by Jerry
“That thing was a man?” prompted Parr, his spine chilling.
“It had been a man. As you wander here and there, you’ll come upon queer sights—sickening ones.”
Parr squinted at the huts, around the doors of which lounged the other men. “That looks like a permanent community, Sadau.”
“It is, but the population’s floating. I came here three months ago—Earth months—and the place was operating under the rules I outlined. Latest comer, necessarily the highest-grade human being, to be chief; those who degenerate beyond a certain point to be driven out; the rest to live peaceably together, helping each other.”
Parr only half heard him. “Evolution turned backward—it can’t be true. It’s against nature.”
“Martians war against nature,” replied Sadau pithily. “Mars is a dead world, and its people are devils. They’d be the logical explorers to find a place where such things can be, and to make use of it. Don’t believe me if you don’t want to. Time and life here will convince you.”
IN THE DAYS that followed—the asteroid turned once in approximately twenty-two hours—Parr was driven to belief. Perhaps the slowness of the idea’s dawning kept him from some form of insanity.
Every man of the little group that called him chief was on the way to be a man no more. There were stooped backs among them, a forward hang to arms, a sprouting of coarse, lank hair. Foreheads fell away, noses flattened coarsely, eyes grew small and shifty. Sadau informed Parr that such evidences of degeneration meant a residence of a year or so on the exile asteroid.
“We’ll be driving one or two of them away pretty soon,” he observed.
“What then?” asked Parr. “What happens to the ones that are driven out?”
“Sometimes we notice them, peering through the brush, but mostly they haul out by themselves a little way from here—shaggy brutes, like our earliest fathers. There are lower types still. They stay completely clear of us.”
Parr asked the question that had haunted him since his first hour of exile: “Sadau, do you see any change in me?”
Sadau smiled and shook his head. “You won’t alter in the least for a month.”
That was reasonable. Man, Parr remembered, has been pretty much the same for the past ten thousand years. If a year brought out the beast in the afflicted exiles, then that year must count for a good hundred thousand years turned backward. Five years would be five hundred thousand of reverse evolution—in that time, one would be reduced to something definitely animal. Beyond that, one would drop into the category of tailed monkeys, of rodent crawlers—reptiles next, and then . . .
“I’ll kill myself first,” he thought, but even as he made the promise he knew he would not. Cowards took the suicide way out, the final yielding to unjust, cruel mastery by the Martians. Parr stiffened his shoulders, that had grown tanned and vigorous in the healthy air. He spoke grimly to Sadau:
“I don’t accept all this yet. It’s happened to others, but not to me so far. There’s a way of stopping this, and paying off those Martian swine. If it can be done . . .”
“I’m with you, Chief!” cried Sadau, and they shook hands.
Heartened, he made inquiries. The Martian space-patroller came every month or so, to drop a new exile. It always landed on the plain where Parr had first set foot to the asteroid. That gave him an idea, and he held conference in the early evening, with Sadau, Shanklin, and one or two others of the higher grade.
“We could capture that craft,” urged Parr. “There’s only a skipper and three Martians . . .”
“Yes, with pistols and ray throwers,” objected Shanklin. “Too big a risk.”
“What’s the alternative?” demanded Sadau. “You want to stay here and turn monkey, Shanklin? Chief,” he added to Parr, “I said once that I was on your side. I’ll follow wherever you lead.”
“Me, too,” threw in Jeffords, a sturdy man of middle age who had been sentenced for killing a Martian in a brawl.
“And me,” wound up Haldocott, a blond youth whose skin was burned darker than his hair and downy beard. “We four can pull it off without Shanklin.”
But Shanklin agreed, with something like good humor, to stand by the vote of the majority. The others of the community assented readily, for they were used to acting at the will of their wiser companions. And at the next arrival of the Martian patroller—an observer, posted by Parr in a treetop, reported its coming whole hours away—they made a quick disposal of forces around the rocket-scorched plain that did duty for a landing field. Parr consulted for a last moment with Sadau, Shanklin, Jeffords and Haldocott.
