Complete Science Fiction 01 Immodest Proposals, page 79
part #1 of Complete Science Fiction of William Tenn Series
But we were down to counting stars when the red planet began to grow large.
“Mars,” Fatty said. “It looks like the picture of Mars in the article Professor Fronac had in the Sunday Supplement.”
“I wish he was here instead of us. He wanted to go to Mars. We didn’t.”
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky on Mars as we came down through the clearest air I’ve ever seen. We landed ever so gently in a flat desert of red sand. On all sides of the gray ball we could see acres on acres of sand.
Nothing else.
“Don’t know if this is much of an improvement on what we’ve been through,” I remarked morosely.
Fatty wasn’t listening. He was standing on his toes and staring around eagerly “We’re seeing what no man has ever seen before us,” he said softly. “We’re on Mars, do you understand, Paul? The sun—notice how much smaller it looks than on Earth? What wouldn’t Professor Fronac give to be in our shoes!”
“He can have mine any time he shows up. And I’ll throw in a new pair of soles and heels. Looking at a red desert isn’t my idea of a really big time, if you know what I mean. Gives me no bang at all. And where are the Martians?”
“They’ll show, Paul, they’ll show. They didn’t send us forty million miles just to decorate their desert. Hold your horses, feller.”
But I didn’t have to hold them long. Off at the edge of the horizon, two specks appeared, one in the air and coming fast, and one mooching along the ground.
The speck in the air grew into a green and bulbous mass about the size of the one in Cassowary Cove. It didn’t have any wings or jets or any other way of pushing itself along that I could see. It just happened to be flying.
When it reached us, the one on the ground was still far away.
Our new buddy had eyes, too—if that’s what they were. Only they weren’t black dots floating inside it; they were dark knob-like affairs stuck on the outside. But they felt just the same as the other when it paused on top of our bubble—as if they could undress our minds.
Just a second of this. Then it moved to the box, fiddled with it a moment and the music stopped. The silence sounded wonderful.
When it slid round to the bottom, going down through the sand as if the desert was made of mirage, Fatty handed me a couple of the knives we’d saved and picked out three for himself.
“Stand by,” he whispered. “It may come off any minute now.”
I didn’t make any sarcastic crack about the usefulness of such weapons because I was having trouble breathing. Besides, the knives gave me a little confidence. I couldn’t see where we might go if we happened to have a battle with these things and won, but it was nice holding something that could conceivably do damage.
By this time, the guy on the ground had arrived. He was in a one-wheeled car that was filled with wires and gadgets and crackly stuff. We didn’t get a good glimpse of him until he stepped out of the car and stood stiffly against it.
When we did, we didn’t like it. This whole play was getting peculiar.
He wasn’t green and he wasn’t bulbous. He was about half our height, very thin, shaped like a flexible cylinder. He was blue, streaked with white, and about a dozen tentacles trailed out from the middle of the cylinder under a battery of holes and bumps that I figured were the opposite number of ears, noses and mouths.
He stood on a pedestal of a smaller cylinder that seemed to have a sucking bottom to grip the sand.
When our green friend had finished working on the underside, he came tearing up to Jo-Jo near the car. Jo-Jo stiffened even more for a second, then seemed to get all loose and flexible and bent over, his tentacles drooping on the sand.
It wasn’t a bow. It reminded me more of the way a dog fawns.
“They could have two intelligent races here on Mars,” Fatty suggested in a low voice.
Then, while the tentacled chap was still scraping desert, the blob of green lifted and skimmed away in the direction he’d come. It was exactly like the business back in Cassowary Cove, except this time it was flying away while back on Earth it had zoomed along the water and submerged. But both were done so quickly and carelessly as to be positively insulting. After all, I’m not exactly small potatoes in my part of the country: one of my ancestors would have come over on the Mayflower if he hadn’t been in jail.
