“Exactly. This is the place to keep you young. Out here with the sand, the mulga, the eucalyptus, the dingoes and the stars. What more could a man want?”
As if in answer the dingoes started up their mournful chorus again, but this time Mitch, listening to them, thought he could detect the voice of Jet calling to him.
“Hey, listen,” he cried, jumping up excitedly, “did you hear that? That was Jet.”
“Sit down,” said the stranger calmly. “It was the dingoes. There’s nobody here but you, me and the dingoes. Now, in that bag there’s a box of tea. Pass it out, will you?”
Mitch fumbled awkwardly into the bag. “Is this it?” he asked.
“Thanks. How do you like it? Strong?”
“Look,” said Mitch desperately, “before we go any further I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The stranger ignored him--and the cries of the dingoes increased “Do you like plenty of sugar?”
“Never mind the sugar,” said Mitch angrily, “I’m talking to you.”
“Sorry I’ve got no fresh milk.”
“What’s the matter with you?” screamed Mitch. “Can’t you even listen to what I’m saying?”
“Sit down, Mitch,” said the stranger firmly. “Sit down and save your breath.”
Mitch sat down suddenly. “Sit down,
Mitch?”
he repeated, fear clearly discernible in his voice. “How do you know my name? And what are you doing here anyway? What’s happened to me? Where is this place?”
“This is the Northern Territory,” said the stranger deliberately.
“Northern Territory. Where?”
“Australia. Where else?”
“Australia! On Earth?”
“Where the heck did you think it was? On Mars?” Mitch was really scared now. “But this
is
Mars, isn’t it?” he pleaded. “Isn’t this the Red Planet?” “Yes--and I’m a kangaroo.”
“What are you trying to do? Drive me crazy?” said Mitch, his voice rising hysterically.
“Me? Drive
you
crazy? You walk into my camp, two hundred miles from the nearest town, without so much as a billy to brew your tea, tell me you’re lost, and that you live in a pyramid and can’t find your way home.”
Mitch went to great lengths to tell the dingo-hunter who he was. “My name is Stephen Mitchell,” he said hesitantly, struggling to convince himself as he spoke. “I’m an astronautical engineer. Seven months ago I left the Moon on an expedition to Mars. A week ago I landed on the southern ice cap and, with three other members of the ship’s crew, began to explore this planet. And now I find myself here and you tell me this place is Australia--
back on Earth.”
The stranger took a step towards Mitch and, looking down at him, his face grim, said: “Look, Mitch, it’s my opinion that you’ve spent too long in the sun. Not many miles from here there’s a cattle station run by a farmer and his wife. Tomorrow I’ll take you there and they’ll call up the flying doctor and get him to look you over. Now, lie down and take it easy. Or do I have to put you to sleep with the butt of this rifle?”
He stopped and picked up the weapon from the ground as he spoke.
Mitch, now more than half convinced that he was mad, was immediately subdued. “No,” he said softly, “there’s no need for that. Maybe I
am
the crazy one.”
“The swag bag’s unrolled,” said the stranger. “Lie down on it.”
Mitch obeyed him without a murmur.
“That’s it,” said the stranger. “Now go to sleep--and don’t give me any more trouble.”
Once again the weird, compelling music started up in Mitch’s head. But this time he made no attempt to resist it. He felt it was beyond his power to do so. He let it take hold of him and lull him into a deep sleep. As he gradually lapsed into unconsciousness he could hear the stranger still talking, his voice seeming to come from a long way off and mixing with the eerie howls of the dingoes.
“Tell yourself you’re not going to give me any more trouble,” he was saying. “Understand?”
“Yeah,” said Mitch wearily.
“And that you’ll do exactly as I tell you from now on.” “Yeah, yeah--anything you say,” said the engineer. “Good on yer.”
“I feel so tired--awful tired.”
“Then go to sleep. And remember, tomorrow everything will be all right.”
The dingoes howled even louder. It seemed to Mitch that they completely encircled the camp; hundreds of them, each calling his blood-curdling wail to the moonless sky.
And through it all came the voice of the dingo-hunter saying: “Tomorrow everything will be all right, tomorrow everything will be all . . .”
And Mitch knew no more. Everything went black.
In the meantime, unaware of what had befallen Mitch, Jet and I searched every wall of both terraces but there was no sign of our engineer. We were getting desperately worried when we received a call from Lemmy, back in the truck, to say that Mitch had at last been sighted. “Where is he?” asked Jet eagerly.
