The Alternate Martians

by A Bertram Chandler

  As the first hunter approached the city it set up a deafening mechanical ululation, a somehow exultant howling that was echoed first by its two companions, then from at least half a dozen sirens on the taller buildings.

  The machine slowed to a walk, a peculiar mode of progression employing two legs on one side, one on the other. It rocked and teetered, seemed at times to be in danger of crashing over on to its side. Even though speed had been reduced, the motion was still acutely uncomfortable.

  Wilkinson looked down through the bottom of the basket and saw that they were traveling over a thoroughfare paved with what looked like a gray cement, the surface of which was scratched and scarred by the metal feet of the machines. It was wide, and was bordered by neat rows of the dark green, spiky trees. Over the tops of these he could see cultivated fields crisscrossed by irrigation ditches. In some of them groups of men and women were working, each party overseen by a glittering machine, by something that could have been Titov’s “tin octopus” but that could just as well have been described as a metal crab.

  Then the road became a street, with the low, black buildings on either side. These were rarely higher than two stories, although now and again a tower or a smokestack broke the monotony. Doors and windows were circular ports. Wilkinson detected signs of movement behind some of them, but gained only a confused impression of bulky, dusky bodies, of writhing nests of tentacles, of staring, saucer-like eyes.

  And then, moving slowly now, barely crawling, their captor edged through a narrow gateway into a wide courtyard. It stood there on the gray concrete, humming mechanically to itself. It was joined by its two companions. They, too, had made their catches: in each of the baskets there were prisoners, four women in one, three men and a woman in the other.

  Suddenly the whirring of machinery became louder, and above it sounded a shrill piping, but it seemed to be some sort of code rather than music, reminded Wilkinson of the bo’s’ns’ pipes still in use aboard the vessels and in the shore establishments of the Federation Navy. From a circular door in the wall of one of the buildings surrounding the courtyard streamed a small army of people. There were men, naked save for the gold bracelets they wore on their upper arms (badges of rank?) and the whips that they carried. There were women, also unclothed, and some of them also displayed the golden bracelets. They looked healthy enough, their skins deeply tanned, their bodies well-nourished, even over-nourished. But there was something wrong about them, about the way they carried themselves. They stood in a circle about the machines, their attitudes expectant, subservient.

  Slowly, jerkily, the metal globes atop the tripods began to fall, dropping as the legs telescoped. When the baskets were a foot off the ground they opened suddenly, spilling their occupants onto the hard concrete. Wilkinson disentangled himself from the arms and legs of the two tribeswomen, and stooped to help Vanessa to her feet. He straightened with a curse as something stung his cheek viciously. It was the lash of the whip wielded by one of the brawny, gold-bangled men, a fellow with a jowly, scowling face, who snarled, “Hurry up, you! Do not keep His Over lordship waiting.”

  Wilkinson clenched his fists and made a step toward the “tame human” — the “tame human” who, in his dealings with prisoners of his own race, was not so tame. Somebody caught his arms from behind. It was Vanessa. “Don’t, Chris!” she whispered urgently. “You can’t do any good!”

  No, he thought. He couldn’t. He was clothed and shod — after a fashion — and the other man was naked. He was unarmed, but the other man was armed; a whip with a metallic lash could be a nasty weapon. He was alone, save for Vanessa — the captured Wild Ones were cowed and terrified — and the other man could rely upon at least a dozen of his fellows for assistance. It hurt to have to obey this arrogant, paunchy lout, even more than the slash across his face had hurt, but with Vanessa to consider as well as himself it was the only possible course of action at the moment.

  The prisoners were kicked and buffeted away from the machines that had captured and carried them. Rough hands tore the clothing from them; fingers prodded them and pinched them. Again Wilkinson had to restrain himself as the guard who had taken his whip to him muttered, as he ran his hands over Vanessa’s body, “This one is a little too good for the cooking pot after the Overlords have finished with her. I wonder if we could …”

  And one of the other men muttered, “Quiet, Thomas. We don’t know how much the Overlords can hear, how much they can understand. And, besides, we’ll have our chance before the feast. We always do….”

