John Rackham

by We The Venusians

  "You've been cared for, fed, looked after and restored to sanity by these people. Don't ruin it all, now."

  All at once she went quite still, face down. He relaxed his clutch, and on the instant she was free and away, up on her feet and running like a deer, straight between two stolid green men and down the slope.

  "Martha!" he yelled. "Stop!" And then some of his rage spilled over on the mute audience. "Why the hell don't you help? Do something!" He bit off the rest as he saw no response, and started running after her down to the water-edge. She had plunged in up to her waist and was wading. He skirted the shore to keep abreast of her.

  "Be sensible!" he called pleadingly. "There's no danger, nothing to run away from. At least give me a chance to explain."

  He saw her turn and come wading out again. He waited for her. She came direcdy towards him and he extended his hand in reassurance. Her face was blank until she was close.

  "Greenie!" She spat it at him, bringing her hand across and down, her fingers splayed like talons. Half-blinded, tears flooding his eyes, he reeled back and felt her brush past. By the time he could see again she was well away up the slope, making for distant bushes. A snatched glance showed him he was still not getting any help from the silent crowd. He ran. He didn't want to. He had no idea what he would do if and when he caught her. He wished vainly for the moral courage to stand, to just let her run, let her decide her own fate. But he ran, just the same.

  Freakishly, the mist-veil that covered the land, lifted aside long enough to let him see her and, looming up out of the swirl to her left, a truck, a great headlamp-eyed monster, hopeless-wheels churning at the moss. She ran forward, arms waving, shouting, but the truck snorted past within feet of her, totally indifferent. She spun to pursue

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  it. He saw it duck sidewall-deep into swampy ooze, the wheels completely disappearing, and then it righted itself and surged competently on. The glowing mist swept down just as he saw her plunge after, and lurch to a stop, hip-deep in ooze.

  "Martha!" he yelled, running crazily, Tie down flat and swim it!"

  "Keep away from mel" she screeched instantly. Mud sucked at his feet. In two more steps he was up to his knees and sinking.

  "Lie down!" he shouted again.

  "Keep away, you Greeniel" she screamed. "Keep off!"

  He heard her thrashing about. Taking his own advice he threw himself forward and began a desperate swimming action, ploughing through the sucking ooze, spitting it out of his mouth and straining always to keep in touch with her. By perverse instinct she had thrown a wall around her thoughts and he could no longer "feel" her. But he heard her laugh. Or screech. He couldn't be sure which. He had no breath to spare for calling out. He squirmed on by painful inches, spreading his arms to feel, to grope, trying to touch her. He kept on, even after she had stopped thrashing about, after she had fallen dreadfully silent.

  Then he "felt" the keen wrench of her agony as she breathed water instead of air, as she choked . . . and died, not all at once as he had imagined it would be, but little by little, the way a crowd breaks up and disperses, as the multitude of complex interdependent processes which go to make up living faltered one by one and became still.

  Then, when all was still and silent, and there was only a great hollow echo in his mind, he floundered round and dragged himself to where he could feel solid resistence under his elbows. Then he heaved himself up out of the slime, crawled out on to the wet warmth of moss, and lay there, empty.

  At last, like an automaton he lurched to his feet and began to walk back. Because he could think of nothing else to do. Ten steps and he fell heavily to his knees. Brainless effort got him up to his feet again. Two more steps, and he fell once more, flat on his face, numbly surprised that he had felt no bump, had felt nothing, could feel noth-

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  big now except stupid comfort. Why not just leave it at that? Why bother with more?

  He let go his last finger-nail of effort and slumped mindlessly. Then the darkness of his thoughts flooded with a vision of the quiet valley, the bright glow and color, the placidly moving green people. And Lovely, who seemed to be looking at him, holding out her arms. A pleasant dream. He let himself slip into it.

