by Earl
“I was just thinking,” he said softly. “Those Martians—”
“What?” asked Drummond absently, visioning a financier fawning on him while he flicked ashes on the expensive Venusian rug of his office and sneered at the first offers.
Dr. Baird shook his head and left his thought unfinished.
THREE days later, Mars ballooned among the stars and Captain Keith Drummond sat tensely before his instrument panel. He kept in constant touch with the pilot room, and the engine crew below. The great chunk of ice must be landed at a precise spot. This involved not only approaching the orbit of Mars at the correct angle, but reaching its surface at exactly the right hour. Rotation waited for no man.
Still, this had not been so difficult. Velocity in space could be set at perfect precision. Everything was clocked for a bull’s-eye delivery in the central plains of Thyle II.
Dr. Baird looked around. He had just shot their position with a space octant.
“You might tangent one degree toward Aldebaran,” he suggested, “just to make sure we don’t hit north of the hollow.”
Drummond nodded and called the pilot room, which set its sights for angry-red Aldebaran one degree, and blasted out with the appropriate rockets. They could feel the top-heavy swing of their unique little binary system. The ship moved ten degrees for the ice-cargo’s one. Drummond had worked out the mechanics of it more than six months before. He was certain of his maneuvers.
Yet what if he had made a mistake? He could not help shivering slightly, thinking of the tremendous mass falling like a bomb on a Martian village. He shrugged. Well, he and Baird had to take their chances. They would soon know whether they were to be heroes or criminals.
A while later, Dr. Baird nodded, after another reading from the octant.
“I think we’d better cast off and decelerate about now. We’ve aimed the best we can.” He betrayed nervousness only by a slight quiver of his lips.
“Casting off! Stand by!” Captain Drummond bawled through the speaking tubes to the pilots and crew. He swung the lever of the tractor-beam himself, controlled in his cabin, and the heavy snarl of the beam-generator droned to nothingness.
Outside, there was no visible effect. The ice-mass and ship kept their relative distances, both hurtling Marsward. But now the ice-chunk was a free-falling body. Rotating slightly, its innumerable crystal facets spangled out brilliantly.
It was a strange, beautiful sight, even the unpoetic Captain Drummond realized. But had he been able to see within the scientist’s mind, he would have been a little puzzled. To him the ice was not just ice, or water. It was a flaming, precious jewel from Earth’s treasure-chest. A gift to Mars from a richer world.
DRUMMOND bellowed further orders and the nose rockets hissed gently, so that the flames would not touch the ice-mass ahead. Slowly the mountain of ice drew away as the ship decelerated. The rockets broke out in thunder as the tug took full braking.
The great lump of ice seemed to leap ahead, plunging on for its destination. It dwindled, became a flashing ball, then vanished. It had passed out of their hands. Its final fate lay in the intricate calculations of Dr. Ronald Baird.
“It’ll land in five hours,” he breathed.
They were five hours of nerve strain. Drummond lit, chewed and tossed away a dozen cigars. Dr. Baird set the small telescope, whose tube projected beyond the hull, for a view of the burning expanse of Thyle II. They both watched in the enlarged periscopic view-plate.
The chronometer ticked to the zero moment and they held their breaths. Suddenly it appeared, a streak of lightning, flaming down in the Martian sky. It was the sphere of ice, striking with meteoric impact. But it didn’t bury itself. Instead, great columns of blue shot into the air for miles and settled back as steamy spray.
“Just as you predicted, Baird,” Drummond said, finding his voice hoarse. “It changed to water before landing, from the heat of friction through the atmosphere. And we hit the hollow spang in the middle!”
They watched as silvery threads spread a network through the arid, dusty hollow, as more than a billion cubic feet of water sought its level. Water for the thirsty, barren plains of Thyle III It was just a drop in the bucket as yet, but again and again this water from the sky would be rained down. Eventually, the hollow would be filled and Thyle II would be irrigated.
