The Alternate Martians

by A Bertram Chandler

  Suddenly, it seemed, the sun was gone.

  The sun was gone, and low in the still luminous west hung a bright star, a planet, shining with a steady, green-blue radiance. Earth, of course. Home. (But what was Earth like on this Coil of Time?)

  The sun was gone, and the darkness was sweeping in from the east, and overhead the twinkling points of light that were the stars were making their appearance. From the surface of the water a silvery mist was rising, condensing in clammy droplets on the metal deck and on the garments of the man and the woman. Phobos rose in the east (but too large, too bright) and then Deimos, hurtling across the heavens in retrograde motion (but surely never visible in these high latitudes), filling the mist with shifting shadows, lending to the pile beacons the illusory semblance of trees and towers and steeples.

  And it was cold, a raw cold that penetrated to the marrow of the bones. Wilkinson and the girl huddled together, holding each other tightly. But it was almost useless. They were exposed, bare-footed and lightly clad, on a metal platform absolutely devoid of cover, a platform upon which the dew was already turning to frost.

  “This is no good!” Wilkinson said through chattering teeth.

  “We have to keep moving. Otherwise we freeze to death.”

  And what, he asked himself, of the energy expended in motion, the energy that needed food for its renewal? But surely they would be able to make their way to land tomorrow; surely they would be able to find food and shelter of some kind. And surely Natalie, flying down the canal in the folplane, would find them….

  Yes, they were out of the lake now. They could see, looming indistinctly through the mists, the canal banks, the tall trees that lined the banks, looking at them almost without interest as they jumped up and down, as they waved their arms wildly, as they fell into a sequence of motions that bore some slight resemblance to calisthenics. Slowly warmth returned to their bodies, but they were tiring rapidly. They could not keep it up for much longer.

  Suddenly Vanessa, who was facing her husband, who was looking downstream, stiffened. “Look!” she cried, pointing. “A fire!” And then, at the top of her voice, “Hello! Hello, there! Help! Help!”

  Wilkinson caught her slim shoulders. “Stop! We don’t know who or what they are!”

  “They’ve got a fire,” she said. “And if we don’t get to it we freeze to death!”

  And that, he knew, was almost a certainty. But how to reach the bank where the fire was blazing? They had already discovered that the freeboard of the boat was too high for them to use their hands as paddles, and there was nothing aboard the craft that could be used.

  “Hello!” Vanessa was shouting again. “Help! Help!”

  From the bank drifted a confused shouting, and then, “Come in ter land! Don’t try anyfing funny! We’ve got yer covered!”

  The voice was threatening rather than friendly, and it promised nothing. Wilkinson knew that if the boat were to be beached it would have to be by his own efforts, and that there was no time to be lost.

  With numb, clumsy fingers he unbuttoned and unzipped his clothing and let it fall in a little heap to the deck. It would hamper his movements if he left it on; besides, he would be needing dry apparel shortly — he hoped. He threw a bowline of sorts into the free end of the longer of the two painters, then slipped it over his head and shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” asked Vanessa. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to try to tow us in.” As gently as possible he disengaged himself from her arms and slipped over the side. The shock was not as great as he had feared it would be — possibly the water was a degree or so warmer than the air — but it was bad enough. Somehow he managed to inhale a great, shuddering breath, and then he started to swim. The icy water seemed to be compressing his body, seemed to be congealing around his flailing limbs. But he kept on, somehow, steering vaguely for the ruddy, flaring torches that had been brought down to the water’s edge. Luckily the boat had still been well upstream from the fire when he had gone overboard; even so, he began to dread that he would be swept past the beckoning light and warmth. The weight of the clumsy craft was dragging him back, and the towline was pulling him down. The choking water, when he misjudged the timing of his breathing, was like fire in his lungs.

  From a long way off he heard the shouts — the encouraging shouts? — and then something smacked the surface of the water just in front of his face, splashing him. Bitterly he resented what was, after all, only a minor irritation — he could be neither wetter nor colder than he already was. Again came that seemingly irrelevant thwack, and again. And there was a rough voice shouting in what sounded like Cockney English, “Grab it, yer bleedin’ fool, afore I gets tired o’ throwin’ it!”

