The Collected John Carter of Mars (Volume 3)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  “Well,” said my companion, “you must be crazy.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Nobody but a crazy man would put himself in the power of Hin Abtol. Well, you’ve done it; and now you’ll be taken to Pankor after this war is over, unless you’re lucky enough to be killed; and you’ll be frozen in there until Hin Abtol needs you for another campaign. What’s your name?”

  “Dotor Sojat,” I replied, falling back on that old time name the green Martian horde of Thark had given me so many years before.

  “Mine is Em-tar; I am from Kobol.”

  “I thought you said you were from Pankor.”

  “I’m a Kobolian by birth,” he explained. “Where are you from?”

  “We panthans have no country,” I reminded him.

  “But you must have been born somewhere,” he insisted.

  “Perhaps the less said about that the better,” I said, attempting a sly wink.

  He laughed. “Sorry I asked,” he said.

  Sometimes, when a man has committed a political crime, a huge reward is offered for information concerning his whereabouts; so, as well as changing his name, he never divulges the name of his country. I let Em-tar think that I was a fugitive from justice.

  “How do you think this campaign is going?” I asked.

  “If Hin Abtol can starve them out, he may win,” replied Em-tar; “but from what I have heard he could never take the city by storm. These Gatholians are great fighters, which is more than can be said for those who fight under Hin Abtol—our hearts aren’t in it; we have no feeling of loyalty for Hin Abtol; but these Gatholians now, they’re fighting for their homes and their jed; and they love ’em both. They say that Gahan’s Princess is a daughter of The Warlord of Barsoom. Say, if he hears about this and brings a fleet and an army from Helium, we might just as well start digging our graves.”

  “Are we taking many prisoners?” I asked.

  “Not many. Three were taken this morning; one of them was the daughter of Gahan, the Jed of Gathol; the other two were men.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said; “I wonder what Hin Abtol will do with the daughter of Gahan.”

  “That I wouldn’t know,” replied Em-tar, “but they say he’s sent her off to Pankor already. You hear a lot of rumors in an army, though; and most of them are wrong.”

  “I suppose Hin Abtol has a big fleet of fliers,” I said.

  “He’s got a lot of old junk, and not many men capable of flying what he has got.”

  “I’m a flier,” I said.

  “You’d better not let ’em know it, or they’ll have you on board some old wreck,” advised Em-tar.

  “Where’s their landing field here?”

  “Down that way about a haad”; he pointed in the direction I had been going when I stopped to talk with him.

  “Well, good-by, Em-tar,” I said, rising.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To fly for Hin Abtol of Pankor,” I said.

  chapter V

  I MADE MY WAY through the camp to where a number of fliers were lined up; it was an extremely ragged, unmilitary line, suggesting inefficiency; and the ships were the most surprising aggregation of obsolete relics I have ever seen; most of them were museum pieces.

  Some warriors were sitting around fires nearby; and, assuming that they were attached to the flying service, I approached them.

  “Where is the flying officer in command?” I asked.

  “Over there,” said one of the men, pointing at the largest ship on the line. “Why—do you want to see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he’s probably drunk.”

  “He is drunk,” said another.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Odwar Phor San,” replied my informant. Odwar is about the same as general, or brigadier general. He commands ten thousand men in the army and a fleet in the navy.

  “Thanks,” I said; “I’ll go over and see him.”

  “You wouldn’t, if you knew him; he’s as mean as an ulsio.”

  I walked over to the big ship. It was battered and weatherbeaten, and must have been at least fifty years old. A boarding ladder hung down amidships, and at its foot stood a warrior with drawn sword.

  “What do you want?” he demanded

  “I have a message for Odwar Phor San,” I said.

  “Who is it from?”

  “That is none of your business,” I told him; “send word to the odwar that Dotor Sojat wishes to see him on an important matter.”

