“Jan van der Linden, instructor here in natural sciences. Who, may I ask, are you?”
“Name's Marlowe. I'm supposed to be in charge of this mad house. Look here, could you round up the boys who live outside the school? We are going to have to stay here for a day or two at least. I'm sorry but it's necessary. There can't very well be any classes; you might as well send the town boys home—and the teachers, too.”
The teacher looked doubtful. “Mr. Howe won't like me doing it without his say-so.”
“It's necessary. I'm going to do it in any case but you can speed things up and help me put an end to this riot. I take full responsibility”
Jim saw his mother through the crowd and did not wait to hear the outcome. She was leaning against the wall, holding Oliver and looking very tired, almost sick. Phyllis was standing close to her. Jim wormed his way through the crowd. “Mother!”
She looked up. “What is it, Jimmy?”
“You come with me.”
“Oh, Jimmy—I'm too tired to move.”
“Come on! I know a place where you can lie down.” A few minutes later he had the three in the room abandoned by Frank and himself: it was, as he had guessed, still unoccupied. His mother sank down on his bunk. “Jimmy, you're an angel.”
“You just take it easy. Phyl can bring you something to eat when it's ready. Uh, there's a toilet right across the hall. I'm going back and see what's going on.” He started to leave, then hesitated. “Phyl—would you take care of Willis for me?”
“Why? I want to see what's doing, too.”
“You're a girl; you'd better stay out from under foot.”
“Well, I like that! I guess I've got just as much business—”
“Stop it, children. Jimmy, we'll take care of Willis. Tell your father where we are.”
Jim delivered his mother's message, then found himself rather late in the chow line. By the time he had gone through for seconds as well, and eaten same, he discovered that most of the colonists were gathered in the school auditorium. He went in, spotted Frank and Doctor MacRae standing against the rear wall and squeezed over to them.
His father was pounding for order, using the butt of his gun as a gavel. “Mr. Linthicum has the floor.”
The speaker was a man about thirty with an annoyingly ag-gresssive manner. “I say Doctor MacRae is right; we shouldn't fool around. We've got to have boats to get to Copais. Right? Beecher won't give ‘em to us. Right? But all the actual force Beecher has is a squad of cops. Right? Even if he deputizes every man in Syrtis he only has maybe a hundred to a hundred and fifty guns. Right? We've got twice that many or more right here. Besides which Beecher won't be able to get all the local employees to fight us. So what do we do? We go over and grab him by the neck and force him to do right by us. Right?” He sat down triumphantly.
MacRae muttered, “Heaven defend me from my friends.”
Several tried to speak; Marlowe picked one out. “Mr. Gibbs has the floor.”
“Mr. Chairman … neighbors … I have rarely heard a more rash and provocative speech. You persuaded us, Mr. Marlowe, to embark on this reckless adventure, a project of which, I must say, I never approved—”
“You came along!” someone shouted.
“Order!” called Marlowe. “Get to the point, Mr. Gibbs.”
“… but in which I acceded rather than oppose the will of the majority. Now the hasty and ill-tempered would make matters worse with outright violence. But now that we are here, at the seat of government, the obvious thing to do is to petition for redress of grievances.”
“If you mean by that to ask Beecher for transportation to Co-pais, Mr. Gibbs, I've already done that.”
Gibbs smiled thinly. “Forgive me, Mr. Marlowe, if I say that the personality of the petitioner sometimes affects the outcome of the petition? I understand we have here, Mr. Howe, the Headmaster of this school and a person of some influence with the Resident Agent General. Would it not be wise to seek his help in approaching the Resident?”
Mr. Sutton shouted, “He's the last man on Mars I'd let speak for me!”
“Address the chair, Pat,” Marlowe cautioned. “Personally, I feel the same way, but I won't oppose it if that's what the crowd wants. But,” he continued, addressing the audience, “is Howe still here? I haven't seen him.”
Kelly stood up. “Oh, he's here all right; he's still holed up in his office. I've talked to him twice through his ventilator, I've promised him a honey of a beating if he will only do me the favor of coming out and standing up to me like a man.”
