Double Star

  “Oh. I’m still learning about Martian psychology and customs.”

  “Aren’t we all!”

  “Rog? Mmm… What leads you to think that he is still alive? Wouldn’t their purpose be better served—and with less risk—just by killing him?” I was thinking queasily how simple it had turned out to be to get rid of a body, if a man was ruthless enough.

  “I see what you mean. But that, too, is tied up with Martian notions about ‘propriety.’” (He used the Martian word.) “Death is the one acceptable excuse for not carrying out an obligation. If he were simply killed, they would adopt him into the nest after his death—and then the whole nest and probably every nest on Mars would set out to avenge him. They would not mind in the least if the whole human race were to die or be killed—but to kill this one human being to keep him from being adopted, that’s another kettle of fish entirely. Matter of obligation and propriety—in some ways a Martian’s response to a situation is so automatic as to remind one of instinct. It is not, of course, since they are incredibly intelligent. But they do the damnedest things.” He frowned and added, “Sometimes I wish I had never left Sussex.”

  The warning hooter broke up the discussion by forcing us to hurry to our bunks. Dak had cut it fine on purpose; the shuttle rocket from Goddard City was waiting for us when we settled into free fall. All five of us went down, which just filled the passenger couches—again a matter of planning, for the Resident Commissioner had expressed the intention of coming up to meet me and had been dissuaded only by Dak’s message to him that our party would require all the space.

  I tried to get a better look at the Martian surface as we went down, as I had had only one glimpse of it, from the control room of the Tom Paine—since I was supposed to have been there many times I could not show the normal curiosity of a tourist. I did not get much of a look; the shuttle pilot did not turn us so that we could see until he leveled off for his glide approach and I was busy then putting on my oxygen mask.

  That pesky Mars-type mask almost finished us; I had never had a chance to practice with it—Dak did not think of it and I had not realized it would be a problem; I had worn both space suit and aqua lung on other occasions and I thought this would be about the same. It was not. The model Bonforte favored was a mouthfree type, a Mitsubushi “Sweet Winds” which pressurizes directly at the nostrils—a nose clamp, nostril plugs, tubes up each nostril which then run back under each ear to the supercharger on the back of your neck. I concede that it is a fine device, once you get used to it, since you can talk, eat, drink, etc., while wearing it. But I would rather have a dentist put both hands in my mouth.

  The real difficulty is that you have to exercise conscious control on the muscles that close the back of your mouth, or you hiss like a teakettle, since the durn thing operates on a pressure difference. Fortunately the pilot equalized to Mars-surface pressure once we all had our masks on, which gave me twenty minutes or so to get used to it. But for a few moments I thought the jig was up, just over a silly piece of gadgetry. But I reminded myself that I had worn the thing hundreds of times before and that I was as used to it as I was to my toothbrush. Presently I believed it.

  Dak had been able to avoid having the Resident Commissioner chit-chat with me for an hour on the way down but it had not been possible to miss him entirely; he met the shuttle at the sky field. The close timing did keep me from having to cope with other humans, since I had to go at once into the Martian city. It made sense, but it seemed strange that I would be safer among Martians than among my own kind.

  It seemed even stranger to be on Mars.

  5

  Mr. Commissioner Boothroyd was a Humanity Party appointee, of course, as were all of his staff except for civil service technical employees. But Dak had told me that it was at least sixty-forty that Boothroyd had not had a finger in the plot; Dak considered him honest but stupid. For that matter, neither Dak nor Rog Clifton believed that Supreme Minister Quiroga was in it; they attributed the thing to the clandestine terrorist group inside the Humanity Party who called themselves the “Actionists”—and they attributed them to some highly respectable big-money boys who stood to profit heavily.

  Myself, I would not have known an Actionist from an auctioneer.

  But the minute we landed something popped up that made me wonder whether friend Boothroyd was as honest and stupid as Dak thought he was. It was a minor thing but one of those little things that can punch holes in an impersonation. Since I was a Very Important Visitor the Commissioner met me; since I held no public office other than membership in the Grand Assembly and was traveling privately no official honors were offered. He was alone save for his aide—and a little girl about fifteen.

