probably rusted to the point of uselessness. Fetishes in the house of the
chief.” He grimaced.
“It sounds funny,” said Marshall slowly, “but I think we have the nucleus of a
very useful arsenal there. Now, one question; do the invaders fly the big ships
any more?”
“Never for scouting. For communication with the other cities, yes, since they
haven’t built any roads, but the turnies use ordinary planes. We never did
develop the rocket to where it could be used for anything but a suicide torpedo,
and the big ships don’t use rockets at all. We don’t know what makes them fly.
But they never bother us. Just the planes.”
“That’s all I want to know,” said Marshall, and the hate-lightnings were hot in
his eyes.
HE STOOD at the western edge of the forest, the cool morning breeze playing
capriciously around him, rustling the leaves over him and the shining Icarus.
The recently arisen sun sent molten gold across the tops of the trees and
transformed the distant city into a thing of impossible splendor.
In the tanks of the ship, resting hidden at the far end of a newly-made aisle
reaching back from the forest’s edge, were twenty-three gallons of gasoline,
with two and one-half gallons of Marshall’s fuel added. His compressor had been
active for a week, charging the secondary tanks with liquid air–the closest he
could come to liquid oxygen, since he had no equipment for fractional
distillation. He remembered how long that compressor had had to strain to
liquify enough of the thin Martian atmosphere, and how many times he’d had to