Red Planet

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Her mouth twitched but she kept from smiling. “Sorry, Jim. Perhaps I do. What I was trying to say was this: we want you to get off to a good start at school. I don't believe that having Willis on your hands will help any. As a matter of fact Mrs. Sutton was telling me just the other day that she had heard that pets were not allowed. She said—”

  “How does she know anything about it?”

  “Well, she had been talking with the Resident's wife.”

  Jim was stumped for the moment. The wife of the Resident Agent of the Mars Company for South Colony undoubtedly had better sources of information than he had. But he was not ready to give up. “Look, Mother. Look, Dad. You both saw the pamphlet the school sent me, telling me what to do and what to bring and when to show up and so forth. If either one of you can find anything anywhere in those instructions that says I can't take Willis with me, I'll shut up like a Martian. Is that fair?”

  Mrs. Marlowe looked inquiringly at her husband. He looked back at her with the same appeal for help in his expression. He was acutely aware that Doctor MacRae was watching both of them, not saying a word but wearing an expression of sardonic amusement.

  Mr. Marlowe shrugged. “Take Willis along, Jim. But he's your problem.”

  Jim's face broke out in a grin.”Thanks, Dad!” He left the room quickly in order not to give his parents time to change their minds.

  Mr. Marlowe banged his pipe on an ashtray and glowered at Doctor MacRae. “Well, what are you grinning at, you ancient ape? You think I'm too indulgent, don't you?”

  “Oh, no, not at all! I think you did perfectly right.”

  “You think that pet of Jim's won't cause him trouble at school?”

  “On the contrary I have some familiarity with Willis's peculiar social habits.”

  “Then why do you say I did right?”

  “Why shouldn't the boy have trouble? Trouble is the normal condition for the human race. We were raised on it. We thrive on it.”

  “Sometimes, Doctor, I think that you are, as Jim would put it, crazy as a spin bug.”

  “Probably. But since I am the only medical man around, I am not likely to be committed for it. Mrs. Marlowe, could you favor an old man with another cup of your delicious coffee?”

  “Certainly, Doctor.” She poured for him, then went on. “James, I am not sorry you decided to let Jim take Willis. It will be a relief.”

  “Why, dear? Jim was correct when he said that the little beggar isn't much trouble.”

  “Well, he isn't really. But—I just wish he weren't so truthful.”

  “So? I thought he was the perfect witness in settling the children's squabbles?”

  “Oh, he is. He'll play back anything he hears as accurately as a transcriber. That's the trouble.” She looked upset, then chuckled. “You know Mrs. Pottle?”

  “Of course.”

  The doctor added,”How can one avoid it? I, unhappy man, am in charge of her'nerves.’ “

  Mrs. Marlowe asked, “Is she actually sick, Doctor?”

  “She eats too much and doesn't work enough. Further communication is forbidden by professional ethics.”

  “I didn't know you had any.”

  “Young lady show respect for my white hairs. What about this Pottle female?”

  “Well, Luba Konski had lunch with me last week and we got to talking about Mrs. Pottle. Honest, James, I didn't say much and I did not know that Willis was under the table.”

  “He was?” Mr. Marlowe covered his eyes. “Do go on.”

  “Well, you both remember that the Konskis housed the Pottles at North Colony until a house was built for them. Sarah Pottle has been Luba's pet hate ever since, and Tuesday Luba was giving me some juicy details on Sarah's habits at home. Two days later Sarah Pottle stopped by to give me advice on how to bring up children. Something she said triggered Willis—I knew he was in the room but I didn't think anything of it—and Willis put on just the wrong record and I couldn't shut him up. I finally carried him out of the room. Mrs. Pottle left without saying good-bye and I haven't heard from her since.”

  “That's no loss,” her husband commented.

  “True, but it got Luba in Dutch. No one could miss Luba's accent and Willis does it better than she does herself. I don't think Luba minds, though—and you should have heard Willis's playback of Luba's description of how Sarah Pottle looks in the morning—and what she does about it.”

  “You should hear,” answered MacRae, “Mrs. Pottle's opinions on the servant problem.”

