Red Planet

  “Hey!” yelled Jim. “Put him down!”

  No answer.

  Jim turned hastily to Frank. “You talk to him, Frank. I'll never be able to make him understand me. Please!” Of the Martian dominant language Jim understood little and spoke less. Frank was somewhat better, but only by comparison. Those who speak Martian complain that it hurts their throats.

  “What’111 say?”

  “Tell him to put Willis down! Or, so help me, I'll burn his legs off!”

  “Oh, now, Jim, you wouldn't do anything like that. It would get your whole family in trouble.”

  “If he hurts Willis, I sure will!”

  “Grow up. Martians never hurt anybody.”

  “Well, tell him to put Willis down, then.”

  “I'll try.” Frank screwed up his mouth and got to work. His accent, bad at best, was made worse by the respirator and by nervousness. Nevertheless he clucked and croaked his way through a phrase that seemed to mean what Jim wanted. Nothing happened.

  He tried again, using a different idiom; still nothing happened. “It's no good, Jim,” he admitted. “Either he doesn't understand me or he doesn't want to bother to listen.”

  Jim shouted, “Willis! Hey, Willis! Are you all right?”

  “Willis fine!”

  “Jump down! I'll catch you.”

  “Willis fine.”

  The Martian wobbled his head, seemed to locate Jim for the first time. He cradled Willis in one arm; his other two arms came snaking suddenly down and enclosed Jim, one palm flap cradling him where he sat down, the other slapping him across the belly. Jim was unable to get at his gun, which was just as well.

  He felt himself lifted and held and then he was staring into a large liquid Martian eye which stared back at him. The Martian “man” rocked his head back and forth and let each of his eyes have a good look.

  It was the closest Jim had ever been to a Martian; he did not care for it. Worse, the little supercharger on the top of Jim's mask compressed not only the thin air, but also the body odor of the native; the stench was overpowering. Jim tried to wiggle away, but the fragile-appearing Martian was stronger than he was.

  Suddenly the Martian's voice boomed out from the top of his head. Jim could not understand what was being said although he spotted the question symbol at the beginning of the phrase. But the Martian's voice had a strange effect on him. Croaking and uncouth though it was, it was filled with such warmth and sympathy and friendliness that the native no longer frightened him. Instead he seemed like an old and trusted friend. Even the stink of his kind no longer troubled Jim.

  The Martian repeated the question.

  “What did he say, Frank?”

  “I didn't get it. Shall I burn him?” Frank stood uneasily by, his gun drawn, but apparently unsure what to do.

  “No, no! He's friendly, but I can't understand him.”

  The Martian spoke again; Frank listened. “He's inviting you to go with him, I think.”

  Jim hesitated a split second. “Tell him okay.”

  “Jim, are you crazy?”

  “It's all right. He means well. I'm sure of it.”

  “Well—all right.” Frank croaked the phrase of assent.

  The native gathered up one leg and strode rapidly away toward the city. Frank trotted after. He tried his best to keep up, but the pace was too much for him. He paused, gasping, then shouted, “Wait for me,” his voice muffled by his mask.

  Jim tried to phrase a demand to stop, gave up, then got an inspiration. “Say, Willis—Willis boy. Tell him to wait for Frank.”

  “Wait for Frank?” Willis said doubtfully.

  “Yes. Wait for Frank.”

  “Okay.” Willis hooted at his new friend; the Martian paused and dropped his third leg. Frank came puffing up.

  The Martian removed one arm from Jim and scooped up Frank with it. “Hey!” Frank protested. “Cut it out.”

  “Take it easy,” advised Jim.

  “But I don't want to be carried. Judas—what a smell! Pew!”

  “Smell? Don't be a sissy. He smells better than you do.”

  Frank's reply was disturbed by the Martian starting up again. Thus burdened, he shifted to a three-legged gait in which at least two legs were always on the ground. It was bumpy but surprisingly fast. Finally Frank managed to say, “Repeat that last crack when we get down and I'll show you who smells bad.”

  “Forget it,” urged Jim. “Where do you suppose he is taking us?”

