by Mark Clifton
Produced by Frank van Drogen, Greg Weeks, and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
WE'RE CIVILIZED!
By MARK CLIFTON and ALEX APOSTOLIDES
_Naturally, the superior race should win ... but superior by which standards ... and whose?_
Illustrated by BALBALIS
The females and children worked among the lichen growth, picking off thefattest, ripest leaves for their food and moisture, completing their arcof the circle of symbiosis.
The males worked at the surface of the canals, or in open excavations.Their wide, mutated hands chipped into the rock-hard clay, opening achannel which was to be filled with sand and then sealed off with clayon all sides and surface. That water might seep through the sand withoutevaporation, without loss, from the poles to the equator of Mars--seepunimpeded, so that moisture might reach the lichen plants of everyone,so that none might thirst or hunger.
The seepage must flow. Not even buried in the dim racial memory hadthere ever been one who took more than his share, for this would be likethe fingers of one hand stealing blood from the fingers of the other.
Among the Mars race there were many words for contentment, kinship ofeach to all. There were words to express the ecstasy of watching theeternal stars, by night and by day, through the thin blackishatmosphere. There were words to express the joy of opening slittednostrils to breathe deeply in those protected places where the blowingsands did not swirl, of opening folds of rubbery skin to catch the weakrays of the distant Sun.
But there were no words for "mine" as separate from "yours." And therewas no urge to cry out, "Why am I here? What is the purpose of it all?"
Each had his purpose, serene, unquestioning. Each repaired or extendedthe seepage canals so that others, unborn, might know the same joys andecstasies as they. The work was in itself a part of the total joy, andthey resisted it no more than healthy lungs resist clear, cool air.
So far back that even the concept of beginnings had been forgotten, theinterwoven fabric of their symbiotic interdependence seeped throughtheir lives as naturally as the precious water seeped through the canalsands. As far back as that, they had achieved civilization.
Their kind of civilization.
----
Captain Griswold maintained an impassive face. (Let that, too, be a partof the legend.) Without expression, he looked through the screen at thered land flashing below the ship. But unconsciously he squared hisshoulders, breathed deeply, enjoying the virile pull of his uniform overhis expanding chest. Resolutely he pushed aside the vision of countlessgenerations of school children, yet to come, repeating the lessondutifully to their teachers.
"Captain Thomas H. Griswold took possession of Mars, June 14, 2018."
No, he must not allow any mood of vanity to spoil his own memories ofthis moment. It was beside the point that his name would rank with thegreat names of all times. Still, the history of the moment could not bedenied.
Lieutenant Atkinson's voice broke through his preoccupation, and savedhim the immodest thought of wondering if perhaps his cap visor might notbe worn a little more rakishly to one side. He must father a custom,something distinctive of those who had been to Mars--
"Another canal, sir."
Below them, a straight line of gray-green stretched to the horizon,contrasting sharply with the red ferrous oxide of the landscape. Anentire planet of ferrous oxide--iron--steel for the already starvingtechnology of the Western Alliance. The captain felt a momentaryirritation that even this narrow swath displaced the precious iron ore.
Obviously these canals served no purpose. His ship had circled theplanet at its equator, and again from pole to pole. Canals everywhere,but nothing else. Enough time and fuel had been wasted. They must land.Obviously there was no intelligent life. But the history of the momentmust not be marred by any haste. There must be no question within thebooks yet to be written. There must be no accredited voice of criticismraised.
"My compliments to Mr. Berkeley," he said harshly to Lt. Atkinson, "andwould he kindly step to the control room?" He paused and added dryly,"At his convenience."
Mister Berkeley, indeed. What was it they called the civilian--anethnologist? A fellow who was supposed to be an authority on races,civilizations, mores and customs of groups. Well, the man was excessbaggage. There would be no races to contact here. A good thing, too.These civilian experts with their theories--show them a tooth andthey'll dream up a monster. Show them a fingernail paring and they'lldeduce a civilization from it. Nonsense!
"You wanted to see me, Captain?" The voice was young, quiet, controlled.
----
Without haste, Captain Griswold turned and faced Berkeley. Not only atheorist, but a young theorist. These super-bright young men with theirsharp blue eyes. A lot of learning and no knowledge. A lot of wisdom andno common sense. He carefully controlled his voice, concealing his lackof respect for the civilian.
"Well, Mr. Berkeley, we have quartered the globe. We have seen noevidence of civilization."
"You discount the canals, Captain?" Berkeley asked, as if more fromcuriosity than refutation.
"I must discount them," the captain answered decisively. "Over all theplanet we have seen no buildings, not even ruins, no evidence at allthat intelligence exists here."
"I consider straight lines, running half the length of a world, to beevidence of something, sir." It was a flat statement, given withoutemphasis.
Arguments! Arguments! Little men who have to inflate themselves into astature of importance--destroy the sacred history of the moment. Butquietly now. There must be no memory of petty conflict.
"Where are their buildings, Mr. Berkeley?" he asked with patienttolerance. "Where are their factories? The smoke from their factories?The highways? The transportation facilities? Where are the airplanes?Even this thin air would support a fast jet. I do not require they havespaceships, Mr. Berkeley, to concede them intelligence. I do not requirethey be the equal of Man. I also have some scientific training. And mytraining tells me I cannot recognize the existence of something wherethere is no evidence at all."
"The canals," Berkeley answered. His voice also was controlled, for he,too, knew the history of this moment. But his concern was not for hisown name in the history books. He knew only too well what its writersdid to individuals for the sake of expediency. His concern was that thismoment never be one of deep shame for Man. "Perhaps they have nobuildings, no factory smoke, because they don't need them. Perhaps theydon't have highways because they don't want to go anywhere. Perhapstheir concept of living is completely unlike ours."
----
Griswold shrugged his shoulders. "We speak an entirely differentlanguage, Mr. Berkeley."
"I'm afraid you're right, Captain," Berkeley sighed. "And it might be atragic thing that we do. Remember, European man spoke a differentlanguage from that of the American Indian, the Mayan, Polynesian,African, Indonesian--" He broke off as if the list were endless. "I askonly that we don't hasten into the same errors all over again."
"We can't hover here above the surface forever," Griswold saidirritably. "We have quartered the globe. The other experts are anxiousto land, so they can get to their work. We have made a search for yourcivilization and we have not found it."
"I withdraw all objections to landing, Captain. You are entirelycorrect. We must land."
The intercom on the wall squawked into life.
"Observation to Control. Observation to Control. Network of canalsforming a junction ahead."
"Prepare for landing, Lieutenant Atkinson," Griswold commanded sharply."At the junction." He turned and watched the screen. "There, Mr.Berkeley
, dead ahead. A dozen--at least a dozen of your canals joiningat one spot. Surely, if there were a civilization at all, you would findit at such a spot." Slowly and carefully, he constructed the pages ofhistory. "I do not wish the implication ever to arise that this ship'scommander, or any of its personnel, failed to cooperate in every waywith the scientific authorities aboard."
"I know that, Captain," Berkeley answered. "And I agree. The junction,then."
----
The sigh of servo-mechanism, the flare of intolerably hot blue flame,and the ship stood motionless above the junction of canals. Ponderously,slowly, she settled; held aloft by the pillars of flame beneath her,directly above the junction, fusing the sand in the canals to glass,exploding their walls with steam. Within their warm and protectedburrows beside the
