The Alien MEGAPACK®

by Talmage Powell

  With a click of internal relays, the robot left impassively. He had seen or heard nothing, without being otherwise commanded.

  “Afraid to report it, eh?” Tom Blaine jeered. “I told you Martians are yellow!”

  It was more than gravity now that made my shoulders sag. I dreaded the days that must follow.

  * * * *

  Even outside the classroom, I was hounded. I can use only that word. Tom Blaine thought of the diabolical trick of deliberately spilling a glass of water before my eyes.

  “Don’t—don’t!” I instinctively groaned, clutching at the glass.

  “What’s the matter, Professor?” he asked blandly. “This is nothing but water.”

  “It’s sacrilege—”

  I stopped there. They wouldn’t understand. How horrible to see water spill to the ground in utter waste! For ten thousand years, on Mars, that precious fluid has been the object of our greatest ingenuity.

  It hurt to see it wantonly flung away, as they might flinch if blood were shed uselessly before them.

  As I stumbled away from their laughter, I heard Tom Blaine confide to his cohorts:

  “I got the idea last night, looking in his room. He was playing with a bowl of water. Running it through his fingers, like a miser. I’ve got another idea, fellows. Follow me to the kitchen.”

  I wasn’t aware till half through the solitary evening meal in my rooms that the food tasted odd. It was salty! The boys had stolen into the kitchen and salted my special saltless foods. My stomach revolted against the alien condiment. Mars’ seas, from which our life originated long ago, held no sodium chloride, only magnesium chloride, with which all Martian food is “salted.”

  I went to bed, groaning with a severe headache and upset stomach from an outraged metabolism. Worse, it rained that night. I tried to shut my ears to that pattering sound. Millions of gallons of water were going to waste, while millions of Martians on my homeworld, were painfully hoarding water for their thirsty crops.

  The pains eased before morning. What torment would Tom Blaine and his relentless pack think of next? The answer came when I found my spectacles missing. My eyes were almost blinded that day, more from glare than senile failing of vision. They watered and blinked in light that was fifty percent stronger than on more remote Mars.

  “Lower the blinds, Oscar,” I ordered the robot when he appeared as usual.

  “But, Professor,” Tom Blaine protested, jumping up as though waiting for the moment, “think of our eyes. We can’t read our lessons in the dark.”

  “Never mind, Oscar,” I said wearily. The robot stood for a moment, relays clashing at the reversed orders. When he finally left, he seemed to shrug at the strange doings of his masters, Earthmen and Martians alike.

  “Have you any idea where my glasses are, Mr. Blaine?” I asked in direct appeal. I tried not to sound timid.

  “No, of course not,” he retorted virtuously.

  I nodded to myself and reached for the lower left-hand drawer of my desk, then changed my mind.

  “Will you all help me look for them?” I pleaded.

  They ransacked the desk with deliberate brutality.

  “Why, here they are, Professor!” Tom held them up from the lower left-hand drawer in mock triumph. I put them on with trembling hands.

  “How careless of me to leave them here yesterday.” I smiled. “One must have a sense of humor about these things. Now we will decline the verb krun, to move.”

  I went on as though nothing had happened, but my whole head ached from hours of straining my eyes against the cruel glare.

  That night, utterly exhausted, I went to bed only to find my anti-gravity unit jammed, obviously by human hands. One of my few pleasures was the ability to sink into restful slumber in the low-gravity field, after suffering the tug of Earth gravity at my vitals all day. Earthmen on Jupiter know how agonizing it becomes.

  I passed a sleepless night, panting and aching under what grew to be the pressure of a mountain.

  How could I go on against such heartlessness? Tom Blaine and his friends were ruthlessly determined to drive out their despised Martian teacher. If I complained to Dean Graham, it would be an admission of cowardice. I didn’t want to betray my race. But I was miserably aware that I had not a single friend in the academy.

  Oscar appeared in the morning, with a message from Dean Graham. The mechanical servant waited patiently to be told to go. When I swayed a little, he caught me. His reflexes had been patterned not to let things fall.