  The fellow saluted with mock elaborateness. “I didn’t know we had a jedwar among us,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Now, jedwar is the highest rank in a Barsoomian army or navy, other than that of jed or jeddak or Warlord, a rank created especially for me by the jeddaks of five empires. That warrior would have been surprised could he have known that he had conferred upon me a title far inferior to my own.

  I laughed at his little joke, and said, “One never knows whom one is entertaining.”

  “If you really have a message for the old ulsio, I’ll call the deck watch; but, by Issus, you’d better have a message of importance.”

  “I have,” I assured him; and I spoke the truth, for it was of tremendous importance to me; so he hailed the deck watch and told him to tell the odwar that Dotor Sojat had come with an important message for him.

  I waited about five minutes, and then I was summoned aboard and conducted to one of the cabins. A gross, slovenly man sat before a table on which was a large tankard and several heavy, metal goblets. He looked at me scowlingly out of bleary eyes.

  “What does that son of a calot want now?” he demanded.

  I guessed that he referred to a superior officer, and probably to Hin Abtol. Well, if he thought I bore a message from Hin Abtol, so much the better.

  “I am to report to you as an experienced flier,” I said.

  “He sent you at this time of night to report to me as a flier?” he almost shouted at me.

  “You have few experienced fliers,” I said. “I am a panthan who has flown every type of ship in the navy of Helium. I gathered that you would be glad to get me before some other commander snapped me up. I am a navigator, and familiar with all modern instruments; but if you don’t want me, I shall then be free to attach myself elsewhere.”

  He was befuddled by strong drink, or I’d probably never have gotten away with such a bluff. He pretended to be considering the matter seriously; and while he considered it, he poured himself another drink, which he swallowed in two or three gulps—what didn’t run down his front. Then he filled another goblet and pushed it across the table toward me, slopping most of its contents on the table top.

  “Have drink!” he said.

  “Not now,” I said; “I never drink when I am on duty.”

  “You’re not on duty.”

  “I am always on duty; I may have to take a ship up at any moment.”

  He pondered this for several minutes with the assistance of another drink; then he filled another goblet and pushed it across the table toward me. “Have drink,” he said.

  I now had two full goblets in front of me; it was evident that Phor San had not noticed that I had failed to drink the first one.

  “What ship shall I command?” I asked; I was promoting myself rapidly. Phor San paid no attention to my question, being engaged in what was now becoming a delicate and difficult operation—the pouring of another drink; most of it went on the table, from where it ran down into his lap.

  “What ship did you say I was to command?” I demanded.

  He looked bewildered for a moment; then he tried to draw himself together with military dignity. “You will command the Dusar, Dwar,” he said; then he filled another goblet and pushed it toward me. “Have drink, Dwar,” he said. My promotion was confirmed.

  I walked over to a desk covered with an untidy litter of papers, and searched until I found an official blank; on it I wrote:

  T
o Dwar Dotor Sojat:

  You will immediately take over command of ship Dusar.

  By order of

  Odwar Commanding

  After finding a cloth and wiping the liquor from the table in front of him, I laid the order down and handed him a pen. “You forgot to sign this, Odwar,” I said. He was commencing to weave, and I saw that I must hurry.

  “Sign what?” he demanded, reaching for the tankard.

  I pushed it away from him, took his hand, and placed the pen point at the right place on the order blank. “Sign here,” I ordered.

  “Sign here,” he repeated, and laboriously scrawled his name; then he fell forward on the table, asleep. I had been just in time.

  I went on deck; both moons were now in the sky, Cluros just above the horizon, Thuria a little higher; by the time Cluros approached zenith, Thuria would have completed her orbit around Barsoom and passed him, so swift her flight through the heavens.

  The deck watch approached me. “Where lies the Dusar?” I asked.

  He pointed down the line. “About the fifth or sixth ship, I think,” he said.

  I went overside; and as I reached the ground, the sentry there asked, “Was the old ulsio as drunk as ever?”