“Just walking along the path that runs along the lowest wall,” replied Lemmy.
“Have you spoken to him yet?”
“No, mate,” said Lemmy, “but if his radio’s working he must have heard me call you. Half a mo, I’ll try him now. Hullo, Mitch,” we heard Lemmy say, “are you receiving me? Hullo . . .” He went on calling for a little while then finally gave it up and said: “It’s no good, Jet. He doesn’t seem to hear me.”
“Oh. How far away is he?”
“Only about a couple of hundred yards. Hey--wait a minute. . . .”
“What is it, Lemmy?”
“He’s waving his arms about, like he was a tick-tack man at the dogs. Oh, blimey--and no wonder.” The tone of Lemmy’s voice changed to one of relief. “He’s trying to tell me his radio is out of action. I’d better go back to the main cabin, Jet, and get ready to let him in.”
“Very well,” replied the Captain. “Doc and I will get back as quickly as we can.”
Lemmy had left the truck’s transmitter on and, as we made our way along the terrace, we could hear him muttering to himself as he moved about the cabin. Quite suddenly we heard a hard, metallic knocking.
“What’s all that banging?” Jet asked.
“That’s Mitch knocking at the door,” replied Lemmy. “He doesn’t realise he can let himself in--he must think the circuit’s still broken. I’d better open up for him, and then . . .” Lemmy’s speech was interrupted by the sound of the main door circuit coming alive. “Oh, he’s doing it himself after all,” went on the radio operator.
Then we heard the airlock mechanism working.
“Well, he’s about in,” said Lemmy cheerfully. “Just coming through the airlock. And here he is.” Lemmy’s voice was warm and sympathetic. “Hullo, Mitch,” we heard him say, “where have you been all this time? You’ve had us worried.”
“Hullo, Lemmy,” came the reply.
Jet and I both stopped dead in our tracks. The voice that answered Lemmy did not belong to Mitch.
There was a pause and then we heard the same, flat voice say: “What’s the matter, Lemmy? Surprised to see me?”
And Lemmy’s frightened reply: “You? Oh, no!” Then there was a click as though somebody had turned off the truck’s transmitter.
“That wasn’t Mitch,” said Jet in alarm; “that was the voice of McLean! Come on, Doc.”
We reached the steps in about ten minutes and quickly descended them to the rhubarb jungle below. We crashed our way through the plants and reached the door of the truck to find, as we had feared, that it was tightly closed. We called Lemmy two or three times but got no reply.
Under normal circumstances, it was possible to open the truck by the remote control set in the outer hull. However, it would not operate if the inner airlock door was not closed and the chamber exhausted. This must have been the case now for, no matter how many times Jet and I tried the outer control, we could not get the mechanism to function. We were absolutely helpless.
While Jet remained at the door, still trying to get the control to open it, I ran round the truck two or three times and banged on it in odd places, futilely calling to Lemmy to let us in.
Then came an excited cry from Jet. “Doc,” he called. “I can hear the airlock exhausting. Somebody’s coming out.”
I hurried round to where Jet was waiting and arrived just in time to see the main door opening. But nobody came out, so we stepped inside, quickly closed the door after us and waited impatiently until the air pressure within the lock equalled that inside the truck. Then we opened the inner door.
The cabin looked as though a tornado had hit it. Lying on the floor, face down, was the suited figure of McLean. His helmet had been removed and was alongside him. Near the control panel, apparently unconscious, was Lemmy, his face all bloody. We ran over to him immediately and Jet called his name.
Lemmy opened his eyes and looked up into the Captain’s face. “Oh, hello, Jet,” he said weakly. “You made it. Thank goodness for that.”
“What happened, Lemmy?” Jet asked. “You’re in a terrible mess.’
“I’ve been in a bit of a rough house, mate. With McLean. I hit him over the head. I had to. He would have killed me otherwise.”
By now I had gone over to the unconscious figure and turned him over on his back. “It’s McLean all right,” I announced, “and you certainly gave him a pasting, Lemmy.”
“Have I hurt him much, Doc?” asked Lemmy, clambering to his feet and coming to where I was bending over the still form on the floor.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “Let me get my suit off and I’ll take a look at him.”
“And how about you, Lemmy?” asked Jet. “How do you feel?”
