“Free! Free! Free!” the leaflets said. “Souvenir pillowcase covers from Earth! A free show! Watch the Earthmen demonstrate stamina, dexterity and precision in four separate ways. How long can they keep it up? With the aid of POWER PILLS—indefinitely!
Their output is doubled and their precision increased by POWER PILLS—they pep you up! A medical product of Earth that can make any man worth twice his weight in sofals!”
It went on like that. The old army game—with variations. The Venusians couldn’t resist. Word got around. The mob thickened. How long could the Earthmen keep up the pace?
They kept it up. Thirkell’s stimulant pills—as well as the complex shots he had given his companions that morning—seemed to be working. Mike Soaring Eagle dug like a beaver. Sweat poured from his shining red-bronze torso. He drank prodigiously and ate salt tablets.
Munn kept sewing, without missing a stitch. He knew that his products were being scanned closely for signs of sloppy workmanship. Bronson kept juggling and doing coin tricks, never missing. Underhill typed with aching fingers.
Five hours. Six hours. Even with the rest periods, it was grueling. They had brought food from the Goodwill, but it wasn’t too palatable. Still, Thirkell had selected it carefully for caloric.
Seven hours. Eight hours. The crowds made the canals impassable. A policeman came along and argued with Thirkell, who told him to see Jorust. Jorust must have put a flea in his ear, for he came back to watch, but not to interfere.
Nine hours. Ten hours. Ten hours of Herculean effort. The men were exhausted—but they kept going.
They had made their point by then, though, for a few Venusians approached Thirkell and inquired about the Power Pills. What were they? Did they really make you work faster? How could they buy the—
The policeman appeared to stand beside Thirkell. “I’ve a message from the medical tarkomar,” he announced. “If you try to sell any of those things, you go to jail.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Thirkell said. “We’re giving away free samples. Here, buddy.” He dug into a sack and tossed the nearest Venusian a Power Pill. “Two days’ work in that instead of your usual one. Come back for more tomorrow. Want one, pal? Here. You, too. Catch.”
“Wait a minute—” the policeman said.
“Go get a warrant,” Thirkell told him. “There’s no law against making presents.”
Jorust appeared with a burly, intolerant-looking Venusian. She introduced the latter as head of the Vyring tarkomars.
“And I’m here to tell you to stop this,” the Venusian said.
Thirkell knew what to say. His companions kept on with their work, but he felt them watching and listening.
“What rule do you invoke?”
“Why . . . why, peddling.”
“I’m not selling anything. This is public domain; we’re putting on a free show.”
“Those . . . ah . . . Power Pills—”
“Free gifts,” Thirkell said. “Listen, pal. When we gave all our food to you Venusian crooks, did you squaw? No, you took it. And then clamped down. When we asked for our grub back, you just told us that we had no legal recourse; possession is nine points of the law, and we had a perfect right to make free gifts. That’s what we’re doing now—giving presents. So what?”
Jorust’s eyes were twinkling, but she hooded them swiftly. “I fear he speaks the truth. The law protects him. It is no great harm.”
Thirkell, watching her, wondered. Had Jorust guessed the right answer? Was she on their side? The tarkomar leader turned dark green, hesitated, swung on his heel, and went away. Jorust gave the Earthmen a long, enigmatic look, moved her shoulders, and followed.
“I’m still stiff,” Mike Soaring Eagle said a week later in the Goodwill. “Hungry, too. When do we get grub?”
Thirkell, at the valve, handed out a Power Pill to a Venusian and came back rubbing his hands and grinning. “Wait. Just wait. What’s going on, skipper?”
Munn nodded toward Underhill. “Ask the kid. He got back from Vyring a few minutes ago.”
Underhill chuckled. “There was hell popping. All in a week, too. We’ve certainly struck at the economic base. Every Venusian who labors on a piecework basis wants our pills, so he can speed up his production and make more fals. It’s the competitive instinct—which is universal.”
“Well?” Bronson asked. “How do the lizard-faced big shots like that?”