Keith Drummond, about to clap the scientist heartily on the back and roar out a song of success, stayed both hand and tongue. The old man had turned away with blinking eyes. With rare understanding, Drummond sneaked out and went below, to pass out a round of drinks to the crew, in celebration. Let Dr. Baird have his moment of triumph in his own way.
CAPTAIN KEITH DRUMMOND landed his tug a few hundred feet from the edge of the small lake that lay now where no lake had existed for untold centuries.
Accompanied by the scientist, he stepped out into the dry, warm Martian climate. The Sun’s rays beat down through a perpetually cloudless sky and thin atmosphere. All around lay bronze desert sand. It was desolate, save for hardy cacti that grew where Earth cacti would have wilted.
But water would change this to habitable land. Underneath the sand lay soil, from a previous age when vegetation had grown here, before precious water vapor had seeped into space. Thirstily, now, the sands drank. The surface water evaporated steamily into the parched air. Half the newly formed lake was gone already and in a few more hours would leave no trace.
Again and again this would happen. It would be like trying to fill a bottomless well. But eventually, there would come balance. Imported in sufficient quantity, through years, the water would add up. The immense desert plains of Thyle II would know rain, draining to the central hollow.
“Thyle II will be an irrigated agricultural region within a few years!” predicted Dr. Baird, eyes shining from within his soul. “But I can picture the day—we may live to see it—when all Mars has rain and crops and abundance, instead of just the canal-watered strips. It’s simply a matter of bringing more and more water from Earth!”
“Depending on how much the Martians can pay for,” grunted Drummond. “They have only radium to attract a busy water-trade, and they may run out of radium, you know.”
“Dollars and cents!” sighed the scientist. “That’s all you seem able to reduce it to!”
They looked up as a low drumming quivered in the air.
Three small Earth-made rocket planes, with wide wings for Martian air, landed in quick succession. Not far behind came a larger craft, a space yacht, landing with a thunderous bellow. Two reporters and a newsreel cameraman ran up, clamoring for an interview. They had flown from Canal City. It was only six hours after the fall of the ice-mass, but already the news of the Earthmen’s achievement had circled the planet.
“Hello, boys,” Drummond greeted the reporters genially. “Here’s something you can smear over your front page, men. I can deliver water from Earth, to Mars, for less than a cent a gallon, and in quantity!”
Dr. Baird looked as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t.
“Give us some details,” begged the newsmen.
Drummond pondered how much to reveal.
“I use an oversize tractor-beam and—”
“Captain Drummond! Dr. Baird!”
The interrupting voice was owned by a thick-set, heavy-jowled man instantly recognizable as Adolph Stone, foremost tycoon of interplanetary commerce. His ships and trading posts spanned the Solar System. He had a monopoly of the Venusian grain-trade, for one thing, that the rather weak-willed Interworld Trade Commission couldn’t break. Or wouldn’t. Some said he secretly controlled the ITC.
Drummond’s eyes narrowed, first in anger, then in a more pleasant emotion. Adolph Stone had been the last financier they had sought out for backing. He had been the most unreasonable magnate they had approached, insulting in his contempt for their “wild, hare-brained” scheme for filling the age-dried wells of Mars.
JOYFUL triumph in Drummond’s heart almost made him giddy. He licked his
lips in anticipation of the revenge he intended to exact from the magnate.
“Don’t say any more about your project to these men!” puffed the opulent Adolph Stone. “I happened to be in Canal City on a business deal when your—uh—man-made cloud burst occurred. A most remarkable achievement. I hurried here to extend my congratulations.” He smiled unctuously. “Let’s have a talk—privately. A little business talk, eh, Captain Drummond?”
Drummond stared at the portly business man speculatively.
“Did I ever tell you, Mr. Stone, that I think you’re a fat, slobbering pig?” he said evenly.
The reporters gasped.
Adolph Stone’s heavy features darkened, but he forced a twisted smile, and a hollow chuckle meant to indicate mirth. “We’re old friends,” he chortled aside to the reporters. “You must have your little joke, eh, Captain? But come, you are my guests, aboard my private yacht. I—”
“And that you’re about the poorest excuse for a human being I’ve ever met?” added Drummond very distinctly.
