Red Planet

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “There is just one thing wrong with your idea, Frank. Supposing Gekko and his friends were willing to come to our rescue, how in the name of mud are we going to let him know that we need help? We can't just call him on the phone.”

  “No, we can't—but that is where you come in. You can send him a message.”

  “How?”

  “Willis.”

  “You're crazy!”

  “Am I now? Suppose you go out that front door—-fsstl You're fertilizer. But suppose Willis goes out? Who's going to shoot a bouncer?”

  “I don't like it. Willis might get hurt.”

  “If we just sit tight and do nothing, you'll wish he was dead. Beecher will sell him to the London Zoo.”

  Jim considered this unpleasant probability, then answered, “Anyhow, your scheme is full of holes. Even if he gets outside safely, Willis couldn't find Gekko and couldn't be depended on to deliver a message. He'd be just as likely to sing or recite some of Doc's bum jokes. I've got a better idea.”

  “Convince me.”

  “I'll bet that Beecher's plug-uglies didn't think to keep watch on the garbage dump. I'll deliver the message to Gekko myself.”

  Frank thought it over. “No good. Even if they aren't really watching the dump, they can see you from the corner where they are watching the back door. They'd nail you before you could scramble to your feet.”

  “I'll wait till dark.”

  “Mmmm … could work. Only I'll do it. I'm faster on my feet than you are.”

  “Look who's talking!”

  “All right, all right! We'll both do it—an hour apart.” Frank went on, “But that doesn't cut Willis out of it. He'll try it, too. One of us might get through. Now wait a minute—you underrate your little pal. We'll teach him just what he's to say. That'll be easy. Then you tell him to go over into the native city and stop the first Martian he meets and recite his piece. The Martian does the rest because we'll put it all into the message. The only question is whether or not Willis is bright enough to do as you tell him and go over into Syrtis Minor proper. I've got grave doubts about that.”

  Jim bristled. “You're always trying to make out that Willis is stupid. He's not; you just don't understand him.”

  “Okay then he can find his way over to the city and deliver the message. Or can't he?”

  “Well—I don't like it.”

  “Which do you prefer, to take a small risk with Willis or to have your mother and your baby brother have to spend the winter at South Colony?”

  Jim chewed his lip in a manner just like his father. “All right— we'll try it. Let's go get Willis.”

  “Don't get in a rush. Neither you nor I know the native language well enough to whip up just what we want to say. But Doc does. He'll help us.”

  “He's the only one of the grown-ups I'd want to trust with this anyhow. Come on.”

  They found MacRae easily enough, but were not able to speak with him at once. He was in the communications booth, bellowing at the screen. They could hear his half of the conversation. “I want to talk to Doctor Rawlings. Well, get him, get him—don't sit there chewing your pencil! Tell him it's Doctor MacRae … Ah, good day, Doctor! … No, I just got here … How's business, Doctor? Still cremating your mistakes? … Well, don't we all … Sorry, I can't; I'm locked up … Locked up, I said … —L …O…C…K…E…D up, like a disorderly drunk … No reason, none at all. It's that simian moron, Beecher … Yes, hadn't you heard? The entire colony, penned up in the little red schoolhouse … shoots us down if we so much as stick our noses out … No, I'm not joking. You know Skinny Pottle—he and his wife were killed not two hours ago. Burned down in cold blood, never had a chance … Damn it, man, I don't joke. Come see for yourself and find out what kind of a madman you have ruling you here. The cadavers were still out in the street in front of the school the last time I looked. We don't dare drag them in and lay them out decently … I said—” The screen suddenly went blank. MacRae swore and fiddled with the controls. Nothing happened.

  Presently, by experiment, he realized the instrument had been cut off completely. He came out, shrugging. “Well, they finally caught on to me,” he remarked to the room in general, “but I talked to three key men.”

  “What were you doing, Doc?” asked Jim.

  “Starting a little backfire, some fifth column activity behind Beecher's lines. There are good people everywhere, son, but you have to spell it out for them.”