“They don’t like it. It’s hit the economic set-up they’ve had for centuries. Till now, one Venusian would make exactly ten sofals a week—say—by turning out five thousand bottle caps. With the pills Steve made up, he’s turning out eight or ten thousand and making correspondingly more dough. The guy at the next bench says what the hell, and comes to us for a Power Pill for himself. Thus it goes. And the lovely part is that not all the labor is on piecework basis. It can’t be. You need tangibles for piecework. Running a weather machine has got to be measured by time—not by how many raindrops you make in a day.”
Munn nodded. “Jealousy, you mean?”
Underhill said, “Well, look. A weather-machine operator has been making ten sofals a week, the same as a bottle capper on piecework. Now the bottle capper’s making twenty sofals. The weather-machine man doesn’t see the point. He’s willing to take Power Pills, too, but that won’t step up his production. He asks for a raise. If he gets it, the economy is upset even more. If he doesn’t, other weather-machine operators get together with him and figure it’s unfair discrimination. They get mad at the tarkomars. They strike!”
Mike Soaring Eagle said, “The tarkomars have forbidden work to any Venusian taking Power Pills.”
“And still the Venusians ask us for Power Pills. So what? How can you prove a man’s been swallowing them? His production steps up, sure, but the tarkomars can’t clamp down on everybody with a good turnout. They tried that, and a lot of guys who never tried the Power Pills got mad. They were fast workers, that was all.”
“The demonstration we put on was a good idea,” Thirkell said. “It was convincing. I’ve had to cut down the strength of the pills—we’re running low—but the power of suggestion helps us.”
Underhill grinned. “So the base—the man-hour unit—had gone cockeyed. One little monkey wrench, thrown where it’ll do the most good. It’s spreading, too. Not only Vyring. The news is going all over Venus, and the workers in the other cities are asking why half of Vyring’s laborers should get better pay. That’s where the equal standard of exchange helps us—one monetary system all over Venus. Nothing has ever been off par here for centuries. Now—”
Munn said, “Now the system’s toppling. It’s a natural fault in a perfectly integrated, rigid set-up. For want of a nail the tarkomars are losing their grip. They’ve forgotten how to adjust.”
“It’ll spread,” Underhill said confidently. “It’ll spread. Steve, here comes another customer.”
Underhill was wrong. Jorust and the Vyring tarkomar leader came in. “May you be worthy of your ancestors’ names,” Munn said politely. “Drag up a chair and have a drink. We’ve still got a few bulbs of beer left.”
Jorust obeyed, but the Venusian rocked on his feet and glowered. The woman said, “Malsi is distressed. These Power Pills are causing trouble.”
“I don’t know why,” Munn said. “They increase production, don’t they?”
Malsi grimaced. “This is a trick! A stratagem! You are abusing our hospitality!”
“What hospitality?” Bronson wanted to know.
“You threatened the system,” Malsi plunged on doggedly. “On Venus there is no change. There must be none.”
“Why not?” Underhill asked. “There’s only one real reason, and you know it. Any advances might upset the tarkomars—threaten the power they hold. You racketeers have had the whip hand for centuries. You’ve suppressed inventions, kept Venus in a backwater, tried to drive initiative out of the race, just so you could stay on top. It can’t be done. Changes happen; they always do. If we had
n’t come, there’d have been an internal explosion eventually.”
Malsi glared at him. “You will stop making these Power Pills.”
“Point of law,” Thirkell said softly. “Show precedent.”
Jorust said, “The right of free gift is one of the oldest on Venus. That law could be changed, Malsi, but I don’t think the people would like it.”
Munn grinned. “No. They wouldn’t. That would be the tip-off. Venusians have learned it’s possible to make more money. Take that chance away from them, and the tarkomars won’t be the benevolent rulers any more.”
Malsi turned darker green. “We have power—”
“Jorust, you’re an administrator. Are we protected by your laws?” Underhill asked.
She moved her shoulders. “Yes. you are. The laws are sacrosanct. Perhaps because they have always been designed to protect the tarkomars.”
Malsi swung toward her. “Are you siding with the Earthmen?”
“Why, of course not, Malsi. I’m merely upholding the law, according to my oath of office. Without prejudice—that’s it, isn’t it?”