The financier swallowed that insult also, and weakly pressed his invitation.
Drummond toyed mentally with a third barb, but thought better of it. He had had his revenge. Stone could be useful—later.
He grinned and let his cigar ashes fly in the financier’s face. “Okay, Stone. See you tonight, in Canal City. Right now Dr. Baird and I will pick up our contract, for which you’re going to pay a steep price—if you get it. You had your chance once!”
Stone chuckled sickly, retreated toward his luxurious space-yacht as he watched the two men depart.
Feeling vastly pleased, Drummond strode toward his tug. Dr. Baird glanced at him worriedly.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said reproachfully.
“Why not?” chortled Drummond blithely. “He deserved every bit of it.”
“I didn’t mean that,” murmured the scientist. “I mean you shouldn’t have promised to deal with him—” Drummond turned to face the scientist.
“Baird,” he said fiercely, “this is strictly a business proposition! We’ll sell our contract to Stone. He has a hundred tugs he can put into operation tomorrow. It has to be done that way—big. After all, Mars is a big world—and plenty dry.”
“But you don’t understand!” cried the scientist. “Stone is a ruthless business giant. Once he gains control of the ice-trade, he’ll skyrocket prices and the poor Martians—”
“That’s no concern of ours,” Drummond said coldly. “We can’t worry for the Martians. This is strictly a business matter!”
The scientist met his glare with pained resignation.
“Strictly a business matter!” he repeated bitterly.
THE two men had nearly reached their ship when suddenly they stopped and stared ahead, their attention caught by a cloud of dust in the heat-hazed distance. The dust resolved itself into a group of figures.
A horde of Martians swept up, men, women, and children—apparently the whole population from the inhabited canal-strip to the north. Their voices came in chorus over the thin, dry air. They were singing!
“They’ve come to see the miracle!” murmured Dr. Baird, with a catch in his voice. “They must have started early this morning and tramped across miles and miles of desert!”
The Martians neared. At their head was the old patriarch of Canal City, Jolar-Ty—the uncrowned elected king of all the Martians. This ancient race had a singular government, entirely unwritten, that was intensely democratic. It had existed, without war or revolution, since the Neolithic times of Earth!
Halting at the edge of the rapidly dwindling lake, the Martians formed a huge semi-circle. Their singing died. They stared at the water, sparkling in the sun. Water that had been brought to their arid, needy world from another far off in space. Water that meant a new world to them. Suddenly they began singing again—a paean of gratitude.
Jolar-Ty hobbled up and stopped before the two Earthmen, raising a thin arm in greeting. Back of him, his thousands fell silent. He was a typical Martian, seven feet tall, willowy, spindly legs and broomstick arms, horny moisture-holding skin.
Drummond inclined his head in a nod of respect. He had known Martians from his trading days, but had never met the patriarch. Dr. Baird had made all negotiations, a month before, in preparation for the project.
Dr. Baird gave a Martian greeting, then went on in the Earth tongue.
“We have brought you the first shipment of water from Earth, as we promised, Jolar-Ty,” he said. “We offer you this gift, from the plentiful seas of Earth to the parched lands of Mars!”
Very poetic, thought Drummond a little cynically. He hastened to add, practically: “Water can be supplied now in any amounts, depending on how much you want to . . . buy.”
The Martian patriarch lifted his face, as though inwardly thanking a higher being.
“You have done the Martian people a great good, Dr. Baird and Captain Drummond!” he spoke, in a slight lilting accent. “You will go down in our history! You have earned the blessings of our race! Our scribes and poets will honor your names in the ages to come! Your deed will live forever!”
Emotion quivered in the Martian’s voice.
Drummond felt embarrassed. He mumbled a thanks, and then, to get on surer ground, asked: “Now, about the contract—” He broke off, annoyed at his own abruptness. “You see, this is a business matter and—well—” His voice trailed away, for the Martian, apparently unhearing, went on.
