Arthur C. Clarke - The Sands Of Mars

The Sands of Mars

by Arthur C. Clarke

version 1.0

FOREWORD

The Sands of Mars, my first full-length novel, was written

in the late 1940's—when Mars seemed very much farther

away than it is today. Reading it again after a lapse of

many years, I am agreeably surprised to find how little it

has been dated by the explosive developments of the Space

Age. True, there are a few technical concepts which are

slightly outmoded (readers may get some amusement try-

ing to spot them); and there is perhaps rather more ex-

planation of fundamentals than is strictly necessary in

these enlightened times. But there is very little indeed

that I would change if I were writing this story today.

It was one of the first science-fiction novels about Mars

to abandon the romantic fantasies of Percival Lowell,

Edgar Rice Burroughs, C. S. Lewis, and Ray Bradbury

(four gentlemen I admire greatly, though not necessarily

for the same reasons). By the 1940's, it was already

certain that the planet's atmosphere was far too thin to

support higher animals of the terrestrial type—and what

little there was of it contained no oxygen. There could

be no Martian princesses, alas; and when human beings

reached the red planet, they would not be able to walk on

its surface without breathing aids. The chief problem I

faced in writing this novel was, therefore, that of making

Mars interesting and exciting despite these limitations. Or,

if possible, because of them.

The brilliantly successful Mariner TV mission has shown

that the atmospheric pressure on Mars is even lower than

had been generally assumed; we may need space suits

there, not merely breathing masks. Apart from this—and

the unexpected (by everyone except Clyde Tombaugh) dis-

covery of extensive cratering—there has been no major

change in our picture of the planet.

Above all, the question of Martian life is still entirely

open. In their well-known paper "A Search for Life on

Earth at Kilometer Resolution," Carl Sagan and his col-

leagues used meteorological satellite photographs to show

that Mariner IV could not possibly have detected life even

on the well-populated Earth. Still less could it do so on

Mars, where we do not know what we are looking for. We

will have to land before we can tell whether there is

anyone at home next door.

And even then we may not be sure for quite a long

time. One space scientist has already quoted this book to

make precisely this point. The land area of Mars is greater

than that of Asia, Africa, and the Americas combined; its

exploration will take decades, if not centuries.

Nevertheless, many of the mysteries that have tantalized

generations of men are now rushing toward their solu-

tion. Before this story is twice its present age, we will

have robot explorers dotted all over Mars.

And a little while later, men will be preparing to join

them.

ARTHUR C. CLARKE

London, August 1966

1

"So this is the first time you've been upstairs?" said the

pilot, leaning back idly in his seat so that it rocked to and

fro in the gimbals. He clasped his hands behind his neck

in a nonchalant manner that did nothing to reassure his

passenger.

"Yes," said Martin Gibson, never taking his eyes from

the chronometer as it ticked away the seconds.

"I thought so. You never got it quite right in your sto-

ries—all that nonsense about fainting under the accelera-

tion. Why must people write such stuff? It's bad for busi-

ness."

"I'm sorry," Gibson replied. "But I think you must be

referring to my earlier stories. Space-travel hadn't got

started then, and I had to use my imagination."

"Maybe," said the pilot grudgingly. (He wasn't paying

the slightest attention to the instruments, and take-off was

only two minutes away.) "It must be funny, I suppose, for

this to be happening to you, after writing about it so

often."

The adjective, thought Gibson, was hardly the one he

would have used himself, but he saw the other's point of

view. Dozens of his heroes—and villains—had gazed hyp-

notised by remorseless second-hands, waiting for the rock-

ets to hurl them into infinity. And now—as it always did

if one waited long enough—the reality had caught up with

the fiction. The same moment lay only ninety seconds in

his own future. Yes, it was funny, a beautiful case of po-

etic justice.

The pilot glanced at him, read his feelings, and grinned

cheerfully.

"Don't let your own stories scare you. Why, I once

took off standing up, just for a bet, though it was a damn

silly thing to do."

"I'm not scared," Gibson replied with unnecessary em-

phasis.

"Hmmm," said the pilot, condescending to glance at the

clock. The second-hand had one more circuit to go. "Then

I shouldn't hold on to the seat like that It's only beryl-

manganese; you might bend it."