  This time Wilkinson broke loose. His right fist sank almost to the wrist in the first guard’s belly. The second guard tried to bring his whip into play — then, moaning and retching, joined his friend on the concrete when the spaceman’s knee came up, hard, between his outstretched legs. And then it was Wilkinson’s turn to scream as the first of the whips slashed across his naked back. He was down on the concrete himself, overwhelmed by weight of numbers. Horny feet thudded into his ribs, his sides, against his head.

  Dimly he heard a fresh voice say, “Lay off him, you fools. If he’s too badly damaged one of us will have to take his place at the feast.”

  Reluctantly his assailants drew away from him, and stood around him, whips upraised and ready. They made no attempt to stop Vanessa as she knelt beside him, supporting him with her arms. “Try not to upset them,” she whispered. “Help must come soon.”

  And then she stiffened abruptly, staring at some point beyond his left shoulder. Painfully he managed to turn his head, trying to see what she was looking at so intently. He saw that the globe atop the nearer of the three machines, its net retracted, was now resting almost on the ground, the legs of the tripod no more than thick stumps. A sliding door in the gleaming shell was opening. Beyond this port was visible a padded interior, and emerging from the artificial womb, its movements slow and painful, was a creature disgustingly different from the shining, cleanly designed mechanical extension to its body. It was a bulging, shapeless sack of gray, wrinkled hide, roughly ovoid, sagging and billowing as it dragged itself over the door sill. It had a cruel, parrot-like beak, on either side of which were set two huge, coldly gleaming flat eyes. Below the beak were the nests of writhing tentacles with which the thing was pulling itself out of its cabin. It was piping irritably.

  A half dozen of the women ran forward, their faces frightened. Four of them stationed themselves around the Master, two on either side; they made a cradle of their arms and lifted it tenderly and carefully into the open. One of the others, with an instrument ludicrously like a garden spray, filled the air around it with a fine mist — a mist that stank of long-dead carrion. The sixth woman, who was carrying a golden bowl, knelt on the rough concrete before the loathsome thing. From the steaming water she took a sponge, and with it she bathed the Martian’s face — if it could be called a face — and eyes.

  “I’d sooner be eaten than come to that!” whispered Vanessa fiercely.

  XIX

  THE PRISONERS were hustled out of the courtyard, through one of the circular doors and then along a short passageway. It was dark inside the building, the gloom being relieved only by dim-glowing tube lights. The corridor opened into a huge, low-ceilinged hall, a crowded room whose atmosphere was foul with the stink of perspiration and fear. Wilkinson and Vanessa gagged at the fetid air; they tried to hang back, but the lashes wielded by the guards sent them stumbling forward. They heard a clamor of voices, all speaking the uncouth dialect of the tribespeople. Some, as the newcomers stumbled over bodies sprawled on the hard floor, were raised in protest, some in enquiry. “‘Oo are yer? Where’re yer from?”

  “Bill Carter’s mob,” replied one of the two women who had been captured with Wilkinson and Vanessa.

  Wilkinson’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness now. The scene, in this dim, lurid light, reminded him of old pictures he had seen of Hell. There was the huddle of naked bodies, looking like some medieval artist’s conception of the souls of the damned t
ossed headlong into the Pit. There were the guards, who could have been tormenting demons, but with whips instead of tridents. From somewhere wisps of smoke or steam were drifting across the scene — and almost as visible was the miasma of despair, of utter hopelessness, that was the one element needed to render the illusion complete.

  Somebody was ringing a bell.

  Two hefty female slaves staggered into the room, carrying between them a huge, steaming cauldron. Somebody cursed them halfheartedly as splashes of the scalding liquid were spilled on him, but they took no notice. They set the vessel down on the floor, then marched out. The guards followed them. The door shut with a clang.

  Already a crowd of the prisoners had gathered about the enormous pot; already the hardier ones among them were dipping cupped hands into the almost boiling mess, raising it to their mouths and slurping noisily. A stranger, a young woman who had been eying Wilkinson covertly, sidled up to him. “Better get in, duckie, while the goin’ is good. Them pigs leaves nuffin’ but scraps. There should be a couple o’ Tame ‘Oomans ter see as ‘ow we all gets fair shares, but ever since two ‘o the bastards got drahned in the bleedin’ stew they’ve bin skippin’ the job.”

