The Alternate Martians

by A Bertram Chandler

  The Alternate Martians

  BY

  A. Bertram Chandler

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Dedication:

  For the Mars that used to be, but never was.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  Also Available

  Copyright

  I

  SCIENCE CITY, the only settlement on the desert planet Venus, does not extend a hearty welcome to guests. The “Mad Scientists,” as they are called by the respectable research workers with their laboratories on the Earth, the moon, Mars and the various Space Stations, are not the sort of men and women to suffer gladly those whom they consider fools. Brilliant they are, and off-beat, and engrossed in their work, and they would never have the patience to explain things to an inquisitive visitor. In the extremly unlikely event of there being an inquisitive visitor, such a person would speedily’ wish himself elsewhere, as the “Mad Scientists” are all engaged upon lines of research of such a character that an experiment gone wrong might well have utterly disastrous consequences. So, to all intents and purposes, they have been exiled by the Central Government to what is, without doubt, the most valueless hunk of real estate in the Solar System, an arid dust-bowl of a planet with no indigenous life save a few obnoxious viruses, with no precious or useful minerals, so constituted as to make the cost of terraforming utterly prohibitive. If any world is going to get blown to smithereens, some highly placed Civil Servant must have reasoned, it might as well be Venus.

  Christopher Wilkinson, lately Second Officer of the liner Venus Queen, could not be classed as a guest; his status was almost that of one of the family. Normally a spaceman paid off from his ship for medical reasons — in Wilkinson’s case it had been an unpleasant virus infections — would have been accommodated at the Spaceport Hostel on his discharge from the hospital, there to await repatriation to Earth when fit to travel, enjoying (or otherwise) no contact whatsoever with the inhabitants of Science City. This would have been the pattern of events for Wilkinson had not a certain Dr. Henshaw of the Advanced Physics Laboratory required a guinea pig — one with teeth, claws and intelligence, with the ability both to observe and to make a detailed report upon such observations. Wilkinson, for reasons of his own, had agreed to act as Henshaw’s guinea pig. He had hoped that if the scientist’s time machine did work it might be possible for him, sent back a year or so into the past, to do something to avert the Martian Maid disaster or, failing that, to make certain that his fiancée, Vanessa Raymond, was not among the passengers aboard that ill-fated vessel.

  But it had been an odd sort of past into which Henshaw’s weird device had transported inanimate objects, white rats borrowed from the biologists, somebody’s pet tom cat and, finally, Wilkinson himself. It had been a past in which Venus was a moist, tropical world with a breathable atmosphere and lush vegetation, a past in which the planet had been colonized from Earth, a past in which rocket ships burning chemical fuels plied between the planets instead of the Inertial Drive vessels of Wilkinson’s time. It had been a past in which Wilkinson had lived, as a spaceman, but had been killed; a past in which Vanessa Raymond was still living.

  It had been a past from the perils of which — a ruthless Dictatorship, a hunted Underground — Wilkinson had saved Vanessa, and from which he had, at the finish, barely escaped himself.

  And — this was the utterly fantastic part — it had been a past, not an alternate universe.

  Wilkinson had been sent back into the past, as promised by Henshaw, and had made the jump from one of the Coils of Time to another.

  II

  WILKINSON AND VANESSA walked slowly through the tunnel that led from the Advanced Physics Laboratory, where they were accommodated, to the Advanced Biology Laboratory. Wilkinson was in uniform, tall in his black and gold, his cap perched at a jaunty angle atop his unruly mop of sandy hair. The girl was dressed in a simple dress that she had borrowed from one of the female laboratory assistants. It was little more than a sack of gaily patterned synthetic fibre, but she did something for it, and in return it did something for her. The bright colors enhanced and complemented the glowing, golden skin of her arms and shoulders and legs, matched, somehow, the violet of her eyes, contrasted with the lustrous blackness of her hair. The fabric clung to her curves, hinting at the perfections that lay beneath.

