Rumfoord held up a finger, and Unk was startled to see that it was quite translucent. “There was one locked stateroom that the man was not permitted to enter,” said Rumfoord. “The crew carefully explained to him that the stateroom contained the most beautiful woman ever taken to Mars, and that any man who saw her was certain to fall in love with her. Love, they said, would destroy the value of any but the most professional soldier.
“The new lieutenant-colonel was offended by the suggestion that he was not a professional soldier, and he regaled the crew with stories of his amatory exploits with gorgeous women—all of which had left his heart absolutely untouched. The crew remained skeptical, pretending to the opinion that the lieutenant-colonel had never, for all his lascivious questing, exposed himself to an intelligent, haughty beauty such as the one in the locked stateroom.
“The crew’s seeming respect for the lieutenant-colonel was now subtly withdrawn. The other recruits sensed this withdrawal, and withdrew their own. The lieutenant-colonel in his gaudy uniform was made to feel like what he really was, after all—a strutting clown. The manner in which he could win back his dignity was never stated, but was obvious to one and all. He could win it back by making a conquest of the beauty locked in the stateroom. He was fully prepared to do this—was desperately prepared—
“But the crew,” said Rumfoord, “continued to protect him from supposed amatory failure and a broken heart. His ego fizzed, it sizzled, it snapped, it crackled, it popped.
“There was a drinking party in the officers’ mess,” said Rumfoord, “and the lieutenant-colonel became quite drunk and loud. He bragged again of his heartless lewdnesses on Earth. And then he saw that someone had placed in the bottom of his glass a stateroom key.
“The lieutenant-colonel sneaked away to the locked stateroom forthwith, let himself in, and closed the door behind him,” said Rumfoord. “The stateroom was dark, but the inside of the lieutenant-colonel’s head was illuminated by liquor and by the triumphant words of the announcement he would make at breakfast the next morning.
“He took the woman in the dark easily, for she was weak with terror and sedatives,” said Rumfoord. “It was a joyless union, satisfactory to no one but Mother Nature at her most callous.
“The lieutenant-colonel did not feel marvelous. He felt wretched. Foolishly, he turned on the light, hoping to find in the woman’s appearance some cause for pride in his brutishness,” said Rumfoord sadly. “Huddled on the bunk was a rather plain woman past thirty. Her eyes were red and her face was puffy with weeping, despair.
“The lieutenant-colonel, moreover, knew her. She was a woman that a fortune teller had promised him would one day bear his child,” said Rumfoord. “She had been so high and proud the last time he saw her, and was now so crushed, that even the heartless lieutenant-colonel was moved.
“The lieutenant-colonel realized for the first time what most people never realize about themselves—that he was not only a victim of outrageous fortune, but one of outrageous fortune’s cruelest agents as well. The woman had regarded him as a pig when they met before. He had now proved beyond question that he was a pig.
“As the crew had predicted,” said Rumfoord, “the lieutenant-colonel was spoiled forever as a soldier. He became hopelessly engrossed in the intricate tactics of causing less rather than more pain. Proof of his success would be his winning of the woman’s forgiveness and understanding.
“When the space ship reached Mars, he learned from loose talk in the Reception Center Hospital that he was about to have his memory taken away. He thereupon wrote himself the first of a series of letters that listed the things he did not want to forget. The first letter was all about the woman he had wronged.
“He looked for her after his amnesia treatment, and found that she had no recollection of him. Not only that, she was pregnant, carrying his child. His problem, thereupon, became to win her love, and through her, to win the love of her child.
“This he attempted to do, Unk,” said Rumfoord, “not once, but many times. He was consistently defeated. But it remained the central problem of his life—probably because he himself had come from a shattered family.
“What defeated him, Unk,” said Rumfoord, “was a congenital coldness on the part of the woman, and a system of psychiatry that took the ideals of Martian society as noble common sense. Each time the man wobbled his mate, utterly humorless psychiatry straightened her out—made her an efficient citizen again.