  “I have. She thinks it's a scandal that the Company doesn't import servants for us.”

  The doctor nodded. “With collars riveted around their necks.”

  “That woman! I can't see why she ever became a colonist.”

  “Didn't you know?” her husband said. “They came out here expecting to get rich in a hurry.”

  “Hummph!”

  Doctor MacRae got a far-away look. “Mrs. Marlowe, speaking as her physician, it might help me to hear what Willis has to say about Pottle, distaff. Do you suppose he would recite for us?”

  “Doctor, you're an old fraud, with a taste for gossip.”

  “Granted. I like also eavesdropping and window peeping.”

  “You're shameless.”

  “Again granted. My nerves are relaxed. I haven't felt ashamed in years.”

  “Willis may just give a thrilling account of the children's chitchat for the past two weeks.”

  “Perhaps if you coaxed him?”

  Mrs. Marlowe suddenly dimpled.”It won't hurt to try.” She left the room to fetch Jim's globular friend.

  GEKKO

  WEDNESDAY MORNING DAWNED CLEAR AND COLD, AS MORNINGS have a habit of doing on Mars. The Suttons and the Mar-lowes, minus Oliver, were gathered at the Colony's cargo dock on the west leg of Strymon canal, ready to see the boys off.

  The temperature was rising and the dawn wind was blowing firmly, but it was still at least thirty below. Strymon canal was a steel-blue, hard sheet of ice and would not melt today in this latitude. Resting on it beside the dock was the mail scooter from Syr-tis Minor, its boat body supported by razor-edged runners. The driver was still loading it with cargo dragged from the warehouse on the dock. The two families waited nearby.

  The tiger stripes on Jim's mask, the war paint on Frank's, and a rainbow motif on Phyllis's made the young people easy to identify. The adults could be told apart only by size, shape, and manner; there were two extras, Doctor MacRae and Father Cleary The priest was talking in low, earnest tones to Frank.

  He turned presently and spoke to Jim. “Your own pastor asked me to say good-bye to you, son. Unfortunately the poor man is laid up with a touch of Mars throat. He would have come anyhow had I not hidden his mask.” The protestant chaplain, as well as the priest, was a bachelor; the two clergy shared a house.

  “Is he very sick?” asked Jim.

  “Not that sick. He'll not die till I convert him. But take his blessing—and mine, too.” He offered his hand.

  Jim dropped his travel bag, shifted his ice skates and Willis over to his left arm and shook hands. There followed an awkward silence. Finally Jim said, “Why don't you all go inside before you freeze to death?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Francis. “That's a good idea.”

  “I think the driver is about ready now,” Mr. Marlowe countered. “Well, son, take care of yourself. We'll see you at migration.” He shook hands solemnly.

  “So long, Dad.”

  Mrs. Marlowe put her arms around him, pressed her mask against his and said, “Oh, my little boy—you're too young to go away from home!”

  “Oh, Mother, please!” But he hugged her. Then Phyllis had to be hugged. The driver called out:

  “ ‘Board!”

  “ ‘Bye everybody!” Jim turned away, felt his elbow caught.

  It was the doctor. “Keep your nose clean, Jim. And don't take any guff off of anybody.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Jim turned and presented his school authorization to the
driver while the doctor bade Francis good-bye.

  The driver looked it over. “Both deadheads, eh? Well, seeing as how there aren't any pay passengers this morning you can ride in the observatory.” He tore off his copy; Jim climbed inside and went up to the prized observation seats behind and above the driver's compartment. Frank joined him.

  The craft trembled as the driver jacked the runners loose from the ice, then with a roar from the turbine and a soft, easy surge the car got under way. The banks flowed past them and melted into featureless walls as the speed picked up. The ice was mirror smooth; they soon reached cruising speed of better than two hundred fifty miles per hour. Presently the driver removed his mask; Jim and Frank, seeing him, did likewise. The car was pressurized now by an air ram faced into their own wind of motion; it was much warmer, too, from the air's compression.

  “Isn't this swell?” said Francis.