  She was saying, “But what does Dr. Titov want us for, Chris? Surely, by this time, the pair of us have told him everything he could possibly want to know.”

  “He’s a scientist,” Wilkinson told her, “and he’ll always want to know more. But I agree that we’ve told him everything that we could tell him. Our brains have been sucked dry of all information, relevant and otherwise.”

  “Yes. So …?”

  “So it’ll just be a pleasant social evening. To judge from my own past experience, Titov likes playing the genial host. He enjoys the good things of life, and enjoys sharing them.” He went on, “You’ve never been in the Biology Dome, have you? You thought that Henshaw and his colleagues did themselves well — but the Biology boys do themselves a damned sight better. Their Common Room could be a park, and a very well kept park at that, back on Earth. A wall-to-wall carpet, almost a square mile of it, of beautifully kept grass, with an ornamental stream and a small lake. The inner surface of the dome simulating a summer sky, clouds and all. Flowering trees and shrubs …”

  She smiled. “We had all that on Venus, Chris … my Venus.”

  “But with your own yellow sky. And with no outdoor tables, and no pretty waitresses bringing cold drinks.”

  “Overdressed hussies, you mean!” snapped the girl.

  Wilkinson laughed. The Biologists’ Bunnies could have been classed, perhaps, as hussies, but overdressed they were not. But on Vanessa’s steamingly hot world the rig of the day had been nudity — with sidearms. He asked, “How did you know about the Bunnies, anyhow?”

  “Olga told me. She used to be one herself. She showed me photographs.”

  “What does it matter? We’ll enjoy ourselves; Dr. Titov knows how to look after his guests. At least he’ll give us real whisky, not that muck that your people made from moss.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “My people. I still think that we shouldn’t have run out on them. I still think that you could have given them the knowhow to make weapons to blast the Committee off the face of the planet.”

  “If I hadn’t escaped in time,” he told her quietly, “the Committee would have wrung from me the knowhow to launch an offensive against Earth and Mars, and possibly against this universe as well….” He could not suppress a shudder at the memory of Moira Simmons’ interrogation chamber.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

  “You needn’t be. I’d expect you to be loyal to Claire and the others. And to the memory of them. But there are so many problems. That machine of Henshaw’s is still far too chancy in its operation. If he could send a small, well-armed force back to the time, on your continuum, when the Committee was just getting ready to take over …”

  “But if he did,” she said, “what about us?” She whispered, “I feel guilty, Chris, and selfish….”

  They came out
of the tunnel, through an archway of trained bougainvillea, into the dome that housed the Common Room of the Advanced Biologists. Titov advanced to meet them over the green, closely cropped lawn, his white smile vivid in his darkly tanned face, his hand outstretched. “Welcome aboard, Wilkinson,” he said. “And you, Vanessa, are doubly welcome.” He shook hands with them, then turned to lead the way across the velvety grass, making a slight detour around the small flock of slowly grazing sheep, pointing out with pride the various exotic Terran plants flourishing in their well-tended beds, and the great golden carp that swam lazily under the quaint Japanese bridge over the stream. And then, to Wilkinson’s surprise, he realized that they were being taken to the entrance of another tunnel, to the passageway that led to the Accommodation Dome. But if Titov wished to entertain privately, in his own suite, that was his privilege.

  • • •

  The biologist’s quarters were not quite luxurious, but they were a little more than merely comfortable. The livingroom was almost a conservatory. The study, into which they were taken, had one wall which was a tank in which brilliant fish were a fascinating, living kaleidoscope. The other walls were lined with books. There was a paper-littered desk, and four comfortable lounge chairs, with side arm rests upon which a glass could be placed without risk. Then, after Titov and his guests were seated, a tall, red-haired girl came in with a tray loaded with bottles, glasses, a bowl of ice cubes and another of lemon slices. This she put down on a low table. There was a brief flurry of introductions, during which Wilkinson and Vanessa learned that Natalie Weldon was Titov’s personal assistant, and guessed that the title covered a multitude of duties.

