by Jerry
“No argument, Ling,” he said sensibly.
There was laughter at that, and silly applause. Ling swung around and stripped bare his great pointed fangs in a snarl. Silence fell abruptly, and he faced Parr again. “You,” he said. “You got on . . .” And he stepped close, tapping the plates on Parr’s chest.
“It’s armor,” said Parr.
“Huh! Ah—ar . . .” The word was too much for the creature, whose brain and mouth alike had forgotten most language. “Well,” said Ling, “I want. I wear.”
He fumbled at the fastenings.
Parr jumped clear of him. He had accepted authority a moment ago, but this armor was his insurance against becoming a beast. “It’s mine,” he objected.
Solemnly Ling shook his great browless head, as big as a coal-scuttle and fringed with bristly beard. “Mine,” he said roughly. “I boss. You . . .”
He caught Parr by the arm and dragged him close. So quick and powerful was the clutch that it almost dislocated Parr’s shoulder. By sheer instinct, Parr struck with his free fist.
Square and solid on that coarse-bearded chin landed Parr’s knuckles, with their covering of armor plate. And Ling, confident to the point of innocence because of his strength and authority, had neither guarded nor prepared. His great head jerked back as though it would fly from his shoulders. And Parr, wrenching loose, followed up the advantage because a second’s hesitation would be his downfall.
He hit Ling on the lower end of the breastbone, where his belly would be softest. Above him he heard the beast-giant grunt in pain, and then Parr swung roundabout to score on the jaw again. Ling actually gave back, dropping his immense bludgeon. A body less firmly pedestalled upon powerful legs and scoop-shovel feet would have gone down. It took a moment for him to recover.
“Aaaah!” he roared. “I kill you!”
Parr had stooped and caught up his own discarded club. Now he threw it full at the distorted face of his enemy. Ling’s hands flashed up like a shortstop’s, snatched the stick in midair, and broke it in two like a carrot. Another roar, and Ling charged, head down and arms outflung for a pulverizing grapple.
Parr sprang sidewise. Ling blundered past. His stooping head crashed against a tree, his whole body bounded back from the impact, and down he went in a quivering, moaning heap. He did not get up.
Parr backed away, gazing at the others. They stood silent in a score of attitudes, like children playing at moving statues. Then:
“Huh!” cried one. “New boss!”
A chorus of cries and howls greeted this. They gathered around Parr with fawning faces. “You boss! You fight Ling—beat ‘im. Huh, you boss!”
At the racket, Ling recovered a little, and managed to squirm into a sitting posture. “Yes,” he said, “you boss.”
With one hand holding his half-smashed skull, he lifted the other in salute to Parr.
IT TOOK TIME—several days—but Parr got over his first revulsion at the bestial traits of his new companions. After all, in shedding the wit and grace of man, they were recovering the honest simplicity of animals. For instance, Ling was not malicious about being displaced, as Shanklin had been. Too, there was much more real mutual helpfulness, if not so much talk about it. When one of the horde found a new crop of berries or roots or nuts, he set up a yell for his friends to come and share. A couple of oldsters, doddering and incompetent gargoyles, were fed and cared for by the younger beast-men. And all stood ready to obey Parr’s slightest word or gesture.
Thus, though it was a new thought to them, several went exploring with him to the north pole of their world. The journey was no more than fifteen miles, but took them across grassy, foodless plains which had never been worth negotiation. Parr chose Ling and another comparatively intelligent specimen who called himself Ruba. Izak, the mild-mannered one who had first met and guided Parr on the night of his banishment from the human village, also pleaded to go. Several others would have joined the party, but the deterioration of legs and feet made them poor walkers. The four went single file—Parr, then big Ling, then Ruba, then Izak. Each carried, on a vine sling, a leaf-package of fruit and a melon for quenching thirst. They also carried clubs.
The plain was well-grassed, as high as Ling’s knuckled knee. Occasionally small creatures hopped or scuttled away. The beast-men threw stones until Parr told them to stop—he could not help but wonder if those scurriers had once been men. The hot sun made him sweat under his plate-armor, but not for all the Solar System would he have laid it aside.