“Just a bit dizzy, mate, that’s all.”
“All right. Go and He down on one of the beds. As soon as I’m free of this diving suit I’ll clean up your face.”
While Jet tended Lemmy’s wounds and I attended to McLean, we learned the full story of what had happened.
When Lemmy saw the suited figure walking along the path, he immediately concluded that it must be Mitch. This was understandable as it is not easy to recognise anybody from a distance when he is in a space suit. However, he soon learned who it really was when McLean let himself through the air lock, removed his helmet and, standing between the door and Lemmy, faced the radio operator.
At first Lemmy was almost pleased to see him and asked where the rest of the crew of Number Two were.
“Evans was killed in the crash, Lemmy,” said McLean in a curiously flat voice, not unlike Whitaker’s.
“And the others?”
“They are quite safe.”
“But where
are
they?”
“I will take you to them,” said McLean. “Put on your suit, Lemmy, and come with me.”
But Lemmy, as he put it, wasn’t having any. “Oh no,” he said, “we’ll see what Jet has to say first. He gives the orders around here.”
“Orders must be obeyed without question at all times,” said McLean. “Put on your suit and come with me.”
“You take off your suit,” said Lemmy, “and wait till Jet gets here. Now stand away from that radio, I want to talk to him.”
But McLean made no move.
“Get away from that radio, McLean,” ordered Lemmy. “If you are McLean. Because, although you look like him, you certainly don’t sound like him.”
“None of us are ourselves anymore.”
“Well, I don’t feel like anybody but myself. Now, are you going to move out of the way or do I have to move you?”
McLean did not reply; merely stood watching Lemmy, his arms folded.
“And where’s Mitch?” demanded Lemmy. “What have you done with him?”
“Mitch is quite safe, but he will not be returning. Neither to you, to the Fleet, nor to Earth. Now put your suit on and come with me.”
“Not only am I not coming,” said Lemmy grimly, “but now you’re here, McLean, you’re staying. Nobody is leaving this truck unless Jet says so. Here! What are you trying to do?”
Lemmy broke off and stopped dead in his tracks as McLean, staring at him fixedly, moved slowly towards him.
Lemmy brought up his right fist in an uppercut that caught McLean squarely on the jaw. McLean went down, but was soon on his feet again and then the two men locked together in a struggle that almost wrecked the cabin. Lemmy knew that Jet and I must be hurrying towards the truck and that we couldn’t get in unless the inner door of the airlock was closed, so he struggled desperately to get to the control. Time after time McLean prevented him till, at last, Lemmy made a supreme effort, broke from McLean’s grasp, and snatched a large spanner from where it hung on the wall. McLean rushed at the radio operator but, as he did so, Lemmy brought the spanner down. McLean dropped in his tracks.
McLean lay on the bunk on which I had placed him for nearly an hour. Strangely, in all that time his eyes were open, fixed to a point on the ceiling. He appeared not to be conscious, yet when I called his name, he stirred slightly. I called him a second time and again he stirred. “McLean,” I said, “can you hear me?”
His voice came back at once, flat and dull. “I can hear you.”
“Then why do you lie there?”
“What are your orders?”
“He’s not unconscious at all,” said Jet.
“I’m darned sure he isn’t,” I replied. “But he seems to be in some kind of deep hypnotic state.”
“And what does he mean--what are your orders?”
“I don’t know, unless whoever sent him to us gave him orders--orders that he has now forgotten. And he just lies there, waiting for new ones.”
“Then give him some and see what happens,” suggested Jet.
“McLean,” I said, “sit up.” He sat up without hesitation. “Now lie down.”
He lay back on the bunk again and stared at the ceiling. I looked at McLean thoughtfully. “It seems to me,” I said slowly, “that whoever it was that tried to hypnotise Lemmy has hypnotised McLean.”
“And wherever Mitch is,” asked Jet, “is he in the same state--and able to walk around in the Martian atmosphere and breathe as easily as though he were down on Earth?”
“Almost certainly,” I told him. “We can no longer doubt that there is some power in this planet that is able to control our bodies almost as completely as our own minds can. But, before they can condition us to survive out there in the Martian atmosphere, they must first of all get us into a deep hypnotic state. But it is a well-known fact that no matter how deeply a subject may be hypnotised, it is extremely difficult to get him to do things he would not normally do. Hence the fight Lemmy put up in his dream.”