CHAPTER XI. SIR GALAHAD, by A. Keith Borrowdale

I OVERPOWERED HIM. It was comparatively easy, although I hesitate to imply any undue superiority of strength. MacFarlane was in poor condition—in an unnatural state of nervous exhaustion. His tackle was furious enough, but soon spent; and although it went against the grain—for he was, after all, the man we had come to save—I managed to twist his arm behind him in a judo hold I had learned long before at school. He stayed for a moment perfectly still, his face, close to mine, a mask of bewildered effort; then he slewed sideways with a little moan and I saw that he had fallen insensible.

“Bind him,” ordered Kalkenbrenner peremptorily. “You, Paul—somebody—find some cords, wires—anything. Bind him, Borrowdale—it’s the only hope.”

I saw that Kalkenbrenner himself had torn wire from some apparatus in the cabin and was rapidly binding the unconscious figure of Dr. McGillivray. I did not understand—was still dazed and confused from the rapid crowding of events. Besides, I was increasingly aware, bearing in on me, of a curious pressure. Nothing physical—a mental pressure; it is the only way in which I can describe it. A strange languor was in me—it was as if a voice repeated, over and over again, within my mind: “Do nothing, nothing. Do not tie up this man—all is well. Do nothing . . .”

Our leader was regarding me sharply.

“Borrowdale,” he said, “pull yourself together, man! Trust me. I cannot explain now—there is little time. But keep hold—keep hold! There are things out there—” and he waved toward the swirling yellow mist outside the windows, “—there are things which can control—which will try everything they can to possess you mentally, as they possessed these two poor devils. There are things with brains out there! Whatever happens, use every ounce of your will power to defeat any attempt they make to control your brain!”

I saw on the instant what he meant—I felt the truth of what he was saying. A thousand things became clear: why MacFarlane and McGillivray had acted as they had—what, in fact, MacFarlane himself had already hinted at a thousand times in the old Morse messages. My mind was suddenly filled with the image of the great white jellyish shape I had seen in the parting of the Ridge plants, chiming with all the nightmare visions I had had in the past of such a shape. Discophora! It was clear at last: Discophora!

I struggled to shake off the sense of oppression; and with a gigantic effort, by concentrating all my powers, succeeded.

I looked around. Kalkenbrenner had finished binding the still form of Dr. McGillivray. Supported by Mike and Jacky—swaying a little, his slender trunk limp and seemingly out of control of his own efforts—was Malu. I saw from Jacky’s face that something was being conveyed to her mind from his—something which she, more accustomed to conversing with the Beautiful People than I was, could understand, for she nodded seriously. At the same moment Paul came toward me with a coil of thin strong cord he had found, and helped me to bind tightly the still unconscious MacFarlane.

“What can we do?” I asked as we worked. “In heaven’s name, sir, what can we do?”

“Nothing here,” said Kalkenbrenner. “We must get outside—we must get beyond the whole influence of these things, whatever they are. You young people—listen to me: you heard what I said just now to Mr. Borrowdale: something in this evil place is trying desperately to make you do what it wants you to do. It made these men behave in the strange way they did behave—so that we could be brought within its sphere of control. The process is plainly gradual, or they would be controlling us already. It—will certainly intensify its effects now—but we may have time to escape. I want you to resist, with every fiber of your beings, whatever thoughts come into your heads which seem opposed to this thought: We must get out of here, and quickly! Keep that firmly implanted in the forefront of your mind. No matter what happens, follow that course of action. It may be that even we—even Borrowdale or myself—will be forced to issue orders to you which seem to contradict that line of action. If we do, pay no attention—it means that we have been duped, as MacFarlane and McGillivray were. Jacqueline, stay beside Malu—help him; for clearly he is less likely to be influenced—that was why MacFarlane and McGillivray were compelled to lock him up. . . . Now, is all understood?”

We nodded. Yet I was consumed too, even in the moment, by another vision, its implications wringing my heart: the vision of Katey and Maggie as I had seen them before the swirling Cloud hid them from view—with the squat, evil shapes of the Terrible Ones bearing down upon them. Paul plainly had the same thought, for he said quietly, “But the others, sir—the others outside . . . ?”

Kalkenbrenner’s face twisted for a moment. For all his hardness, all his seeming scientific detachment, there still was the deep, deep core of the man, holding Maggie Sherwood in truest affection.

“We will do what we can,” he said brusquely. “With heaven’s help, we shall find a way to rescue them, if they have not been overwhelmed utterly. But even in that we can do nothing unless we can get away from here—we must gather our resources, save McGillivray and MacFarlane. Borrowdale, do you remember the messages when MacFarlane was describing his own first venture into the Yellow Cloud in search of McGillivray? He said something about protective clothing—asbestos material not unlike our own, perhaps. . . .”

