackout of consciousness. Possibly convulsions. The ultimate crisis is death. Men just aren’t built to take low pressure. Mars is a critical-threshold area at all times; on Earth, it’s generally encountered only above 16,000 feet—such as in the Peruvian Andes,” Echavarra concluded pointedly.
Aherne was feeling much better now. He swung himself to a sitting position and glared sharply at the Peruvian, who was toying with his stiff, black moustache.
“All very interesting, Echavarra, though I suspect you didn’t smuggle me out here just to lecture me on high altitude conditions. How about the information I want to hear?”
Echavarra smiled urbanely. “Just what would you like to know?”
“First: what are you doing here? Who financed you?”
The small man’s countenance darkened. “It is a sad story. After my unhappy rejection at the hands of the General Assembly, I travelled from country to country, seeking backers for my project. Finally I raised the necessary minimum, with the generous help of my own countrymen. Naturally we could not work on the scale Dr. Carter did, but we did manage to get together enough cash to transport several hundred Andean families here and build a fair-sized dome.”
“Why?”
The other smiled. “I disagreed with the basic premise of Carter’s project, and I wanted a chance to try it my way. My men are already acclimated to one-half atmosphere. They work and play happily in an environment that would kill a normal man. They’ve been living that way for generations. Genetically, they’ve been bred to survive in thin-air conditions.
“I’m reducing the pressure in this dome, ever so gradually. They don’t notice it—but their bodies adapt to the slight changes. Eventually I hope to get it down to where it approximates that of Mars. I won’t be here to see it. It won’t be with these people, nor with their children—but somewhere along the line it’ll happen. And then—poof! No more domes!”
“Interesting,” said Aherne coldly. “Just why did you pull this little trick this morning and spirit me away, then?”
The Peruvian spread his dark-skinned hands. “You’re here to decide on the fate of the Carter colony, are you not?”
Aherne nodded. “What if I am?”
Echavarra brought his bright-eyed, eager face close. Aherne noticed that it was lined with a fine purple network of exploded capillaries. “I brought you here to show you how I’m succeeding with my genetics programme. I want you to vote against Carter—and transfer the appropriation to me!”
Aherne recoiled instantly. “Impossible! The UN has already voted to support Carter. I can’t see any reason to countermand their decision. Your work has some curiosity value, I suppose, but we can hardly give serious—”
“Not so fast,” Echavarra said. “Don’t leap off so blindly. You’re here for a while. Take your time; consider the relative merits of the two colonies. See for yourself which one is fitter to work and live on Mars.”
Aherne shook his head. “I’m willing to abide by the decision of the General Assembly,” he said. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’d better get back to the UN colony now, Echavarra.”
“Stay a little longer,” the Peruvian urged.
Aherne started to say no, but suddenly there was a noise of scuffling outside, and the sound of loud, angry shouting. And then the door burst open, and Sully Roberts, wearing a plastic oxygen-mask, strode into the room, half a dozen men behind him.
“You’ll pay for this, Echavarra!” Roberts snapped angrily. His men formed a ring around Aherne; in the background, Aherne could see two or three puzzled-looking Peruvians standing on tiptoe trying to see into the room.
“What do you mean, Mr. Roberts?”
“I mean you’ve kidnapped this man!” Roberts turned solicitously to Aherne. “They haven’t harmed you at all, have they?”
Aherne shook his head. “No, I’ve—”
“There seems to be some misunderstanding,” Echavarra said mildly. “Mr. Aherne was not kidnapped. He came here voluntarily, earlier this morning, to inspect our colony. Is this not correct, Mr. Aherne?”
The UN man saw the faces of the six men from Carter’s colony go tense. They were worried now; perhaps Echavarra had succeeded in seducing him over to his side? Aherne decided to remain noncommital for the moment.
“I wouldn’t say I was kidnapped,” he replied, smiling. “I did, indeed, come here voluntarily.”
“You see?” Echavarra said.
Roberts’ face was a mask of anguish and turmoil; apparently Echavarra’s intentions were known to all.
“But—”
Roberts was almost in tears, and on a man that size his facial expression was remarkably incongruous.
“I want to assure you that Mr. Aherne has not been harmed,” Echavarra said. “And now, if you’ll excuse us while we finish our discussion—”
“We’re expecting him to take part in some functions at our Dome,” Roberts said. “We’d be very disappointed if he remained here with you.”
Careful use of the third person in speaking about me, Aherne noted. They’re afraid of seeming to be controlling me.
“I think they’re right, Senor Echavarra,” Aherne said. “I do have a responsibility to the Carter Colony at the moment.”
“I hope you’ll give careful consideration to the matter I mentioned, Mr. Aherne.”
“I’ll think about it,” Aherne promised. It was the diplomatic thing to say. “But as of now, I intend to rely on the earlier decision of the Assembly.”
“Very well,” Echavarra said, half-frowning and bowing politely. “But I do hope to see you again before you leave Mars—and perhaps you’ll have changed your mind.”
“Perhaps,” Aherne said. He turned to Roberts. “I think it’s time to go back now,” he said.
When they were outside, walking briskly through the thin air of the Peruvian colony on their way to the airlock, Roberts allowed some of his anxiety to escape.
“We were sure worried there, Mr. Aherne. As soon as we found out you’d been seen leaving the colony in the company of one of these little Indians, we lit out after you.”
“How come you were worried?” Aherne asked, trying to be conversational, as they reached the airlock. He flicked off the oxygen mask Roberts had given him, and climbed into a suit as quickly as he could, anxious to avoid a repetition of his previous experience with the low pressure of the Peruvian Dome.
“Well, sir, you didn’t leave any message, and we were sure you were kidnapped. Of course, we didn’t know you had decided to visit the Peruvians without telling us,” Roberts said.
Implied in that, thought Aherne, is veiled criticism. What he’s hinting at is that I had no business running off like that—or that perhaps I really was kidnapped, and won’t admit it.
“Echavarra and I are old acquaintances,” Aherne said. “I had a good deal of contact with him in the days before his project was turned down by the UN.”
“He’s a crackpot, of course,” Roberts asserted quickly. The big man boosted Aherne lightly up into the sandcrawler and followed him in. “This idea of breeding people to breathe Martian air can’t possibly work, can it?”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Aherne. He saw the immediate expression of despair reflected on Roberts’ open face, and rejoiced just a little in his own wickedness. He was baiting Roberts, taking advantage of the colonist’s desperate desire to win Aherne’s approval, and while he knew it was unfair it was also a little enjoyable.
After a long silence, during which both men had kept eyes fixed firmly and uncomfortably on the trackless wastes ahead, Roberts said, “You don’t mean you’ll consider giving them our appropriation, will you?”
The question was a blunt and direct one. Roberts was obviously not much good at diplomatic indirection, despite his earlier shyness in the encounter with Valoinen over the invoices. Roberts wanted to get straight to the heart of the problem that so disturbed him.
Aherne considered possible answers for a moment or two—and then, seeing no real justification for allowing Roberts to worry over the possibility of an outcome that Aherne himself had already rejected, said, “No of course not. The UN’s already voted to support the Carter Colony, and I don’t see any reason for bringing Echavarra back into the picture.”
