“Martians were—are—explorers, are they not?” Lamont asked. “Isn’t Westward being guided by charts, by observations made by your people?”
Lamont had always seen something rather tragic in Phobos; the fact that he was apparently the last of his kind, the way he folded into seats made for humans like a marionette without a master. But now he had an inkling of another dimension to that tragedy. After all, Phobos had been kept a secret from humanity at large until Westward itself was unveiled just a year before, hidden away by Schultzcorp. The newspaperman remembered the incredulity with which he had examined the photograph shown to him by his editor, dated from the early 1970s, which hinted that there might be such a thing as a living Martian. That had been a compelling enough reason for him to resume his journalistic career, to travel to Mars, to leave his wife behind. If what Phobos said was true—and why shouldn’t it be?—then while Francis Carter himself had returned to the surface and interior of Mars, Phobos had been kept in orbit, helping with the construction of Westward. Not only an orphan, but a captive.
“I’m sure,” Lamont ventured quietly, “that Carter wouldn’t object to you visiting the tower, just for a while, if that’s what you wanted to do.”
“Perhaps not,” Phobos agreed, shrugging slightly and returning his attention to the array of bulb-like projections. “But I have no reason to ask. There isn’t anything I need to know that I can’t find out here, which is where I’m most needed.”
“Martians were—are—explorers, are they not?” Lamont asked. “Isn’t Westward being guided by charts, by observations made by your people?”
Phobos bobbed his oversized head. “During a peculiar phase of our history. A very long and complex history. Broadly speaking, you could say that Martians have always been by nature observers. But not typically explorers. That’s a more human trait.”
“Then why are you doing this?” Lamont asked, gesturing toward the weird machinery. “Why have you directed your superhuman intellect to helping us get out here?”
“Because,” Phobos smiled, “I’m the only one who can.”
He examined the pattern of slowly blinking lights for a long moment and then, with languid grace, carefully extracted another rod.
Monday: Ravenous