The Martian Cabal
CHAPTER X
_One Thousand to One_
The scheme that Sira had imparted to Wasil was simple--simple anddirect. Moreover, it was sure, provided it succeeded. Its executionwas something else again. Its chances were, mathematically expressed,about as follows:
If every single detail worked as expected, a great and smashingsuccess. Ratio: 1:1,000.
If one single detail failed, immediate and certain death for Wasil.Ratio: 1,000:1.
The princess knew that the power of Wilcox, his supporting oligarchyand the interplanetary bankers, was all based on the skilful use ofpropaganda. If the people of Mars and of Earth knew the forces thatwere influencing them, their revulsion would be swift and terrible.There would be no war. There would be events painful and disastrous totheir present rulers, but a great betterment of humanity's condition.
The key to the situation was the news monopoly, the complete controlof all broadcasting--of the stereo-screens, the teletabloids--thatcolored all events to suit the ends of the ruling group. The people ofMars as well as of Earth were capable of intelligent decision, ofstraight thinking, but they rarely had an opportunity to learn thetruth.
They had now, by a knowing play on their emotions, directed bypsychologists, been wrought to a point of frenzy where they demandedwar. Their motives were of the highest in many individuals--purepatriotism, the desire to make the solar system safe for civilization.The bright, flaming spirit of self-sacrifice burned clear above thehaze and smoke of passion.
What would happen if all these eager millions of two neighboringplanets were to learn the true state of affairs? Sira knew whattranspired in those secret conventions, when double guards stood atall doors and at the infrequent windows; when all communication wascut off and the twin lenses of the telestereos and the microphoneswere dead. Prince Joro had told her, with weary cynicism. But Joro hadalso told her that the oligarchs guarded this vital and vulnerablepoint with painstaking care.
* * * * *
Sira had reached inside their first defense, however. Wasil was loyalto his salt, but he had both loyalty and affection for Princess Sira.As the day of the interplanetary financial conference leaped intobeing, he was on his way to the executive hall that lay resplendentlyon the south canal bank, ready to lay down his life.
The hall proper was really only the west wing of the magnificent,high-arched building. Its brilliant, polished metal facade reflectedthe light of the rising Sun redly. The east wing, besides housingvarious minor executive offices, also contained the complicatedapparatus for handling the propaganda broadcastings. On the roof,towering high into the air, was a huge, globular structure, dividedinto numerous zones, from which were sent various wave bands to thenews screens both on Mars and on Earth. The planetary rulers had takenno chances of tampering with their propaganda. The central offices,where news and propaganda were dramatized, were in another building,but as everything from that source had to pass the reviewing officer,a trusted member of the oligarchy himself, in his locked and guardedoffice, this did not introduce any danger of the wrong informationgoing out to the public.
When Wasil reached the broadcasting plant, he was admitted by fourarmed guards. He locked the door behind him, to find his associatesalready busy, testing circuits and apparatus. Stimson, the chiefengineer, was sitting at his desk studying orders.
* * * * *
A few minutes later he called the men to him. There were three othersbesides Wasil: young Martians, keen, efficient, and, like mosttechnies, loyal to the government that employed them.
"Sure are careful to-day," Stimson grunted, scratching his snow-whitehair, which was stiffly upstanding and showed a coral tinge from hisscalp. "Must be mighty important to get this out right. Wilcoxpersonally wrote the order. If any man fumbles to-day, it's the polarpenal colony for him!" The Sun-loving old Martian shivered.
"And here's another bright idea. Only one man's to be allowed in theplant after the circuits are all tested! How'n the name of Pluto willhe handle things if a fuse blows? But what do they care about that!We're technies! We're supposed to know everything, and never haveanything go wrong!"
"But why only one man?" cried Scarba, one of the associate engineers."It's asking too much! I'll not take it on, far as I'm concerned. Myresignation will be ready soon's I can get a blank!"
"I too! I'm with you, Scarba!" "We work like dogs to get everything infirst-line condition, and then--" The hard-working and uncomplainingtechnies were outspoken in their resentment.
"Oh, I see your point," Stimson agreed. "I could stand Balta, butWilcox is just one too many for me. But do you boys think for oneminute we could get away with a strike?" He laughed angrily. "I canremember when the technies were able to demand their guild rights. Butyou boys weren't even born then. Now, let's get this straight:
"We are going to do just as we are told. Wilcox, of course, neverexplains an order, but the reason for having only one operator on thejob is simply to concentrate responsibility on that one man. Therewill be no excuse if he fails. Before the convention starts, and afterit is over, there will be a message to send out. The convention itselfwill be secret, as usual. During the convention, there will be somekind of filler stuff from the central office."
