Free The Secret of the Martian Moons by Donald A. Wollheim Page B

or three such bounds. Almost a fifth of the satellite away, on the flattish plain, they set up their instruments.
    It was more than two hours since they had left Phobos and they were relieved when they finally put their eyes in turn to the eyepiece of their scope to see that the mysterious crates were still standing in plain sight exactly as they had been. By this time their friends on Phobos had lost sight of the objective. It was a relief to know that in the half hour that no one had been able to observe the spot, nothing had happened.
    There was one drawback though. At this distance from Mars, the lens which had been powerful enough to carry their vision to such a close range was weaker. Visually they seemed farther away and streets and objects in the ancient Martian city were therefore smaller in appearance.
    “Is this the strongest lens we have?” asked Nelson, bent over the instrument.
    “No,” said Jim. “There’s one stronger still.”
    “Got it here?” asked Nelson, still absorbed in the view.
    “No, it’s back on the ship, I’m afraid,” said Jim, after looking through the stuff they had brought.
    “Maybe one of us had better go back and get it,” Nelse suggested. “If we spot anything, were not going to get any decent details with this eyepiece.”
    “I’ll go,” said Jim. “You keep the watch.” He set off back to the ship without waiting for Nelson to object. In a few moments he had disappeared below the narrow horizon.
    Nelson Parr watched the pile of crates, but nothing happened. He casually swept the telescope back and forth over the city, checking its open areas and connecting viaducts. Then he drew in his breath sharply, stopped his sweep. Over a hitherto unnoticed old road, by the side of the green belt leading into the city, three shapes were moving!
    He watched them and was able to make out that they were vehicles of some sort, rather tear-shaped and moving swiftly without sign of wheels. If he had the stronger lens he could have made out their full detail, but as it was he could make out their dull metallic glint and nothing more.
    He fidgeted, wondering when Worden was coming back. He kept the teardrop shapes in sight, noticing that they were following a route that would bring them up to the crates fairly soon. Undoubtedly they were conveyances which would pick up the boxes and take them somewhere else, probably to the main hideaway of the Martians. He dared not take his eye off them and yet he longed to drop everything and go after Worden to hurry him up.
    It seemed to him that Jim was taking unusually long. He couldn’t call him on his helmet phone, for he knew that the limited direct beam transmission would work only when both senders were in sight, or at least on the same plane.
    Quickly he calculated mentally the speed of the teardrops and the distance and time it would take them to reach the crates. That should give him about twenty minutes. He decided to take the chance. He removed his eye from the view, glanced around. Worden was still not in sight.
    He turned back to where they had left the ship and went after it as fast as he dared in the nearly gravityless conditions of little Deimos. Leaping along he kept watching to spot Jim returning to him, but strangely he did not see him.
    Before long he spotted their spaceboat in the distance. He made it in three more giant leaps—and found Worden. His friend and companion was lying just outside the little rocket boat, lying flat on the ground, motionless.
    Nelson bent over him, turned him over. Jim Worden’s helmet was shattered, his air gone. One look at Jim’s face, and Nelson knew that his companion was dead. Nelson got to his feet, stunned. Then he looked at the rocket ship and got his second shock.
    Someone or something had gotten into it and smashed its controls! As if a madman with an ax had chopped away at it, the little craft had been ruined, its control board battered to a mass