  “To the city I guess.” Frank added,”We don't want to miss the scooter.”

  “We've got hours yet. Quit worrying.”

  The Martian said nothing more but continued slogging toward Cynia. Willis was evidently as happy as a bee in a flower shop. Jim settled down to enjoying the ride. Now that he was being carried with his head a good ten feet above ground his view was much improved; he could see over the tops of the plants growing by the canal and beyond them to the iridescent towers of Cynia. The towers were not like those of Charax; no two Martian cities looked alike. It was as if each were a unique work of art, each expressing the thoughts of a different artist.

  Jim wondered why the towers had been built, what they were good for, how old they were?

  The canal crops spread out around them, a dark green sea in which the Martian waded waist deep. The broad leaves were spread flat to the Sun's rays, reaching greedily for life-giving radiant energy. They curled aside as the native's body brushed them, to spread again as he passed.

  The towers grew much closer; suddenly the Martian stopped and set the two boys down. He continued to carry Willis. Ahead of them, almost concealed by overhanging greenery, a ramp slanted down into the ground and entered a tunnel arch. Jim looked at it and said, “Frank, what do you think?”

  “Gee, I don't know.” The boys had been inside the cities of Charax and Copais, but only in the abandoned parts and at ground level. They were not allowed time to fret over their decision; their guide started down the slope at a good clip.

  Jim ran after him, shouting, “Hey, Willis!”

  The Martian stopped and exchanged a couple of remarks with Willis; the bouncer called out, “Jim wait.”

  “Tell him to put you down.”

  “Willis fine. Jim wait.” The Martian started up again at a pace that Jim could not possibly match. Jim went disconsolately back to the start of the ramp and sat down on the ledge thereof.

  “What are you going to do?” demanded Frank.

  “Wait, I suppose. What else can I do? What are you going to do?”

  “Oh, I'll stick. But I'm not going to miss the scooter.”

  “Well, neither am I. We couldn't stay here after sundown anyhow.”

  “You ain't whistling!” The precipitous drop in temperature at sunset on Mars is almost all the weather there is, but it means death by freezing for an Earth human unless he is specially clothed and continuously exercising.

  They sat and waited and watched spin bugs skitter past. One stopped by Jim's knee, a little tripod of a creature, less than an inch high; it appeared to study him. He touched it; it flung out its limbs and whirled away The boys were not even alert, since a water-seeker will not come close to a Martian settlement; they simply waited.

  Perhaps a half hour later the Martian—or, at least, a Martian of the same size—came back. He did not have Willis with him. Jim's face fell. But the Martian said, “Come with me,” in his own tongue, prefacing the remark with the question symbol.

  “Do we or don't we?” asked Frank.

  “We do. Tell him so.” Frank complied. The three started down. The Martian laid a great hand flap on the shoulders of each boy and herded them along. Shortly he stopped and picked them up. This time they made no objection.

  The tunnel seemed to remain in full daylight even after they had penetrated several hundred yards underground. The light came from everywhere but especially from the ceiling. The tunnel was large by human standards but no more than comfortably roomy for Martians. They passed several
other natives; if another was moving their host always boomed a greeting, but if he was frozen in the characteristic trancelike immobility no sound was made.

  Once their guide stepped over a ball about three feet in diameter. Jim could not make out what it was at first, then he did a double take and was still more puzzled. He twisted his neck and looked back at it. It couldn't be—but it was!

  He was gazing at something few humans ever see, and no human ever wants to see: a Martian folded and rolled into a ball, his hand flaps covering everything but his curved back. Martians— modern, civilized Martians—do not hibernate, but at some time remote eons in the past their ancestors must have done so, for they are still articulated so that they can assume the proper, heat-conserving, moisture-conserving globular shape, if they wish.

  They hardly ever so wish.

  For a Martian to roll up is the moral equivalent of an Earthly duel to the death and is resorted to only when that Martian is offended so completely that nothing less will suffice. It means: I cast you out, I leave your world, I deny your existence.

