Although water not available, the warrior was soon able to find what was obviously a container for some type of beverage. It was nearly full of a colorless fluid.
The following conversation then took place between Baren Dari and the Earthling:
Baren Dari: “What is this?”
Earthling: “Huh? Oh, that’s white mule. Yup, sure is.”
Baren Dari (puzzled): “I thought a mule was a four legged animal of burden particularly noted for kicking.”
Earthling (vaguely): “Paw’s white mule’s got lots of kick in it. Yup.”
Upon finding it was a beverage, as we had suspected, a small quantity of nark was quickly inserted.
Baren Dari: “Try a drink?”
Earthling: “What say?”
Baren Dari: “Have a drink?”
Earthling: “Uhhhhh. Maybe I will, but don’t tell Paw. Paw says I’m simple enough without no white mule.”
(Here he took a long draught without seeming effect, although we were expecting him to fall dead at our feet. We stood there staring at him, unbelievingly,)
Earthling: “That tasted mighty good. Got more of a kick than usual. Yup, sure did. Tasted like maybe somebody put in a wallop of turpentine.”
He seemed perfectly at ease. I turned to Baren Dari and snapped, “The type of poison you recommended seems less than effective.”
Baren Dari was obviously shocked. “It is inconceivable,” he said. “Possibly the liquid in which we dissolved the nark acted as an antidote.”
I turned my back on him angrily. “I begin to wonder about the effect of your other weapons!”
He waved to one of the warriors who had been burdened with the I.Q. Depressor: “We’ll try this immediately,” he said, anxiety in his tone.
While the machine was being readied, Baren Dari explained its workings to me in some detail. Meanwhile, the Earthling continued to sip at the jug which supposedly contained sufficient poison to eliminate an average large Terran city.
“As you know,” Baren Dari told me, “the mind, whether of Earthling or Martian type, is capable of being either stimulated or depressed. For hundreds of decals our race has possessed chemicals capable of such depression or stimulation. However, to my knowledge, this device is the only one yet developed which can suppress the intelligence quotient of anyone within an area of many square miles.
“The plan for utilizing it is a simple but effective one. When we confront a body of Earthling soldiery, our men need only to turn on the I.Q. Depressor to turn the enemy into brainless idiots. Their defeat would then obviously be quite simple.”
“Very well,” I told him stiffly, “let us proceed to try it on this Earthling.”
The device seemed quite elementary in construction. Baren Dari activated it by the simple flicking of a switch. We ourselves, of course, were immune to its workings since it was tuned only to the Earth type brain.
“It is now in operation?” I asked Baren Dari.
“Definitely. Watch the Earthling.”
“I am watching.”
The supposed top authority on Earth and Earthlings approached the specimen and eyed him carefully. The following conversation ensued:
Baren Dari: “How do you feel?”
Earthling: “Huh?”
(Baren Dari seemed pleased at this response, and, indeed, it would seem that the subject was oa the verge of idiocy.)
Baren Dari: “How do you feel?”
Earthling: “I guess I feel fine. Yup, yup. Feel fine.—How’d you feel, stranger?”
Baren Dari (scowling): “Does your head feel somewhat different? Does your mind seem more sluggish?”
Earthling: “Huh?”
Baren Dari: “Does your thinking seem weaker?”
Earthling: “Nope. Can’t say it does, stranger. Fact is, it’d be purdy hard to make my thinking much weaker. Yup, sure would.”
Baren Dari stared at him for a long period, unbelievingly. Obviously, the I.Q. Depressor had been worthless as far as undermining the Earthling’s intelligence is concerned.
Finally this alleged authority on Earthlings and upon Earth affairs flashed a look of despair at me, and at the others of us who stood around him.
“The fleas,” be blurted finally, “the lepbonic plague fleas. This weapon alone might well destroy the whole population of Earth. Bring the fleas.”