  Wilkinson looked at the girl. Making allowances for her unkempt condition, she was not unattractive. And then Vanessa, who had been standing behind him, moved to his side and held tightly onto his arm.

  “Sorry,” said the stranger, with a smile that revealed a mouthful of carious teeth. “Didn’t know yer ‘ad yer own Dinah wiv yer. But there wasn’t no ‘arm in tryin’, was there? But there ain’t such a crush rahnd the pot nah, so wot s’y we puts on the bleedin’ nosebags?”

  “I … I don’t think I’m hungry,” Vanessa said faintly.

  “If yer thinks yer’ll be gettin’ yer own back in the stew, don’t let that worry yer, duckie. Ain’t nuffin’ but vegetables. Them bastards keeps all the bleedin’ meat fer themselves.”

  “Come on,” urged Wilkinson. “We have to eat.”

  “Yus. We ‘as ter eat. We ‘as ter build ourselves up fer the Feast. Didn’t yer know?”

  “Yes,” said Vanessa. “We know. But …”

  “If it ‘as ter come, it ‘as ter come,” said their guide philosophically. “Ain’t nuffin we can do abaht it. But wot time we ‘as left — eat, drink an’ be merry, is wot I s’y. Not that them bastards gives us anyfing ter drink but Adam’s ale….”

  As they talked they were threading their way through the jostling crowd, and they finally found themselves standing beside the cauldron. The girl stooped, thrusting her arms deep into the metal vessel. She brought her cupped hands to her mouth and munched noisily, splattering Wilkinson with fragments as she said, “Not bad….” Vanessa still hung back, but Wilkinson fished with one hand in the murky, lukewarm mess. He found what felt like a potato, brought it out and offered to his wife. She took it, and nibbled it dubiously. He found another vegetetable for himself. It was almost flavorless, but it was filling. And, at least, he was sure that it came from a plant and not from a human body.

  He was bending down for another handful when he heard a clanging noise which he thought must have been the door opening. He paid no attention. And then he heard a voice demanding, “Where is that woman we captured from Bill Carter’s tribe?” And another voice suggested, “Let’s use our lights, Tom. She was at least two shades paler than the others. She looked as though she’s had a bath within the last month or so.”

  Wilkinson straightened. He thought he recognized the first voice. It was that of the paunchy guard with whom he had fought out in the courtyard. He remembered what had provoked the fight, what the man had said.

  “Is it you they wants, duckie?” the strange girl was whispering.

  “Yes,” replied Vanessa, in a low, frightened voice.

  “Then come along wiv me. There’s a good ‘idin’ place in the dunny.” She added, as though to make it plain that she was not doing it for Vanessa’s sake, “I ‘ates them bastards!”

  A bright, white beam stabbed through the darkness. Somebody shouted, “There she is! By the pot!”

  The two girls turned to run, their naked bodies almost luminous in the glare from the torch, from the blazing eye that was advancing unsteadily but swiftly over the body-littered floor. Wilkinson knew that he could not join them. They might be able to escape if he was able to delay the chase. He clenched his fists, felt something hard in the right one. It was what he had assumed was another of the potato-like vegetables — but if it had been it would have pulped in his grip. It was a stone. Fleetingly he envisaged the slovenly cooking, the vegetables thrown, earth and all, with no pretense of cleaning, into the boiling water. He grinned. He did not think that the paunchy man had been the chef — but whoever had done the cooking was one of his friends.

  The voice of that individual, from behind the glaring light, bawled, “There’s the swine! There’s the swine who showed fight! We’ll get him first!”

  “Careful, Thomas. There’s been a tally, you know.”

  “We are allowed to use our swords in self-defense, aren’t we?”