  He woke in the dark, muzzily aware of pleasure only a breath away, of a gentle caressing warmth that was more than just a physical touch. Half-remembered thoughts rippled and spun, not quite in focus. Vague memories of a long and staggering walk through mist, with the strength of many to uphold him, and security wrapping him round . . . the security which held him now, at this moment. Security and contentment. The thought suddenly snagged like a hang-nail, hurting. He stirred, and a warm thought soothed him at once. He knew instandy who it was and rejected her so violently that she squirmed away from him in the dark and sat up, the violet moons of her eyes glowing reproachfully at him.

  Tou were happy then," she said. "Now you are angry again. Is it better to be angry, or sad, always?"

  "I will not"—he said it very distinctly, convincing himself—lie an animal. I will not relapse into blind and stupid contentment, uncaring. I will not/" Which was fine to say, and she gave no argument, but it left him facing a blank against which all his righteous resentment seethed in vain. He felt the weight of unrighted wrongs bearing down, the burn of unjustice, the nagging urge to do something. But what?

  She kept a discreet distance, patiently, and began to hum a snatch of melody.

  "Where did you hear that music?" he demanded, dreading her answer.

  "What is 'music'? Doctor did not tell us that word."

  "You mean . . . you have no music? No singing? You were singing, just then. That, what you were doing, making sounds without speech with your voice, that is music. Where did you hear it?"

  "When the other woman died, and you were very

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  sad, many voices shouted in your mind, all together. And many other sounds, too. I heard, because I was listening for you, because I am your woman. I heard. No other person on Venus has ever heard such things, this which you call music."

  "No one?Ever?"

  "None," she said, and where he would have doubted anyone else, he knew that she spoke true. That was a secondary implication, that with a people who exchanged "thought-feelings" as freely as this, what one of them knew, all would know. So they had no music, his people. It was a mind-staggering thought. And a valuable one, too.

  "You liked it?"

  "It was very wonderful. More than anything I have ever known. A great mystery. You can do that many-sound again, in your mind?"

  "As often as I like. And others." He danced a dainty Mozart minuet for her, and sensed her instant rapture. It gave him a feeling of power, and he knew it to be reaL Music hath charms, he thought, and a small spark of jubilation began to glow in him, walled with caution, but alight

  "It was wonderful," she whispered. "I have never known anything like such feelings. Colors and sounds and patterns, so beautiful. I am so glad I am your woman." He seized on that, too, with instant ruthlessness.

  "What does that mean, that you will do things for me?"

  "For you, anything. What you want, I want."

  "Good!" The fire began to bum in him now, threatening his caution. "Tell me, what the old man does . . . you can do it? You can reach out and be in touch with others, other chiefs of other tribes?"

  "What he does, I can do. When he dies, that will be my function."

  "All right!" He stirred, got to his knees, pointed his head to the glow that was the mouth of the cave. "Come on. You and I are going to see the old man. I want to tell him a thing or two, and I need your help."

  The old green man was still sitting where he had been, as impassive as a sun-dial. Anthony squatted before him, ordering his thoughts.

  "I've got some very important information for you," he

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  said. "I want you to listen carefully, and then pass it on to all the people. Understand?"

  "I will hear, first. Ho
w important?"

  "This much. The humans have told you false. One did, at least. They come here to take over your planet. They destroy you, slowly at first, but more and more. In the end, all green people will die. They must be stopped. We must fight them, now!"

  The old face twisted into a ghost of a grin. "You say this like a child afraid of shadows, using strange words. What is 'take over'? And how, if it was true that humans are dangerous, do we stop them? What is 'fight'?"

  "Humans are friends," Lovely murmured, at his elbow. "Doctor said so. Also, when you went away to earth, they cared well for you. How can you say they are false?"

  Anthony had expected something like this. To the old man he gave a thin smile. "Friends? Doctor told you, I'm sure, how friends behave, among humans. How they shake hands?" And he offered his right hand. The old man kept his faindy derisive smile, and put out his own hand in response. It felt leathery but firm in Anthony's grip. He took a good secure hold, and put on just a bit of pressure. The old man's grin faded. He tried to pull his hand away, but Anthony held on, increasing the pressure very slowly.