This cylinder character turned and watched until the jellyfish was out of sight. Very slowly, he turned back again and looked at us. We shuffled our feet.
Our visitor began piling equipment out of the car and on the sand. He fitted this in that, one doojigger into another doohickey. A crazy-angled, shiny machine took shape which was moved against our little gray home away from home. He climbed into it and twirled thingumajigs with his tentacles.
A small bubble formed around the machine, attached to the gray haze.
“Airlock,” Fatty told me. “He’s making an airlock so that he can come in without having our air belch into the desert. Mars has no atmosphere to speak of.”
He was right. An opening appeared in the grayness and Kid Tentacles sucked through slightly above water level. He was suspended in the air like that for a while, considering us.
Without warning, he dropped down into the water—only he splashed—and out of sight. We hurried to the side and looked down.
He was resting on the bottom, all his tentacles extended out at the mackerel which was scrunched up hard against the wall of gray, its tail curved behind it. A bunch of bubbles dripped up to the surface from the cylinder’s midsection and burst.
I didn’t get it. “Wonder what he wants of that poor mackerel. He’s sure scaring it silly. It must think he’s the Grim Angler.”
The moment I’d opened my mouth, the blue and white fellow started rising. He came up over the side and hit our deck with a wet sound from the base of his pedestal.
A couple of tentacles uncoiled at us. We moved back. One of the holes in his midsection expanded, twisted like a mouth in the middle of a stutter. Then in a rumbling, terrifically deep bass: “You—ah—are the intelligent life from Earth? Ah, I did not expect two.”
“English!” we both yelped.
“Correct language? Ah, I think so. You—ah, are New English, but English is correct language. This language has been dreefed into me—ah, dreefed is not right—so that I could adjust correctly. But excuse me. Ah, I only expected one and I didn t know whether you were marine or land form. Ah, I thought at first— Permit me: my name is Blizel-Ri-Ri-Bel.”
“Mine’s Myers,” Fatty stepped forward and shook a tentacle, taking control of the situation as he always did. “This is my pal, Paul Garland. I guess you’re here to give us the score?”
“To give you the score,” Blizel echoed. “To adjust. To make the choice. To explain. To—”
Fatty raised a pudgy hand and headed him off. “What happened to the other Martian?”
Blizel coiled two of his tentacles into a braid. “No, ah, other Martian, that. I am Martian, ah, and representative of Martian Government. It-of-Shoin is Ambassador from Shoin.”
“Shoin?”
“Shoin. Galactic nation, ah, of which our system is a province. Shoin is nation of this galaxy and other galaxies. Ah, it in turn is part of larger nation whose name we do not know. It-of-Shoin, the, ah, ambassador, has, ah, already decided which of you will be best but has not told me. Ah, I must make choice myself to prove partially our capabilities, ah, and our readiness to assume complete citizenship in Shoin. This is difficult as we, ah, are but five times as advanced as you, to round the numbers.”
“You want to find out which of us is best? For what?”
“To stay as diplomatic functionary so that your people will be able to come here and there as they could now, but for the barrier of forces in balance which has been dreefed, ah, about your planet and satellite. This barrier has protected you from unwarranted intrusion, ah, as well as prevented you from unexpectedly, ah, appearing in a civilized part of Shoin to your detriment. It-of-Shoin on your planet has been more interested in observing the development of the intelligent life forms at the core of your planet than on its surface, no discredit, ah, intended. It-of-Shoin was unaware you had acquired space travel.”
“It-of-Shoin on Earth,” Fatty mused. “The one who sent us here. The Ambassador to Earth, hey?”
The Martian twisted his tentacles in genuine embarrassment. His white streaks got broader. “Ah, Earth does not require an ambassador as yet. It-of-Shoin is, ah, a—yes, a consul. To all the intelligent life forms of, ah, Earth. Ah, I will return.”
He plopped backward into the smaller bubble which was his airlock and started collecting machinery.
Fatty and I compared notes.