"Yeh!" snorted one of the men. "That's the dope, all right. One of usis stuck, but if it's me I'll walk out and head for the desert."
* * * * *
Stimson looked at him with a sardonic smile. "I forgot to mention: thedoors will be locked and barred, and of course there's no such thingas windows."
Wasil whistled. "They're sure careful. Well, Stimson. I haven't athing to do all day. I'll take it on."
They all looked at him, not sure that they had heard him right.
"What's the matter, sonny?" Stimson said slowly. "Too much Merclitelast night? You're shaking!"
"It's an opening!" Wasil insisted.
"An opening to tramp ice at the pole for the rest of your life!"
"All right. I'll chance it!"
They consented, without very much argument, to let Wasil have thedangerous responsibility. At 2:30, two and a half hours after sunriseby the Martian reckoning, he signed a release acknowledging allcircuits to be in proper order, and was locked behind the heavy doors,alone with a maze of complicated apparatus and cables that filled thelarge room from floor to ceiling.
Now it was done! Chance had thrown Wasil into a position where hecould, without great danger of failure, carry out his plan. But at thesame time things had so fallen that he, Wasil, must now die,regardless of the outcome!
If he succeeded in broadcasting the proceedings of the convention, andif they had the effect of arousing the public against Wilcox, therewould still be no escape for Wasil. Wilcox, or Scar Balta, would comestraight for this prison, neuro-pistol or needle-ray in hand!
Even if he should fail, death would be his portion for the attempt.
* * * * *
So thinking, Wasil sat down and carefully re-checked the circuits. Thefiller broadcast from central office must be sent to the twin citiesof Tarog. Otherwise the convention would learn too soon what washappening, and would interrupt its business. The thousands who waitedoutside on the broad terraces must be regaled with entertainment, ashad been originally planned.
But as for the rest of Mars, and Earth, they would get the truth foronce. Those bankers would speak frankly, in the snug isolation of thehall. No supervision here. Conventions, empty politeness, would beforgotten. Sharp tirades, biting facts, threats, veiled and open,would pass across the table between these masters of money and men.
But this time they would be pitilessly bared to the worlds!
Feverishly, Wasil inspected the repeater. It was a little-used devicethat would, an hour or two later, as desired, give out the words andpictures fed into it. Although Tarog would not learn the convention'ssecrets as quickly as the rest of Mars, or Earth, Tarog would learn.Wa
sil threw over the links and clamped down the bolts with a grunt ofsatisfaction. When a man is about to die, he wants to do his last jobwell.
Suddenly a red light glowed, and a voice spoke.
"Special broadcast. Tarog circuit only!"
"Mornin', Lennings," Wasil remarked to the face in the screen. "Allset? Go ahead."
The central office man held up a thick bundle of I. P. scrip, smiledpleasantly, saying:
"Somebody in North or South Tarog, or in the surrounding territory, isgoing to be 100,000 I. P. dollars richer by to-morrow. How would youlike to have 100,000 dollars? You all would like this reward. Itrepresents the price of a snug little space cruiser for your family; anew home on the canal; maybe an island of your own. It would take youon a trip to the baths of Venus and leave you some money over. Ofcourse you all want this reward!
"Now, if you'll excuse me a moment--"
* * * * *
The man's picture faded, and the screen glowed with the life andbeauty of Princess Sira--Sira, smiling and alluring.
"You all know this young lady," the announcer's voice went on. "Thebeloved and lovable Sweetheart of Mars, the bride of Scar Balta--"
The Martian's sleek and well-groomed head appeared beside that of thegirl.
"--Scar Balta, whose services to Mars have been great beyond hisyears; who, in the threatening war with Earth, would be one of ourgreatest bulwarks of security."
The announcer's face appeared again, stern and sorrowful.
"A great disaster has befallen these lovers--and all the world loves alover, you know. Some thugs, believed by the police to be terrestrialspies, have kidnapped the princess from the palace of her uncle,Prince Joro of Hanlon. It is believed that they had drugged her andhypnotized her, so that she has forgotten her duty to her lover andher country."
The green light flashed, and Wasil broke the circuit. The central manlingered a moment, favoring Wasil with a long wink.
"What a liar you're getting to be!" Wasil remarked coldly. But thecentral man, not offended, laughed.
So they were offering a reward! And urging further treachery as an actof patriotism! Wasil was not too much excited, however. The disguisethe princess had chosen would probably serve her well. Besides, shehad promised to keep in retirement as much as possible.
_Clack! Clack!_ The electrically controlled lock of the door wasopening. Only Wilcox knew the wave combination. Wasil felt a chill ofapprehension as the door opened and Scar Balta strode in. He was fullyarmed, dressed in the military uniform; but the former colonel was nowwearing on his shoulder straps the concentric rings denoting ageneral's rank.