  "You are hurting my hand."

  "Yes." Anthony nodded, meeting the old eyes quite openly. "My hand is strong. It has done much work, much training. I can crush your hand to a pulp, old one. What can you do about it?" And he increased his grip-pressure, very slowly. He had no real desire to hurt this impassive old man, but it was the only immediate way he could devise to make his point, so he proceeded slowly, giving the chief time to reason his way through what was an entirely novel situation to him.

  "Why do you seek to injure me?"

  "That's my business. What are you going to do about

  itr

  The old face twitched, eyes shifting, seeking some answer. The grip went on increasing. Lovely stirred, hesitating but unable to hold herself.

  "You must not do this thing!"

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  "You keep quiet. Ill ask when I want you. Let him handle it."

  The grip went on increasing. Anthony knew the old man must be in very real distress now, although his face showed little of it. He would have given much to be able to see into that old mind, but he dared not even try. Instead he squeezed harder. And harder. And then, all at once, it was as if an enormous yet invisible vice closed in on him. In three dimensions it shut in on his arms and legs, his body, his heart, lungs and throat, a great and strangling pressure. Instant panic bloomed in him, but he fought it off. To move his head a fraction was a labor, but he made it, to mumble to Lovely, "Now! Now I need your help. What he does, you can do. Help me!" For a drawn-out moment the peaceful scene blurred in his vision and the black night of death was close as she hesitated in bewilderment. Then he felt the constricting pressure ease off, and saw the old man's face stiffen, saw sweat break out on him. Around the three, all in utter silence, there grew a tension that was unseen yet palpable enough to lean on. Even though he had been hoping for and expecting something like this, Anthony was awed by the sheer power that crackled round him. He relaxed his crushing grip.

  "That will do," he gasped. "It's enough. Stop!" The tension disappeared like a burst bubble. He was drenched with sweat and laboring for breath. The old man stared at him, nostrils flaring.

  "You play with things you do not understand. That is dangerous."

  "On the contrary, I understand very well. You were threatened. You took action. That is what I meant by fighting. You can fight. You can do this to animals. She did it, when we came over the water in the boat."

  "No," she contradicted. "It was not the same. All I did was to make our sea-brother take a different path, away from us."

  "You could do that to humans, too. Or crush them, as he would have crushed me. That's what I want."

  Now the old man's eyes shifted to Lovely. "Why did you do what you did, for him. This power, the gathering, is not for that! If you try it again, others will shut themselves off from you and you will have nothing."

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  Before she could reply Anthony staked his all on a gamble. Reaching out, he took her wrist. "Give him this. Give it also to all the people of this tribe," and in his mind he built up the blaring fanfare of trumpets from the Prelude to the second act of Lohengrin, the most arrogant burst of music he could think of at short notice, Wagner at his defiant best. He saw the old man's eyes open very wide, and all the rest of him freeze utterly still.

  "That is why," he murmured, when it was done. "I, too, have power. Try this, for contrast." And he "played" the sugary-sweet Barcarolle from Hoffmann, giving it overtones of sybaritic delight that Offenbach might have envied. He saw that Lovely's eyes were closed in rapture, that way out on the fringes of the glade the green people were standing as if hypnotized. Then, when his mind was silent again, he met the old man's eyes.

  "Because of that," he said, "she will do as I wish. For that, so will all the people do what I wish. It is a great power."

  Instantly, with no need for words, he knew the old man was against him. He knew that countless centuries of traditional and unquestioning belief refused to be overthrown. He knew that the fight was only just begun, that he had yet to win this old man to his cause. A house divided must fall, he thought. It was something, just to have shown this old man that force existed and could be used. It was something to have shaken him with a new kind of persuasion. But Anthony felt, instinctively, that he was doomed to failure unless he could bring this old man—and all the other old men—over to his side. And that prompted a question, something he needed to know.