  “He was perfectly sober,” I replied.

  “Then some one had better send for the doctor,” he said, “for he must be sick.”

  I walked along the line, and at the fifth ship I approached the sentry at the foot of its ladder. “Is this the Dusar?” I asked.

  “Can’t you read?” he demanded, impudently.

  I look up then at the insigne on the ship’s bow; it was the Dusar. “Can you read?” I asked, and held the order up in front of him.

  He snapped to attention and saluted. “I couldn’t tell by your metal,” he said, sullenly. He was quite right; I was wearing the metal of a common warrior.

  I looked the ship over. From the ground it hadn’t a very promising appearance—just a disreputable, obsolete old hulk. Then I climbed the ladder and stepped to the deck of my new command; there was no boatswain’s call to pipe the side; there was only one man on watch; and he was curled up on the deck, fast asleep.

  I walked over and poked him with the toe of a sandal. “Wake up, there!” I ordered.

  He opened an eye and looked up at me; then he leaped to his feet. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here? What do you mean by kicking me in the ribs and waking me up?”

  “One question at a time, my man,” I said. “I shall answer your first question, and that will answer the others also.” I held the order out to him.

  As he took it, he said, “Don’t call me my man, you—” But he stopped there; he had read the order. He saluted and handed the order back to me, but I noticed just the suggestion of a grin on his face.

  “Why did you smile?” I asked.

  “I was thinking that you probably got the softest job in Hin Abtol’s navy,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You won’t have anything to do; the Dusar is out of commission—she won’t fly.”

  So! Perhaps Odwar Phor San was not as drunk as I had thought him.

  chapter VI

  THE DECK OF THE DUSAR was weatherbeaten and filthy; everything was in disorder, but what difference did that make if the ship wouldn’t fly?

  “How many officers and men comprise her complement?” I asked.

  The fellow grinned and pointed to himself. “One,” he said, “or, rather, two, now that you are here.”

  I asked him his name, and he said that it was Fo-nar. In the United States he would have been known as an ordinary seaman, but the Martian words for seaman and sailor are now as obsolete as the oceans with which they died, almost from the memory of man. All sailors and soldiers are known as thans, which I have always translated as warriors.

  “Well, Fo-nar,” I said; “let’s have a look at our ship. What’s wrong with her? Why won’t she fly?”

  “It’s the engine, sir,” he said; “it won’t start any more.”

  “I’ll have a look over the ship,” I said, “and then we’ll see if we can’t do something about the engine.”

  I took Fo-nar with me and went below. Everything there was filthy and in disorder. “How long has she been out of commission?” I asked.

  “About a month.”

  “You certainly couldn’t have made all this mess by yourself in a month,” I said.

  “No, sir; she was always like this even when she was flying,” he said.

  “Who commanded her? Whoever he was, he should be cashiered for permitting a ship to get in this condition.”

  “He won’t ever be cashiered, sir,” said Fo-nar.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because he got drunk and fell overboard on our last flight,” Fo-nar explained, with a grin.

  I inspected the guns, there were eight of them, four on a side beside smaller bow and stern guns on deck; they all seemed to be in pretty fair condition, and there was plenty of ammunition. The bomb racks in the bilge were full, and there was a bomb trap forward and another aft.

  There were quarters for twenty-five men and three officers, a good galley, and plenty of provisions. If I had not seen Odwar Phor San, I could not have understood why all this material—guns, ammunition, provisions, and tackle—should have been left on a ship permanently out of commission. The ship appeared to me to be about ten years old—that is, after a careful inspection; superficially, it looked a hundred.

  I told Fo-nar to go back on deck and go to sleep, if he wished to; and then I went into the dwar’s cabin and lay down; I hadn’t had much sleep the night before, and I was tired. It was daylight when I awoke, and I found Fo-nar in the galley getting his breakfast. I told him to prepare mine, and after we had both eaten I went to have a look at the engine.