“Both the man and his mate were frequent visitors to the psychiatric wards of their respective hospitals. And it is perhaps food for thought,” said Rumfoord, “that this supremely frustrated man was the only Martian to write a philosophy, and that this supremely self-frustrating woman was the only Martian to write a poem.”
Boaz arrived at the company mother ship from the town of Phoebe, where he had-gone to look for Unk. “God damn—” he said to Rumfoord, “everybody go and leave without us?” He was on a bicycle.
He saw Unk. “God damn, buddy,” he said to Unk, “boy—you ever put your buddy through hell. I mean! How you get here?”
“Military police,” said Unk.
“The way everybody gets everywhere,” said Rumfoord lightly.
“We got to catch up, buddy,” said Boaz. “Them boys ain’t going to attack, if they don’t have a mother ship along. What they going to fight for?”
“For the privilege of being the first army that ever died in a good cause,” said Rumfoord.
“How’s that?” said Boaz.
“Never mind,” said Rumfoord. “You boys just get on board, close the airlock, push the on button. You’ll catch up before you know it. Everything’s all fully automatic.”
Unk and Boaz got on board.
Rumfoord held open the outer door of the airlock. “Boaz—” he said, “that red button on the center shaft there—that’s the on button.”
“I know,” said Boaz.
“Unk—” said Rumfoord.
“Yes?” said Unk emptily.
“That story I told you—the love story? I left out one thing.”
“That so?” said Unk.
“The woman in the love story—the woman who had that man’s baby?” said Rumfoord. “The woman who was the only poet on Mars?”
“What about her?” said Unk. He didn’t care much about her. He hadn’t caught on that the woman in Rumfoord’s story was Bee, was his own mate.
“She’d been married for several years before she got to Mars,” said Rumfoord. “But when the hot-shot lieutenant-colonel got to her there in the space ship bound for Mars, she was still a virgin.”
Winston Niles Rumfoord winked at Unk before shutting the outside door of the airlock. “Pretty good joke on her husband, eh, Unk?” he said.
chapter seven
VICTORY
“There is no reason why good cannot triumph as often as evil. The triumph of anything is a matter of organization. If there are such things as angels, I hope that they are organized along the lines of the Maffia.”
—WINSTON NILES RUMFOORD
It has been said that Earthling civilization, so far, has created ten thousand wars, but only three intelligent commentaries on war—the commentaries of Thucydides, of Julius Caesar and of Winston Niles Rumfoord.
Winston Niles Rumfoord chose 75,000 words so well for his Pocket History of Mars that nothing remains to be said, or to be said better, about the war between Earth and Mars. Anyone who finds himself obliged, in the course of a history, to describe the war between Earth and Mars is humbled by the realization that the tale has already been told to glorious perfection by Rumfoord.
The usual course for such a discomfited historian is to describe the war in the barest, flattest, most telegraphic terms, and to recommend that the reader go at once to Rumfoord’s masterpiece.
Such a course is followed here.
The war between Mars and Earth lasted 67 Earthling days.
Every nation on Earth was attacked.
Earth’s casu
alties were 461 killed, 223 wounded, none captured, and 216 missing.
Mars’ casualties were 149,315 killed, 446 wounded, 11 captured, and 46,634 missing.
At the end of the war, every Martian had been killed, wounded, captured, or been found missing.
Not a soul was left on Mars. Not a building was left standing on Mars.
The last waves of Martians to attack Earth were,-to the horror of the Earthlings who pot-shotted them, old men, women, and a few little children.
The Martians arrived in the most brilliantly-conceived space vehicles ever known in the Solar System. And, as long as the Martian troops had their real commanders to radio-control them, they fought with a steadfastness, selflessness, and a will to close with the enemy that won the grudging admiration of everyone who fought them.
It was frequently the case, however, that the troops lost their real commanders, either in the air or on the ground. When that happened, the troops became sluggish at once.