  "Doctor taught you many things, human things. Did he teach you to count?" He held up a hand to illustrate. "I have five fingers. Do you know what that means?"

  The chief sneered and stirred. "We learned this thing, and the words. Ten of ten is a hundred. Ten of hundreds is a thousand. And so on. Hundred of thousands. Millions. Because Doctor wished to know how many people we were. This was important to him, although he never said what it was good for. Earth people have many curious ways. But they are not a danger."

  "I'll get to that in a minute, I hope. Wanted to estimate

  111 the total population, did he? And you were able to count and tell him? How many?"

  Anthony expected a large fingure, a meaningless figure, but he reeled as the old man said, "Three hundreds of millions!" It was poindess to argue the figure. Even if the old man was out by a factor of ten, it was still a number to bewilder the mind.

  "You mean adults, like us?"

  "We do not count children," the chief said scornfully. "And you're in touch with all of them?" "Of course!"

  Of course. It was devastatingly simple for the old man, but enough to fill Anthony's mind with fog. A fraction of a percentage of that vast horde would be more than enough to wipe out the human colony, to tramp the domes flat and to stamp into oblivion all their works. Just a fraction, if he could get them, appeal to them, stir them up, set them marching. But could he, up against the old men?

  "With so many, and the humans are few hundreds, why do you permit them to remain?"

  "They do no harm."

  "But this is your planet. They're interlopers. They have a world of their own!"

  "They do no harm! Three small enclosures is nothing!" The old man began to show signs of boredom. Anthony felt the flame of his resolve flicker and dwindle among so many immense concepts.

  "What about your people?" he demanded. "Your brothers? The humans make slaves of them, treat them as animals, beating, flogging, poisoning, making them work, lolling them. Don't you care about that?"

  "This is false!"

  "You mean you don't know? You don't know that your own people, my people, are being exploited and killed, like brainless animals?" Lovely put a gentle hand on his arm. He turned angrily to her.

  "A tree bears much fruit," she said. "Some of it, not much, may be bad. It rots, withers, and falls from the tree. Do you expect the tree to stoop and pick it up again?" It took several seconds for the ruthless commonsense of what she had said to sink in. Thos
e green people who fell prey to the human population of the domes . . . were defectives?

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  The urge to deny it died on his tongue. This people knew far more about mental deficiency than he would ever know. He had to accept their statement, sour as it was. The flame flickered lower as he searched desperately for a lever to move their indifference.

  "The humans take away great quantities of your beans," he said. And in that instant, with that simple statement, he knew he had won. The battle was by no means over, but he had his lever. Their stiff masks of outrage told him all he needed, even if he had not been able to "feel" the horror in them.

  "You know this?" The old man's face was as bleak as weathered copper ore. "You know it, for sure?"

  "I know this. Long ago the first humans discovered the bean and took some back to Earth. There it was found to have many wonderful properties, and now they prize it gready. To them it gives youth, health and new life. In their need for it they made the domes, put the people there." He whirled on Lovely. "You were watching as I ran after the woman Martha. You saw, through me, the strange machine which passed? In that were humans. They were looking for the bean plants. Those they find, they take up by the roots and transport to the area near the domes, and plant them. There they have much space, full of bean-plants. Because they do not know properly how to care for and protect the plants, they capture those of our people that you call 'rotten,' but who are still clever enough to do this work."

  "But even the spoiled-brain ones will pick and eat," the old man argued. "Even a brainless animal will do this."

  "Oh yes, they do. At least, they get all ready to do it, when the time of ripening comes. But then the humans leave their domes, come out into this atmosphere, which they hate and which is too hot for them—as Doctor must have told you—and they snatch the ripe beans from the hands of those who gather. They whip and flog and beat, to make them yield. And then they collect vast quantities of beans, in bags, and—you saw the bags which we brought." He waited for that to sink in. "You sawl Martha and myself took a bag each away from the humans who had, in turn, taken the beans away from your brainless ones.