  His arm became entangled with a rope of some sort. He willed his fingers to close around it, then managed to grasp it with his other hand. When the weight came on it the painter cut into his neck and shoulder, but he felt nothing. He let himself be drawn through the water until he felt rough sand scraping his knees and elbows. He crawled up the gently shelving bank, dimly aware that ungentle hands were freeing him from the towline and pulling the boat in towards the land.

  He lay there, cold and exhausted but refusing to give up until he was assured of Vanessa’s safety. He saw her jump from the boat, the bundle of his clothing in her arms, and then scramble up the bank to where he was huddled. She fell down beside him, trying to cover him and to warm him with her body. He heard a not unkindly voice saying, “Come on! Give us an ‘and ter get ‘im along ter the bleedin’ fire.”

  XV

  HIS IMMERSION in the freezing water had been painful; the thawing out was more painful still. He sat before the roaring fire, wrapped in the skin of some fur-bearing animal. It had not been very well tanned, and it stank — but it was warm. A man wrapped in a fur cloak brought him something in a crude mug. It smelled and tasted vile, but it was alcoholic. After the first violent spasm of coughing he downed the rest gratefully.

  And then, as the agony of returning circulation faded, he began to take some interest in his hosts. There were rough-looking fur-clad men, all heavily bearded. There were tough-looking fur-clad women. And there were other beings, towering head and shoulder above the humans. They, too, were muffled in heavy clothing, but he could see that they had four arms instead of two, that up-jutting tusks growing from their lower jaws gave their faces a ferocious aspect, and that their skins were green. In Wilkinson’s universe no such creatures existed in the solar system — except in the books which had initiated this crazy experiment. He listened to his rescuers as they talked among themselves. Yes, that dialect was Cockney — the dropping and misplacing of aspirates, the distorted vowels that had always betrayed the man or woman born within sound of Bow Bells, that would persist as long as there was a London. But it didn’t make sense. These people were at least forty million miles from that ancient city.

  “ ’E’s comin’ rahnd,” remarked the man who had given him the drink. Then, to Wilkinson, “ ’Oo are yer, myte? Where did yer spring from?”

  Wilkinson, his wits addled by his experiences, by the heat of the fire, by the strong liquor, replied foolishly, “I am Captain Christopher Wilkinson, of the spaceship Discovery.”

  ‘Ere, come orf it!” exclaimed the other angrily. “Yer knows bleedin’ well that they never lets even tame ‘oomans near their bleedin’ spaceships!”

  “Mebbe they is tame ‘oomans, Bill,” contributed a scrawny woman. “They talks like ‘em.” She squatted down beside Vanessa and rubbed the material of the girl’s shirt sleeve between filthy fingers. “They dresses funny…. An’ they come’ere in one o’ the Masters’ barges….” One of the green-skinned beings was kneeling beside her, had picked up Wilkinson’s shirt and trousers and was examining them intently. “‘Ere’s ol’ Tars Tarkas. ‘E’s bin offen enough ter their cities.” She nudged the giant sharply. “Woddyer s’y, Tusky?”

  “Cor lumme, Delia Doris, this ain’t ‘arf a rum go!” replied th
e Green Martian. “They does talk summat like the tame ‘oomans, but not so plummy, like. An’ these duds o’ theirn — there ain’t noffin’ like ‘em on all Barsoom. The Masters could ‘ardly care less wot their slaves wears — if anyfing — an’ they’d never go ter all the trouble o’ settin’ up a factory ter turn out rags like these….” He asked sharply, “Could they have come from your world?”

  “It ain’t our world,” the man called Bill said bitterly. “An’ yer knows it. It ain’t bin ours for all o’ three ‘undred years, never since their bleedin’ invasion.”

  “But ‘e says as ‘e’s a spaceship cap’n,” pointed out Tars Tarkas.

  “‘E’s as drunk as a fiddler’s bitch. But wot s’y we arsk ‘is trouble-an’-strife? She ain’t ‘ad no muvver’s ruin….” He turned to Vanessa. “‘Ere, Missus. Wot’s yore bleedin’ story?”