I said coldly, “We shall see, Baren Dari.” Then to one of the warriors, “Bring the fleas that carry this so deadly—so Baren Dari tells us—lepbonic plague.”
The Earthling was ignoring us now and had gone back to taking an occasional drink from his jug. Our warrior approached carefully from behind him and dropped a half dozen of the supposedly deadly insects upon the Earthling.
We then stood back and watched cautiously. According to Baren Dari, the fast spreading disease should take effect almost immediately.
The Earthling sat there, the I.Q. Depressor still tuned on but obviously unable to lower his intelligence an iota. He continued to sip from the jug of white mule, which had enough nark in it to kill thousands. Occasionally, he scratched himself.
“I guess I’ll take me a nap,” he said thickly, his words slurred. He scratched himself once again, yawned deeply, and slumped against the tree, obviously in sleep.
Baren Dari looked at me triumphantly. “The reaction is somewhat different than we’d expected, but obviously the fleas have given him lepbonic plague. This weapon at least is as successful as we had—”
I peered down at the Earthling suspiciously. His clothes were disarrayed and tom. I pointed at a speck on his uncouthly hairy chest.
“And what is that?” I snapped at Baren Dari.
He bent down to see what I indicated.
“It seems to be one of the fleas,” he told me.
“Then what is it doing on its back with its feet up in the air?”
“It seems indisposed.”
“It seems dead, you numbskull!” I roared at him. “After biting this Earthling your fleas have died!”
In a high rage, I strode up and down the clearing trying to coordinate my thoughts to the point where I could make an intelligent decision on this situation. Obviously, a crisis was at hand. Using these weapons devised by our scientists, after detailed instructions on their construction by Baren Dari and his group of efficient “experts,” would obviously be suicidal. They were completely worthless.
I came to a snap conclusion. Our plan must be to reveal ourselves to the Earthlings as Martians and pretend to come bearing them only good will and desire for peace and commerce. A few months on their planet, closely—but unbeknown to them—studying their life form, should give us ample opportunity to plan more effective weapons against them.
This then was my decision.
I snapped to Paren Dari. “Arouse the Earthman; tell him that we are Martiegs and that we seek peace with the inhabitants of Earth.”
There was some difficulty in the awakening, but finally Baren Dari succeeded. The Earthling shook his head groggily and scowled at my interpreter. The following conversation ensued: Baren Dari: “Awaken. We have a message of great importance for you.”
Earthling: “Huh?”
Baren Dari: “We have a message for you.”
Earthling (Rolling over on his other side): “Oh.”
Baren Dari said impressively: “In the name of the Most High, the Glorious, the Omnipotent, Omnipresent, and Omniscient, the Lord of the Seven, the Leader of the Chosen, Neo Geek XXXVIII; we bring you greetings from the Martians.” Earthling: “Huh?”
Baren Dari: “We Martians offer you the friendship and the good will of a people that—”
Earthling: “Martins! Are you’uns Martins?”
Baren Dari: “That is correct We Martians come with the greetings and—”
At this point, your Omnipotence, my account must of necessity be somewhat vague, for even after we had made good our escape back to the spacecruiser, bearing our more serious casualties with us, we were unable to agree
among ourselves on just what had happened.
Baren Dari, who is now under arrest and in the darkest recess of the Spacecruiser 12B44 laden down with chains, is of the opinion that the Karthling was none other than either Superman or the Lone Ranger in disguise. He contends that both of these Earthling warriors are prone to adopt disguises in this manner, revealing themselves only at the last moment to their enemies.
Suffice to say, however, that we were all successful in making good our retreat to the spacecruiser although all of our equipment and supplies were destroyed in the melee. Upon regaining the spacecraft we blasted off hurriedly, to return to our own sacred planet.
I recommend, your Omnipotence, that the plans to subjugate the planet Earth be indefinitely postponed in view of the fact that our specially designed weapons proved worthless and in particular view of the abilities of Earthling warriors.