All of our galaxy and several others were part of a federation called “Shoin.” Mars was practically ready to join or be accepted into the federation, whose other members they considered pretty terrific operators. Earth was a backward planet and only rated a consul who was an “It-of-Shoin.” He had a much higher regard for several other specimens of life he’d found on our planet than for man. Nevertheless, we’d surprised him by giving out with spaceships long before we should have. These ships hadn’t been able to go anywhere else than the Moon because of something called “forces-in-balance” which acted as a barrier both within and without.
For some reason, a representative of Earth was needed on Mars. This consul had scooted up one night and grabbed us off. When we’d arrived on Mars, the Shoinian ambassador had inspected us and decided which he wanted. Did that mean that one of us could return? And what about the other?
Anyway, he was too all-fired superior to tell the Martians which was the lucky man. He’d taught some government official our language by “dreefing” and it was up to the Martian from then on. The Martian, for all his humbleness, thought he was at least five times as good as we were. Finally, his English wasn’t too good.
“Maybe he was only dreefed once,” I suggested. “And it didn’t take.” I was nervous: we were still being treated too casually.
“What’s with this dreefing?” Fatty asked Blizel when he plopped back on deck with a couple of tentacleloads of equipment.
“They-of-Shoin alone can dreef. We, ah, of Mars must use machinery still. Dreef is not the image but a construction of an, ah, of a transliteration for your delight. They-of-Shoin dreef by, ah, utilizing force-patterns of what you call cosmos. Thus any product can be realized into, ah, existence—whether material or otherwise. Now testing for you.”
The Martian was presenting us with various gadgets on which colored lights flickered. We found that he wanted us to match switches with the colored lights in certain patterns but we couldn’t seem to get any of them right.
While he was playing around with the toys, Fatty asked innocently what would happen if we refused to split up and leave one of us here. The Martian replied innocently: one of us would be left here, as we had no choice since we couldn’t do a thing unless we were allowed to by them.
Fatty told him of the presence on Earth of very brilliant men who knew calculus and suchlike and would give both eyeteeth and maybe an eye or so for the chance to spend their lives on Mars. These men, he pointed out, would be much more interesting for the Martians to have around, maybe even for They-of-Shoin too, than a small-town grocer and gas-station owner who had both flunked elementary algebra.
“Ah, I think,” Blizel delicately commented, “that you overestimate the gulf between their intellects and yours, in our views.”
Fatty was elected. His experience with motors turned the trick. I congratulated him. He looked miserably at me.
Blizel withdrew, saying that he expected Fatty to go with him on a little trip to their “slimp”—which we decided was a city of sorts. He would bring Fatty back to “ah, organize farewell” if it turned out that Fatty was the right candidate. He was awfully nervous about the whole proposition himself.
Fatty shook his round head at the Martian, who was building a small bubble outside of ours for transportation purposes.
“You know, we can’t really blame those guys. They have troubles of their own, after all. They’re trying to get into a galactic federation on equal terms with some big shots and they want to prove themselves. They feel like rookies going into a game with a world-series pitcher to bat against. But I don’t get the way they crawl and suck around these Shoiners. They need a little backbone. When you come right down to it, they’re nothing but exploited natives, and everyone thinks we’ll be the same, but on a lower level.
“Wait’ll we get here. We’ll stiffen these Martians, Fatty. We’ll get the system free of galactic imperialists, with our atom bombs and all. Bet our scientists have this forces-in-balance thing licked in no time. And dreefing, too.”
“Sure. Think of it—another life-form, maybe more than one, in the core of the Earth with this It-of-Shoin leading them around by the noses or whatever. Golly! And these Martians here with their civilization, and no telling what other intelligent characters we have scattered between Mercury and Pluto. A whole empire, Paul, bigger than anything on Earth—all controlled by those green jellies!”
Blizel finished building the bubble and Fatty went into it through the airlock. It was darker than the one he left behind. I guessed Blizel wasn’t as skilled as that fellow down in Cassowary Cove.
