by Isaac Asimov
Between them he and Augustus Henree had adopted David Starr, bent their lives to erase those last horrible memories of space. They were both mother and father to him; they personally supervised his tutoring; they trained him with one thought in mind: to make him what Lawrence Starr had once been.
He had exceeded their expectations. In height he was Lawrence, reaching six feet, rangy and hard, with the cool nerves and quick muscles of an athlete and the sharp, clear brain of a first-class scientist. And beyond that there was something about his brown hair with the suggestion of a wave in it, in his level, wide-set brown eyes, in the trace of a cleft in his chin which vanished when he smiled, that was reminiscent of Barbara.
He had raced through his Academy days leaving a trail of sparks and the dead ash of previous records both on the playing fields and in the classrooms.
Conway had been perturbed. "It's not natural, Gus. He's outdoing his father."
And Henree, who didn't believe in unnecessary speech, had puffed at his pipe and smiled proudly.
"I hate to say this," Conway had continued, "because you'll laugh at me, but there's something not quite normal in it. Remember that the child was stranded in space for two days with just a thin lifeboat hull between himself and solar radiation. He was only seventy million miles from the sun during a period of sunspot maximum."
"All you're saying," said Henree, "is that David should have been burnt to death."
"Well, I don't know," mumbled Conway. "The effect of radiation on living tissue, on human living tissue, has its mysteries."
"Well, naturally. It's not a field in which experimentation is very feasible."
David had finished college with the highest average on record. He had managed to do original work in biophysics on the graduate level. He was the youngest man ever to be accorded full membership in the Council of Science.
To Conway there had been a loss in all this. Four years earlier he had been elected Chief Counselor. It was an honor he would have given his life for, yet he knew that had Lawrence Starr lived, the election would have gone in a worthier direction.
And he had lost all but occasional contact with young David Starr, for to be Chief Counselor meant that one had no life other than the beetling problems of all the Galaxy. Even at graduation exercises he had seen David only from a distance. In the last four years he might have spoken to him four times.
So Ms heart beat high when he heard the door open. He turned, walking rapidly to meet them as they walked in.
"Gus old man." He held out his hand, wrung the other's. "And David boy!"
An hour passed. It was true night before they could stop speaking of themselves and turn to the universe.
It was David who broke out. He said, "I saw my first poisoning today, Uncle Hector. I knew enough to prevent panic. I wish I knew enough to prevent poisoning."
Conway said soberly, "No one knows that much. I suppose, Gus, it was a Martian product again."
"No way of telling, Hector. But a marplum was involved."
"Suppose," said David Starr, "you let me know anything I'm allowed to know about this."
"It's remarkably simple," said Conway. "Horribly simple. In the last four months something like two hundred people have died immediately after eating some Mars-grown product. It's no known poison, the symptoms are those of no known disease. There is a rapid and complete paralysis of the nerves controlling the diaphragm and the muscles of the chest. It amounts to a paralysis of the lungs, which is fatal in five minutes.
"It goes deeper than that too. In the few cases where we've caught the victims in time, we've tried artificial respiration, as you did, and even iron lungs. They still died in five minutes. The heart is affected as well. Autopsies show us nothing except nerve degeneration that must have been unbelievably rapid."
"What about the food that poisoned them?" asked David.
"Dead end," said Conway. "There is always time for the poisoned item or portion to be completely consumed. Other specimens of the same sort at the table or in the kitchen are harmless. We've fed them to animals and even to human volunteers. The stomach contents of the dead men have yielded uncertain results."
"Then how do you know it's food poisoning at all?"
"Because the coincidence of death after eating a Martian product time after time, without known exception, is more than coincidence."
David said thoughtfully, "And it isn't contagious, obviously."
"No. Thank the stars for that. Even so, it's bad enough. So far we've kept this as quiet as we can, with full co-operation from the Planetary Police. Two hundred deaths in four months over the population of all Earth is still a manageable phenomenon, but the rate may increase. And if the people of Earth become aware that any mouthful of Martian food might be their last, the consequences could be horrible. Even though we were to point out that the death rate is only fifty per month out of a population of five billions, each person would think himself certain to be one of those fifty."
"Yes," said David, "and that would mean that the market for Martian food imports would fall through the floor. It would be too bad for the Martian Farming Syndicates."
"That!" Conway shrugged his shoulders, thrusting aside the problem of the Farming Syndicates as something of no moment. "Do you see nothing else?"
"I see that Earth's own agriculture can't support five billion people."
"That's it exactly. We can't do without food from the colonial planets. There would be starvation on Earth in sk weeks. Yet if the people are afraid of Martian food, there will be no preventing that, and I don't know how long it can be staved off. Each new death is a new crisis. Will this be the one that the tele-news will get hold of? Will the truth come out now? And there's Gus's theory on top of everything."
Dr. Henree sat back, tamping tobacco gently into Ms pipe. "I feel sure, David, that this epidemic of food poisoning is not a natural phenomenon. It is too widespread. It strikes one day in Bengal, the next day in New York, the day after in Zanzibar. There must be intelligence behind it."