Sheepishly, Gibson relaxed. He knew that he was build-

ing up synthetic responses to the situation, but they seemed

none the less real for all that.

"Of course," said the pilot, still at ease but now, Gibson

noticed, keeping his eyes fixed on the instrument panel,

"it wouldn't be very comfortable if it lasted more than a

few minutes—ah, there go the fuel pumps. Don't worry

when the vertical starts doing funny things, but let the

seat swing where it likes. Shut your eyes if that helps at

all. (Hear the igniter jets start then?) We take about ten

seconds to build up to full thrust—there's really nothing

to it, apart from the noise. You just have to put up with

that. I SAID, YOU JUST HAVE TO PUT UP WITH

THAT!"

But Martin Gibson was doing nothing of the sort. He

had already slipped gracefully into unconsciousness at an

acceleration that had not yet exceeded that of a high-speed

elevator.

He revived a few minutes and a thousand kilometres*

later, feeling quite ashamed of himself. A beam of sunlight

was shining full on his face, and he realised that the pro-

tective shutter on the outer hull must have slid aside. Al-

though brilliant, the light was not as intolerably fierce

as he would have expected; then he saw that only a frac-

tion of the full intensity was filtering through the deeply

tinted glass.

He looked at the pilot, hunched over his instrument

board and busily writing up the log. Everything was very

quiet, but from time to time there would come curiously

muffled reports—almost miniature explosions—that Gib-

son found disconcerting. He coughed gently to announce

his return to consciousness, and asked the pilot what

they were.

"Thermal contraction in the motors," he replied briefly.

"They've been running round five thousand degrees and

cool mighty fast. You feeling all right now?"

* The metric system is used throughout this account of space-

travel. This decimal system is based upon the metre equalling 39.37

inches. Thus a kilometre would be slightly over one-half mile (0:62

mi.).

"I'm fine," Gibson answered, and meant it. "Shall I get

up?"

Psychologically, he had hit the bottom and bounced

back. It was a very unstable position, though he did not

realise it.

"If you like," said the pilot doubtfully. "But be careful

—hang on to something solid."

Gibson felt a wonderful sense of exhilaration. The mo-

ment he had waited for all his life had come. He was in

space! It was too bad that he'd missed the take-off, but

he'd gloss that part over when he wrote it up.

From a thousand kilometres away, Earth was still very

large—and something of a disappointment. The reason

was quickly obvious. He had seen so many hundreds of

rocket photographs and films that the surprise had been

spoilt; he knew exactly what to expect. There were the in-

evitable moving bands of cloud on their slow march round

the world. At the centre of the disc, the divisions between

land and sea were sharply defined, and an infinite amount

of minute detail was visible, but towards the horizon

everything was lost in the thickening haze. Even in the

cone of clear vision vertically beneath him, most of the

features were unrecognisable and therefore meaningless.

No doubt a meteorologist would have gone into transports

of delight at the animated weather-map displayed below—

but most of the meteorologists were up in the space sta-

tions, anyway, where they had an even better view. Gib-

son soon grew tired of searching for cities and other

works of man. It was chastening to think that all the

thousands of years of human civilisation had produced no

appreciable change in the panorama below.

Then Gibson began to look for the stars, and met his

second disappointment. They were there, hundreds of them,

but pale and wan, mere ghosts of the blinding myriads he

had expected to find. The dark glass of the port was to

blame; in subduing the sun, it had robbed the stars of all

their glory.

Gibson felt a vague annoyance. Only one thing had

turned out quite as expected. The sensation of floating in

mid-air, of being able to propel oneself from wall to

wall at the touch of a finger, was just as delightful as he

had hoped—though the quarters were too cramped for any

ambitious experiments. Weightlessness was an enchanting,

a fairy-like state, now that there were drugs to immobilise

the balance organs and space-sickness was a thing of the

past. He was glad of that. How his heroes had suffered!

(His heroines too, presumably, but one never mentioned

that.) He remembered Robin Blake's first flight, in the

original version of "Martian Dust." When he'd written

that, he had been heavily under the influence of D. H.

Lawrence. (It would be interesting, one day, to make a list

of the authors who hadn't influenced him at one time or

another.)