“My people this day, all over our world, will give a prayer of thanks to the god that rules the Universe! Water! Blessed water! It will come down to us like—like rain from a heaven! This poor world hasn’t known rain for thousands of years. It is a legend to us—of a happier time for our race.”
The old Martian’s eyes were somber. “You don’t know what it is, Earthmen, to lack water. Look at my people! Their skins are cracked, dry. Their bodies are bent with toil. From sunrise to sunset we labor at our canals, leading precious trickles of water to bordering fields to grow our food. Most of our land has become uninhabitable, away from the canals, like these desert stretches of Thyle II. Like a cloak around us has been the despair of—a dying race!”
DRUMMOND winced. He felt like a hypocrite.
“But no more!” Jolar-Ty’s voice lifted, rang out. “This day we know we are saved! You are our saviors! You have shown us the way to replenish our lost seas, our sand-covered soil, our very life! My people—”
The Martian’s lilting voice broke, and he could only wave his arm, then, toward his people, in a signal. Instantly the vast assemblage, augmented by thousands who had been straggling up constantly, kneeled, facing the Earthmen. Their heads rose and again they sang.
“Their Song of Praise!” choked Dr. Baird, incredulously. “They have sung it only to their temple deities, in the past twenty thousand years! Captain Drummond! They have placed us among their—saints!”
He glanced at the pensive captain, “just a business matter?”
The queer cadence rolled over the empty desert, centuries old and sacred and hallowed, swelled by voices bursting with gratitude. Drummond was confused, partially stunned, for long minutes.
Then he heard himself saying, like a robot who had been taught only one speech.
“Now about the contract, Jolar-Ty.” Jolar-Ty smiled, and nodded quickly. “I understand,” he said without reproach. “It is queer, to us, this binding of contract on paper. Among ourselves, all our dealings are by personal word and honor. However, knowing your Earthly methods, here is the contract.”
He handed over a reed-fiber paper that read, simply, in his own script:
I, Jolar-Ty, representing all the Martians, agree to pay, in radium, for water brought from Earth, at whatever rate set by the Interworld Trade Commission.
“We will, of course, hope for the lowest price possible,” spoke the Martian softly, almost shyly. “Mars is a poor world. Its metal and jewel treasures have long been depleted. But our radium mines are still
productive. We hope, before these run out, to buy enough water to reclaim most of the desert areas.”
IT was at that moment that Keith Drummond noticed the other Earth people back of him, the reporters, scribbling furiously, and Adolph Stone. They had come to see the Martians pay tribute to the two Earthmen.
The financier was staring at the singing Martians with cynical indifference. But his eyes had gleamed at the word “radium.” He came forward now, eagerly.
“Why can’t we settle things right now, Captain Drummond?” he said oilily. “These poor Martians need the water badly. Turn the contract over to me, with any binding note you wish for my signature, give me all the data on the tractor-beam and orbits, and I’ll have my tremendous organization start delivering ice immediately!” Drummond eyed the man as though he had never seen him before. At last he spoke, but still in the voice of a robot.
“I want twenty million for the contract, Stone, and a cent a gallon royalties over and above the cent a gallon operation cost!”
Dr. Baird gasped. Even Jolar-Ty looked at the captain searchingly, wonderingly. Adolph Stone turned his eyes to the ground thoughtfully, obviously going through rapid mental calculations. He looked up.
“Good enough, Captain!” Drummond’s face slowly darkened, until it was a ruddy as the sands of Mars around him. He felt the giddiness of a deep and terrible anger that whipped through his body like a violent poison. He took two steps toward the financier, fingers working. Then he stopped and spoke, in a deadly tone.
“You agree to those terms? You rat! You would have to boost the selling price one thousand percent to pay me off! The ITC, also bought off, would sanction any price you set. Monopolizing the field, you’d see that you got a piratical profit. These Martians need water badly, yes, and would barter their souls for it, let alone radium. In five years, you’d have robbed them of every gram!”
Stone opened his mouth, then blanched as Drummond advanced.
“Get out of my sight!” Drummond roared. “Get out of my sight or I’ll—” His hands indicated what he would do, with a neck between them.