  “Yeah. Look at Earth.”

  Their mother planet was riding high above the Sun in the northeastern sky. It blazed green against a deep purple background. Close to it, but easy to separate with the naked eye, was a lesser, pure white star—Luna, Earth's moon. Due north of them, in the direction they were going, Deimos, Mars’ outer moon, hung no more than twenty degrees above the horizon. Almost lost in the rays of the Sun, it was a tiny pale disc, hardly more than a dim star and much outshone by Earth.

  Phobos, the inner moon, was not in sight. At the latitude of Charax it never rose more than eight degrees or so above the northern horizon and that for an hour or less, twice a day. In the daytime it was lost in the blue of the horizon and no one would be so foolhardy as to watch for it in the bitter night. Jim did not remember ever having seen it except during migration between colonies.

  Francis looked from Earth to Deimos. “Ask the driver to turn on the radio,” he suggested. “Deimos is up.”

  “Who cares about the broadcast?” Jim answered. “I want to watch.” The banks were not so high now; from the observation dome he could see over them into the fields beyond. Although it was late in the season the irrigated belt near the canal was still green and getting greener as he watched, as the plants came out of the ground to seek the morning sunlight.

  He could make out, miles away, an occasional ruddy sand dune of the open desert. He could not see the green belt of the east leg of their canal; it was over the horizon.

  Without urging, the driver switched on his radio; music filled the car and blotted out the monotonous low roar of the turbo-jet. It was terrestrial music, by Sibelius, a classical composer of another century. Mars colony had not yet found time to develop its own arts and still borrowed its culture. But neither Jim nor Frank knew who the composer was, nor cared. The banks of the canal had closed in again; there was nothing to see but the straight ribbon of ice; they settled back and daydreamed.

  Willis stirred for the first time since he had struck the outer cold. He extended his eye stalks, looked inquiringly around, then commenced to beat time with them.

  Presently the music stopped and a voice said: “This is station D-M-S, the Mars Company, Deimos, circurn Mars. We bring you now by relay from Syrtis Minor a program in the public interest. Doctor Graves Armbruster will speak on ‘Ecological Considerations involved in Experimental Artificial Symbiotics as related to—

  The driver promptly switched the radio off.

  “I would like to have heard that,” objected Jim. “It sounded interesting.”

  “Oh, you're just showing off,” Frank answered. “You don't even know what those words mean.”

  “The deuce I don't. It means—”

  “Shut up and take a nap.” Taking his own advice Frank lay back and closed his eyes. However he got no chance to sleep.

  Willis had apparently been chewing over, in whatever it was he used for a mind, the program he had just heard. He opened up and started to play it back, woodwinds and all.

  The driver looked back and up, looked startled. He said something but Willis drowned him out. Willis bulled on through to the end, even to the broken-off announcement. The driver finally made himself heard. “Hey, you guys! What yuh got up there? A portable recorder?”

  “No, a bouncer.”

  “A what?”

  Jim held Willis up so that the driver could see him. “A bouncer. His name is Willis.”

  “You mean that thing is a recorder?”

  “No, he's a bouncer. As I said, his name is Willis.”

  “This I got to see,” announced the driver. He did something at his control board, then turned around and stuck his head and shoulders up into the observation dome.

  Frank said, “Hey! You'll wreck us.”

  “Relax,” advised the driver. “I put her on echo-automatic. High banks for the next couple o’ hundred miles. Now what is this gismo? When you brought it aboard I thought it was a volleyball.”

  “No, it's Willis. Say hello to the man, Willis.”

  “Hello, man,” Willis answered agreeably.

  The driver scratched his head. “This beats anything I ever saw in Keokuk. Sort of a parrot, eh?”

  “He's a bouncer. He's got a scientific name, but it just means ‘Martian roundhead.’ Never seen one before?”

  “No. You know, bud, this is the screwiest planet in the whole system.”

  “If you don't like it here,” asked Jim, “why don't you go back where you came from?”

  “Don't go popping off, youngster. How much will you take for the gismo? I got an idea I could use him.”