  “I prefer the personal touch when it comes to dishing out liquor,” grinned the biologist. “I can always taste the tin in the drinks dispensed by those blasted robots in Physics…. But name your poison, Vanessa.”

  “I … I’m still not used to all this luxury.”

  “Then let me recommend this sherry. A quite fair Amontillado. And you, Wilkinson?”

  “Gin, please. Pink.”

  “I’ll keep you company. And I needn’t ask what you’re drinking, Natalie. I see you’ve brought the fixings for your not very dry Martini.”

  “The laborer is worthy of her hire, Boris.”

  “I hope so.” He turned to the others. “She’ll be telling us next that she’s been sweating and slaving all afternoon over a hot stove.”

  “And so I have.”

  Vanessa’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “But I thought you people did everything by machinery, Dr. Titov.”

  “Not everything, my dear. And not everybody. Oh, I know that the low mechanicians in Physics devour, with much smacking of lips, horridly standardized meals mass-produced by their autochef — but most of us, in Biology, prefer the personal touch. Tonight, for example, paper-thin pancakes with a kidney filling and a curry sauce, followed by a fruit salad, the raw materials for which came from our own orchards, not out of tins. The hock to go with the main course is imported from Earth, but with the sweet there’s a dessert wine that we’ve processed from the grapes that we grow ourselves. It’s not at all bad.”

  “It’s a wonder that you have any time for research,” said Wilkinson.

  Titov laughed. “The old myth that a man’s not earning his money unless he’s uncomfortable dies very hard. And comfort is more than a sound roof over one’s head. Comfort is also a well-lined belly — and by well-lined I mean well-lined with good food, well and imaginatively cooked, accompanied by the right wines.”

  Wilkinson glanced at Vanessa. He could see that she was enjoying herself. A faint shadow of regret passed over his mind for that other Vanessa, the Vanessa who had died with Martian Maid. She, too, had enjoyed good food and wine. But … the other Vanessa? This was Vanessa. She had lived, in the past, on so many of the Coils of Time, on an infinitude of them, perhaps, and would live again on so many of them in the future. Just as he, Chris Wilkinson, had — and would.

  They chatted over their drinks, and the girl Natalie refilled their glasses when necessary and then, eventually, called them to the dining table that had been laid in the living room. They talked during the meal, lightly, enjoying the well-cooked and well-served food. They adjourned, when they were finished, to the study, and Natalie brought in coffee and brandy, cigars for the men and for herself, cigarettes for Vanessa.

  And then, when the air was filled with slowly swirling coils of blue, aromatic smoke, Titov said quietly, “We may have another job for you, Wilkinson.”

  III

  WILKINSON REQUIRED no time to consider his answer; his delay in replying was because what Titov had said had been so unexpected. He said, “No, thank you, Doctor. My days of guinea-pigging are over. In any case, the old Venus Queen is due three weeks from now, and Vanessa and I will be repatriated.”

  “We don’t want you as a guinea pig this time,” Titov told him.

  “Sorry. I’m still employed by the Commission, and there’s bound to be a vacancy on one of the runs. Vanessa and I will marry as soon as we get back to Earth, and then I’ll put my name down for the Lunar Ferry.”

  “What if I tell you that the Director has already applied to the Commission for your services?”

  “What if you do so tell me? I’m a spaceman, with a narrowly specialized education and training — for most of which the Commission footed the bill. I can’t see them releasing me, even temporarily. I’m sorry, Doctor. I’ve grown to like all of you in Science City, yourself especially, but Vanessa and I have our own lives to live. And we’ve a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Yes,” said Titov. “As you say, you’re a spaceman. But it’s as a spaceman that we want you. We’re thinking of recommissioning the Discovery.”