"I tell you-" began Conway.
"Let him go on, Uncle Hector," urged David.
"If any group were seeking to control Earth, what better move could they make than to strike at our weakest point, our food supply? Earth is the most populous planet in all the Galaxy. It should be, since it is mankind's original home. But that very fact makes us the weakest world, in a sense, since we're not self-supporting. Our breadbasket is in the sky: on Mars; on Ganymede; on Europa. If you cut the imports in any manner, either by pirate action or by the much more subtle system being used now, we are quickly helpless. That is all."
"But," said David, "if that were the case, wouldn't the responsible group communicate with the government, if only to give an ultimatum?"
"It would seem so, but they may be waiting their time; waiting for ripeness. Or they may be dealing with the farmers of Mars directly. The colonists have minds of their own, mistrust Earth, and, in fact, if they see their livelihood threatened, may throw in with these criminals altogether. Maybe even," he puffed strenuously, "they themselves are____________________ But I'll make no accusations."
"And my part," said David. "What is it yqu would have me do?"
"Let me tell him," said Conway. "David, we want you to go to Central Laboratories on the Moon. You will be part of the research team investigating the problem. At this moment they are receiving samples of every shipment of food leaving Mars. We are bound to come across some poisoned item. Half of all items are fed to rats; the remaining portions of any fatal pieces are analyzed by all the means at our disposal."
"I see. And if Uncle Gus is right, I suppose you have another team on Mars?"
"Very experienced men. But meanwhile, will you be ready to leave for the Moon tomorrow night?"
"Certainly. But if that's the case, may I leave now to get ready?"
"Of course."
"And would there be any objection to my using my own ship?" "Not at all.''
The two scienti
sts, alone in the room, stared down at the fairy-tale lights of the city for a long time before either spoke.
Finally Conway said, "How like Lawrence he is! But he's still so young. It will be dangerous."
Henree said, "You really think it will work?"
"Certainly!" Conway laughed. "You heard his last question about Mars. He has no intention of going to the Moon. I know him that well. And it's the best way to protect him. The official records will say he is going to the Moon; the men at Central Laboratories are instructed to report his arrival. When he does reach Mars, there will be no reason for your conspirators, if they exist, to take him for a member of the Council, and of course he will maintain an incognito because he will be busy fooling us, he thinks."
Conway added, "He's brilliant. He may be able to do something the rest of us could not do. Fortunately, he's still young and can be maneuvered. In a few years that will be impossible. He would see through us."
Conway's communicator tinkled gently. He flipped it open. "What is it?"
"Personal communication for you, sir."
"For me? Transmit it." He looked wildly at Henree. "It can't be from the conspirators you babble about."
"Open it and see," suggested Henree.
Conway sliced the envelope open. For a moment he stared. Then he laughed a bit wildly, tossed the open sheet to Henree, and slumped back in his chair.
Henree picked it up. There were only two scrawled lines which read, "Have it your way! Mars it is." It was signed, "David."
Henree roared with laughter. "You maneuvered him all right."
And Conway could not help but join.
3. Men for the Farms of Mars
But that was as far as it went. The Earthmen of Mars considered themselves quite a separate and better breed, and the newcomer had a long way to go to be accepted by the Martian farmboy as anything more than a casual tourist of not much account.
David Starr found that out almost at once when he entered the Farm Employment Building. A little man was at his heels as he walked in. A really little man. He was about five feet two and his nose would have rubbed against David's breastbone if they had stood face to face. He had pale red hair brushed straight back, a wide mouth, and the typical open-collar, double-breasted overall and hip-high, brightly colored boots of the Martian farmboy.
As David headed for the window over which glowed the legend, "Farm Employment," footsteps rattled about him, and a tenor voice cried out, "Hold on. Decelerate your footsteps, fella."
The little man was facing him.
David said, "Is there anything I can do for you?"
The little man carefully inspected him, section by section, then put out one arm and leaned negligently against the Earthman's waistline. "When did you descend the old gangplank?"
"What gangplank?"
"Pretty voluminous for an Earthie at that. Did you get cramped out there?"
"I'm from Earth, yes."
The little man brought his hands down one after the other so that they slapped sharply against his boots. It was the f armboy gesture of self-assertion.
"In that case," he said, "suppose you assume a waiting position and let a native attend to his business."
David said, "As you please."
"And if you have any objection to taking your turn, you can take it up with me when we're through or any time thereafter at your convenience. My name is Bigman. I'm John Bigman Jones, but you can ask for me anywhere in town by the name of Bigman." He paused, then added, "That, Earthie, is my cognomen. Any complaints about it?"
And David said gravely, "None at all."
Bigman said, "Right!" and left for the desk, while David, breaking into a smile as soon as the other's back was safely turned, sat down to wait.
He had been on Mars for less than twelve hours, just long enough to register his ship under an assumed name in the large sub-surface garages outside the city, take a room for the night at one of the hotels, and spend a few hours of the morning walking through the domed city.