  “Sell Willis? Are you crazy?”

  “Sometimes I think so. Oh, well, it was just an idea.” The driver went back to his station, stopping once to look back and stare at Willis.

  The boys dug sandwiches out of their travel bags and munched them. After that Frank's notion about a nap seemed a good idea. They slept until wakened by the car slowing down. Jim sat up, blinked, and called down,”What's up?”

  “Coming into Cynia Station,” the driver answered. “Lay over until sundown.”

  “Won't the ice hold?”

  “Maybe it will. Maybe it won't. The temperature's up and I'm not going to chance it.” The car slid softly to a stop, then started again and crawled slowly up a low ramp, stopped again.”All out!” the driver called. “Be back by sundown—or get left.” He climbed out; the boys followed.

  Cynia Station was three miles west of the ancient city of Cynia, where west Strymon joins the canal Oeroe. It was merely a lunchroom, a bunkhouse, and a row of pre-fab warehouses. To the east the feathery towers of Cynia gleamed in the sky, seemed almost to float, too beautifully unreal to be solid.

  The driver went into the little inn. Jim wanted to walk over and explore the city; Frank favored stopping in the restaurant first. Frank won out. They went inside and cautiously invested part of their meager capital in coffee and some indifferent soup.

  The driver looked up from his dinner presently and said, “Hey, George! Ever see anything like that?” He pointed to Willis.

  George was the waiter. He was also the cashier, the hotel keeper, the station agent, and the Company representative. He glanced at Willis. “Yep.”

  “You did, huh? Where? Do you suppose I could find one?”

  “Doubt it. You see ‘em sometimes, hanging around the Martians. Not many of ‘em.” He turned back to his reading—a New York Times, more than two years old.

  The boys finished, paid their bills, and prepared to go outside. The cook-waiter-station-agent said, “Hold on. Where are you kids going?”

  “Syrtis Minor.”

  “Not that. Where are you going right now? Why don't you wait in the dormitory? Take a nap if you like.”

  “We thought we would kind of explore around outside,” explained Jim.

  “Okay. But stay away from the city.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Company doesn't allow it, that's why. Not without permission.”

  “How do we get permission?” Jim persisted.

  “You can't. Cynia hasn't been ope
ned up to exploitation yet.” He went back to his reading.

  Jim was about to continue the matter but Frank tugged at his sleeve. They went outside together. Jim said, “I don't think he has any business telling us we can't go to Cynia.”

  “What's the difference? He thinks he has.”

  “What’11 we do now?”

  “Go to Cynia, of course. Only we won't consult his nibs.”

  “Suppose he catches us?”

  “How can he? He won't stir off that stool he's warming. Come on.”

  “Okay.” They set out to the east. The going was not too easy; there was no road of any sort and all the plant growth bordering the canal was spread out to its greatest extent to catch the rays of the midday Sun. But Mars’ low gravity makes walking easy work even over rough ground. They came shortly to the bank of Oeroe and followed it to the right, toward the city.

  The way was easy along the smooth stone of the bank. The air was warm and balmy even though the surface of the canal was still partly frozen. The sun was high; they were the better part of a thousand miles closer to the equator than they had been at daybreak.

  “Warm,” said Willis. “Willis want down.”

  “Okay,” Jim agreed, “but don't fall in.”

  “Willis not fall in.” Jim put him down and the little creature went skipping and rolling along the bank, with occasional excursions into the thick vegetation, like a puppy exploring a new pasture.

  They had gone perhaps a mile and the towers of the city were higher in the sky when they encountered a Martian. He was a small specimen of his sort, being not over twelve feet tall. He was standing quite still, all three of his legs down, apparently lost in contemplation of the whichness of what. The eye facing them stared unblinkingly

  Jim and Frank were, of course, used to Martians and recognized that this one was busy in his “other world;” they stopped talking and continued on past him, being careful not to brush against his legs.

  Not so Willis. He went darting around the Martian's peds, rubbing against them, then stopped and let out a couple of mournful croaks.

  The Martian stirred, looked around him, and suddenly bent and scooped Willis up.