  “Oh. Look, Doc, could you spare us some time?”

  “What for? Your father has a number of things for me to do, Jim.”

  “This is important.” They got MacRae aside and explained to him their plan.

  MacRae looked thoughtful. “It just might work. It's worth a whirl. That notion of making use of Martian inviolability is positively Machiavellian, Frank; you should go into politics. However, about the other stunt—the garbage-can paratrooper act—if you ask your father, he'll veto it.”

  “Can't you ask him? He'll listen to you.”

  “I said ‘If you ask your father,’ you idjut. Do I have to wipe your nose for you?”

  “Oh. I get you.”

  “About the other matter—chase up the little beastie and meet me in classroom'C; I'm using it as an office.”

  Jim and Frank left to do so. Jim found his mother and Oliver asleep, his sister and Willis gone. He had started to leave when his mother woke up. “Jimmy?”

  “I didn't mean to wake you, Mother. Where's Phyl? I want to find Willis.”

  “Your sister is in the kitchen, I think, helping out. Isn't Willis here? He was here on the bed with baby and me.”

  Jim looked around again, but found no sign of Willis. “I'll go ask Phyl. Maybe she came back and got him.”

  “He can't have wandered far. I'm sorry, Jim.”

  “I'll find him.”

  He went to the kitchen, found his sister. “How would I know?” she protested. “He was there with mother when I left.”

  “I asked you to look out for him.”

  “And I left him with mother—they wanted me to help out here. Don't go looking at me.”

  Jim joined Frank. “Darn it, they've let him wander off. He might be any place. We'll just have to search.”

  One hour and hundreds of inquiries later they were convinced that, if the bouncer was in the school, he had found a very special hiding place. Jim was so annoyed that he had forgotten completely the essential danger that they were all in. “That's what comes of trusting women,” he said bitterly. “Frank, what’11 I do now?”

  “Search me.”

  They were in the far end of the building from their former room. They started back toward it on the chance that Willis might have come back. As they were passing through the entrance hall, Jim stopped suddenly. “I heard him!”

  They both listened. “Open up!” came a replica of Jim's voice.

  “Let Willis in!” The voice came through the door's announcing speaker.

  Jim darted for the pressure lock, was stopped by the guard. “Hey,” he protested, “open the lock. That's Willis.”

  “More likely it's a trap. Stand back.”

  “Let him in. That's Willis, I tell you.” The guard ignored him, but threw the switch that caused the lock to cycle. He cleared everybody back out of range, then cautiously watched the door from one side, gun drawn.

  The inner door opened and Willis waddled through.

  WILLIS WAS BLAND ABOUT THE WHOLE THING. “JIM GO AWAY. Everybody go away. Willis go for walk.”

  “How did you get outdoors?”

  “Went out.”

  “But how?” Willis apparently could see nothing difficult about that; he did not amplify.

  “Maybe he went out when the Pottles did?” suggested Frank.

  “Maybe. Well, I guess it doesn't matter.”

  “Go see people,” Willis offered. He named off a string of native names, then added, “Fine time. Water friends. Give Willis good water, big drink.” He made lipsmacking noises
in imitation of Jim, although he had no lips himself.

  “You had a drink just a week ago,” Jim said accusingly.

  “Willis good boy!” Willis countered.

  “Wait a minute,” said Frank. “He was with Martians.”

  “Huh? I don't care if he was with Cleopatra; he shouldn't run away.”

  “But don't you see? He can get to the natives; he already has. All we've got to do is to be sure he carries a message for them to pass on to Gekko.”

  The point, relayed to MacRae, increased his interest. The three composed a message in English for MacRae to translate. “Greetings,” it began, “this is a message from Jim Marlowe, water friend of Gekko of the city of—-” Here they inserted the unspellable and almost unpronounceable Martian name of Cynia. “Whoever you may be, friend of my friend, you are implored to send this word at once to Gekko. I am in great trouble and I need your help.” The message went on to tell in detail the nature of the trouble, who was responsible, and what they hoped would be done about it. Telegraphic simplicity was not attempted, since Willis's nervous system could hold a thousand words as easily as ten.