They paused for noonday lunch in a grove of ferny trees beyond the plain, then scaled some rough lava-like rocks. In the early afternoon they came to what must be the asteroid’s northern pole.
Like most of the asteroids, this was originally jagged and irregular. Martian engineers in fitting it artificially to support life, had roughed it into a sphere and pulverized quantities of the rock into soil. Here, at the apex, was a ring of rough naked hills enclosing a pit into which the sun could not look. Ling, catching up with Parr on the brow of the circular range, pointed with his great club.
“Look like mouth of world,” he hazarded. “Dark. Maybe world hungry—eat us.”
“Maybe,” agreed Parr. The pit, about a hundred yards across and full of shadow, looked forbidding enough to be a savage maw. Izak also came alongside.
“Mouth?” he repeated after Ling. “Mmm! Look down. Men in there.”
There was a movement, sure enough, and a flare of something—a torch of punky wood. Izak was right. Men were inside this polar depression.
“Come on,” said Parr at once, and began to scramble down the steep, gloomy inner slope. Ling grimaced, but followed lest his companions think him afraid. Ruba and Izak, who feared to be left behind, stayed close to his heels.
The light of the torch flared more brightly. Parr could make out figures in its glow—two of them. The torch itself was wedged in a crack of the rock, and beneath its flame the couple seemed to tug and wrench at something that gleamed darkly, like a great metal toadstool at the bottom of the depression. So engrossed were the workers that they did not notice Parr and his companions, and Parr, drawing near, had time to recognize both.
One was Sadau, who would have remained his friend. The other was Varina Pemberton. In the torchlight she looked browner and more vigorous than when he had seen her last.
“What are you doing?” he called to them.
Abruptly they both snapped erect and looked toward him. Sadau seized the torch and whirled it on high, shedding light. Varina Pemberton peered at the newcomers.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s you. Parr. Well, get out of here.”
Parr stood his ground, studying the toadstool-thing they had been laboring over. It was a wheel-like disk of metal, set upon an axle that sprouted from the floor of rock. By turning it, they could finish opening a great rock-faced panel near by . . .
“Get out,” repeated the girl, with a hard edge on her voice.
Parr felt himself grow angry. “Take it easy,” he said. “Your crowd booted me out, and I’m not under your rule any more. Neither can this be said to be your country. We’ve as much right here as you.”
“Four of us,” added Ruba with threatening logic. “Two of you. Fight, uh?”
“Parr,” said Sadau, “do as Miss Pemberton tells you. Leave here.”
“And if I don’t?” temporized Parr, who felt the eagerness of his beast-men for some sort of a skirmish.
Varina Pemberton took something from her belt and pointed it. A brittle report resounded . . . whick! And an electro-automatic pellet exploded almost between Parr’s feet, digging a hole in the rock. He jumped back. So did his three comrades, from whose memories had not faded the knowledge of firearms.
“The next shot,” she warned, “will be a little higher and more carefully placed. Get out, and don’t come back.”
“They win,” said Parr. “Come on, boys.”
They retired to the upper combing of rock, with the sun at their backs. There Pa
rr motioned them into hiding behind jagged boulders. Time passed, several hours of it. Finally they saw Sadau and Varina Pemberton depart on the other side of the hole.
“Good,” rumbled Ling. “We follow. Sneak up. Grab. Kill.”
“Not us,” Parr ruled. “No war against women, Ling. But we’ll go down where they were working, and see what it’s all about.”
They groped their way down again. At the bottom of the pit-valley they found the metal projection, so like a mighty steering wheel. Sadau’s torch lay there, extinguished, and Parr still carried a radium lighter in the pocket of his shabby shorts. He made a light, and looked.
The big panel or rock, that had been half-open, was closed. As for the wheel, it had been bent and jammed, by powerful blows with a rock. He could not budge it, nor could the mighty Ling, nor could all of them together.
“They were inside this asteroid,” decided Parr, half to himself. “Down where the Martians planted the artificial gravity-machinery. Having been there, they fixed things so nobody will follow them. Only blasting rays could open up a way, and those would probably wreck the mechanism and send air, water and exiles all flying into space. All this she did. Why?”