Munn said, “We’ll stop making the Power Pills if you like, but I warn you that it’s only a respite. You can’t halt progress.”
Malsi seemed unconvinced. “You’ll stop?”
“Sure. If you pay us.”
“We cannot pay you,” Malsi said stubbornly. “You belong to no tarkomar. It would be illegal.”
Jorust murmured, “You might give them a free gift of—say—ten thousand sofals.”
“Ten thousand!” Malsi yelped. “Ridiculous!”
“So it is,” Underhill said. “Fifty thousand is more like it. We can live well for a year on that.”
“No.”
A Venusian came to the valve, peeped in, and said: “I made twice as many difals today. May I have another Power Pill?” He saw Malsi and vanished with a small shriek.
Munn shrugged. “Suit yourself. Pay up, or we go on handing out Power Pills—and you’ll have to adjust a rigid social economy. I don’t think you can do it.”
Jorust touched Malsi’s arm. “There is no other way.”
“I—” The Venusian by now was almost black with impotent rage. “All right,” he capitulated, spitting the words between his teeth. “I won’t forget this, Jorust.”
“But I must administer the laws,” the woman said. “Why, Malsi! The rule of the tarkomars has always been unswerving honesty.” Malsi didn’t answer. He scribbled a credit check for fifty thousand sofals, validated it, and gave the tag to Munn. After that he sent a parting glare around the cabin and stamped out.
“Well!” Bronson said. “Fifty grand! Tonight we eat!”
“May you be worthy of your fathers’ names,” Jorust murmured. At the valve she turned. “I’m afraid you’ve upset Malsi.”
“Too bad,” Munn said hypocritically.
Jorust moved her shoulders slightly. “Yes. You’ve upset Malsi. And Malsi represents the tarkomars—”
“What can he do about it?” Underhill asked.
“Nothing. The laws won’t let him. But—it’s nice to know the tarkomars aren’t infallible. I think the word will get around.”
Jorust winked gravely at Munn and departed, looking as innocent as a cat, and as potentially dangerous.
“Well!” Munn said. “What does that mean? The end of the tarkomars’ rule, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Bronson said. “I don’t give a damn. I’m hungry and I want a beefsteak-mushroom. Where can we cash a check for fifty grand?”
THE END.
1944
TO DUST RETURNETH
The Last Two Surviving Martians Try to Warn Earthmen Against the Deadly Menace that Depopulated the Red Planet!
THEY were the last Martians.
Together they crouched in concealment among the red bushes atop the cliff, peering down at the Cursed Valley, shunned by their race for centuries. To the eyes of an Earthman they would have seemed hideous and terrible—gaunt giant beasts, with the plated hides of reptiles, six-legged and monstrous. There was the burn of a ray-gun’s beam along Tharg’s flank, to mark his recent encounter with the visitors in the valley. But Zarran, his mate, was unscathed—as yet.
Beneath them lay the friction-blackened shape of a space-ship, rocket jets silent, a long swathe of burned ruin marking the path of its landing. A few Earthmen moved near the open valve of the ship, unhelmeted. The air of Mars, though thin, was breathable to them, rich in oxygen, if dry and hot as a furnace blast. But the two Martians were staring farther up the valley, to where a square building stood like a giant block of basalt, metal gates closed.
Tharg’s three eyes moved toward Zarran. She understood his deep-throated growl, for he spoke in her own tongue.
“I tried to warn them. They did not understand. They tried to kill me.”
“It is Krana’s doing,” Zarran said. “May the old gods curse the Rigellian and destroy him utterly! The people from Earth are fools to listen to him.” But Tharg shook his monstrous head. “Have you forgotten why we are the last of our race? We, too, listened to Krana—and it was the end of Mars.”
“Yes. That is true. The Rigellian has sucked our planet dry and now turns to Earth. I had hoped—”
“Vain hopes,” Tharg said harshly. “Nothing but violence can destroy Krana. He has grown hungry for blood in the last hundred years, but he has survived on other things. Waiting. Knowing that he could lure another world into his frightful trap.”
“Five thousand years,” Zarran said. “He is immortal.”