  “Thank you, Oscar.” I found my hand on the robot’s shiny hard shoulder. It was comfortingly firm. “You’re my only friend, Oscar. At least, you’re not my enemy. But what am I saying? You’re only a machine. You may go, Oscar.”

  The message read:

  Today and tomorrow are examination days. Use the enclosed forms. At three o’clock today, all classes will be excused to the Television Auditorium.

  * * * *

  The examinations were routine. Despite my unrested body and mind, I felt an uplift of spirit. My class would do well. I had managed, even against hostility, to impart a sound understanding of Interplanetary History and the Martian language.

  I looked almost proudly over the bowed, laboring heads. Suddenly I stiffened.

  “Mr. Henderson,” I said gently, “I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”

  The boy flushed, hastily crammed into his pockets the notes he had been copying from. Then he gaped up in amazement. Tom Blaine, at the desk beside him, also looked up startled. The question was plain in his eyes. How could I know that Henderson was cheating, when even Tom, sitting next to him hadn’t suspected?

  “You forget,” I explained hesitantly, “that Martians use telepathy at will.”

  Tom Blaine stared, his mouth hanging open. Then he jumped up.

  “Are we going to stand for that? Spying on us, even in our minds—” He gasped at a sudden thought. “You knew all the time about the glasses. You didn’t expose me.” He flushed, but in anger rather than embarrassment. “You made a fool of me!”

  “One must have a sense of humor about those things,” I said lamely.

  The rest of the examination period passed in bristling silence. More than ever, now, they were hostile to me. More than ever would they show their antagonism. How could I ever hope to win them, if patience was taken for cowardice, understanding for malice, and telepathy for deliberate spying?

  Why had I ever left Mars, to come to this alien, heart-breaking world?

  * * * *

  At three o’clock, examinations were over for that day. The class filed to the Television Auditorium.

  A giant screen in the darkened room displayed a drama on Venus, then news-flashes from around the system. An asteroid, scene of the latest radium rush. Ganymede, with its talking plant show. Titan’s periodic meteor shower from the rings of Saturn. A cold, dark scene on Pluto, where a great telescope was being built for interstellar observations. Finally Mars, and a file of Earthmen and Martians climbing into a sleek Space Patrol ship.

  “The Patrol ship Greyhound,” informed the announcer, “is being dispatched after pirates. Captain Henry Blaine is determined to blast them, or not come back.”

  “My father,” Tom Blaine said proudly to his classmates.

  “My son,” I murmured, leaning forward to watch the last of the Martians vanish within.

  When the armed ship leaped into space, the television broadcast was over.

  There were no more classes that day. I dragged across the campus toward the haven of my rooms, for I needed rest and quiet.

  A shriek tore from my throat the instant I saw it. A horrible, wriggling snake lay in my path! It was only a small, harmless garden snake, my reason told me. But a million years of instinct yelled danger, death! I stumbled and fell, trying to run against gravity that froze my muscles. I shrank
from the squirming horror as it stopped and defiantly darted out its forked tongue.

  The outside world burst into my consciousness with a thunderclap of laughter. Tom Blaine was holding up the wriggling snake. Once the first shock was over, I managed to keep my nerves in check.

  “It’s only a garter snake,” he mocked. “Sorry it frightened you.”

  But what would they say if a hungry, clawing tiger suddenly appeared before them? How would they feel? I left without a word, painfully compelling my trembling limbs to move.

  I was beaten. That thought hammered within my skull.

  They had broken my spirit. I came to that conclusion after staring up at a red star that winked soberly and seemed to nod in pity. There was my true home. I longed to go back to its canals and deserts. Harsh they might be, but not so harsh as the unfeeling inhabitants of this incredibly rich planet.

  I went to my rooms and started to pack.

  Angry voices swiftly approached my door. The boys burst in, led by Tom Blaine.

  “Murderer!” Tom yelled. “A man was strangled in town two hours ago, by a rope—or a tentacle! You looked murder at us this afternoon. Why did you kill him? Just general hate for the human race?”