  I knew him from photographs and I knew quite a bit about him; Rog and Penny had briefed me carefully. I shook hands, asked about his sinusitis, thanked him for the pleasant time I had had on my last visit, and spoke with his aide in that warm man-to-man fashion that Bonforte was so good at. Then I turned to the young lady. I knew Boothroyd had children and that one of them was about this age and sex; I did not know—perhaps Rog and Penny did not know—whether or not I had ever met her.

  Boothroyd himself saved me. “You haven’t met my daughter Deirdre, I believe. She insisted on coming along.”

  Nothing in the pictures I had studied had shown Bonforte dealing with young girls—so I simply had to be Bonforte—a widower in his middle fifties who had no children of his own, no nieces, and probably little experience with teen-age girls—but with lots of experience in meeting strangers of every sort. So I treated her as if she were twice her real age; I did not quite kiss her hand. She blushed and looked pleased.

  Boothroyd looked indulgent and said, “Well, ask him, my dear. You may not have another chance.”

  She blushed deeper and said, “Sir, could I have your autograph? The girls in my school collect them. I have Mr. Quiroga’s… I ought to have yours.” She produced a little book which she had been holding behind her.

  I felt like a copter driver asked for his license—which is home in his other pants. I had studied hard but I had not expected to have to forge Bonforte’s signature. Damn it, you can’t do everything in two and a half days!

  But it was simply impossible for Bonforte to refuse such a request—and I was Bonforte. I smiled jovially and said, “You have Mr. Quiroga’s already?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just his autograph?”

  “Yes. Er, he put ‘Best Wishes’ on it.”

  I winked at Boothroyd. “Just ‘Best Wishes’ eh? To young ladies I never make it less than ‘Love.’ Tell you what I’m going to do—” I took the little book from her, glanced through the pages.

  “Chief,” Dak said urgently, “we are short on minutes.”

  “Compose yourself,” I said without looking up. “The entire Martian nation can wait, if necessary, on a young lady.” I handed the book to Penny. “Will you note the size of this book? And then remind me to send a photograph suitable for pasting in it—and properly autographed, of course.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bonforte.”

  “Will that suit you, Miss Deirdre?”

  “Gee!”

  “Good. Thanks for asking me. We can leave now, Captain. Mr. Commissioner, is that our car?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bonforte.” He shook his head wryly. “I’m afraid you have converted a member of my own family to your Expansionist heresies. Hardly sporting, eh? Sitting ducks, and so forth?”

  “That should teach you not to expose her to bad company—eh, Miss Deirdre?” I shook hands again. “Thanks for meeting us, Mr. Commissioner. I am afraid we had better hurry along now.”

  “Yes, certainly. Pleasure.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Bonforte!”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  I turned away slowly, so as not to appear jerky or nervous in stereo. There were photographers around, still, news pickup, stereo, and so forth, as well as many reporters. Bill was keeping the reporters away from us; as we turned to
go he waved and said, “See you later, Chief,” and turned back to talk to one of them. Rog, Dak, and Penny followed me into the car. There was the usual skyfield crowd, not as numerous as at any earthport, but numerous. I was not worried about them as long as Boothroyd accepted the impersonation—though there were certainly some present who knew that I was not Bonforte.

  But I refused to let those individuals worry me, either. They could cause us no trouble without incriminating themselves.

  The car was a Rolls Outlander, pressurized, but I left my oxygen mask on because the others did. I took the right-hand seat, Rog sat beside me, and Penny beside him, while Dak wound his long legs around one of the folding seats. The driver glanced back through the partition and started up.

  Rog said quietly, “I was worried there for a moment.”

  “Nothing to worry about. Now let’s all be quiet, please. I want to review my speech.”