There was no doubt that Lawrence was magnificent at

describing physical sensations, and quite deliberately Gib-

son had set out to defeat him on his own ground. He had

devoted a whole chapter to space-sickness, describing ev-

ery symptom from the queasy premonitions that could

sometimes be willed aside, the subterranean upheavals that

even the most optimistic could no longer ignore, the vol-

canic cataclysms of the final stages and the ultimate, mer-

ciful exhaustion.

The chapter had been a masterpiece of stark realism. It

was too bad that his publishers, with an eye on a squeam-

ish Book-of-the-Month Club, had insisted on removing

it. He had put a lot of work into that chapter; while he was

writing it, he had really lived those sensations. Even

now—

"It's very puzzling," said the M.Q. thoughtfully as the

now quiescent author was propelled through the airlock.

"He's passed his medical tests O.K., and of course he'll

have had the usual injections before leaving Earth. It must

be psychosomatic."

"I don't care what it is," complained the pilot bitterly,

as he followed the cortege into the heart of Space Station

One. "All I want to know is—who's going to clean up

my ship?"

No one seemed inclined to answer this heart-felt ques-

tion, least of all Martin Gibson, who was only vaguely

conscious of white walls drifting by his field of vision.

Then, slowly, there was a sensation of increasing weight,

and a warm, caressing glow began to steal through his

limbs. Presently he became fully aware of his surroundings.

He was in a hospital ward, and a battery of infrared

lamps was bathing him with a glorious, enervating warmth,

that sank through his flesh to the very bones.

"Well?" said the medical officer presently.

Gibson grinned feebly.

"I'm sorry about this. Is it going to happen again?"

"I don't know how it happened the first time. It's very

unusual; the drugs we have now are supposed to be in-

fallible."

"I think it was my own fault," said Gibson apologetical-

ly. "You see, I've got a rather powerful imagination, and I

started thinking about the symptoms of space-sickness—

in quite an objective sort of way, of course—but before

I knew what had happened——"

"Well, just stop it!" ordered the doctor sharply. "Or

we'll have to send you right back to Earth. You can't do

this sort of thing if you're going to Mars. There wouldn't

be much left of you after three months."

A shudder passed through Gibson's tortured frame.

But he was rapidly recovering, and already the night-

mare of the last hour was fading into the past.

"I'll be O.K.," he said. "Let me out of this muffle-

furnace before I cook."

A little unsteadily, he got to his feet. It seemed strange,

here in space, to have normal weight again. Then he re-

membered that Station One was spinning on its axis, and

the living quarters were built around the outer walls so

that centrifugal force could give the illusion of gravity.

The great adventure, he thought ruefully, hadn't started

at all well. But he was determined not to be sent home in

disgrace. It was not merely a question of his own pride:

the effect on his public and his reputation would be de-

plorable. He winced as he visualised the headlines: "GIB-

SON GROUNDED! SPACE-SICKNESS ROUTS AUTHOR-ASTRO-

NAUT." Even the staid literary weeklies would pull his leg,

and as for "Time"—no, it was unthinkable!

"It's lucky," said the M.O., "that we've got twelve

hours before the ship leaves. I'll take you into the zero-

gravity section and see how you manage there, before I

give you a clean bill of health."

Gibson also thought that was a good idea. He had

always regarded himself as fairly fit, and until now it had

never seriously occurred to him that this journey might

be not merely uncomfortable but actually dangerous. You

could laugh at space-sickness—when you'd never experi-

enced it yourself. Afterwards, it seemed a very different

matter.

The Inner Station—"Space Station One," as it was

usually called—was just over two thousand kilometres

from Earth, circling the planet every two hours. It had been

Man's first stepping-stone to the stars, and though it was

no longer technically necessary for spaceflight, its pres-

ence had a profound effect on the economics of inter-

planetary travel. All journeys to the Moon or the planets

started from here; the unwieldy atomic ships floated along-

side this outpost of Earth while the cargoes from the parent

world were loaded into their holds. A ferry service of

chemically fuelled rockets linked the station to the planet

beneath, for by law no atomic drive unit was allowed

to operate within a thousand kilometres of the Earth's sur-

face. Even this safety margin was felt by many to be

inadequate, for the radioactive blast of a nuclear propul-

sion unit could cover that distance in less than a minute.