“We’ll lead rushes from different directions,” he said. “As the hatchway comes open, the patroller will stall for the moment—can’t take off until it’s airtight everywhere. I’ll give a yell for signal. Then everybody charge. Jam the tubes by smacking the soft metal collars at the nozzles—we can straighten them back when the ship’s ours. Out to your places now.”
“The first one at the hatch will probably be shot or rayed,” grumbled Shanklin.
“I’ll be first there,” Parr promised him. “Who wants to live forever, anyway? Posts, everybody. Here she comes in.”
Tense, quick-breathing moments thereafter as the craft descended and lodged. Then the hatchway opened. Parr, crouching in a clump of bushes with two followers, raised his voice in a battle yell, and rushed.
A figure had come forward to the open hatch, slender and topped with tawny curls. It paused and shrank back at the sudden apparition of Parr and his men leaping forward. Tentacles swarmed out, trying to push or pull the figure aside so as to close the hatch again. That took more seconds—then Parr had crossed the intervening space. Without even looking at the newcoming exile who had so providentially forestalled the closing of the hatch, he clutched a shoulder and heaved mightily. The Martian whose tentacles had reached from within came floundering out, dragged along—it was the skipper whose ironic acquaintance Parr had made in his own voyage out, all dressed in that loose-plate armor. Parr wrenched a pistol from a tentacle. Yelling again, he fired through the open hatchway. Two space-hands ducked out of sight.
“We’ve won!” yelled Parr, and for a moment he thought they had. But not all his followers had charged with his own bold immediacy.
Sadau on one side of the ship, Jeffords and Haldocott at the other, had run in close and were walloping manfully at the nozzles of the rocket tubes. The outer metal yielded under the blows, threatening to clog the throats of the blasts. Only at the rear was there no attack—Shanklin, and with him three or four of the lesser men, had hung back. The few moments’ delay there was enough to make all the difference.
Thinking and acting wisely, even without a leader, the Martian space-hands met the emergency. They had withdrawn from the open hatchway, but could reach the mechanism that closed it. Parr was too late to jump in after them. Then one of them fired the undamaged rear tubes.
Swish! Whang! The ship took off so abruptly that Parr barely dodged aside in time, dragging along with him the new Terrestrial whose shoulder he clutched, and also the surprised Martian skipper. The rocket blasts, dragging fiery fingers across the plain, struck down Haldocott and Jeffords, and bowled over two of the laggards with Shanklin’s belated contingent. Then it was away, moving jumpily with its half-wrecked side tubes, but nevertheless escaping.
Parr swore a great oath, that made the stranger gasp. And then Parr had time to see that this was a woman, and young. She was briefly dressed in blouse and shorts, her tawny hair was tumbled, her blue eyes wide. To her still clung the Martian skipper, and Parr covered him with the captured pistol. Next instant Shanklin, arriving at last, struck out with his club and shattered the flowerlike cranium inside the plated cap. The skipper fell dead on the spot.
“I wanted him for a prisoner!” growled Parr.
“What good would that do?” flung back Shanklin roughly. “The ship’s what we wanted. It’s gone. You bungled, Parr.”
Parr was about to reply with
the obvious charge that Shanklin’s own hesitancy had done much to cause the failure, when Sadau spoke:
“This young lady—miss, are you an exile? Because,” and he spoke in the same fashion that he had once employed to Parr, “then you’re our new chief. The latest comer commands.”
“Why—why . . .” stammered the girl.
“Wait a minute,” interposed Parr again. “Let’s take stock of ourselves. Haldocott and Jeffords killed—and a couple of others . . .”
Shanklin barked at him. “You don’t give orders any more. We’ve got a new chief, and you’re just one of the rabble, like me.” He made a heavily gallant bow toward the latest arrival. “May I ask your name, lady?”
“I’m Varina Pemberton,” she said. “But what’s the meaning of all this?”
Shanklin and Sadau began to explain. The others gathered interestedly around. Parr felt suddenly left out, and stooped to look at the dead Martian. The body wore several useful things—a belt with ammunition and a knife-combination, shoes on the thickened ends of the tentacles, and that strange armor. As Parr moved to retrieve these, his companions called out to halt him.