Their biggest trouble, however, was that they were scarcely better armed than a big-city police department. They fought with firearms, grenades, knives, mortars, and small rocket-launchers. They had no nuclear weapons, no tanks, no medium or heavy artillery, no air cover, and no transport once they hit the ground.
The Martian troops, moreover, had no control over where their ships were to land. Their ships were controlled by fully automatic pilot-navigators, and these electronic devices were set by technicians on Mars so as to make the ships land at particular points on Earth, regardless of how awful the military situation might be down there.
The only controls available to those on board were two push-buttons on the center post of the cabin—one labeled on and one labeled off. The on button simply started a flight from Mars. The off button was connected to nothing. It was installed at the insistence of Martian mental-health experts, who said that human beings were always happier with machinery they thought they could turn off.
The war between Earth and Mars began when 500 Martian Imperial Commandos took possession of the Earthling moon on April 23. They were unopposed. The only Earthlings on the moon at the time were 18 Americans in the Jefferson Observatory, 53 Russians in the Lenin Observatory, and four Danish geologists at large in the Mare Imbrium.
The Martians announced their presence by radio to Earth, demanded Earth’s surrender. And they gave Earth what they described as “a taste of hell.”
This taste, to Earth’s considerable amusement, turned out to be a very light shower of rockets carrying twelve pounds apiece of TNT.
After giving Earth this taste of hell, the Martians told Earth that Earth’s situation was hopeless.
Earth thought otherwise.
In the next twenty-four hours, Earth fired 617 thermo-nuclear devices at the Martian bridgehead on the moon. Of these 276 were hits. These hits not only vaporized the bridgehead—they rendered the moon unfit for human occupation for at least ten million years.
And, in a freak of war, one wild shot missed the moon and hit an incoming formation of space ships that carried 15,671 Martian Imperial Commandos. That took care of all the Martian Imperial Commandos there were.
They wore knee spikes, and glossy black uniforms, and carried 14-inch, saw-toothed knives in their boots. Their insignia was a skull and crossbones.
Their motto was Per aspera ad astra, the same as the motto of Kansas, U.S.A., Earth, Solar System, Milky Way.
There was then a lull of thirty-two days, the length of time it took for the main Martian striking force to cross the void between the two planets. This hammer blow consisted of 81,932 troops in 2,311 ships. Every military unit, save for the Martian Imperial Commandos, was represented. Earth was spared suspense as to when this terrible armada might arrive. The Martian broadcasters on the moon, before being vaporized, had promised the arrival of this irresistible force in thirty-two days.
In thirty-two days, four hours, and fifteen minutes, the Martian Armada flew into a radar-directed thermonuclear barrage. The official estimate of the number of thermo-nuclear anti-aircraft rockets fired at the Martian armada is 2,542,670. The actual number of rockets fired is of little interest when one can express the power of that barrage in another way, in a way that happens to be both poetry and truth. The barrage turned the skies of Earth from heavenly blue to a hellish burnt orange. The skies remained burnt orange for a year and a half.
Of the mighty Martian Armada, only 761 ships carrying 26,635 troops survived the barrage and landed on Earth.
Had all these ships landed at one point, the survivors might have made a stand. But the electronic pilot-navigators of the ships had other ideas. The pilot-navigators scattered the remnants of the armada far and wide over the surface of the Earth. Squads, platoons, and companies emerged from the ships everywhere, demanding that nations of millions give in.
A single, badly scorched man named Krishna Garu attacked all of India with a double-barreled shotgun. Though there was no one to radio-control him, he did not surrender until his gun blew up.
The only Martian military success was the capture of a meat market in Basel, Switzerland, by seventeen Parachute Ski Marines.
Everywhere else the Martians were butchered promptly, before they could even dig in.