  Actually I wanted to gawk at the Martian scene; I knew the speech perfectly. The driver took us along the north edge of the field, past many godowns. I read signs for Verwijs Trading Company, Diana Outlines, Ltd., Three Planets, and I. G. Farbenindustrie. There were almost as many Martians as humans in sight. We ground hogs get the impression that Martians are slow as snails—and they are, on our comparatively heavy planet. On their own world they skim along on their bases like a stone sliding over water.

  To the right, south of us past the flat field, the Great Canal dipped into the too-close horizon, showing no shore line beyond. Straight ahead of us was the Nest of Kkkah, a fairy city. I was staring at it, my heart lifting at its fragile beauty, when Dak moved suddenly.

  We were well past the traffic around the godowns but there was one car ahead, coming toward us; I had seen it without noticing it. But Dak must have been edgily ready for trouble; when the other car was quite close, he suddenly slammed down the partition separating us from the driver, swarmed over the man’s neck, and grabbed the wheel. We slewed to the right, barely missing the other car, slewed again to the left and barely stayed on the road. It was a near thing, for we were past the field now and here the highway edged the canal.

  I had not been much use to Dak a couple of days earlier in the Eisenhower, but I had been unarmed and not expecting trouble. This day I was still unarmed, not so much as a poisoned fang, but I comported myself a little better. Dak was more than busy trying to drive the car while leaning over from the back seat. The driver, caught off balance at first, now tried to wrestle him away from the wheel.

  I lunged forward, got my left arm around the driver’s neck, and shoved my right thumb into his ribs. “Move and you’ve had it!” The voice belonged to the hero-villain in The Second-Story Gentleman; the line of dialogue was his too.

  My prisoner became very quiet.

  Dak said urgently, “Rog, what are they doing?”

  Clifton looked back and answered, “They’re turning around.”

  Dak answered, “Okay. Chief, keep your gun on that character while I climb over.” He was doing so even as he spoke, an awkward matter in view of his long legs and the crowded car. He settled into the seat and said happily, “I doubt if anything on wheels can catch a Rolls on a straightaway.” He jerked on the damper and the big car shot forward. “How am I doing, Rog?”

  “They’re just turned around.”

  “All right. What do we do with this item? Dump him out?”

  My victim squirmed and said, “I didn’t do anything!” I jabbed my thumb harder and he quieted.

  “Oh, not a thing,” Dak agreed, keeping his eyes on the road. “All you did was try to cause a little crash—just enough to make Mr. Bonforte late for his appointment. If I had not noticed that you were slowing down to make it easy on yourself, you might have got away with it. No guts, eh?” He took a slight curve with the tires screaming and the gyro fighting to keep us upright. “What’s the situation, Rog?”

  “They’ve given up.”

  “So.” Dak did not slacken speed; we must have been doing well over three hundred kilometers. “I wonder if they would try to bomb us with one of their own boys aboard? How about it, bub? Would they write you off as expendable?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re going to be in trouble over this!”

  “Really? The word of four respectable people against your jailbird record? Or aren’t you a transportee? Anyhow, Mr. Bonforte prefers to have me drive him—so naturally you were glad to do a favor for Mr. Bonforte.” We hit something about as big as a worm cast on that glassy road and my prisoner and I almost went through the roof.

  “Mr. Bonforte!”’ My victim made it a swear word.

  Dak was silent for several seconds. At last he said, “I don’t think we ought to dump this one, Chief. I think we ought to let you off, then take him to a quiet place. I think he might talk if we urged him.”

  The driver tried to get away. I tightened the pressure on his neck and jabbed him again with my thumb knuckle. A knuckle may not feel too much like the muzzle of a heater—but who wants to find out? He relaxed and said sullenly, “You don’t dare give me the needle.”

  “Heavens, no!” Dak answered in shocked tones. “That would be illegal. Penny girl, got a bobby pin?”

  “Why, certainly, Dak.” She sounded puzzled and I was. She did not sound frightened, though, and I certainly was.

