Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

It turned out that there was not far to walk. The Martians ahead of us crossed a street-junction, joined another, much larger, group walking from a different direction, then turned into the next building they came to. This was larger than many of the buildings we had so far seen, and from what we could see of it in the fitful illumination of the tower lights it appeared to be plainer in architectural style. There was light showing from the windows, and as we came nearer we could hear much noise from within.

Amelia made an exaggerated sniffing noise.

“I smell food,” she said. “And I hear clattering of dishes.”

I said: “And I detect wishful thinking.”

However, our mood was now much lighter, and feeble though such an exchange might be it was an indication that Amelia was sharing my feeling of renewed hope.

We did not hesitate as we approached the building, so emboldened had we been by our visit to the other building, and walked confidently through the main door into a vast, brightly lit hall.

It was clear at once that this was not another dormitory, for almost the entire floor-space was given over to long tables set in parallel rows. Each of these was crowded with Martian people apparently in the middle of a banquet. The tables were liberally spread with dishes of food, the air was laden with a steamy, greasy smell, and the walls echoed to the sound of the Martians’ voices. At the far end was what we assumed was the kitchen, for here about a dozen of the slave-Martians were toiling with metal plates and huge dishfuls of food, which were set out along a raised platform by the entrance to the kitchen.

The group of Martians we had been following had walked to this platform, and were helping themselves to food.

I said: “Our problem is solved, Amelia. Here is ample food for the taking.”

“Assuming we may eat it in safety.”

“Do you mean it could be poisonous?”

“How are we to know? We are not Martian, and our digestive systems might be quite different.”

“I don’t intend to starve while I decide,” I said. “And anyway we are being watched.”

This was the case, for although we had been able to stand unnoticed in the dormitory building, our evident hesitation was attracting attention. I took Amelia by the elbow and propelled her towards the platform.

My hunger had been such, earlier in the day, that I had thought I could have eaten anything. In the hours between, however, the gnawing hunger had passed to be replaced by a sensation of nausea, and the compulsion to eat was now much less than I would have anticipated. Furthermore, as we approached the platform it was clear that although there was food in abundance, there was little that looked at all appetizing, and I was stricken with a most unexpected fastidiousness. Most of the food was liquid or semi-liquid, and was laid out in tureens or bowls. The scarlet weed was obviously the staple, diet of these people, in spite of the several fields of green-crop we had seen, for many of the stew-like dishes contained large quantities of the red stems and leaves. There were, though, one or two plates of what could be meat (although it was very under-cooked), and to one side there was something which, but for the fact we had seen no cattle, we could have taken for cheese. In addition, there were several glass jugs containing vividly coloured liquids, which were poured over the food as sauces by the Martians.

“Take small quantities of as many different kinds as possible,” Amelia said softly. “Then if any of it is dangerous, the effect will be minimized.”

The plates were large, and made of a dull metallic substance, and we each took a generous amount of food. Once or twice I sniffed what I was taking, but this was unedifying, to say the least.

Carrying our plates, we went towards one of the tables at the side, away from the main group of Martians.

There was a small number of the people at one end of the table we selected, but we passed them by and sat at the other end. The seats were long low benches, one on each side. Amelia and I sat next to each other, not at all at ease in this strange place, even though the Martians continued to pay no attention to us now we had moved away from the door.

We each took a little of the food: it was not pleasant, but it was still quite hot and was certainly better than an empty stomach.

After a moment, Amelia said in a low voice: “Edward, we cannot live like this for ever. We have simply been lucky so far.”

“Don’t let us discuss it. We are both exhausted. We’ll find somewhere to sleep tonight, and in the morning we will make plans.”

“Plans to do what? Spend a lifetime in hiding?”

We ate our way stoically through the food, being reminded continually of that bitter taste we had first experienced in the desert. The meat was no better; it had a texture similar to some cuts of beef, but was sweet and bland in flavour. Even the ‘cheese’, which we left until the end, was acidic.

On the whole our attention was distracted away from the food by the events about us.

I have already described the Martians’ habitual expression as being one of great lugubriousness, and in spite of the amount of conversation there was no levity. On our table, a Martian woman leaned forward and rested her wide forehead on her arms, and we could see tears trickling from her eyes. A little later, on the far side of the hall, a Martian man jumped abruptly back from his seat and strode around the room, waving his long arms and declaiming in his queer, high-pitched voice. He came to a wall and leant against it, banging his fists and shouting. This at last attracted the attention of his fellows, and several hurried to him and stood about, apparently trying to soothe him, but he was disconsolate.

Within a few seconds of this incident there was set up, as if the misery were contagious, such a general caterwauling that Amelia was impelled to say to me: “Do you suppose it is possible that here the responses are different? I mean, when they appear to be crying, are they actually laughing?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, cautiously watching the weeping Martian. He continued his outburst a little longer, then turned away from his friends and hurried from the hall with his hands covering his face. The others waited until he had vanished through the door, then returned to their own seats, looking morose.

We noticed that most of the Martians were taking large quantities of drink from glass jugs set on every table. As this was transparent we had assumed that it, was water, but when I tasted some it was instantly clear that this was not so. Although itwas refreshing to drink it was strongly alcoholic, to such an extent that within a few seconds of swallowing it I felt pleasantly dizzy.

I poured some for Amelia, but she only sipped at hers.

“It is very strong,” she said. “We must not lose our wits.”

I had already poured myself a second draught, but she restrained me from drinking it. I suppose she was wise to do this, because as we watched the Martians it was plain that most of them were fast becoming inebriated. They were being noisier and more careless in their manners than before. We even heard laughter, although it sounded shrill and hysterical. Large quantities of the alcoholic beverage were being drunk, and kitchen-slaves brought out several more jugs of it. A bench fell back wards to the floor, tipping its sitters into a sprawling heap, and two of the young male kitchen-slaves were captured by a group of female Martians who then hemmed them into a corner; what followed we could not see in the confusion. More slaves came out of the kitchen, and most of these were young females. To our astonishment, not only were they completely unclothed but they mingled freely with their masters, embracing and enticing them.