  MacRae translated it, then drilled Jim in reading it, after which they attempted to impress on Willis what he was to do. Willis was willing, but his consistently slap-happy, feather-brained approach to any problem exasperated them all almost to hysteria. At last it seemed fairly likely that he might carry out his assignment; at least (a) when asked what he was to do he would answer, “go see friends,” and (b) when asked what he would tell them he would (usually) answer by reciting the message.

  “It just might work,” decided MacRae. “We know the Martians have some means of rapid communication, even though we've never known what sort. If our plump friend doesn't forget what he is doing and why he is making the trip …”

  Jim took him to the front door. On MacRae's authorization the guard let them through. Jim checked Willis again while the lock was cycling; the bouncer appeared to be sure of his instructions, although his answers showed his usual mental leapfrog.

  Jim hung back in the doorway, out of the line of fire, while Willis rolled off the stoop. The Pottles still lay where they had fallen; Willis looked at them curiously, then took up a zig-zag course down the street and disappeared from Jim's view, cut off as he was by the door frame. Jim wished mightily then that he had had the foresight to bring along a mirror to use as a periscope. Finally he screwed up his courage, lay down, and peeked around the edge of the door at the bottommost part.

  Willis was well down the street and nothing had happened to him. Far down the street some sort of cover had been set up. Jim stuck his head out an inch farther, trying to see what it was, when the corner of the door frame above him gave off a puff of smoke and he felt the electric tingle of a near miss. He jerked his head hastily back and reentered the lock.

  He had an all-gone feeling at the pit of his stomach and a conviction that he would never see Willis again.

  “DON'T SHOOT!”

  THE REST OF THE DAY PASSED WEARILY FOR JIM AND FRANK. There was nothing they could do about their own plan until after dark. In the meantime discussions were taking place among colonial leaders, but they were held behind closed doors and the boys were definitely not invited.

  Supper was a welcome diversion, both because they were hungry and because it meant that the kitchen would presently be deserted and the way left open to the garbage dump. Or so they thought. They found that, in practice, the womenfolk running the kitchen first took a leisurely time to clean the place up, then seemed disposed to sit around all night, drinking coffee and talking.

  The boys found excuses to come into the kitchen, excuses that got thinner every trip and which began to arouse Mrs. Palmer's suspicions.

  Finally Jim followed another boy in, wondering what he would say this time, when he heard the other boy say, “Mrs. Palmer, Captain Marlowe sends his regards and wants to know if it would be too much trouble to keep a night watch for coffee and sandwiches for the men on guard.”

  “Why, no,” Jim heard her say, “we'll be glad to do that. Henrietta, will you go out and find some volunteers? I'll take the first stint.”

  Jim backed out and went to where Frank awaited him. “What's the chances?” asked Frank. “Does it look like they're going to break up any time soon?”

  Jim told him what the chances were—or, rather, were not. Frank swore, using a couple of words that Jim had not heard before, and noted down for future use. “What’11 we do, Jim?”

  “I don't know. Maybe when it's down to just one of them on duty, she'll go out occasionally.”

  “Maybe we could get her out with some song and dance.”

  “Maybe. Maybe we could tell her that she's wanted in the headquarters room. That ought to do it.”

  They were still discussing it when the lights went out.

  THE PLACE WAS SUDDENLY COMPLETELY DARK, AS DARK AS the inside of a rock. Worse than that, there was a disturbing utter silence. Jim had just realized that the complete emptiness of sound resulted from the ending of the noise of circulating air, from the stopping of the supercharger on the roof, when a woman began to scream.

  She was joined by another, in a higher key. Then there were voices everywhere in the darkness, questioning, complaining, soothing.

  Down the hall from where the boys loitered a light sprang out and Jim heard his father's voice. “Quiet, everybody. Don't get excited. It's just a power failure. Be patient.”

  The light moved toward them, suddenly hit them. “You boys get to bed.” Jim's father moved on. Down the passage in the other direction they could hear Doc's bellow, ordering people to shut up and calm down.

