Free The Martian War by Kevin J. Anderson

dropped back, coughing,but I remained hunched over, shielding my watering eyes, until I, too, had no choice but to stagger back. With savage disappointment, Lowell clenched his hands at his sides. “I have waited years for this moment. I can tolerate a few more hours—but not much longer.”
    Impatient and frustrated, we retired to our shaded tents. We both felt as if our life’s work was coming to its climax. Lowell fetched toiletries, shaved with a basin of tepid water, then changed into a fine new suit and straightened his collar. All the while he kept his gaze intent on the still-glowing pit visible through the propped-open tent flap.
    And the hours dragged on.
    After eating a quickly prepared meal, we shared a celebratory brandy and a cigar. Lowell told me of his longstanding passion for Mars and his intention to use part of the family fortune to build an observatory dedicated to the study of the red planet. His young assistant, A.E. Douglass, had already been sent to scout appropriate locations in the American Southwest, Mexico, and even South America. Then he talked about his journeys as an ambassador to Japan and the insights he had gained from the Eastern mind and its philosophies.
    Oh, our frivolous conversation seems so absurd now as I record it, and I cannot in good conscience set down all our inane thoughts on paper. Let us say that Percival Lowell and I were equally naive and optimistic, and I shall leave the matter at that.
    Soon, we would have a chance to meet a real Martian face to face.
    * * *
    When evening cooled the desert, we set off again. I commanded the remaining Tuaregs to follow with crowbars and pickaxes from the trench excavations, as I thought the Martians might need assistance in opening their armored spacecraft. The superstitious natives accompanied us, though reluctantly.
    Although their culture retained its belief in mysteries and demons, the Tuaregs had seen locomotives and white men coming in large ships. To them, a spaceship cylinder or a creature from Mars was no more fantastic.
    Lowell was mulling over an appropriate speech to welcome the alien visitors, and I wondered if he had considered that the Martians were not likely to speak English. Still, Lowell had a knack for languages. On impulse, he reached into the pocket of his cream-colored jacket and withdrew the oxide-red spectacles I had given him, placing them over his eyes. Now he saw the world as a Martian would, the better to understand them.
    When we finally stood on the crater rim, I could see a dull glow, but most of the cylinder had cooled. The immense object, larger than two railroad cars, made a ticking and crackling sound as its temperature continued to adjust to our environment.
    Lowell noticed the hatch first, and excitement intensified his Bostonian accent. “Look there, Moreau! A circle protruding from the side of the cylinder.” Indeed, a rounded cap was moving like an immense screw, rising from the cylinder’s hull.
    “Someone inside is trying to open it,” I said.
    Before Lowell could say anything, I scrambled down theloose slope. The thin crust of vitrified sand broke beneath my feet, but I dug in my heels and skidded to a halt at the base of the crashed Martian projectile. Breathless, I gazed up at the curved cylinder, awestruck by its sheer size.
    Lowell called from above, “Moreau! Are you all right?”
    Without waiting, I reached forward, amazed that I could feel no heat radiating from the hull. Tentatively, I brought my hand closer and then, with brash resolve, touched it. The metal was still warm, but not unendurable. “It’s completely safe, Lowell.” He needed no further encouragement to join me.
    Above, I heard a scraping sound, and the screw-hatch rotated visibly by a quarter of a turn, then gradually a quarter more. “Perhaps they are too weak to open it the rest of the way,” I said when Lowell stood panting beside me.
    He bellowed to the desert workers gathered around the rim. “Come here