  Wilkinson visualized the ancient vessel standing to one side of the landing field, no more than a shapeless mound under its thick coating of plastic preservative, the thicker drifting of fine dust. He protested, “But she hasn’t been spaceborne for all of twenty years!”

  “I know she hasn’t. But you’ll admit that we have the resources here to make her spaceworthy in a matter of weeks. And Clavering, the Master Mechanic in the Advanced Physics dome, was her Chief Engineer.” He drew thoughtfully on his cigar. “You probably know that we have a contract with your Interplanetary Transport Commission. Mainly it’s concerned with the ferrying back and forth of personnel and the delivery of supplies, but one of the clauses obliges your employers to supply a qualified Master for our ship should we ever wish to make use of her again. You’re qualified, and we already know you, so you might as well get the job.”

  Wilkinson brightened. “You interest me,” he admitted. But he was more than interested. To jump straight from Second Officer’s rank to command without the intervening years of service as Chief Officer was well worth consideration. Had he been completely honest he would have said, “You tempt me.” But, especially now that he had found Vanessa, he did not believe in jumping into anything with his eyes shut. He said, “I know that it’s not the practic in the Commission’s own ships, but would the Master of your Discovery be allowed to take his wife with him?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Then Titov laughed. “But you aren’t married.”

  It was Wilkinson’s turn to laugh. “No. Not yet. But I’ve already made a few inquiries, and I’ve found out that your Director has the power to solemnize marriages. The only snag is that, as yet, Vanessa has no legal existence insofar as this Coil of Time is concerned. We were going to wait until we got back to Earth to get things ironed out.”

  “Why worry?” asked Titov. “Legally speaking, Vanessa is the ward of Science City. Not that legalities worry us much. We make our own laws to suit ourselves.” He grinned ironically. “Bless you, my children.”

  “Marriage is not a joke, Boris,” snapped Natalie.

  Sensing a certain tension between his host and hostess, Wilkinson changed the subject. “And just where do you want me to take Discovery when she’s recommissioned?” />
  “Mars, probably.” The tall, thin man got to his feet, walked to one of the book-covered walls, and turned to face his guests. “As a guinea pig, Wilkinson, you were working for Dr. Henshaw. As a Master Astronaut you’ll be working for me. There’s a pet project of mine, a project born of Henshaw’s experiments and your own experiences. I warn you, it’s a crazy project — but as we’re all Mad Scientists here I didn’t have much trouble talking the Director and the rest of our top brass into lending their support. And, if it’s any comfort to you, I shall be the guinea pig this time. You’ll just be the bus driver who’ll take me to my jumping-off place.”

  “I still think it’s mad,” said Natalie sullenly. “Alongside you, Chris is a very model of sober sanity. He was looking for somebody real.” She smiled briefly at Vanessa. “But you … Dejah Thoris!” she spat, making the name sound like an oath.

  “It could be,” said Titov, “that I’m interested in the lady only as a biologist. After all, oviparous mammals aren’t all that common.”

  “Who is this Dejah Thoris?” asked Vanessa curiously.

  “Just a character in a book, my dear,” chuckled Titov in reply. “But I think I’d better start at the beginning. I’ll think out loud — for my own benefit as much as yours.

  “To begin with, the Coils of Time. The ever-widening spiral — with the past towards the center, inwards, and the future expanding outwards. The repetition of personalities on coil and after coil. On your coil, Vanessa, there was young Wilkinson, and there was a Dr. Henshaw, and there was an Olga Kubischev. Probably I was there too, and Natalie, but neither you nor Wilkinson ran across us. Those are the similarities — but there are the differences. Different histories, and even different worlds. Very different. Your Venus, Vanessa, was a world upon which it was possible for humans to survive with no artificial aids whatsoever. Our Venus …” He laughed grimly. “Just go outside the domes in your birthday suit, and seconds after you’re asphyxiated, the wind-driven, abrasive dust will have stripped the flesh from your bones, and seconds after that your bones will themselves be part of the dust. But …”