“The new chief will decide about those things,” said Shanklin officiously. “Especially the gun. Can I have it?”
To avoid a crisis, Parr passed the weapon to the girl, who nodded thanks and slid it into her own waist-belt. Shanklin asked for, and received, the knife. Sadau was the only man slender enough to wear the shoes, and gratefully donned them. Parr looked once again at the armor, which he had drawn free of its dead owner.
“What’s that for?” asked Shanklin.
Parr made no answer, because he did not know. The armor was too loosely hung together for protection against weapons. It certainly was no space-overall. And it had nothing of the elegance that might make it a Martian uniform of office. Casting back, Parr remembered that the skipper had worn it at the time when he, Parr, was landed—but not during the voyage out. He shook his head over the mystery.
“Let that belong to you,” the girl Varina Pemberton was telling him. “It has plates of metal that may be turned to use. Perhaps . . .” She seemed to be on the verge of saying something important, but checked herself.
“If you’ll come with us,” Sadau told her respectfully, “we’ll show you where we live and where you will rule.”
THEY HELD COUNCIL that night among the grass huts—the nine that were left after the unsuccessful attack on the patroller. Varina Pemberton, very pretty in her brief sports costume, sat on the stump that was chief’s place; but Shanklin did most of the talking.
“Nobody will argue about our life and prospects being good here,” he thundered, “but there’s no use in making things worse when they’re bad enough.” He shook a thick forefinger at Fitzhugh Parr, who wore the armor he had stripped from the dead Martian. “You were chief, and what you said goes. But you’re not chief now—you’re just the man who murdered four of us!”
“Mmm—yes,” growled one of the lower-fallen listeners, a furry-shouldered, buck-toothed clod named Wain. “That blast almost got me, right behind Haldocott.” His eyes, grown small, gleamed nastily at Parr. “We ought to condemn this man . . .”
“Please,” interposed Sadau, who alone remained friendly to Parr, “it’s for the chief to condemn.” He looked to Varina Pemberton, who shook her head slowly.
“I feel,” she ventured with her eyes on Parr, “that this ought to be left up to you as a voting body.”
Shanklin sprang to his feet. “Fair enough!” he bawled. “I call Parr guilty. All who think like me, say aye!”
“Aye!”
“Aye!”
“Aye!”
They were all agreeing except Sadau, who looked shrunken and sad and frightened. Shanklin smirked.
“All who think he should be killed as a murderer . . .”
“Hold on,” put in Varina Pemberton. “If I’m chief, I’ll draw the line there. Don’t kill him.”
Shanklin bowed toward her. “I was wrong to suggest that before a woman. Then he’s to be kicked out?”
There was a chorus of approving yells, and all save Sadau jumped up to look for sticks and stones. Parr laid his hand on the club he had borne in the skirmish that day.
“Now wait,” he said clearly and harshly, and the whole party faced him—Sadau wanly, the girl questioningly, the rest angrily.
“I’m to be kicked out,” Parr repeated. “I’ll accept that. I’ll go. But,” and the club lifted itself in his right hand, “I’m not going to be rough-housed. I’ve seen it happen here, and none of it for me.”
“Oh, no?” Shanklin had picked up a club of his own, and grinned fiercely.
“No. Let me go, and I leave without having to be whipped out of camp. Mob me, and I promise to die fighting, right here.” He stamped a foot on the ground. “I’ll crack a skull or two before I wink out. That’s a solemn statement of fact.”
“Let him go,” said Varina Pemberton again, this time with a ring of authority. “He wears that armor, and he’ll put up a fight. We can’t spare any more men.”
“Thank you,” Parr told her bleakly. He gave Shanklin a last long stare of challenge, then turned on his heel and walked away toward the thickets amid deep silence. Behind him the council fire made a dwindling hole in the blackness of night. It seemed to be his last hope, fading away.
He pushed in among thick, leafy stems. A voice hailed him:
“Hah!”
And a figure, blacker than the gloom, tramped close to him across a little grassy clearing.
“You! They drive you out?” a thick, unsure voice accosted him.