Mr. Gibbs looked scandalized. “Well, really!”
“It's a personal matter involving my boy,” explained Kelly.
Marlowe banged the table. “I imagine Mr. Kelly will waive his privilege if you folks really want Howe to speak for you. Do I hear a motion?” Gibbs proposed it; in the end only he and the Pottles voted for it.
After the vote Jim said, “Dad?”
“Address the chair, Son. What is it?”
“Er, Mr. Chairman—I just got an idea. I was wondering, since we haven't got any boats, just maybe we could get to Copais the way Frank and I got back to Charax—that is, if the Martians would help us.” He added, “If folks wanted us to, I guess Frank and I could go back and find Gekko and see what could be done about it.”
There was a moment of silence, then murmurs of “What's he talking about?” and unresponsive replies. Although almost all of the colonists had heard some version of the two boys’ story, it was the simple fact that it had not been believed, as told, or had been ignored or discounted. The report ran counter to experience and most of the colonists were as bogged down in “common sense” as their relatives back on Earth. The necessary alternative, that the boys had crossed eight hundred and fifty miles of open country without special shelter equipment, simply had not been examined by them; the “common sense” mind does not stoop to logic.
Mr. Marlowe frowned. “You've brought up an entirely new possibility, Jim.” He thought a moment. “We don't know that the natives have these conveyances between here and Copais—”
“I'll bet they have!”
“—and we don't know that they would let us ride in them even if they have.”
“But, Dad, Frank and I—”
“A point of order, Mr. Chairman!” It was Gibbs again. “Under what rules do you permit children to speak in the councils of adult citizens?”
Mr. Marlowe looked embarrassed and annoyed. Doctor MacRae spoke up. “Another point of order, Mr. Chairman. Since when does this cream puff—” He motioned at Gibbs.
“Order, Doctor.”
“Correction. I mean this fine upstanding male citizen, Mr. Gibbs, get the notion that Frank and Jim and the other gun-toting men their age ain't citizens? I might mention in passing that I was a man grown when this Gibbs party was still wetting his diapers—”
“Order!”
“Sorry. I mean even before he had reached that stage. Now as I see it, this is a frontier society and any man old enough to fight is a man and must be treated as such—and any girl old enough to cook and tend babies is an adult, too. Whether you folks know it yet or not, you are headed into a period when you'll have to fight for your rights. The youngsters will do most of the fighting; it behooves you to treat them accordingly. Twenty-five may be the right age for citizenship in a moribund, age-ridden society like that back on Earth, but we aren't bound to follow customs that aren't appropriate to our needs here.”
Mr. Marlowe banged his gun. “I declare this subject out of order. Jim, see me after the meeting. Has anyone any specific action to propose that can be carried out at this time? Do we negotiate, or do we resort to force of numbers?”
Mr. Konski addressed the chair and said, “I favor taking what we have to have, if necessary, but it may not be necessary Wouldn't it be well for you, Mr. Marlowe, to phone Mr. Beecher again? You could point out to him that we have force enough to do as we see fit; perhaps he will see reason. In fact, I so move.”
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The motion was put and carried; Mr. Marlowe suggested that someone else speak for them, but was turned down. He left the rostrum and went out into the hall to the communications booth. It was necessary to break the lock Howe had placed on it.
Beecher seemed excessively pleased with himself. “Ah, yes— my good friend, Marlowe. You've called to give yourself up I assume?”
Marlowe glanced around at the half dozen colonists crowded into the open door of the booth, then explained civilly to Beecher the purpose of his call.
“Boats to Copais?” Beecher laughed.”Scooters will be ready at nightfall to take the colonists—back to South Colony. You may tell them that all who are ready to go at that time will escape the consequences of their hasty actions. Not you, of course.”
“The purpose of this call was to point out to you that we are considerably larger in numbers than the largest force you can possibly drum up here in Syrtis Minor. We intend to carry out the contract. If you crowd us into using force to get our rights, force we will use.”