“Why what?” asked Izak, not comprehending.
“Yes, why what?” repeated Parr. “I can only guess, Izak, and none of my guesses have been worth much lately. Let’s go home, and keep an eye peeled on our neighbors.”
THE MARTIANS HAD come again—the same space-patroller, repaired, and twice as many hands and a new skipper. They carried no Terrestrial exile—for once their errand was different.
Four of them, harnessed into erect human posture, armed and armored, stood around the evening fire in the central clearing of the village now ruled by Varina Pemberton. The skipper was being insistent, but not particularly deadly.
“We rrecognize that fourr dead among you will ssettle forr one dead Marrtian,” he told the gathered exiles. “The morre sso ass you assurre me that the man rressponssible hass been drriven frrom among you. But we make one demand—the arrmorr taken frrom the body of the dead Marrtian.”
“I am sorry about that,” the chieftainess replied from her side. “We didn’t know that you valued it. If we get it back for you . . .”
“Ssuch action would rreflect favorrably upon you,” nodded the Martian skipper. “Get the arrmorr again, and we will rrefrrain frrom punitive meassurress.”
“Why do you want that armor so much?” inquired Shanklin boldly. He himself had never thought of it as worth much. He was more satisfied to have the knife, which he now hid behind him lest the Martians see and claim. But the skipper only shook his petalled skull.
“It iss no prroblem of yourrss,” he snubbed Shanklin. And, to Varina Pemberton: “What time sshall we grrant you? A day? Two dayss?—Come before the end of that time and rreporrt to me at the patrrol vessel.”
He turned and led his followers back toward the plain where the ship was parked.
Night had well fallen, and silence hung about the vessel. Only a rectangle of soft light showed the open hatchway. The Martian officer led the way thither, ducked his head, entered . . .
Powerful hairy hands caught and overpowered him. Before he could collect himself for resistance, other hands had disarmed him and were dragging him away. His three companions, narrowly escaping the same fate, fell back and drew their guns and ray throwers. A voice warned them sharply:
“Don’t fire, any of you. We’ve got your friends in here, and we’ve taken their electro-automatics. Give us the slightest reason, and we’ll wipe them out first—you second.”
“Who arre you?” shrilled one of the Martians, lowering his weapon.
“My name’s Fitzhugh Parr,” came back the grim reply. “You framed me into this exile—it’s going to prove the worst day’s work you Martian flower-faces ever did. Not a move, any of you! The ship’s mine, and I’m going to take off at dawn.”
The three discomfited hands tramped away again. Inside the control room, Parr spoke to his shaggy followers, who grinned and twinkled like so many gnomes doing mischief.
“They won’t dare rush us,” he said, “but two of you—Ling and Izak—stay at the door with those guns. Dead sure you can still use ’em?—You, Ruba, come here to the controls. You say you once flew space-craft.”
Ruba’s broad, coarse hand ruffled the bushy hair that grew on his almost browless head. “Once,” he agreed dolefully. “Now I—many thing I don’t remember.” His face, flat-nosed and blubber-lipped, grew bleak and plaintive as he gazed upon instruments he once had mastered.
“You’ll remember,” Parr assured him vehemently. “I never flew anything but a short-shot pleasure cruiser, but I’m beginning to dope things out. We’ll help each other, Ruba. Don’t you want to get away from here, go home?”
“Home!” breathed Ruba, and the ears of the others—pointed, some of those ears, and all of them hairy—pricked up visibly at that word.
“Well, there you are,” Parr said encouragingly. “Sweat your brains, lad. We’ve got until dawn. Then away we go.”
“You will never manage,” slurred the skipper from the corner where the Martian captives, bound securely, sprawled under custody of a beast-man with a lever bar for a club. “Thesse animalss have not mental powerr . . .”
“Shut up, or I’ll let that guard tap you,” Parr warned him. “They had mental power enough to fool you all over the shop. Come on, Ruba. Isn’t this the rocket gauge? Please remember how it operates!”