Paul and Michael, both familiar with the layout of the spaceship’s interior, set to searching in the various storage lockers and cupboards, and in a few moments had dragged forth two crude asbestos helmets and a pair of shapeless tunics of a similar treated material, together with some rubber hip boots and massive leather gauntlets.

Working rapidly, we swathed the two helpless men in the clumsy garments, so that no parts of their bodies were exposed. All the time I was, for my own part, still aware of a constant attempt going on to make me stop the work I was doing. A “voice,” as it were, kept pounding incessantly in my brain: “Do nothing, nothing. What can you achieve? Do nothing, nothing. . . .” I fought with all my will power to defeat it—concentrated all my efforts toward carrying out Kalkenbrenner’s instructions.

In the intolerable heat from the swamp outside, the sweat was starting on my brow, pouring down my neck within the great asbestos collar. I longed, longed to tear away the helmet encumbering me—yet knew that it would be fatal; but suffered too, as the very thought came into my head, an almost irresistible temptation to undo the fastening and throw the great globe aside—a desire, I understood, with yet another part of my mind, also inspired by the malevolent force outside. . . .

Our salvation lay in the increased lightness of all objects upon Mars. Between us, Kalkenbrenner and I were able to carry both McGillivray and MacFarlane. Mike and Jacqueline still supported Malu—and I saw, with a sudden apprehension, that he alone was now exposed and naked, wore no kind of protective covering from the swirling Cloud. It was as if Jacky had read my thoughts. “He doesn’t need it,” she said rapidly. “He has told me—and you remember Uncle Steve said so too in the messages. The spores have no effect on him.”

At Dr. Kalkenbrenner’s instructions we switched on the oxygen breathing apparatus inside our helmets. Then our leader nodded to Paul, who swung open the great entrance door. Instantly we were surrounded by the swirling yellow mist—saw clearly, as it wreathed about us, that indeed it was composed of trillions upon trillions of diminutive seed shapes. And my whole being was filled with a sense of unutterable hatred—as if (and I recalled MacFarlane’s own memorable phrase) as if these tiny creatures, the spores, were wishing us ill . . .

We struggled forward—somehow we struggled forward. We could not see—had to feel helplessly for the steps beneath and, when we reached the ground, grope vaguely in the direction in which we believed the tractor lay. Our terror was that a group of the Terrible Ones would somehow know of our efforts and move to frustrate us. But the journey was short—a few paces only. In a momentary parting of the Cloud we saw the dim outline of the tractor; and an instant later had heaved our burdens aboard and, ourselves, were clambering into position.

The young people and Malu were in the trailer, Paul and Jacky struggling to pull the asbestos tent covering into position. Kalkenbrenner and I were in the tractor, with the two rescued explorers; and, as the Doctor pressed the engine starter, I set to adjusting the kalspex cabin over our heads.

The engine spluttered for a moment, then roared into life. Kalkenbrenner swung the wheel, so that we might move around in our tracks, retreat in the direction from which we had entered the enclosure. The tossing, writhing fronds of the gigantic Ridge plants were all about us, glimpsed dimly through the mist. We jerked uncomfortably, slithering in the marshy soil; then plunged forward toward safety.

But in that one instant there was a high wild cry from the trailer behind. I swung around. Paul and Jacky had succeeded in hoisting the tent covering halfway into position. But Michael, the incorrigible, the undefeatable, was on his feet, staring into the forest we were rapidly leaving.

I glanced in the direction in which he gestured. The Yellow Cloud had parted in a vast swathe. Clearly visible in the green depths of the Ridge plants were the two figures of Katey and Maggie Sherwood. Surrounding them were some half dozen of the Terrible Ones—beyond, glimpsed imperfectly for one fleeting moment, the great white shapeless mass of one of the Vivores—of Discophora. Maggie and Katey were held in the tendrils of two of the largest of the Terrible Ones—held spread-eagled against the trunks of two gigantic Ridge plants. They struggled—were plainly alive.

I instinctively started to leap to my feet. But the kalspex cabin was in position. Michael, behind, repeated his great war cry; and leaped out and away from the trailer, in a huge curving arc, before the tent fell finally into position. His superior Martian strength carried him twenty feet at the least; and when he had recovered his balance he went forward in a series of gigantic jumps toward the captives. He flourished a revolver—but we knew, from the experiences of the previous expedition, that guns were of little use against the yielding plant-flesh of the Terrible Ones.

So we glimpsed him for one brief moment, a diminutive, impossible Galahad. Then the cloud swirled over all the alien scene again as the tractor gathered speed. Thirty seconds more and we were in the free open air, heading across the plain in a glimmer of startling sunshine, the Ridge, a tumultuous seething of dark green and yellow, far behind us.