Beecher sneered through the TV screen. “Your threats do not move me, Marlowe. Surrender. Come out one at a time and unarmed, hands up.”
“Is that your last word?”
“One more thing. You are holding Mr. Howe a prisoner. Let him go at once, or I shall see to it that you are prosecuted for kidnapping.”
“Howe? He's not a prisoner; he's free to leave at any time.”
Beecher elaborated. Marlowe answered, “That's a private matter between Kelly and Howe. You can call Howe in his office and tell him so.”
“You must give him safe conduct out of the building,” Beecher insisted.
Marlowe shook his head. “I'm not going to interfere in a private quarrel. Howe is safe where he is; why should I bother? Beecher, I am offering you one more chance to provide boats peacefully.”
Beecher stared at him and switched off.
Kelly said, “Maybe you should have thrown me to the wolves, Chief”
Marlowe scratched his chin. “I don't think so. I can't conscientiously hold a hostage—but I have a feeling that this building is safer with Howe in it. I don't know just what Beecher has—so far as I know there isn't a bomb nor any other heavy weapon of any sort in Syrtis—but I would like to know what makes him so confident.”
“He's bluffing.”
“I wonder.” Marlowe went back in and reported the conversation to all the colonists.
Mrs. Pottle stood up. “Well, we are accepting Mr. Beecher's gracious offer at once! As for holding poor Mr. Howe a prisoner— why, the very idea! I hope that you are properly punished, and that ungentlemanly Mr. Kelly as well. Come, dear!”Again she made a grand exit, with Mr. Pottle trotting after her.
Marlowe said, “Any more who want to surrender?”
Gibbs stood up, looked around uncertainly, and followed them. No one spoke until he had left, then Toland stood up and said, “I move that we organize ourselves for action.”
“Second!”—”Second the motion!”
No one wanted to debate it; it was carried. Toland then proposed that Marlowe be elected captain of the forces, with power to appoint officers. It, too, was carried.
At this point Gibbs came stumbling back into the room, his face white, his hands trembling. “They're dead! They're dead!” he cried.
Marlowe found it impossible to restore order. Instead he crowded into the circle around Gibbs and demanded, “Who's dead? What happened?”
“The Pottles. Both of them. I was almost killed myself.” He quieted down enough to tell his story; the three had assumed their masks and gone out through the lock. Mrs. Pottle, without bothering to look around her, had stomped out into the street, her husband a close shadow. As soon as they had stepped clear of the archway they had both been blasted. Their bodies lay out in the street in front of the school. “It's your fault,” Gibbs finished shrilly, looking at Marlowe. “You got us into this.”
“Just a moment,” said Marlowe, “did they do the things Beecher demanded? Hands up, one at a time, and so forth? Was Pottle wearing his gun?”
Gibbs shook his head and turned away. “That's not the point,” MacRae said bitterly. “While we've been debating, Beecher has boxed us in. We can't get out.”
BESIEGED
IT WAS MADDENINGLY TRUE, AS A CAUTIOUS INVESTIGATION soon proved. Both the front and back exits were covered by gunmen—Beecher's police, supposedly—who were able to blast anyone emerging from the building without themselves being under fire. The air-lock nature of the doors made a rush suicidal.
The school was at a distance from the settlement's dwellings; it was not connected by tunnel. Nor had it any windows. Men and women, boys and girls, the colony listed hundreds of licensed gun wearers—and yet a handful of gun fighters outside, as few as two, could keep them holed up.
Under the influence of Doc MacRae's bellowing voice the assembly got back to work. “Before I go ahead with organizing,” Marlowe announced, “does anyone else want to surrender? I'm fairly sure that the Pottles were shot because they blundered out without notice. If you shout and wave something white, I think your surrender will be accepted.”
He waited. Presently a man got up with his wife, and then another. A few more trickled out. They left in dead silence.