The capture of the ship had been easy, so easy. The guard had been well kept only until the skipper and his party had gone out of sight toward the human village. Nobody ever expected trouble from beast-men, and the watch on board had not dreamed of a rush until they were down and secure. But this—the rationalization of intricate space-machinery—was by contrast a doleful obstacle. “Please remember,” Parr pleaded with Ruba again.
And so for hours. And at last, prodded and cajoled and bullied, the degenerated intelligence of Ruba had partially responded. His clumsy paws, once so skilful, coaxed the mechanism into life. The blasts emitted preliminary belches. The whole fabric of the ship quivered, like a sleeper slowly wakening.
“Can you get her nose up, Ruba?” Parr found himself able to inquire at last.
“Huh, boss,” spoke Ling from his watch at the door. “Come. I see white thing.”
Parr hurried across to look.
The white thing was a tattered shirt, held aloft on a stick. From the direction of the village came several figures, Martian and Terrestrial. Parr recognized the bearer of the flag of truce—it was Varina Pemberton. With her walked the three Martian hands whom he had warned off, their tentacles lifted to ask for parley, their weapons sheathed at their belts. Sadau was there, and Shanklin.
“Ready, guns,” Parr warned Ling and Izak. “Stand clear of us, out there!” he yelled. “We’re going to take off.”
“Fitzhugh Parr,” called back Varina Pemberton, “you must not.”
“Oh, must I not?” he taunted her. “Who’s so free with her orders? I’ve got a gun myself this time. Better keep your distance.”
The others stopped at the warning, but the girl came forward. “You wouldn’t shoot a woman,” she announced confidently. “Listen to me.”
Parr looked back to where Ruba was fumbling the ship into more definite action. “Go on and talk,” he bade her. “I give you one minute.”
“You’ve got to give up this foolish idea,” she said earnestly. “It can’t succeed—even if you take off.”
“No if about it. We’re doing wonders. Make your goodbyes short. I wish you joy of this asteroid, ma’am.”
“Suppose you do get away,” she conceded. “Suppose, though it’s a small, crowded ship, you reach Earth and land safely. What then?”
“I’ll blow the lid off this dirty Martian Joke,” he told her. “Exhibit these poor devils, to show what the Martians do to Terrestrials they convict. And then . . .”
“Yes, and the
n!” she cut in passionately. “Don’t you see, Parr? Relations between Mars and Earth are at breaking point now. They have been for long. The Martians are technically within their rights when they dump us here, but you’ll be a pirate, a thief, a fugitive from justice. You can cause a break, perhaps war. And for what?”
“For getting away, for giving freedom to my only friends on this asteroid,” said Parr.
“Freedom?” she repeated. “You think they can be free on Earth? Can they face their wives or mothers as they are now—no longer men?”
“Boss,” said Ling suddenly and brokenly, “she tell true. No. I won’t go home.”
It was like cold water, that sudden rush of ghastly truth upon Parr. The girl was right. His victory would be the saddest of defeats. He looked around him at the beast-men who had placed themselves under his control—what would happen to them on Earth? Prison? Asylum? Zoo? . . .
“Varina Pemberton,” he called, “I think you win.”
The hairy ones crowded around him, sensing a change in plan. He spoke quickly:
“It’s all off, boys. Get out, one at a time, and rush away for cover. Nobody will hurt you—and we’ll be no worse off than we were.” He raised his voice again: “If I clear out, will we be left alone?”
“You must give back that armor,” she told him. “The Martians insist.”
“It’s a deal.” He stripped the stuff from him and threw it across the floor to lie beside the bound prisoners. “I’m trusting you, Varina Pemberton!” he shouted. “We’re getting out.”
They departed at his orders, all of them. Ling and Izak went last, dropping the stolen guns they had held so unhandily. Parr waited for all of them to be gone, then he himself left the ship.
At once bullets began to whicker around him. He dodged behind the ship, then ran crookedly for cover. By great good luck, he was not hit. His beast-men hurried to him among the bushes.
“Huh, boss?” they asked anxiously. “Ship no good? What we do?”
He looked over his shoulder. Somewhere in the night enemies hunted for him. The beast-folk were beneath contempt, would be left alone. Only he had shown himself too dangerous to be allowed life.