I further recommend that the unspeakable Baren Dari, who obviously frittered away his time during the decals spent on Luna supposedly studying the Earthlings, be sent to the Nairebis Salt Mines.
Obediently,
Seegeel Wan
Commander Spacecruiser 12B44.
Maw and Paw Coy and Hank and Zeke came back into the clearing wearily. The boys had done a lot of tramping and were hungry for their vittles, and Maw was feeling bodacious about taking off to go hunting for Martins. Paw had told her to shut up two or three times but it hadn’t been much use.
Lem was sitting on an upended mash barrel loading his old shotgun and grinning vacuously. He seemed unaware of the fact that the stock of the gun was a splintered ruin.
“Guess what, Paw,” he yelled. “I got me a Martin. I got me a whole passel of Martins, Paw, I sure did. Yup, I—”
Paw Coy grunted, and started poking around in the vittles Maw had brought up from the cabin.
The boys leaned their rifles up against the oak and each picked up a handy fruit jar of com squeezins.
Hank said nastily, “Sure you got a whole passel of Martins, Lem. In yore sleep, you got a passel of Martins.”
Lem said belligerently, “Don’t you go a talkin’ thataway, Hank, or I’ll . . . I’ll throw you up into the tree the way I did that time you hit me with the ax. I did so get me some Martins. I was a sittin’ here when a whole passel come outen the woods. Didn’t know they was Martins at first. Then—”
Maw Coy handed him a chunk of com pone. “Now you be quiet, Lem, and eat your vittles. Sure you got yourself a Martin, Lem.”
A thin trickle of brown ran down from the side of Lem’s mouth. He spit on the ground before him, with an air of happy belligerence.
“I sure did, Maw. I sure got me a passel of Martins. Yup, I sure did.”
When and if the Aliens do land, a million questions may of course be answered. Assuming there is time to ask these questions . . .
QUIZ GAME
by
FRANK ROBINSON
“What do they look like, Dad?” Jimmy asked.
I finished spooning the gravy over the mashed potatoes and passed the plate down to him.
“They’re a sort of light green,” I said. “Light green, with small scales, and they’re about the size of Spot.”
Jimmy toyed with his vegetables for a moment, “Are they gonna conquer the world like the Martians on Captain Video?”
From the look on his face I could tell that he didn’t consider the possibility a calamity.
“No, Jimmy, they’re not going to conquer the Earth. They’re not an aggressive race.”
He made a small swimming pool out of his potatoes and solemnly floated a raft of peas on top of the gravy. “You must have been pretty excited when they landed, huh, Dad?”
“You just buckle right down to eating, young man,” Dot cut In, “and let the questions go until later. Your father’s had a hard day.”
“You can’t expect people not to ask questions about it,” I said,
“What does Mr. Pelloquin think about it?” she asked. Her face grew intent “What do you think?”
I helped myself to another slice of mea? loaf and tried to keep the enthusiasm out of my voice. “I don’t think Sam Pelloquin thinks anything at all about it,” I said. “It’s just another story to him. As for myself, I think we’ll jump a hundred years ahead overnight.”
“I bet old man Harris was surprised when the rocket crashed on his farm!”
“Jimmy,” I said quietly, “what did your mother just tell you?”
His face disappeared behind a slice of bread and jam. “I forgot, Dad.”
After dinner I went to the bedroom to get my brief case. I was searching the top of the bureau for my security badge when Dot came in from the kitchen, dish towel still in her hand.
“Out again?”
“Long hours, Dot, for me as well as the other professors at the university.” I smiled. “I guess you can put me down as working the night shift now.”
“You know I’m not complaining,” she said.
I found the badge and pinned it on my suit coat, then checked the contents of my brief ease.
“You have to go through a lot of red tape for Security, don’t you?” She asked the question rather hesitantly.
I zipped the leather case shut and wondered what it was she was digging for.
