Red Planet (21 page)

'You name it.’

'Well, what do you want us to do?’ Jim said in exasperation. ‘Surrender?’

'Certainly not. The old folks are stuck in a rut. Here's where we show finesse—using your idea.’

'Quit calling it my idea. I haven't got any idea.’

'Okay, I'll take all the credit. We get word to Gekko that we need help. He's our water friend; he'll see to it.’

'How can Gekko help us? Martians don't fight.’

'That's right, but, as it says in geometry, what's the corollary? Human beings never fight Martians,
never.
Beecher can't risk offending the Martians. Everybody knows what a terrible time the Company had persuading the Martians that it was all right to let us settle here in the first place. Now suppose that about twenty or thirty Martians—or even one—came stomping up to the front door of this place: what do Beecher's cops do?’

'Huh?’

'They cease fire, that's what—and we come swarming out. That's what Gekko can do for us. He can fix it so that Beecher is forced to call off his gun toters. He'll
have
to.’

Jim thought about it. There was certainly merit in it. Every human who set foot on Mars had it thoroughly drummed into him that the natives must not be interfered with, provoked, nor their customs violated—nor, above all things, hurt. The strange and distressing history of the first generation of contact with the Martians had resulted in this being the first law of the settlements on Mars. Jim could not imagine Beecher violating this rule—nor could he imagine the Company police doing so. In normal times the principal duty of the police was the enforcement of this rule, particularly with respect to tourists from Earth, who were never allowed to come in contact with natives.

'There is just one thing wrong, Frank. Supposing Gekko and his friends were willing, how are we going to let him know that we need help? We can't just call him on the phone.’

'No, we can't—but that is where you come in.
You
can send him a message.’

'How?’

'Willis.’

'You're crazy!’

'Am I? Suppose you go out that front door—
fsst
! You are done for. But suppose Willis goes out? Who's going to shoot a bouncer?’

'I don't like it. Willis might get hurt.’

'If we just sit tight and do nothing, you'll wish he was dead. Beecher will sell him to the London Zoo.’

Jim considered this, then answered, ‘Anyhow, your scheme is full of holes. Even if he gets outside safely, Willis couldn't find Gekko and couldn't be depended on to deliver a message. He'd be just as likely to sing or recite some of Doc's bum jokes. I've got a better idea.’

'Convince me.’

'I'll bet that Beecher's plug-uglies didn't think to keep watch on the garbage dump. I'll deliver the message to Gekko myself.’

Frank thought it over. ‘No good. Even if they aren't watching the dump, they can see you from where they are watching the back door. They'd nail you before you could scramble to your feet.’

'I'll wait till dark.’

'Mmmm ... could work. Only I'll do it. I'm faster on my feet than you are.’

'Look who's talking!’

'All right! We'll
both
do it—an hour apart.’ Frank went on, ‘But that doesn't cut Willis out of it. He'll try it, too. One of us might get through. Now wait a minute—you underrate your little pal. We'll teach him just what he's to say. Then you tell him to go over into the native city, stop the first Martian he meets and recite his piece. The Martian does the rest because we'll put it all into the message. The only question is whether or not Willis is bright enough to do as you tell him. I've got grave doubts about that.’

Jim bristled. ‘You're always trying to make out that Willis is stupid. He's not; you just don't understand him.’

'Okay, then he can find his way over to the city and deliver the message. Or can't he?’

'Well—I don't like it.’

'Which do you prefer, to take a small risk with Willis or to have your mother and your baby brother have to spend the winter at South Colony?’

Jim chewed his lip. ‘All right—we'll try it. Let's get Willis.’

'Don't get in a rush. Neither you nor I know the native language well enough to whip up just what we want to say. But Doc does. He'll help us.’

'He's the only one of the grown ups I'd trust with this anyhow. Come on.’