  It hurt me to go through that ship and see the condition its drunken skipper had permitted it to get into. I love these Barsoomian fliers, and I have been in the navy of Helium for so many years that ships have acquired almost human personalities for me. I have designed them; I have superintended their construction; I have developed new ideas in equipment, engines, and armament; and several standard flying and navigating instruments are of my invention. If there is anything I don’t know about a modern Martian flier; then nobody else knows it.

  I found tools and practically dismantled the engine, checking every part. While I was doing this, I had Fo-nar start cleaning up the ship. I told him to start with my cabin and then tackle the galley next. It would have taken one man a month or more to put the Dusar in even fair condition, but at least we would make a start.

  I hadn’t been working on the engine half an hour before I found what was wrong with it—just dirt! Every feed line was clogged; and that marvellous, concentrated, Martian fuel could not reach the motor.

  I was appalled by the evidence of such stupidity and inefficiency, though not entirely surprised; drunken commanders and Barsoomian fliers just don’t go together. In the navy of Helium, no officer drinks while on board ship or on duty; and not one of them drinks to excess at any time.

  If an officer were ever drunk on board his ship, the crew would see to it that he was never drunk again; they know that their lives are in the hands of their officers, and they don’t purpose trusting them to a drunken man—they simply push the officer overboard. It is such a well established custom, or used to be before drinking on the part of officers practically ceased, that no action was ever taken against the warrior who took discipline into his own hands, even though the act were witnessed by officers. I rather surmised that this time honored custom had had something to do with the deplorable accident that had robbed the Dusar of her former commander.

  The day was practically gone by the time I had cleaned every part of the engine thoroughly and reassembled it; then I started it; and the sweet, almost noiseless and vibrationless, hum of it was music to my ears. I had a ship—a ship that would fly!

  One man can operate such a ship
, but of course he can’t fight it. Where, however, could I get men? I didn’t want just any men; I wanted good fighting men who would just as lief fight against Hin Abtol as not.

  Pondering this problem, I went to my cabin to clean up; it looked spick-and-span. Fo-nar had done a good job; he had also laid out the harness and metal of a dwar—doubtless the property of the late commander. Bathed and properly garbed, I felt like a new man as I stepped out onto the upper deck. Fo-nar snapped to attention and saluted.

  “Fo-nar,” I said, “are you a Panar?”

  “I should say not,” he replied with some asperity. “I am from Jahar originally, but now I have no country—I am a panthan.”

  “You were there during the reign of Tul Axtar?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied; “it was on his account that I became an exile—I tried to kill him, and I got caught; I just barely escaped with my life. I cannot go back so long as he is alive.”

  “You can go back, then,” I said; “Tul Axtar is dead.”

  “How do you know, sir?”

  “I know the man who killed him.”

  “Just my luck!” exclaimed Fo-nar; “now that I might go back, I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “For the same reason, sir, that where ever you are from you’ll never go back, unless you are from Panar, which I doubt.”

  “No, I am not from Panar,” I said; “but what makes you think I won’t go back to my own country?”

  “Because no one upon whom Hin Abtol gets his hands ever escapes, other than through death.”

  chapter VII

  “OH, COME, FO-NAR,” I said; “that is ridiculous. What is to prevent either one of us from deserting?”

  “If we deserted here,” he replied, “we would immediately be picked up by the Gatholians and killed; after this campaign is over, we will not make a landing until we reach Panar; and from Panar there is no escape. Hin Abtol’s ships never stop at a friendly city, where one might find an opportunity to escape; for there are no cities friendly to Hin Abtol. He attacks every city that he believes he can take, sacks it, and flies away with all the loot he can gather and with as many prisoners as his ships will carry—mostly men; they say he has a million now, and that he plans eventually to conquer Helium and then all of Barsoom. He took me prisoner when he sacked Raxar on his way down from Panar to Gathol; I was serving there in the army of the jed.”