  Squinting against the glare, Wilkinson drew back his right arm, then whipped it forward, opening his hand, and let fly. There was a sickening, crunching thud and a bubbling scream. The light dropped to the floor. There was a small crash of breaking glass, but it did not go out; it rolled, still burning, among the feet of those who were scurrying away from the advance of the guards. By the now-diffused illumination Wilkinson saw the paunchy man sprawled on his back on the floor. Or he assumed that it was him. His crushed face was unrecognizable. He saw, too, that the remaining guards carried drawn swords in their right hands, whips in their left. He had no doubt that they would use the swords, especially now that one of their number had been severely injured, if not killed.

  He was by himself now.

  The press of bodies around him had diminished as his fellow prisoners edged away to safety. There was a clear path between him and the advancing guardsmen.

  Desperately he seized the rim of the cauldron, thinking to overturn it and roll it against the feet and legs of his enemies. He was amazed by its lightness — and then realized that this was, after all, Mars, while he had been born and raised on Earth, with its greater mass. (That was why, a coldly analytical little voice at the back of his mind told him, the stone which should have hit the paunchy guard in the belly had smashed his face in.)

  He stooped swiftly and lifted the cauldron. Then he threw it, with all his strength. He heard a clang of metal as the leading guards brought up their swords in a futile attempt to ward off the clumsy missile. He heard screams, and a snapping sound that should have been the breaking of bones.

  Two more guards were down, but there were three remaining, three men who had staggered back, who had half-fallen but had recovered. Now they were advancing again, their whips and swords ready.

  But there was a sword almost at Wilkinson’s feet. It might have been thrown at him, or it might have been jolted from the hand of one of those smashed by the cauldron. Quickly he picked it up. It was an unfamiliar weapon, but it felt good in his grip. With it, he was no longer naked.

  With foolish confidence he advanced, the blade outstretched before his body. The first of the guards, a wolfish grin on his face, came to meet him, thrust viciously. Wilkinson parried, then lunged. His point passed through empty air and, at the same time, the other’s point slid between his upper arm and his ribcage, breaking the skin.

  The minor wound destroyed Wilkinson’s self-confidence. He knew now that he was no swordsman, but he would do his best. His greater strength and agility might yet compensate for his lack of skill. Abruptly he changed his tactics, abandoning his clumsy attempts at fencing, trying to beat down the other’s defenses by brute strength.

  He was bleeding now from a dozen wounds, but they were no more than scratches. His opponent was gashed across the chest, and down his right thigh, and the superior sneer had deserted his face. So far, neither of his companions
had made any attempt to intervene. There must, thought Wilkinson dimly, be some peculiar code of honor involved, some half-forgotten Terran tradition which insisted that a sword was a gentleman’s weapon. Now that he had a sword, and was using it (after a fashion), he, too, was a gentleman, even if only temporarily. Had he not picked the thing up, the crowd of them would have skewered him without compunction.

  As he would be skewered now, if he didn’t keep his mind on the business in hand. That last thrust had been close, too close.

  He slashed wildly and viciously, felt the jar as metal met metal, heard the clatter as the other’s sword flew from his hand to skitter along the concrete floor. With a wordless shout he closed in for the kill — and shouted again, in pain and bewilderment, as something struck his right forearm, coiling about it, cutting into the skin. It was the whiplash, the weapon that, in the excitement of the sword fight, he had forgotten. And there was yet another weapon that he had not known about, the dagger that the guard pulled from his belt with his right hand.

  Wilkinson’s left hand smacked down, but it was, and he knew it, no more than a gesture, too little and too late. He tensed himself for what was to come, the cold steel in his belly.

  The hand holding the dagger dropped, and an expression of utter bewilderment appeared on the guard’s face. Suddenly the skin of his chest sprouted an inch of sharp, pointed steel, the tip of a sword blade that was reddened with blood. He fell untidily, losing his hold on his whip, and behind him Wilkinson saw Vanessa, her face wearing an expression of concentration that, in the circumstances, was ludicrous, as she tried to free the guard’s own sword from his crumpled body.

  She pulled it out with an effort and, as Wilkinson was trying to free his right arm from the whip, turned to face the other two guards. Both of them were coming at her. Perhaps this absurd code of theirs did not apply to women, or perhaps by her intervention she had broken the code. But they were coming for her, and the expression on their faces made it obvious that they would show her no mercy.