  The first pioneers on Mars did not understand this, and, through ignorance of Martian values, offended more than once. This delayed human colonization of Mars by many years; it took the most skilled diplomats and semanticians of Earth to repair the unwitting harm. Jim stared unbelievingly at the withdrawn Martian and wondered what could possibly have caused him to do that to an entire city. He remembered a grisly tale told him by Doctor MacRae concerning the second expedition to Mars. “So this dumb fool,” the doctor had said, “a medical lieutenant he was, though I hate to admit it—this idiot grabs hold of the beggar's flaps and tries to unroll him. Then it happened.”

  “What happened?” Jim had demanded.

  “He disappeared.”

  “The Martian?”

  “No, the medical officer.”

  “Huh? How did he disappear?”

  “Don't ask me; I didn't see it. The witnesses—four of ‘em, with sworn statements—say there he was and then there he wasn't. As if he had met a boojum.”

  “What's a ‘boojum’?” Jim had wanted to know.

  “You modern kids don't get any education, do you? The boojum is in a book; I'll dig up a copy for you.”

  “But how did he disappear?”

  “Don't ask me. Call it mass hypnosis if it makes you feel any better. It makes me feel better, but not much. All I can say is that seven-eighths of an iceberg never shows.” Jim had never seen an iceberg, so the allusion was wasted on him—but he felt decidedly not better when he saw the rolled up Martian.

  “Did you see that?” demanded Frank.

  “I wish I hadn't,” said Jim. “I wonder what happened?”

  “Maybe he ran for mayor and lost.”

  “It's nothing to joke about. Maybe he— Ssshl” Jim broke off. He caught sight of another Martian, immobile, but not rolled up; politeness called for silence.

  The Martian carrying them made a sudden turn to the left and entered a hall; he put them down. The room was very large to them; to Martians it was probably suitable for a cozy social gathering. There were many of the frames they use as a human uses a chair and these were arranged in a circle. The room itself was circular and domed; it had the appearance of being outdoors for the domed ceiling simulated Martian sky, pale blue at the horizon, increasing to warmer blue, then to purple, and reaching purple-black with stars piercing through at the highest point of the ceiling.

  A miniature sun, quite convincing, hung west of the meridian. By some trick of perspective the pictured horizons were apparently distant. On the north wall Oeroe seemed to flow past.

  Frank's comment was, “Gee whiz!;” Jim did not manage that much.

  Their host had placed them by two resting frames. The boys did not attempt to use them; stepladders would have been more comfortable and convenient. The Martian looked first at them, then at the frames, with great sorrowful eyes. He left the room.

  He came back very shortly, followed by two others; all three were carrying loads of colorful fabrics. They dumped them down in a pile in the middle of the room. The first Martian picked up Jim and Frank and deposited them gently on the heap.

  “I think he means, ‘Draw up a chair,’ “ commented Jim.

  The fabrics were not woven but were a continuous sheet, like cobweb, and almost as soft, though much stronger. They were in all hues of all colors from pastel blue to deep, rich red. The boys sprawled on them and waited.

  Their host relaxed himself on one of the resting frames; the two others did the same. No one said anything. The two boys were decidedly not tourists; they knew better than to try to hurry a Martian. After a bit Jim got an idea; to test it he cautiously raised his mask. Frank snapped, “Say! What ‘cha trying to do? Choke to death?”

  Jim left his mask up. “It's all right. The pressure is up.”

  “Huh? It can't be. We didn't come through a pressure lock.”

  “Have it your own way.” Jim left his mask up. Seeing that he did not turn blue, gasp, nor become slack featured, Frank ventured to try it himself. He found himself able to breathe without trouble. To be sure, the pressure was not as great as he was used to at home and it would have seemed positively stratospheric to an Earthling, but it was enough for a man at rest.

  Several other Martians drifted in and unhurriedly composed themselves on frames. After a while Frank said, “Do you know what's going on, Jim?”

  “Uh—maybe.”