When they were gone Captain Marlowe went on with the details of organizing. Mrs. Palmer he confirmed as head of commissary, Doc he designated as executive officer, Kelly he appointed permanent officer of the watch, responsible for the interior guard. Sutton and Toland were given the job of devising some sort of a portable screen to block the enfilading fire that had dropped Mr. and Mrs. Pottle. Jim followed all this with excited interest until, after the appointment of platoon leaders, it became evident that his father did not intend to use boys as combatants. The students from the school were organized into two platoons, designated as reserve, and dismissed.
Jim hung around, trying to get a word with his father. At last he managed to catch his eye. “Dad—”
“Don't bother us now, Jim.”
“But, Dad, you told me to see you about the business of getting the Martians to help us get to Copais.”
“The Martians? Oh—” Mr. Marlowe thought about it, then said, “Forget about it, Jim. Until we can break out of here, neither that scheme, nor any other, will work. Now let us be. Go see how your mother is doing.”
Thus brushed off, Jim turned disconsolately away. As he was leaving Frank fell in step with him, and locked arms. “Do you know, Jim, sometimes you aren't as full of guff as you are other times.”
Jim eyed him suspiciously. “If that's a compliment—thanks.”
“Not a compliment, Jim, merely justice. Seldom as I approve of one of your weary notions, this time I am forced to admit that you had a bright idea.”
“Quit making a speech and get to the point.”
“Very well. Point: when you suggested getting the Martians to help us you were firing on all jets.”
“Huh? Well, thanks for the applause, but I don't see it myself. As Dad pointed out, there's nothing we can do about it until we find some way to break out of here and slap old Beecher down. Then I suppose we won't need their help.”
“You're supposing too fast. Let's, as Doc would say, analyze the situation. In the first place, your father got us boxed in here—”
“You lay off my father!”
“I wasn't picking on your father. Your father is a swell guy and my old man says that he is a swell scientist, too. But by behaving like a gentleman he got us cornered in here and we can't get out. Mind you, I'm not blaming him, but that's the situation. So what are they going to do about it? Your old man tells my old man and that drip Toland to work out a shield, some sort of armor, that will let us get out the door and into the open where we can fight. Do you think they'll have any luck?”
“Well, I hadn't thought about it.”
“I have. They are going to get exactly no place. Now Dad is a good engineer with a lot of savvy. You give him equipm
ent and materials and he'll build you anything. But what's he got to work with now? For equipment he's got the school workshop and you know what a sad mess that is. The Company never spent any real money on equipping it; it's about right for making book ends. Materials? What are they going to make a shield out of? Dining-room tabletops? A heater would cut through a tabletop like soft cheese.”
“Oh, there must be something around they can use.”
“You name it.”
“Well, what do you want us to do?” Jim said in exasperation. “Surrender?”
“Certainly not. The old folks are stuck in a rut. Here's where we show finesse—using your idea.”
“Quit calling it my idea. I haven't got any idea.”
“Okay I'll take all the credit. We get word to Gekko that we need help. He's our water friend; he'll see to it.”
“How can Gekko help us? Martians don't fight.”
“That's right, but, as it says in geometry, what's the corollary? Human beings never fight Martians, never. Beecher can't risk offending the Martians. Everybody knows what a terrible time the Company had persuading the Martians that it was all right to let us settle here in the first place. Now just suppose that about twenty or thirty Martians—or even one—came stomping up to the front door of this place: what do Beecher's cops do?
“Huh?”
“They cease fire, that's what they do—and we come swarming out. That's what Gekko can do for us. He can fix it so that Beecher is forced to call off his gun toters.”
Jim thought about it. There was certainly merit in what Frank had to say. Every human who set foot on Mars had it thoroughly drummed into him that the natives must not be interfered with, provoked, nor their customs violated—nor, above all things, hurt. The strange and distressing history of the first generation of contact with the Martians had resulted in this being the first law of the extraterritorial settlements on Mars. Jim could not imagine Beecher violating this rule—nor could he imagine one of the Company police doing so. In normal times the principal duty of the police was the enforcement of this rule, particularly with respect to tourists from Earth, who were never allowed to come in contact with natives.
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