  “Good. Bub, did you ever have a bobby pin shoved up under your fingernails? They say it will even break a hypnotic command not to talk. Works directly on the subconscious or something. Only trouble is that the patient makes the most unpleasant noises. So we are going to take you out in the dunes where you won’t disturb anybody but sand scorpions. After you have talked—now here comes the nice part! After you talk we are going to turn you loose, not do anything, just let you walk back into town. But—listen carefully now!—if you are real nice and co-operative, you get a prize. We’ll let you have your mask for the walk.”

  Dak stopped talking; for a moment there was no sound but the keening of the thin Martian air past the roof. A human being can walk possibly two hundred yards on Mars without an oxygen mask, if he is in good condition. I believe I read of a case where a man walked almost half a mile before he died. I glanced at the trip meter and saw that we were about twenty-three kilometers from Goddard City.

  The prisoner said slowly, “Honest, I don’t know anything about it. I was just paid to crash the car.”

  “We’ll try to stimulate your memory.” The gates of the Martian city were just ahead of us; Dak started slowing the car. “Here’s where you get out, Chief. Rog, better take your gun and relieve the Chief of our guest.”

  “Right, Dak.” Rog moved up by me, jabbed the man in the ribs—again with a bare knuckle. I moved out of the way. Dak braked the car to a halt, stopping right in front of the gates.

  “Four minutes to spare,” he said happily. “This is a nice car. I wish I owned it. Rog, ease up a touch and give me room.”

  Clifton did so, Dak chopped the driver expertly on the side of his neck with the edge of his hand; the man went limp. “That will keep him quiet while you get clear. Can’t have any unseemly disturbance under the eyes of the nest. Let’s check time.”

  We did so. I was about three and a half minutes ahead of the deadline. “You are to go in exactly on time, you understand? Not ahead, not behind, but on the dot.”

  “That’s right,” Clifton and I answered in chorus.

  “Thirty seconds to walk up the ramp, maybe. What do you want to do with the three minutes you have left?”

  I sighed. “Just get my nerve back.”

  “Your nerve is all right. You didn’t miss a trick back there. Cheer up, old son. Two hours from now you can head for home, with your pay burning holes in your pocket. We’re on the last lap.”

  “I hope so. It’s been quite a strain. Uh, Dak?”

  “Yes?”

  “Come here a second.” I got out of the car, motioned him to come with me a short distance away. “What happens if I made a
mistake—in there?”

  “Eh?” Dak looked surprised, then laughed a little too heartily. “You won’t make a mistake. Penny tells me you’ve got it down Jo-block perfect.”

  “Yes, but suppose I slip?”

  “You won’t slip. I know how you feel; I felt the same way on my first solo grounding. But when it started, I was so busy doing it I didn’t have time to do it wrong.”

  Clifton called out, his voice thin in thin air, “Dak! Are you watching the time?”

  “Gobs of time. Over a minute.”

  “Mr. Bonforte!” It was Penny’s voice. I turned and went back to the car. She got out and put out her hand. “Good luck, Mr. Bonforte.”

  “Thanks, Penny.”

  Rog shook hands and Dak clapped me on the shoulder. “Minus thirty-five seconds. Better start.”

  I nodded and started up the ramp. It must have been within a second or two of the exact, appointed time when I reached the top, for the mighty gates rolled back as I came to them. I took a deep breath and cursed that damned air mask.

  Then I took my stage.

  It doesn’t make any difference how many times you do it, that first walk on as the curtain goes up on the first night of any run is a breathcatcher and a heart-stopper. Sure, you know your sides. Sure, you’ve asked the manager to count the house. Sure, you’ve done it all before. No matter—when you first walk out there and know that all those eyes are on you, waiting for you to speak, waiting for you to do something—maybe even waiting for you to go up on your lines, brother, you feel it. This is why they have prompters.

  I looked out and saw my audience and I wanted to run. I had stage fright for the first time in thirty years.

  The siblings of the nest were spread out before me as far as I could see. There was an open lane in front of me, with thousands on each side, set close together as asparagus. I knew that the first thing I must do was slow-march down the center of that lane, clear to the far end, to the ramp leading down into the inner nest.