  Wilkinson felt Vanessa’s hand tighten on his. He wondered what she would say, what she could say. He cursed himself for having blurted out the truth so carelessly. He should have played for time, fished for information. He should have found out who they, the Masters, were. (Was Titov’s “tin octopus” one of them?) He should have tried to find out something about the “tame humans.”

  Vanessa said quietly, “What my husband says is true. He is the Captain of a spaceship.”

  “And are yer from Earth?” asked Tars Tarkas sharply.

  “No,” she replied without hesitation. “No. From Venus.”

  This seemed to be the right answer. “It mykes sense,” muttered Bill. “Cor stone the bleedin’ crows, if it don’t. They’d never go there. Too bleedin’ ‘ot fer the bastards. I ‘member me ol’ man tellin’ me, years an’ years ago, some coves tried ter ‘arf-inch one o’ their ships so’s they could scarper orf fer Venus…. Tell me, Missus, wot’s it like on Venus?”

  “Hot,” she said. “Dry.”

  “Fits in, don’t it?” asked Bill of the assembly at large.

  “But why in the nyme of all that’s bleedin’ ‘Oly should they come ‘ere?” demanded Delia Doris.

  “Why did yer come ‘ere?” asked Bill. He added hopefully, “Ter ‘elp us?”

  Vanessa looked at Wilkinson imploringly. She had played her part, but now she was getting out of her depth. Wilkinson realized that he would have to carry on, and that lies would be useless. He would have to stick to the truth — a carefully edited version, but the truth.

  “As a matter of fact,” he began, “we need help ourselves. Our ship is broken down. We made a landing on the snowcap, near a pumping station …”

  “And how can we help you?” asked Tars Tarkas.

  “Well, we thought that we might get some sort of assistance at the station. We sent two men to … to case the joint. When they found the door into the building they were out of sight from the ship — but something came out to get them. We heard sounds of the struggle, and one of the men shouting what sounded like ‘damned tin octopus’

  “An’ just ‘ow did yer ‘ear orl this?” asked Bill suspiciously.

  “They were keeping in touch with the ship by radio.”

  “Radio? Wot’s that? Never ‘eard of it.”

  “You can use it to talk over a distance.”

  “Wireless. That’s what he means,” contributed Tars Tarkas. “The Masters have it. It ain’t much good.”

  “Yes. Wireless. Ours is quite good. Anyhow, we organized a rescue party as soon as we could. We broke into the pumping station and found our way down the spiral ramp. We came to an underground chamber — I’d say it was just down-canal from the pumps. There was a boat there — the boat we came in — but it was moored to the tunnel wall, across the channel from the wharf. When we tried to get it across the canal it broke adrift, and my wife and I were carried away with it.”

  “An’ you didn’t see any o’ the Masters?” demanded the woman.

  “No.”

  “It all figures,” growled Tars Tarkas. “It all figures. They check up on their pumpin’ stations once in a blue moon. The two coves what was caught by the tin octopus was just unlucky. He just happened to be there, makin’ his rounds, when they came knockin’ at his door. Prob’ly thought they was just a couple of wild ‘uns in fancy duds — an’ didn’t see why he should look a gift horse in the mouth. We all knows that the wild ‘uns has the best flavor….”

  “Are … are you cannibals?” asked Vanessa.

  “No, Missus. We ain’t. An’ the Masters ain’t neither. But that don’t stop them from regardin’ Bill Carter’s people as somethin’ tasty fer supper.”

  “But …” objected Wilkinson. “A tin octopus. A robot. How can a robot be carnivorous?”

  “What’s a robot? The word’s new to me…. But I see what you’re drivin’ at … an intelligent machine. That almost describes the Masters. They ‘aven’t any bodies to speak of. Just brain, and eyes, and beaks, and a handful of tentacles. But they have mechanical bodies that they change like we change our duds. The bastard what got your mates was in his workin’ rig.”

  “Where have they been taken?” asked Wilkinson urgently.

  “How should we know? We have as little to do with the Masters as possible. Probably to the city.”

  Wilkinson was dry now, and warm. He dropped the fur cloak and took the shirt and trousers that Tars Tarkas handed to him. The Green Martian puzzled him, as much by his lapses from Cockney into Standard English as anything. But this was only a very minor part of the still greater puzzle. As he was pulling on his clothing he said, “Perhaps, sir, you can show us how to get the boat started up. We have to get back to the pumping station, to the ship, to organize a rescue party.”