Parr hefted his club, wondering if this would be an enemy. “Yes. They drove me out. I’m exiled from among exiles.”
“Uh.” The other seemed perplexed over these words, as though they stated a situation too complicated. Parr’s eyes, growing used to the darkness, saw that this was a grotesque, shaggy form, one of the degenerate outcasts from the village. “Uh,” repeated his interrogator. “You come to us. Make one more in camp. Come.”
AMONG TALL TREES, thickly grown, lay a throng of sleepers. Parr’s companion led him there, and made an awkward gesture.
“You lie down. You sleep. Tomorrow—boss talk. Uh!”
So saying, the beast-man curled up at the root of a tree. Parr sat down with his back against another trunk, the club across his knees, but he did not sleep.
This, plainly enough, was the outcast horde. It clung together, the gregariousness of humanity not yet winnowed out by degeneration. It had a ruler, too . . .”Tomorrow boss talk.” Talk of what? In what fashion?
Thus Parr meditated during the long, moonless night. He also took time to examine once more his captured armor. Its metal plates, clamped upon a garment of leatheroid, covered his body and limbs, even the backs of his hands, as well as his neck and scalp. Yet, as he had decided before, it was no great protection against violence. As clothing it was superfluous on this tropical planetoid. What then?
He could not see, but he could feel. His fingers quested all over one plate, probing and tapping. The plate was hollow—in reality, two saucer-shaped plates with their concave faces together. They gave off a muffled clink of hollowness when he tapped them. When he shook the armor, there was something extra in the sound, and that impelled him to hold a plate close to his ear. He heard a soft, rhythmic whirr of machinery.
“There’s a vibration in this stuff,” he summed up in his mind. “What for? To protect against what?”
Then, suddenly, he had it.
The greatest menace of the whole tiny world was the force that reversed evolution—the vibration must be designed to neutralize that force!
“I’m immune!” cried Fitzhugh Parr aloud; and, in the early dawn that now crept into the grove, his sleeping companions began to wake and rise and gape at him.
He gaped back, with the shocked fascination that any intelligent person would feel at viewing such reconstructions of his ancestors. At almost the first
glance he saw that the newest evolutionary thought was correct—these were simian, but not apes. Ape and man, as he had often heard, sprang from the same common fore-father, low-browed, muzzle-faced, hairy. Such were these, in varying degrees of intensity. None wore clothes. Grinning mouths exhibited fanglike teeth, bare chests broadened powerfully, clumsy hands with short, ineffectual thumbs made foolish gestures. But the feet, for instance, were not like hands, they were flat pedestals with forward-projecting toes. The legs, though short, were powerful. Man’s father, decided Parr, must have had something of the bear about his appearance—and the most bearlike of the twenty or thirty beast-men heaved himself erect and came slouching across toward Parr.
This thing had once been a giant of a man, and remained a giant of an animal. None of the others present were nearly as large, nor were any of the men who had driven Parr forth. Six feet six towered this hair-thicketed ogre, with a chest like a drayhorse, and arms as thick as stovepipes. One hand—the thumb had trouble opposing the great cucumber fingers—flourished a club almost as long as Parr’s whole body.
“I—boss,” thundered this monster impressively. “Throw down stick.”
Parr had risen, his own club poised for defense. The giant’s free hand pointed to the weapon. “Throw down,” it repeated, with a growl as bearlike as the body.
“Not me,” said Parr, and ducked away from the tree-trunk against which he might be pinned. “What’s the idea? I didn’t do anything to you . . .”
“I—boss,” said his threatener again. “Nobody fight me.”
“True, true,” chorused the others sycophantically. “Ling, he boss—throw down club, you new man.”
Parr saw what they meant. With the other community, the newest and therefore most advanced individual ruled. In this more primitive society, the strongest held sway until a stronger displaced him. The giant called Ling was by no means the most human-seeming creature there, but he was plainly the ruler and plainly meant so to continue. Parr was no coward, but he was no fool. As the six-foot bludgeon whirled upward between him and the sky, he cast down his own stick in token of surrender.