There were only three of these cities on Mars, and their fewness was to be expected in view of the expense required to maintain the tremendous domes and to supply the torrents of power necessary to provide the temperature and gravity of Earth. This, Wingrad City, named after Robert Clark Wingrad, the first man to reach Mars, was the largest.
It was not very different from a city on Earth; it was almost a piece of Earth cut out and put on a different planet; it was as though the men on Mars, thirty-five million miles away at the very nearest, had to hide that fact from themselves somehow. In the center of town, where the ellipsoidal dome was a quarter of a mile high, there were even twenty-story buildings.
There was only one thing missing. There was no sun and no blue sky. The dome itself was translucent, and when the sun shone on it, light was uniformly spread over all its ten square miles. The light intensity at any region of the dome was small so that the "sky" to a man in the city was a pale, pale yellow. The total effect, however, was about equivalent to that of a cloudy day on Earth.
When night came, the dome faded and disappeared into starless black. But then the street lights went on, and Wingrad City seemed more than ever like Earth. Within the buildings artificial light was used day and night David Starr looked up at the sudden sound of loud voices.
Bigman was still at the desk, shouting, "I tell you this is a case of blacklist. You've got me blacklisted, by Jupiter."
The man behind the desk seemed flustered. He had
fluffy sideburns with which his fingers kept playing.
He said, "We have no blacklists, Mr. Jones____________________ -"
"My name is Bigman. What's the matter? Are you afraid to exhibit friendship? You called me Bigman the first few days."
"We have no blacklists, Bigman. Farmhands just aren't in demand."
"What are you talking about? Tim Jenkins got placed day before yesterday in two minutes."
"Jenkins had experience as a rocket man."
"I can handle a rocket as well as Tim any day."
"Well, you're down here as a seeder."
"And I'm a good one. Don't they need seeders?"
"Look, Bigman," said the man behind the desk, "I have your name on the roster. That's all I can do. I'll let you know if anything turns up." He turned a concentrated attention on the record book before him, following up entries with elaborate unconcern.
Bigman turned, then shouted over his shoulder, "All right, but I'm sitting right here, and the next labor requisition you get, I'm being sent out. If they don't want me, I want to hear them say so to me. To me, do you understand? To me, J. Bigman J., personally."
The man behind the desk said nothing. Bigman took a seat, muttering. David Starr rose and appreached the desk. No other farmboy had entered to dispute his place in line.
He said, "I'd like a job."
The man looked up, pulled an employment blank and hand printer toward himself. "What kind?"
"Any kind of farm work available."
The man put down his hand printer. "Are you Mars-bred?"
"No, sir. I'm from Earth."
"Sorry. Nothing open."
David said, "Well, look here. I can work, and I need work. Great Galaxy, is there a law against Earthmen working?"
"No, but there isn't much you can do on a farm without experience."
"I still need a job."
"There are lots of jobs in town. Next window over."
"I can't use a job in town."
The man behind the desk looked speculatively at David, and David had no trouble in reading the glance. Men traveled to Mars for many reasons, and one of them was that Earth had become too uncomfortable. When a search call went out for a fugitive, the cities of Mars were combed thoroughly (after all, they were part of Earth), but no one ever found a hunted man on the Mars farms. To the Farming Syndicates, the best farmboy was one who had no other place he dared go. They protected such and took care not to lose them to the Earth authorities they half-resented
and more than half-despised.
"Name?" said the clerk, eyes back on the form.
"Dick Williams," said David, giving the name under which he had garaged his ship.
The clerk did not ask for identification. "Where can I get in touch with you?"
"Landis Hotel, Room 212."
"Any low-gravity experience at all?"
The questioning went on and on; most of the blanks had to be left empty. The clerk sighed, put the blank into the slot which automatically microfilmed it, filed it, and thus added it to the permanent records of the office.
He said, "I'll let you know." But he didn't sound hopeful.
David turned away. He had not expected much to come of this, but at least he had established himself as a somewhat legitimate seeker after a farming job.
The next step____________________
He whirled. Three men were entering the employment office and the little fellow, Bigman, had hopped angrily out of his seat. He was facing them now, arms carried loosely away from his hips although he had no weapons that David could see.
The three who entered stopped, and then one of the two who brought up the rear laughed and said, "Looks as if we have Bigman, the mighty midget, here. Maybe he's looking for a job, boss." The speaker was broad across the shoulders and his nose was flattened against his face. He had a chewed-to-death, unlit cigar of green Martian tobacco in his mouth and he needed a shave badly.
"Quiet, Griswold," said the man in front. He was pudgy, not too tall, and the soft skin on his cheeks and on the back of his neck was sleek and smooth.
His overall was typical Mars, of course, but it was of much finer material than that of any of the other farmboys in the room. His hip-high boots were spiraled in pink and rose.
In all his later travels on Mars, David Starr never saw two pairs of boots of identical design, never saw boots that were other than garish. It was the mark of individuality among the farmboys.