Space Station One had grown with the passing years, by

a process of accretion, until its original designers would

never have recognised it. Around the central spherical core

had accumulated observatories, communications labs with

fantastic aerial systems, and mazes of scientific equipment

which only a specialist could identify. But despite all these

additions, the main function of the artificial moon was still

that of refuelling the little ships with which Man was

challenging the immense loneliness of the Solar System.

"Quite sure you're feeling O.K. now?" asked the doc-

tor as Gibson experimented with his feet.

"I think so," he replied, unwilling to commit himself.

"Then come along to the reception room and we'll get

you a drink—a nice hot drink," he added, to prevent any

misunderstanding. "You can sit there and read the paper

for half an hour before we decide what to do with you."

It seemed to Gibson that anticlimax was being piled on

anticlimax. He was two thousand kilometres from Earth,

with the stars all around him; yet here he was forced to

sit sipping sweet tea—tea!—in what might have been an

ordinary dentist's waiting-room. There were no windows,

presumably because the sight of the rapidly revolving

heavens might have undone the good work of the medical

staff. The only way of passing the time was to skim

through piles of magazines which he'd already seen, and

which were difficult to handle as they were ultra-light-

weight editions apparently printed on cigarette paper. For-

tunately he found a very old copy of "Argosy" containing

a story he had written so long ago that he had completely

forgotten the ending, and this kept him happy until the

doctor returned.

"Your pulse seems normal," said the M.O. grudgingly.

"We'll take you along to the zero-gravity chamber. Just

follow me and don't be surprised at anything that hap-

pens."

With this cryptic remark he led Gibson out into a wide,

brightly lit corridor that seemed to curve upwards in both

directions away from the point at which he was standing.

Gibson had no time to examine this phenomenon, for the

doctor slid open a side door and started up a flight of

metal stairs. Gibson followed automatically for a few

paces, then realised just what lay ahead of him and

stopped with an involuntary cry of amazement.

Immediately beneath his feet, the slope of the stairway

was a reasonable forty-five degrees, but it rapidly became

steeper until only a dozen metres ahead the steps were

rising vertically. Thereafter—and it was a sight that might

have unnerved anyone coming across it for the first time

—the increase of gradient continued remorselessly until

the steps began to overhang and at last passed out of

sight above and behind him.

Hearing his exclamation, the doctor looked back and

gave a reassuring laugh.

"You mustn't always believe your eyes," he said. "Come

along and see how easy it is."

Reluctantly Gibson followed, and as he did so he be-

came aware that two very peculiar things were happening.

In the first place he was gradually becoming lighter; in

the second, despite the obvious steepening of the stairway,

the slope beneath bis feet remained at a constant forty-

five degrees. The vertical direction itself, in fact, was slow-

ly tilting as he moved forward, so that despite its increas-

ing curvature the gradient of the stairway never altered.

It did not take Gibson long to arrive at the explanation.

All the apparent gravity was due to the centrifugal force

produced as the station spun slowly on its axis, and as he

approached the centre the force was diminishing to zero.

The stairway itself was winding in towards the axis along

some sort of spiral—once he'd have known its mathemati-

cal name—so that despite the radial gravity field the

slope underfoot remained constant. It was the sort of

thing that people who lived in space stations must get

accustomed to quickly enough; presumably when they re-

turned to Earth the sight of a normal stairway would be

equally unsettling.

At the end of the stairs there was no longer any real

sense of "up" or "down." They were in a long cylindrical

room, criss-crossed with ropes but otherwise empty, and

at its far end a shaft of sunlight came blasting through

an observation port. As Gibson watched, the beam moved

steadily across the metal walls like a questing searchlight,

was momentarily eclipsed, then blazed out again from

another window. It was the first indication Gibson's senses

had given him of the fact that the station was really

spinning on its axis, and he timed the rotation roughly

by noting how long the sunlight took to return to its

original position. The "day" of this little artificial world

was less than ten seconds; that was sufficient to give a

sensation of normal gravity at its outer walls.

Gibson felt rather like a spider in its web as he followed

the doctor hand-over-hand along the guide ropes, towing

himself effortlessly through the air until they came to the

observation post. They were, he saw, at the end of a sort

of chimney jutting out along the axis of the station, so

that they were well clear of its equipment and apparatus

and had an almost unrestricted view of the stars.

"I'll leave you here for a while," said the doctor.

"There's plenty to look at, and you should be quite happy.

If not—well, remember there's normal gravity at the bot-

tom of those stairs!"