The Martian got back into his machine and started off. Fatty’s bubble floated along above it.
I spent about ten or twelve hours on Mars alone. Night fell, and I watched two moons chase across the sky. Some sort of big snake wriggled up out of the sand, looked at me and went away on his own private big deal.
No more steak dinners came down, and I actually found myself missing the stuff. I was hungry!
When Fatty and Blizel returned, the Martian stayed outside and tinkered with the equipment. Fatty came back through the airlock slowly.
He was licking his lips and sighing in half-breaths. I got scared.
“Fatty, did they harm you? Did they do anything drastic?”
“No, Paul, they didn’t,” he said quietly. “I’ve just been through a—well, a big experience.”
He patted the mast gently before continuing. “I’ve seen the slimp, and it’s really not a city, not as we understand cities. It’s as much like New York or Boston as New York or Boston is like an anthill or beehive. Just because Blizel spoke our language so very damn poorly, we had him pegged as a sort of ignorant foreigner. Paul, it’s not that way at all. These Martians are so far above us, beyond us, that I’m amazed. They’ve had space travel for thousands of years. They’ve been to the stars and every planet in the system that isn’t restricted. Uranus and Earth are restricted. Barriers.
“But they have colonies and scientists on all the others. They have atomic power and stuff after atomic power and stuff after that. And yet they look up to these fellows from Shoin so much that you can just begin to imagine. They’re not exploited, just watched and helped. And these fellows from Shoin, they’re part of a bigger federation which I don’t quite understand, and they’re watched and guarded and helped too—by other things. The universe is old, Paul, and we’re newcomers, such terribly new newcomers! Think of what it will do to our pride when we find it out.”
There was a dollop of quietness while Fatty slapped the mast and I frowned at him. They must have done something to the poor guy, his backbone had just slipped right out. Some devilish machine, they probably had. Once Fatty was back on Earth he’d be normal again—the same old cocky Fatty Myers.
“Are—are you acceptable?”
“Yeah, I’m acceptable. The ambassador—It-of-Shoin,” he said with more respect in his voice than I’d ever heard before, “says I’m the one he picked. You should have seen the way Blizel and his crowd bucked up when they heard that! Now you have to get back to Earth. Blizel will fix the bubble so you’ll have more variety in your meals and can let them know what’s what. When humans start coming here regularly, they can appoint another man to handle affairs and, if he’s acceptable to Shoin and Mars, I can go back.”
“Fatty, what if I can’t get anyone to believe me?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know what happens in that case. Blizel tells me that if you can’t operate successfully enough to get man through the barrier in a riz or two, they will conclude that he isn’t enough of an intellect as yet to warrant their interest. You’ve just got to do it, Paul, because I don’t know what happens to me if you don’t, and from what I can see, nobody up here cares much.”
“Meanwhile, you’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be preparing a sort of city for Earthmen to live in on Mars. If you send any folks in the right channels, I’m supposed to verify them and greet them when they arrive. I’ll explain the setup as one human to another. Makes me out as an official greeter, doesn’t it?”
After Blizel finished tinkering with the boxes, he applied another spot of color near the top and I shot away from Mars. The return trip was pretty boring, and the mackerel died on the way. There were a lot of different dishes served, and I was able to keep up my interest in food, but everything had a soapy taste.
Blizel just wasn’t up to that guy in Cassowary Cove, no two ways about it.
I landed on the same spot from which we’d taken off—two months before, as I found.
The bubble dissolved as I hit the water. I didn’t bother to sail the sloop in, but dived off the deck and swam ashore.
It felt good to be able to swim a distance in a straight line.
It seems that there were folks who wanted to hold a funeral for us, but Edna had put her foot down. She insisted that so long as no wreckage was found, she’d consider me alive.
I’d probably turn up in Europe one fine day with Fatty, she told them.