  “Yes,” Tars Tarkas told him. “You can get the boat going easily enough if you have a handful of twigs to poke into the slots. But you’re not doing it.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because the Masters have airships, and they patrol their canals all through the daylight hours. If they see one of their boats with two humans aboard they’ll start taking notice.”

  “Why don’t yer use yer bleedin’ wireless?” asked Bill.

  “Because it was left in the damned pumping station!” Wilkinson said, almost shouting.

  “I still reckons they’re spies,” muttered Delia Doris.

  “An’ fer why should they wanter spy on a gang of ‘unters?” countered Bill.

  “An’ fer why should anyfing the Masters do make sense?” she flared back at him. She appealed to the Green Martian. “Wot abaht you, Tusky? Woddyer s’y?”

  “They ain’t spies,” stated the Green Martian definitely. “If they was, they’d be dressed different. An’ they’d have some cock an’ bull story about being Tame Ones tired o’ sittin’ around waitin’ for what’s bound to happen to ‘em in the end. No, they wouldn’t be dressed the way they are. Not so much as a pair of boots between ‘em, this far north.” He twanged a tusk reflectively. “Now, this boat they came in. We have to hide it before sunup. There’s that cross canal half a mile from here, completely overgrown with spear grass….

  “Yes, that’s the way we’ll play it. Hide their boat, and put them in one of the spare tents tonight. Even if they wanted to get away, they’d never make it. The spare tents are right in the middle of the camp, and besides …” He pointed to Wilkinson’s feet, lapsed into the dialect of his companions. “Look at them plates o’ meat, will yer! Never trod on nuffin’ rougher nor a bleedin’ Axminster in their bleedin’ lives. ‘Ow far could they get over rough grahnd wiv no boots? They’ll stay put, orl right.

  “Then, come mornin’, we pushes north, as was our intention in any case. Having these two with us needn’t interfere none with our hunting. And then, if we do find their ship, we’ll know that they aren’t trying to come one over us.”

  “Suits me,” said Bill, after a brief silence.

  “I can’t say as I likes it,” complained Delia Doris.

  “Pipe dahn!” Bill told her.

  “So now you know,” said Tars Tarkas to Wilkinson. �
�You’re lucky that you caught us in a good mood. Delia Doris will show you where your tent is, and she might even bring you a bite of supper. Off with you, now!”

  The woman, beckoning them, started to stride away from the fire. They followed, staring, as they stumbled over the rough ground, at the fur-clad sentries with their long spears and their crossbows, at the tethered lines of great, six-legged beasts drowsily munching at the lichenous growth underfoot, at the high-peaked tents of skin.

  Delia Doris paused before one of these and threw back the flap.

  “In!” she ordered curtly.

  Wilkinson and Vanessa made their way cautiously into the musty darkness.

  XVI

  THEY explored the interior of the tent — by touch rather than by sight — and found a pile of furs. The rancid smell of them was sickening, but they would be warm. “We can’t afford to be fussy,” Vanessa said. “We’re better off than we were on that boat, on that freezing canal….”

  Delia Doris returned then, thrusting at them a platter and a jug. She left before they could thank her. They sat down inside the tent entrance, pulling one of the furs over them to keep out the cold, taking advantage of the light of the fire while they ate and drank. The food consisted of strips of some leathery meat, dry and salty. In the jug was a weak, sour beer. But it was better than nothing.

  When they were finished they put the jug and the platter just outside the entrance, dropped the flap and groped their way to the untidy pile of skins. They made a nest for themselves and, apart from the itching that made it obvious that they were sharing the furs with some other, much smaller, life form, were soon reasonably comfortable, in body if not in mind. But it was not yet time for sleep.

  “Chris,” asked Vanessa, “what do you make of it? What Mars is this? The Green Martians call their world Barsoom, and they have four arms, and tusks…. And there’s this man called Carter, but he’s Bill, not John, and he most certainly never came from Virginia. And there’s Delia Doris — which is almost Dejah Thoris.”