BUT Tharg’s fanged jaws gaped in a snarling laugh. “Not he! The Earthmen could destroy him—and would, if they knew what he intended. Our race—we were too weak, when Krana came. We did not understand. We were peaceful, decadent, and we let him grow too strong. And then it was too late. He had acquired weapons.” Zarran turned her head away. “One thing I regret, Tharg. Perhaps only one—”
“What is that?”
She did not look at him. “That I am not a Martian in body. I do not like to be ugly in your eyes.”
Tharg’s huge body rose; the Martian’s snout rubbed gently along Zarran’s scaled cheek. “You are not ugly to me. You are my mate.”
“Yes . . . yes. But once the Martians were shaped like gods. I have seen the sculptures in the dead cities underground. It might have been wiser to die five thousand years ago, rather than survive—thus.”
“We hoped,” Tharg said. “Even then we hoped. We could not fight the Rigellian. His defenses were invulnerable. If we had not created artificial bodies to house our brains, we would have been wiped out.”
“And now?” Zarran asked. “The race has died anyway. In these sluggish, cold-blooded beast bodies, clumsy and awkward, our minds have deteriorated. We can no longer build. We can scarcely—understand. We are the last—humans—on Mars, Tharg. I wish we could kill Krana.”
Tharg lifted a paw and regarded it. “How? We are too clumsy. We cannot use weapons. Our fangs are useless against him. We are too slow, Zarran. We lost our chance five thousand years ago, when we listened to the Rigellian’s lies. He is like a vampire, moving from planet to planet, destroying as he goes. The first spaceship that left Mars went to Io, seeking Krana, who had sent us the message telling us how to build the vessel. We thought, then, that he was friendly. So he slew Mars. Now he will slay Earth, unless we can stop him.”
“It is dangerous,” Zarran said quietly.
“He cannot harm us, in these bodies.”
“But, Tharg, we are the last. What is it to us if the Rigellian goes to Earth? We have so little—so little! Years on a dying planet that was once a paradise—twenty years at most, for we do not live long these days. You are my mate, Tharg. I need you.”
He hunched a heavy shoulder uneasily. “We should warn the Earthmen if we can. All that Earth is now, Mars was once. I think it is a debt we owe old Mars. Let me try again, Zarran.”
“If you must. But be very careful. Stay beyond range of their
strange weapons.”
Tharg rested his head for a moment on Zarran’s neck, and then swung away, gliding noiselessly down the trail that wound along the face of the steep cliff. His pads made no sound on the scarlet rock. From above, Zarran craned to watch him, her three eyes worried. She wished the Earthmen had never come.
Red dust blew chokingly down from the mountains, hot and acrid. Like a winding-sheet it swept over the surface of the dying planet. . . .
A short distance away, at the spaceship, Captain Jerry Easter jumped down from the open port of the hull, coughing and gasping. “Whew!” he remarked. “We need respirators. How’s the work going, boys?”
“Pretty well,” Anderson said. The big Swede was chief engineer, in charge of the working gang. “We’ll have the tubes ready by tomorrow, I figure. That fuel plays havoc with ’em.”
Captain Easter nodded. “Good. That beryl-steel alloy is tough, the toughest we could get on Earth, but it still isn’t the metal Krana told us about. If we could have found that ore, those tubes would be okay now.”
“It doesn’t exist on Earth,” Anderson grumbled. “We could get it on Mars, but we’ve no facilities for digging and smelting. Not necessary, anyway. I’m reinforcing the linings. That should do the trick.”
A LEAN, sun-tanned man in khaki wandered over, his gaunt, harsh face set in a scowl. Easter grinned at him.
“Still want to go on a hunting trip, Dale?”
Fenton Dale shrugged glumly. “You know why I came along. Krana warned us about those six-legged animals. He said they were plenty ferocious. I’d like to have the head of one of ’em. How about letting me wander off for a bit?” Easter shook his head. “Sorry. No can do. Can’t spare the men, and nobody’s going off alone if I can help it. You just got back from the Amazon country before signing up with us, Dale. Didn’t you get enough game there?”
“Oh, well, I’m a hunter. It’s in the blood. The chance of getting new animals—”
“There was a creature like a deer by the spring this morning.”
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