As much butchering was done by amateurs as by professionals. At the Battle of Boca Raton, in Florida, U.S.A., for instance, Mrs. Lyman R. Peterson shot four members of the Martian Assault Infantry with her son’s .22 caliber rifle. She picked them off as they came out of their space ship, which had landed in her back yard.
She was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor posthumously.
The Martians who attacked Boca Raton, incidentally, were the remains of Unk’s and Boaz’s company. Without Boaz, their real commander, to radio-control them, they fought listlessly, to say the least.
When American troops arrived at Boca Raton to fight the Martians, there was nothing left to fight. The civilians, flushed and proud, had taken care of everything nicely. Twenty-three Martians had been hanged from lamp posts in the business district, eleven had been shot dead, and one, Sergeant Brackman, was a grievously wounded prisoner in the jail.
The total attacking force had been thirty-five.
“Send us more Martians,” said Ross L. McSwann, the Mayor of Boca Raton.
He later became a United States Senator.
And everywhere the Martians were killed and killed and killed, until the only Martians left free and standing on the face of the Earth were the Parachute Ski Marines carousing in the meat market in Basel, Switzerland. They were told by loudspeaker that their situation was hopeless, that bombers were overhead, that all streets were blocked by tanks and crack infantry, and that fifty artillery pieces were trained on the meat market. They were told to come out with their hands up, or the meat market would be blown to bits.
“Nuts!” yelled the real commander of the Parachute Ski Marines.
There was another lull.
A single Martian scout ship far out in space broadcast to Earth that another attack was on its way, an attack more terrible than anything ever known in the annals of war.
Earth laughed and got ready. All around the globe there was the cheerful popping away of amateurs familiarizing themselves with small arms.
Fresh stocks of thermo-nuclear devices were delivered to the launching pads, and nine tremendous rockets were fired at Mars itself. One hit Mars, wiped the town of Phoebe and the army camp off the face of the planet. Two others disappeared in a chrono-synclastic infundibulum. The rest became space derelicts.
It did not matter that Mars was hit.
There was no one there any more—not a soul.
The last of the Martians were on their way to Earth.
The last of the Martians were coming in three waves.
In the first wave came the army reserves, the last of the trained troops—26,119 men in 721 ships.
A half an Earthling day behind them came 86,912 recently-armed male civilians in 1,738 ships. They had no uniforms,
had fired their rifles only once, and had no training at all in the use of any other weapons.
A half an Earthling day behind these wretched irregulars came 1,391 unarmed women and 52 children in 46 ships.
That was all the people and all the ships that Mars had left.
The mastermind behind the Martian suicide was Winston Niles Rumfoord.
The elaborate suicide of Mars was financed by capital gains on investments in land, securities, Broadway shows, and inventions. Since Rumfoord could see into the future, it was easy as pie for him to make money grow.
The Martian treasury was kept in Swiss banks, in accounts identified only by code numbers.
The man who managed the Martian investments, headed the Martian Procurement Program and the Martian Secret Service on Earth, the man who took orders directly from Rumfoord, was Earl Moncrief, the ancient Rumfoord butler. Moncrief, given the opportunity at the very close of his servile life, became Rumfoord’s ruthless, effective, and even brilliant Prime Minister of Earthling Affairs.
Moncrief’s façade remained unchanged.
Moncrief died of old age in his bed in the servants’ wing of the Rumfoord mansion two weeks after the war ended.
The person chiefly responsible for the technological triumphs of the Martian suicide was Salo, Rumfoord’s friend on Titan. Salo was a messenger from the planet Tralfamadore in the Small Magellanic Cloud. Salo had technological know-how from a civilization that was millions of Earthling years old. Salo had a space ship that was crippled—but, even in its crippled condition, it was by far the most marvelous space ship that the Solar System had ever seen. His crippled ship, stripped of luxury features, was the prototype of all the ships of Mars. While Salo himself was not a very good engineer, he was none the less able to measure every part of his ship, and to draw up the plans for its Martian descendants.
The Sirens of Titan Page 13
