Kenneth Gantz - Not in Solitude

His shouted words were drowned by the sharper tone of the Far Venture’s command set. “Turn off all fire. Return to the spacecraft.” The familiar voice named itself. “Colonel Cragg to Major Noel. Turn off all fires and return to the spacecraft. Immediately.”

Another spark bolt snapped home. Dane counted the same number of men still standing. He wondered if the few bolts that had fallen so far were prelude to a storm like yesterday’s. Maybe it was too late in the night for the bolts to build up in any profusion. The cold of the darkness must be rapidly deepening, if there was a real connection between the phenomenon of the dwindling spark fires and the oncoming night. Maybe whatever was directing the lightning weapon was short of ammunition.

It occurred to him to move himself. This was no time to linger. Not even for Amalgamated Press pictures.

He took a few steps, breasting the lichen stuff, wading it gingerly before he thought of Noel. If the bolt at the tank had not hit him directly, he could still be alive.

He turned back from the Far Venture, fuzzily amazed at the need to do it, and began plowing through the lichens toward the immobilized tank marked out for him in the smoke by its spouting flame. How much longer would it burn before its fuel was exhausted? He was not sure how the stuff burned anyway, except that some of its ingredients provided oxygen for combustion.

One of the Far Venture’s lights came circling around and picked him up. “Dane,” he heard Colonel Cragg’s voice in the ear set. “You’re going the wrong way, man. Turn around and follow the light. Just follow the light.”

It was an odd thing to say. He turned a moment and waved his arm against the light. When he thought of his radio, he switched to the liaison frequency of the spacecraft. “I’m going after Major Noel.” His heart began to pound at the declaration. Now there was no turning back.

“Come on inside. Right now,” Colonel Cragg said.

Dane took up his wading through the stand of lichens. Toward the tank. The throbbing of his heart resolved itself into a surge of power. The fine thrill of discovery that he too was able to make himself move.

“Noel will be picked up. It’s been provided for,” Colonel Cragg said.

Dane waved his arm again in the bright light and kept on wading. The lichen stuff was relatively widely spaced, sparse compared with the stands of the lichen forest.

The earphones crackled with Colonel Cragg’s voice. “Good luck, fellow!”

Dane approached the tank uneasily. If Seckinger was still alive, maybe dazed, he might move about in his confinement and inadvertently swivel the nozzle and its streaking flame around. In which event John Dane’s suit would quickly fry

As if he had divined his thought, Colonel Cragg came on, “We can’t raise Seckinger. Take a look at him, will you?” He switched off but came right on again. “Watch that flame nozzle. It’s on 360-degree swivel.”

“Roger, and thanks,” Dane answered. Fine. Swiveled for 360-degree coverage. All the way around the circle, and dodge that if you can.

He came cautiously up to the side of the midget armor. He couldn’t see Noel. The lichens were thick enough around the tank. After the metal, maybe. Better get the job done and get out of here fast. What the tank was made out of, he hadn’t the foggiest idea. Maybe the same double-alloyed timageel as the hull of the spacecraft. Certainly not the softer metal of the interior partitions. He spoured his light over the tank’s lower plates, in the lichen shadow. He could see no corrosion even where he pushed aside stems in direct contact with the metal.

He straightened and shot his light into the side port. Its metal shutter was not closed over the glassite.

Seckinger hung forward against his shoulder harness. His eyes were open. At least the one eye Dane could see was open, as if he were staring at his instrument panel. Dane could detect no movement of breathing. He rapped sharply on the rim of the port.

Colonel Cragg came in.

Dane said, “I think he’s dead.”

“You think you can make it in with Major Noel?”

“I can try.” Whatinhell did Cragg think he was here for if he didn’t think he could carry seventy-five pounds?

“I’ll send you out some help. Stand by. It will only take a few minutes.”

“Stand by hell,” Dane told him. “I’m getting out of this. I’ll bring him in. No use risking anybody else.”

To underscore his thinking about the spark bolts, a big one banged in. It must have struck the other tank. Its flame could have turned. It seemed to be pointing in a slightly different direction.

“See what I mean?” he demanded, arrogant that he was here and they were there, safe in the spacecraft.

The bolts were farther apart, but they were as sharp as ever. He guessed the next accumulation would be discharged against Seckinger’s tank. Or John Dane. Time to move, boy, he told himself. Time to go home.

He moved to the right and came on Noel face down. Lichens swarmed thick around him.

“Watch your suit,” Cragg admonished him.

He could pick Noel up easily enough, he knew. Probably carry him in his arms, with a few stops for rest. Might even get him over his shoulder. Also could very easily spring a joint in either Noel’s suit or his own. For a quick end. He rolled Noel over carefully and pointed his light through his visor. The mouth was moving. Slowly with heavy breathing.

“He’s alive!” he reported.

Now he had to make it.

With inspiration he remembered his Boy Scout tricks. He unhooked the shank of guard rope from his belt and cut a yard from it with his sheath knife. He lashed Noel’s wrists together as carefully as he could, binding around the heavy cuffs above the intricately articulated handpieces. It was a feat to tie the knot, but he managed it, flinching at the thought of the tank. If they were shooting at the fire.

When he had the job done, he got Noel under the armpits and brought him up on his knees and then to his feet, facing him and holding him against his chest. Next he managed to turn himself enough to support Noel’s chest against his back. He bent forward and pushed Noel’s arms up and over his head and slipped the loop of his lashed wrists under his own chin. When he straightened up, the smaller man’s feet swung clear in a kind of dangling piggy back. His own hands were left free to steady the weight and restrain Noel’s bound arms from jamming up against his neckpiece and helmet. Just pull down on the tag ends of the rope around his wrists. Simple. He walked a few steps and decided that it was going to work. “Be prepared!” he gloated.

“Nice work!” Colonel Cragg congratulated him.

“If you can get it,” Dane said.

“Save your breath, fellow.”

How did Colonel Cragg get in on this, anyway? he suddenly wondered.

It was hard to hold himself to a slow, level gait. He wanted to put distance between him and the metal of the tank in a hurry. Most of all he wanted to climb up the ladder and be inside the Far Venture. He made himself endure the slowest, most cautious movements and hunt around the denser lichen clumps.

Now it occurred to him that Noel was a heavy devil for his size. He was thankful for the smaller mass of Mars. The planet’s surface gravity was 38 per cent of Earth’s. That meant a 150-pound man on Earth would weigh only 57 pounds on Mars. He doubted that Noel weighed 150 pounds. His load should not be 75 pounds, even with the equipment. He caught up short. He had forgotten to remove the weights on Noel’s belt and shoulder harness. No wonder the guy was heavy. He had a good 150 pounds on his back, and then some.

All that weight could play hell with the pressure suits. They were rugged enough and made to withstand falls against hard surfaces, but still he ought to stop and get rid of all the weight he could. It was only being smart. Even if the putting down and picking up again were a dangerous strain, it was only smart to get rid of half his weight. He cursed gently and eased his burden down.