  “No ‘maybes’ about it. It's a ‘Growing-together.’“

  “Growing together” is an imperfect translation of a Martian idiom which names their most usual social event—in bald terms, just sitting around and saying nothing. In similar terms, violin music has been described as dragging a horse's tail across the dried gut of a cat. “I guess you're right,” agreed Jim. “We had better button our lips.”

  “Yeah.”

  For a long time nothing was said. Jim's thoughts drifted away, to school and what he would do there, to his family, to things in the past. He came back presently to personal self-awareness and realized that he was happier than he had been in a long time, with no particular reason that he could place. It was a quiet happiness; he felt no desire to laugh nor even to smile, but he was perfectly relaxed and content.

  He was acutely aware of the presence of the Martians, of each individual Martian, and was becoming even more aware of them with each drifting minute. He had never noticed before how beautiful they were. “Ugly as a native” was a common phrase with the colonials; Jim recalled with surprise that he had even used it himself, and wondered why he ever had done so.

  He was aware, too, of Frank beside him and thought about how much he liked him. Staunch—that was the word for Frank, a good man to have at your back. He wondered why he had never told Frank that he liked him.

  Mildly he missed Willis, but was not worried about him. This sort of a party was not Willis's dish; Willis liked things noisy, boisterous, and unrefined. Jim put aside the thought of Willis, lay back, and soaked in the joy of living. He noted with delight that the unknown artist who had designed this room had arranged for the miniature sun to move across the ceiling just as the true Sun moved across the sky. He watched it travel to the west and presently begin to drop toward the pictured horizon.

  There came a gentle booming behind him—he could not catch the words—and another Martian answered. One of them unfolded himself from his resting stand and ambled out of the room. Frank sat up and said, “I must have been dreaming.”

  “Did you go to sleep?” asked Jim. “I didn't.”

  “The heck you didn't. You snored like Doc MacRae.”

  “Why I wasn't even asleep.”

  “Says you!”

  The Martian who had left the room returned. Jim was sure it was the same one; they no longer looked alike to him. He was carrying a drinking vase. Frank's eyes bulged out. “Do you suppose they are going to serve us water?”

  “Looks like,” Jim answered in an awed voice.
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  Frank shook his head. “We might as well keep this to ourselves; nobody'll ever believe us.”

  “Yeah. You're right.”

  The ceremony began. The Martian with the vase announced his own name, barely touched the stem of the vase and passed it on. The next Martian gave his name and also simulated drinking. Around the circle it came. The Martian who had brought them in, Jim learned, was named “Gekko;” it seemed a pretty name to Jim and fitting. At last the vase came around to Jim; a Martian handed it to him with the wish, “May you never suffer thirst.” The words were quite clear to him.

  There was an answering chorus around him: “May you drink deep whenever you wish!”

  Jim took the vase and reflected that Doc said that the Martians didn't have anything that was catching for humans. “Jim Marlowe!” he announced, placed the stem in his mouth and took a sip.

  As he handed it back he dug into his imperfect knowledge of the dominant language, concentrated on his accent and managed to say, “May water ever be pure and plentiful for you.” There was an approving murmur that warmed him. The Martian handed the vase to Frank.

  With the ceremony over the party broke up in noisy, almost human chatter. Jim was trying vainly to follow what was being said to him by a Martian nearly three times his height when Frank said, “Jim! You see that sun? We're going to miss the scooter!”

  “Huh? That's not the real Sun; that's a toy”

  “No, but it matches the real Sun. My watch says the same thing.”

  “Oh, for Pete's sake! Where's Willis? Gekko—where's Gekko?”

  Gekko, on hearing his name, came over; he clucked inquiringly at Jim. Jim tried very hard to explain their trouble, tripped over syntax, used the wrong directive symbols, lost his accent entirely. Frank shoved him aside and took over. Presently Frank said, “They'll get us there before sunset, but Willis stays here.”

  “Huh? They can't do that!”

  “That's what the man says.”

  Jim thought. “Tell them to bring Willis here and ask him.”

  Gekko was willing to do that. Willis was carried in, placed upon the floor. He waddled up to Jim and said, “Hi, Jim boy! Hi, Frank boy!”