  How fantastic it sounded, yet they weren’t mere boys, now. They were a blood-lusting mob. All their hate and misunderstanding for me had come to a head. I knew it was no use even to remonstrate.

  “Look, fellows! He was packing up to sneak away. He’s the killer, all right. Are you going to confess, Professor Zeerohs, or do we have to make you confess!”

  It was useless to resist their burly savagery and strong Earth muscles. They held me and ripped away the light metal braces supporting my legs. Then I was forced outside and prodded along. They made me walk up and down, back of the dormitory, in the light of subatomic torches.

  It became sheer torture within an hour. Without the braces, my weak muscles sagged under my weight. Earth’s gravity more than doubled the normal strain.

  “Confess!” Tom snapped fiercely. “Then we’ll take you to the police.”

  I shook my head, as I had each time Tom demanded my confession. My one hopeless comfort was the prayer of an earthly prophet, who begged the First Cause to forgive his children, for they knew not what they did.

  For another hour, the terrible march kept up. I became a single mass of aching flesh. My bones seemed to be cracking and crumbling under the weight of the Universe. My mental anguish was still sharper, for the tide of hate beat against me like a surf.

  Where was Dean Graham? Then I remembered that he had gone to visit his relatives that evening. There was no one to help me, no one to stop these half-grown men who saw their chance to get rid of me. Only the winking red eye of Mars looked down in compassion for the suffering of a humble son.

  “Oscar’s coming!” warned a voice.

  Ponderously the robot approached, the night-light in his forehead shining. He made the rounds every night, like a mechanical watchman. As he eyed the halted procession, his patterned reflexes were obviously striving to figure out what its meaning could be.

  “Boys will go to the dormitory,” his microphonic voice boomed. “Against regulations to be out after ten o’clock.”

  “Oscar, you may go,” barked Tom Blaine.

  The robot didn’t budge. His selectors were set to obey only the voices of teachers and officials.

  “Oscar—” I began with a wild cry.

  A boy clamped his hand over my mouth. The last of my strength oozed from me, and I slumped to the ground. Though I was not unconscious, I knew my will would soon be insufficient to make me resist. The boys looked frightened.

  “Maybe we’ve gone too far,” one said nervously.

  “He deserves it,” shrilled Tom uneasily. “He’s a cowardly murderer!”

  “Tom!” Pete Miller came running up, from the direction of the town. “Just heard the news—the police caught the killer—a maniac with a rope.” He recoiled in alarm when he saw my sprawled form. “What did you do, fellows? He’s innocent, and he really isn’t such a bad old guy.”

  The boys glanced at one another with guilty eyes. Fervently I blessed young Miller for that statement.

  “Don’t be sentimental,” Tom Blaine said much too loudly. “Martians are cowards. My father says so. I’m glad we did this, anyway. It’ll drive him away for sure. We’d better beat it now.”

  The group melted away, leaving me on the ground. Oscar stalked forward and picked me up. Any fallen person must be helped up, according to his patterned mind. But his steel arms felt softer than Tom Blaine’s heartless accusation.

  * * * *

  The class gasped almost in chorus the next morning, when their Martian professor entered quietly, as though nothing had happened the night before.

  “Examinations will continue,” I announced.

  It was small wonder that they looked surprised. First, that I had appeared at all, weak and spent by the night’s cruel ordeal. Second, that I had not given up and left. Third, that I hadn’t reported the episode to Dean Graham. The punishment would have been severe.

  Only I knew I was back because it would be cowardly to leave. Mentally and physically I was sick, but not beaten. Besides, I had heard young Miller insist that I was not such a bad old guy, after all. It was like a well of cool water in a hot desert.

  Examinations began. Oscar entered, handed me a spacegram and clanked out again. Nervously I opened and read the message. My tentacles twitched uncontrollably at the ends, then curled around the chair arms and clung desperately. Everything vanished before my eyes except the hideous, shocking words of the spacegram.