They found MacRae, but were not able to speak with him at once. He was in the communications booth, bellowing at the screen. They could hear his half of the conversation. ‘I want to talk to Doctor Rawlings. Well, get him—don't sit there chewing your pencil! Tell him it's Doctor MacRae.... Ah, good day, Doctor! ... No, I just got here ... How's business, Doctor? Still cremating your mistakes? ... Well, don't we all? ... Sorry, I can't; I'm locked up.... Locked up, I said ...—L ... O ... C ... K ... E ... D up, like a disorderly drunk.... No reason, none at all. It's that simian moron, Beecher.... Yes, hadn't you heard? The entire colony, penned up in the schoolhouse ... shoots us down if we so much as stick our noses out.... No, I'm not joking. You know Skinny Pottle—he and his wife were killed not two hours ago. Come see for yourself and find out what kind of a madman you have ruling you here ...’ The screen suddenly went blank. MacRae swore and fiddled with the controls.

Presently, by experiment, he realized the instrument had been cut off completely. He came out, shrugging. ‘Well, they finally caught on to me,’ he remarked to the room in general, ‘but I talked to three key men.’

'What were you doing, Doc?’ asked Jim.

'Starting some fifth column activity behind Beecher's lines. There are good people everywhere, son, but you have to spell it out for them.’

'Oh. Look, Doc, could you spare us some time?’

'What for? Your father has a number of things for me to do, Jim.’

'This is important.’ They got MacRae aside and explained to him their plans.

MacRae looked thoughtful. ‘It just might work. That notion of making use of Martian immunity is brilliant, Frank; you should go into politics. However, about the other stunt—the garbage can paratrooper act—if you ask your father, he'll veto it.’

'Can't you ask him? He'll listen to you.’

'I said
If
you ask your father.’

'Oh. I get you.’

'About the other matter—chase up the little beastie and meet me in classroom “C"; I'm using it as an office.’

Jim and Frank left to do so. Jim found his mother and Oliver asleep, his sister and Willis gone. He had started to leave when his mother woke up. ‘Jimmy?’

'I didn't mean to wake you, Mother. Where's Phyl? I want to find Willis.’

'Your sister is in the kitchen, I think, helping out. Isn't Willis here? He was here on the bed with baby and me.’

Jim looked again, but found no sign of Willis. ‘I'll go ask Phyl. Maybe she came back and got him.’

'He can't have wandered far. I'm sorry, Jim.’

'I'll find him.’

He went to the kitchen, found his sister. ‘How would I know?’ she protested. ‘He was with mother when I left. Don't go looking at me.’

Jim joined Frank. ‘Darn it, they've let him wander off. We'll just have to search.’

One hour and hundreds of inquiries later they were convinced that, if the bouncer was in the school, he had found a very special hiding place. Jim was so annoyed that he had forgotten completely the essential danger that they were all in. ‘That's what comes of trusting women,’ he said bitterly. ‘Frank, what'll I do now?’

'Search me.’

They were in the far end of the building from their former room. They started back toward it on the chance that Willis might have come back. As they were passing through the entrance hall, Jim stopped suddenly. ‘I heard him!’

They both listened. ‘Open up!’ came a replica of Jim's voice. ‘Let Willis in!’ The voice came through the door's announcing speaker.

Jim darted for the pressure lock, was stopped by the guard. ‘Hey,’ he protested, ‘open the lock. That's Willis.’

'More likely it's a trap. Stand back.’

'Let him in. That's Willis, I tell you.’ The guard ignored him, but threw the switch that caused the lock to cycle. He cleared everybody out of range, then watched the door from one side, gun drawn.

The inner door opened and Willis waddled through.

Willis was bland about the whole thing. ‘Jim go away. Everybody go away. Willis go for walk.’

'How did you get outdoors?’

'Went out.’

'But how?’ Willis apparently could see nothing difficult about that; he did not amplify.

'Maybe he went out when the Pottles did?’ suggested Frank.

'Maybe. Well, I guess it doesn't matter.’

'Go see people,’ Willis offered. He named off a string of native names, then added, ‘Fine time. Water friends. Give Willis good water, big drink.’ He made lip-smacking noises in imitation of Jim, although he had no lips himself.

'You had a drink just a week ago,’ Jim said accusingly.

'Willis good boy!’ Willis countered.

'Wait a minute,’ said Frank. ‘He was with
Martians.'

'Huh? I don't care if he was with Cleopatra; he shouldn't run away.’

'But don't you see? He can get to the natives; he already has. All we've got to do is to be sure he carries a message for them to pass on to Gekko.’