“You know why,” I said. “Since they come from a civilization a lot more advanced than our own, they must know a lot about science that we don’t Once we establish communication with them—find out their language—it’s going to be one big quiz game. Naturally all the security is to see that we’re the only ones who get the answers.”
“I see,” she said, staring absently at the towel in her hands.
“That wasn’t what you wanted ya’ know, was it?” I could almost guess what was coming now. And all it proved was that Dot was just as human as the few dozen others who had already asked me different versions of the same question.
She gave the towel a half angry flirt and lowered her voice to the conspiratorial whisper we always used when we didn’t want Jimmy to hear.
“I know the background,” she whispered. “There’s going to be a lot of scientists asking a lot of questions. And they’ll be getting the answers because those people are way ahead of us in just about everything, aren’t they? They know all about science and they should know a lot about medicine, too, shouldn’t they? You said they have the same basic metabolism that we have!”
I nodded and waited for her to continue.
“You know Irene has cancer,” she said, taking the plunge. “Maybe they even know something about that!” Irene was Dot’s sister, a case the doctors had labeled hopeless years ago.
I waited a moment before replying, hating to promise her what wasn’t mine to promise.
“They probably do, Dot. I guess they’ll be asked questions like that. There are some men at the University who would like to know the same thing—for personal reasons.”
She kissed me good sight at the door and held me for a moment. “You’ll be right there to remind them,” she said fiercely. “Don’t forget!”
It had started to rain a little, the drops slicking the front door stoop and making small haloes around the street lamps. I fumbled in my pockets for the car keys and just for a second glanced up at the black sky.
The aliens had come from some place up there, I thought. Strange little creatures from an unknown world who probably knew all the answers to questions like Dot’s—if we only knew how to ask them.
I drove along a side street to the Outer Drive, then relaxed in the seat, watching the shadowy trees and the misty street lamps slide quickly by. It had started, I thought, like any other item in what newspapermen call the “silly season,” that part of the summer when the nation’s press services are cluttered with reports of flying saucers, pink rains, and other unlikely events, the time of year when the Loch Ness sea monster gets its usual play.
There had been the unconfirmed story of the landing of the rocket in Indiana; an account where Sid Harris, t
he farmer on whose south forty the rocket had landed, was painted as pretty much of a Hoosier hick.
But the next story gave a somewhat different view of Harris. After all, you couldn’t laugh off the solid evidence of seventy feet of gleaming, tubular rocket.
The government and the university arrived on the scene at just about the same time and when everything was said and done, the government had full charge of the rocket and the little men on board ended up in a special laboratory on the second floor of the Memorial Hall of Chemistry.
The creatures were friendly, they were not the forerunners of some other-world invasion a la Orson Welles, and they were highly intelligent. A press release on the latter, coupled with some remarks on the discoveries we would naturally make after we had poked around the inside of their rocket, started the next phase. It was only natural to speculate that if we could find out a lot from the rocket, how much more could we find out from the little men themselves? What if we knew what they knew! And if we did? Well, in the books they call it Utopia or the Millennium.
The idea took hold. I liked it myself, even if I sometimes thought it was too good to be true, like Christmas Day every day from a kid’s viewpoint or finding a million dollars on a street corner from my own.
You couldn’t get around it. They probably knew the answers to everything we wanted to know.
The fissioning of light elements—
Cheap atomic power—
Maybe even cures for Cancer—
Cerebral palsy—
Heart trouble—
Or how to live to be a hundred.
All we had to do was ask.
I checked in at the Administration Building first to see if there had been any calls or late afternoon mail for me.
“There’s a Mr. Pelloquin waiting to see you, Professor Fenton,” the receptionist said. “From the Press,”
He was seated in a chair in a little nook off the main reception room. He was a big, solid man, slightly balding at the temples, with a passion for trench coats and battered hats that served almost as a trademark.
“Sorry, Sam,” I said. “I didn’t see you.”
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