  Jim's father came back. This time he was saying, “Into your suits, everybody. Have your respirators on your head. We hope to correct this in a few minutes, but we don't want anybody hurt. Now don't get excited; this building will hold pressure for half an hour at least. There's plenty of time to get ready for thin air, even if it takes a while to correct the trouble.”

  Other lights sprang up here and there; shortly the passageways throughout the building, if not the rooms, were adequately lighted. The corridors were crowded with dim shapes, struggling into their outdoors suits. Jim and Frank, planning as they were to attempt to go outside, had long been in their suits, armed, and with respirators at the ready. “Maybe this is a good time,” suggested Frank.

  “Nope,” Jim answered. “They're still in the kitchen. I can see a light.”

  MacRae came down the corridor; Jim stopped him. “Doc, how long do you think it will be until they get the lights on?”

  MacRae said,”Are you kidding?”

  “What do you mean, Doc?”

  “The lights aren't coming on. This is one of Beecher's stunts. He's pulled the switch on us, at the power house.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There's no failure—we've checked it. Fm surprised Beecher didn't do it hours ago—in his shoes, I would have done it five minutes after we moved in. But don't you birds go blabbing, Jim; your Pop has his hands full keeping the custard heads from blowing their tops.” He moved on.

  In spite of Captain Marlowe's reassuring words the true state of things was soon common knowledge. The pressure dropped slowly, so slowly that it was necessary to warn everyone to adjust their respirators, lest oxygen starvation sneak up on the unwary After that it was hardly possible to maintain the fiction that the power loss was temporary, to be corrected any minute now The temperature in the building fell slowly; there was no danger of them freezing in the closed and insulated building—but the night chill penetrated.

  Marlowe set up headquarters in the entrance hall in a circle of light cast by a single torch. Jim and Frank loitered there, discreetly back in the shadows, unwilling to miss what might be going on and quite unwilling to go to bed as ordered … as Frank pointed out to Jim, the only beds they had were occupied, by Mrs. Marlowe, Phyllis, and Oliver. Neither of them had given up the idea of attempting the garbage chute rout
e, but they knew in their hearts that the place was too stirred up to give them the privacy they would require.

  Joseph Hartley, one of the colony's hydroponists, came up to Marlowe. His wife was behind him, carrying their baby daughter in a pressurized crib, its supercharger sticking up above the clear plastic shell of it like a chimney. “Mr. Marlowe—I mean Captain Marlowe—”

  “Yes?”

  “You've got to do something. Our kid can't stand this. She's coming down with croup and we can't get at her to help her.”

  MacRae crowded forward. “You should have brought her to me, Joe.” He looked the baby over, through the plastic, then announced, “The kid seems to be doing all right.”

  “She's sick, I tell you.”

  “Hum—I can't make much of an examination when I can't get at her. Can't take her temperature, but she doesn't seem to be in any real danger.”

  “You're just trying to soothe me down,” Hartley said angrily. “You can't tell anything about it when she is in a sealed crib.”

  “Sorry, son,” the doctor answered.

  “A fat lot of good it does to be sorry! Somebody's got to do something. This can't—” His wife plucked at his sleeve; he turned away and they went into a huddle. Shortly he turned back. “Captain Marlowe!”

  “Yes, Mr. Hartley.”

  “The rest of you can do as you like. I've had enough. I've got my wife and baby to think about.”

  “The decision is yours,” Marlowe said stiffly and turned away in abrupt dismissal.

  “But—” said Hartley and stopped, aware that Marlowe was no longer paying any attention to him. He looked uncertain, like a man who wants someone to argue him out of his resolution. His wife touched his arm; he turned then and they went together to the front entrance.

  Marlowe said to MacRae,”What do they expect of me? Miracles?”

  MacRae answered, “Exactly, boy. Most people never grow up. They expect papa to get ‘em the pretty Moon.” The doctor went on, “Just the same, Joe accidentally told the truth. We've got to do something.”