  My world was ended. Mars or Earth—it made no difference. I could not go on. But existence must continue. I could not let this break me. Grimly I folded the paper and laid it aside.

  I looked with misted eyes at their lowered heads. I needed a friend as never before, but hostility and hatred were the only emotions they felt for me as I tuned to them one by one. They hated their teacher, though they knew him to be wise, humble, patient, as Martians are by nature.

  And I was beginning to hate them. They were forcing me to. Savagely I hoped they would all fail in their examinations.

  I switched back to young Miller, who was biting his pencil. Forehead beaded with sweat, he was having a difficult time. Thoughts were racing through his brain.

  Wanted so much to pass…enter Space Point…join the Space Patrol some day… Not enough time to study…job in spare time after school hours…help parents… In what year did the first explorer step on Neptune’s moon? Why, Nineteen-seventy-six! Funny how that came all of a sudden… Now what was the root for “planet” in Martian? Why, jad, of course! It isn’t so hard after all…

  Wish that old Martian wouldn’t stare at me as if he’s reading my mind… How many moons has Jupiter? Always get it mixed up with Saturn.

  Eighteen, six found by space ships! Funny, I’m so sure of myself… I’ll lick this exam yet… Dad’s going to be proud of me when I’m wearing that uniform.…

  I turned my eyes away from Miller’s happy face. A deserving boy, he would be a credit to the Space Patrol. Others had their troubles, not just I.

  Abruptly there was an interruption. Oscar came clanking in hurriedly. “Dean Graham wishes all classes to file out on the campus, for a special event,” he boomed.

  The boys whispered in curiosity and left the classroom at my unsteady order. The campus was filled with the entire school faculty and enrollment. My group of senior classmen was allowed to stand directly in front of the bandstand. I felt weak and in need of support, but there was no one to give it to me.

  Dean Graham raised a hand. “A member of the Space Patrol is here,” he spoke, “having come from Space Point by rocket-strato for an important announcement. Major Dawson.”

  A tall, uniformed man, wearing the blue of the Spac
e Patrol, stepped forward, acknowledging the assembly’s unrestrained cheer with a solemn nod. The Patrol is honored throughout the System for its gallant service to civilization.

  “Many of you boys,” he said, “hope to enter Space Point some day, and join the Service. This bulletin, received an hour ago, will do honor to someone here.”

  He held up the paper and read aloud. “Captain Henry Blaine, in command of Patrol ship Greyhound, yesterday was wounded in the daring rout of pirates off the Earth-Mars run.”

  All eyes turned to Tom Blaine, who was proud of the ceremony in honor of his father. The official held up a radium-coated medal—the Cross of Space, for extraordinary service to the forces of law and order in the Solar System. Dean Graham whispered in his ear. He nodded, stepping down from the rostrum and advancing.

  My gasp of surprise was deeper than those of the others as he brushed past Tom Blaine. Stopping before me, he pinned the glowing medal on my chest. Then he grasped my hand.

  “I think you’ll be proud to wear that all your life!” He turned, reading further from his bulletin.

  “Captain Blaine’s life was saved by a youthful Martian recruit, who leaped in front of him and took the full blast that wounded the Earthman. His name was—”

  I found myself watching Tom Blaine. He didn’t have to hear the name. He was staring at the spacegram he had stolen from my desk, but hadn’t had a chance to read till now. He had sensed my momentary agitation over it, and had hoped perhaps to use it against me. It read:

  WE DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF THE DEATH OF YOUR SON, KOL ZEEROHS, IN HEROIC SERVICE FOR THE SPACE PATROL—THE HIGH COMMAND, SPACE PATROL.

  But now my weakness overwhelmed me. I was aware only of someone at my side, supporting me, as my knees threatened to buckle. It must have been Oscar.

  No—it was a human being!

  “Every one of us here,” Tom Blaine said, tightening his grip around me, “is your son now—if that will help a little. You’re staying of course, Professor. You couldn’t leave now if you tried.”

  We smiled at each other, and my thin hand was nearly crushed in his young, strong grasp. Yes, the teacher from Mars would stay.