Yes, thought Gibson; and a return trip to Earth by the

next rocket as well. But he was determined to pass the

test and to get a clean bill of health.

It was quite impossible to realise that the space station

itself was rotating, and not the framework of sun and

stars: to believe otherwise required an act of faith, a

conscious effort of will. The stars were moving so quickly

that only the brighter ones were cleary visible and the sun,

when Gibson allowed himself to glance at it out of the

corner of his eye, was a golden comet that crossed the

sky every five seconds. With this fantastic speeding up of

the natural order of events, it was easy to see how ancient

man had refused to believe that his own solid earth was

rotating, and had attributed all movement to the turning

celestial sphere.

Partly occulted by the bulk of the station, the Earth was

a great crescent spanning half the sky. It was slowly wax-

ing as the station raced along on its globe-encircling orbit;

in some forty minutes it would be full, and an hour after

that would be totally invisible, a black shield eclipsing

the sun while the station passed through its cone of shad-

ow. The Earth would go through all its phases—from new

to full and back again—in just two hours. The sense of

time became distorted as one thought of these things; the

familiar divisions of day and night, of months and sea-

sons, had no meaning here.

About a kilometre from the station, moving with it in

its orbit but not at the moment connected to it in any

way, were the three spaceships that happened to be "in

dock" at the moment. One was the tiny arrowhead of

the rocket that had brought him, at such expense and

such discomfort, up from Earth an hour ago. The second

was a lunar-bound freighter of, he guessed, about a thou-

sand tons gross. And the third, of course, was the Ares,

almost dazzling in the splendour of her new aluminium

paint.

Gibson had never become reconciled to the loss of the

sleek, steamlined spaceships which had been the dream of

the early twentieth century. The glittering dumb-bell hang-

ing against the stars was not his idea of a space-liner;

though the world had accepted it, he had not. Of course,

he knew the familiar arguments—there was no need for

streamlining in a ship that never entered an atmosphere,

and therefore the design was dictated purely by structural

and power-plant considerations. Since the violently radio-

active drive-unit had to be as far away from the crew

quarters as possible, the double-sphere and long connect-

ing tube was the simplest solution.

It was also, Gibson thought, the ugliest; but that hardly

mattered since the Ares would spend practically all her

life in deep space where the only spectators were the

stars. Presumably she was already fuelled and merely wait-

ing for the precisely calculated moment when her motors

would burst into life, and she would pull away out of the

orbit in which she was circling and had hitherto spent all

her existence, to swing into the long hyperbola that led to

Mars.

When that happened, he would be aboard, launched at

last upon the adventure he had never really believed would

come to him.

2

The captain's office aboard the A res was not designed

to hold more than three men when gravity was acting, but

there was plenty of room for six while the ship was in a

free orbit and one could stand on walls or ceiling accord-

ing to taste. All except one of the group clustered at sur-

realist angles around Captain Norden had been in space

before and knew what was expected of them, but this

was no ordinary briefing. The maiden flight of a new

spaceship is always an occasion and the Ares was the

first of her line—the first, indeed, of all spaceships ever

to be built primarily for passengers and not for freight.

When she was fully commissioned, she would carry a

crew of thirty and a hundred and fifty passengers in some-

what spartan comfort. On her first voyage, however, the

proportions were almost reversed and at the moment her

crew of six was waiting for the single passenger to come

aboard.

"I'm still not quite clear," said Owen Bradley, the elec-

tronics officer, "what we are supposed to do with the fel-

low when we've got him. Whose bright idea was this, any-

way?"

"I was coming to that," said Captain Norden, running

his hands over where his magnificent blond hair had been

only a few days before. (Spaceships seldom carry pro-

fessional barbers, and though there are always plenty of

eager amateurs one prefers to put off the evil day as long

as possible.) "You all know of Mr. Gibson, of course."

This remark produced a chorus of replies, not all of

them respectful.

"I think his stories stink," said Dr. Scott. "The later

ones, anyway. 'Martian Dust' wasn't bad, but of course it's

completely dated now."

"Nonsense!" snorted astrogator Mackay. "The last

stories are much the best, now that Gibson's got interested

in fundamentals and has cut out the blood and thunder."

This outburst from the mild little Scott was most un-

Arthur C. Clarke - The Sands Of Mars

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