Clifford Simak - Grotto of the Dancing Deer - And Other Stories

To the left lay a seething furnace of a world, to the right, a frigid ice box of a world.

For what seemed ages, Tom tramped, stumbling, across the scorching desert. The treacherous, sliding sand, time after time, brought him to his knees. Despite the slight attraction of gravity, his progress was slow, for the suit was heavy. On earth its weight would have crushed a man flat to the ground.

He had covered approximately four miles when he saw looming a short distance ahead of him a gigantic ridge of tumbled gray rock. It was one of those occasional outcroppings which occurred on the surface of the planet.

Tom noted it with relief. It would offer shade, momentary respite from the burning rays of the sun. Fagged, he headed for the outcropping.

It seemed an interminable distance, but finally he reached it and slumped down in the shade, leaning against a huge boulder. With a sigh of thankfulness, he closed his eyes. He could not remain there long, but he meant to make the most of it.

Opening his eyes he saw two shadows moving across the sand beyond the limit of the shade. Evidently some living thing was on the ridge of rock behind him.

Getting swiftly to his feet, he faced two Martians, equipped with shining air suits.

For a split second Tom stared in surprise at the two, then his hand snapped to his holster. But his steel gloved fingers found it empty. His face blanched. Somewhere on the back trail the pistol had dropped out and now lay in the sands of the trackless desert.

The Martians had watched as his hand went back to his side. Now as he gazed at them he saw a slow, crooked smile come over their ugly faces behind the glass helmets. They knew his pistol was gone; that he was easy prey.

They carried huge clubs fashioned of wood, probably with a good chunk of lead weighing the business end, and these they now shifted to obtain a better grip as they moved toward him.

As his hand came away from the holster it struck the hilt of the sword and his fingers closed about it.

As he retreated slowly before the deliberate advance of the Martians, he jerked the blade from the scabbard.

Seeing the flash of steel and realizing that their foe was armed with some sort of a strange weapon, the two Martians leaped silently forward, five hands outstretched in the usual manner of attack, the sixth member clutching the upraised club.

Tom knew the greatest danger lay in the clubs of his opponents breaking the steel of his suit or smashing his helmet, thus robbing him of his artificial atmosphere and exposing him to the horrible vacuum of the planet.

Hampered by his awkward suit, he knew he would be unable to sidestep the blows of the club, so he resorted to different tactics.

The point of the sword flicked out, aimed straight at the wrist of the Martian who was closing in, with the club already descending. There was no sound of steel on steel, for in that atmosphereless place no sound was possible. But the aim of the Martian was deflected and the club missed its target, Tom’s helmet, by a wide margin.

Tom now turned his attention to the other Martian. If he could slash the armored suit of the second attacker, he would have only one foe.

The Martian raised his club, but as the sword drove at him point first, he stepped quickly backward, out of reach of the threatening point. Following this advantage Tom lunged again and the point struck hard against the armored breast, the force of the blow knocking the Martian off balance, so that he fell sprawling to the sands.

Almost feeling his other foe close behind him ready to strike, Tom swung on his heel, but his apprehension was unfounded, for the other lay, a heap of glistening armor, in the shade of the ridge.

In some unaccountable manner the sword point, in striking the wrist to ward off the blow, had penetrated the steel. Just a small hole, perhaps, but the Martian had died as the air rushed out of the suit.

He turned quickly to the second Martian, who was struggling to his feet. With a powerful and well directed kick Tom sent him reeling, to sprawl again on his back. With sword raised high, both fists clutching the hilt, ready to put every ounce of strength into a blow calculated to smash its way through heavy steel, Tom straddled the prostrate foeman.

The Martian raised clasped hands in signal of surrender and a plea for mercy, for all the world like a dog groveling to ward off a well-deserved kick. Tom stared straight down into the warted, yellow face, upon which terror was stamped. Well might terror be there, for it was a tradition that any lesser man who raised a hand against a Terrestrial was automatically doomed to death. Seldom had mercy ever been shown.

As Tom stared down into the mottled face behind the helmet, something akin to sympathy touched his heart.

He slowly lowered the sword, touched the point gently on the Martian’s helmet and then raised it and with a questioning look, pointed with it in several directions.

A flash of understanding came into the eyes of the prostrate figure and his lips moved slowly. He pointed toward the outcropping of rock.

Watching his lips, Tom read the word, “Ship.”

The Martian had come from a ship. But how had he obtained a ship? For ages no Martian had been anything other than a slave, a troublesome slave, but a slave, of a greater race.

Tom pointed to the body of the dead Martian and then to his captive.

“How many more?” he formed the words with his lips.

The Martian shook his head. He pointed to himself and his dead companion and again made the sign of negation. There were apparently no others.

Tom stepped back, sword still in hand, and motioned the other to rise.

Slowly Tom followed his captive, sword held ready for instant use, across the sand and up the rocky outcropping. At the top of the ridge the Martian halted and pointed with one of his six arms.

Looking in the direction of the pointing arm, Tom saw a small rocket plane resting on the sand. Upon its silver nose was painted the ancient emblem of Mars, a red equilateral triangle inside a blue circle which, in turn, was surrounded by a yellow square.

He marveled, for that emblem had not been seen, except in the museums of the worlds, for many years.

Inside the flyer, and with the air locks closed, Tom snapped back his helmet and gulped in great breaths of the pure air.

The Martian had also removed his helmet and now the two men faced one another.

“I don’t know why I let you live,” said Tom, “but I did. However, one false move and it’s taps for you.”

“Yes, master,” said the Martian in a voice humble and subservient.

“Where did you get this plane?” asked Tom.

“I and others took it and ten others from Station Number One a few hours ago.”

“Station One,” screamed Tom, clutching the sword. “Was there an uprising there, too?”

“At the same hour today, master, there was an uprising in every station on Mercury.”

Tom took a step forward.

“Were all successful?”

“I do not know, master. All should have been. They were carefully planned.”

“And the emblem of Mars?”

“Tars Kors and I painted it while we were waiting here for the arrival of our men from Station Number Nine. They should be arriving at any time now. If they do not arrive in a half hour, I am supposed to make an observation flight around the dome.”

Tom smiled grimly.

“Put on your helmet,” he said. “You are going to paint out your damned emblem and paint in the correct one. You needn’t expect your friends from Number Nine. They are all dead. Also, if there is any flying to be done, I do it. Understand?”

The Martian nodded and donned his helmet. Under the directions of the Terrestrial he painted out the emblem of Mars and painted in its stead an emblazoned golden sun, insignia of the Earth.