The point, relayed to MacRae, increased his interest. The three composed a message in English for MacRae to translate. ‘Greetings,’ it began, ‘this is a message from Jim Marlowe, water friend of Gekko of the city of —’ Here they inserted the unspellable and most unpronounceable Martian name of Cynia. ‘Whoever you may be, friend of my friend, you are implored to send this word at once to Gekko. I am in great trouble and I need your help.’ The message went on to tell the nature of the trouble, who was responsible, and what they hoped would be done about it. Telegraphic simplicity was not attempted, since Willis's nervous system could hold a thousand words as easily as ten.

MacRae translated it, then drilled Jim in reading it, after which they attempted to impress on Willis what he was to do. Willis was willing, but his consistently slap-happy, featherbrained approach to any problem exasperated them almost to hysteria. At last it seemed likely that he might carry out his assignment; at least (a) when asked what he was to do he would answer, ‘go see friends,’ and (b) when asked what he would tell them he would (usually) answer by reciting the message.

'It might work,’ decided MacRae. ‘We know the Martians have means of rapid communication, even though we've never known what sort. If our plump friend doesn't forget what he is doing and why he is making the trip...’

Jim took him to the front door. On MacRae's authorization the guard let them through. Jim checked Willis again while the lock was cycling; the bouncer appeared to be sure of his instructions, although his answers showed his usual mental leapfrog.

Jim hung back in the doorway, out of the line of fire, while Willis rolled off the stoop. The Pottles still lay where they had fallen; Willis looked at them, then took a zig-zag course down the street and disappeared from Jim's view, cut off as he was by the door frame. Jim wished then that he had had the foresight to bring along a mirror to use as a periscope. Finally he screwed up his courage, lay down, and peeked around the edge of the door at the bottom-most part.

Willis was well down the street and nothing had happened to him. Far down the street some sort of a cover had been set up. Jim stuck his head out an inch farther, trying to see what it was, when the corner of the door frame above him gave off a puff of smoke and he felt the electric tingle of a near miss. He jerked his head back and re-entered the lock.

He had an all-gone feeling at the pit of his stomach and a conviction that he would never see Willis again.

The day passed wearily for Jim and Frank. There was nothing they could do about their own plan until after dark. In the meantime discussions were taking place among colonial leaders, but they were held behind closed doors and the boys were not invited.

Supper was welcome diversion, both because they were hungry and because it meant that the kitchen would presently be deserted and the way left open to the garbage dump. Or so they thought. They found that, in practice, the womenfolk running the kitchen first took a leisurely time to clean up, then seemed disposed to sit around all night, drinking coffee and talking.

The boys found excuses to come into the kitchen, excuses which began to arouse Mrs Palmer's suspicions. Finally Jim followed another boy in, wondering what he would say this time, when he heard the other boy say, ‘Mrs Palmer, Captain Marlowe wants to know if it would be too much trouble to keep a night watch for coffee and sandwiches for the men on guard.’

'Why, no,’ Jim heard her say, ‘we'll be glad to. Henrietta, will you find some volunteers? I'll take the first stint.’

Jim backed out and went to where Frank awaited him. ‘What's the chances?’ asked Frank. ‘Does it look like they're going to break up any time soon?’

Jim told him what the chances were—or, rather, were not. Frank swore, using a couple of words that Jim had not heard before. ‘What'll we do, Jim?’

'I don't know. Maybe when it's down to just one of them, she'll go out occasionally.’

'Maybe we could get her out with some song and dance.’

'Maybe we could tell her that she's wanted in the headquarters room. That ought to do it.’

They were still discussing it when the lights went out.

The place was suddenly as dark as the inside of a rock. Worse than that, there was a disturbing silence. Jim had just realized that the complete emptiness of sound resulted from the ending of the noise of circulating air, from the stopping of the supercharger on the roof, when a woman began to scream.

She was joined by another, in a higher key. Then there were voices everywhere in the darkness, questioning, complaining, soothing.

Down the hall a light sprang out and Jim heard his father's voice. ‘Quiet, everybody. It's just a power failure. Be patient.’

The light moved toward them, suddenly hit them. ‘You boys get to bed.’ Jim's father moved on. In the other direction they could hear Doc's bellow, ordering people to shut up and calm down.