by Ron Miller
Bernard had been correct in saying that the bodies had been buried with some ceremony—though according to what heathen rite was anyone’s guess. This had certainly not been any Christian burial. The corpses laid side-by-side on flat stones. About a foot separated them at their elbows. Both had been completely nude...which may better explain young Julius’ disturbing dreams than the horror of the disintegrating flesh. Naturally, all but the most senior scientists had been banned from cave. Even then we had taken the necessary precaution of placing opaque cloths over the offending regions, for the sake of decency and our own dreams.
And a good thing, too. Both bodies had been handsome specimens. The male was well over six feet tall, as I’ve mentioned. The woman was nearly as tall as the man, though built on much more slender—I may even say streamlined—lines. Her slenderness was not entirely due to her sex...her bones themselves were unnaturally thin in cross-section. The fact—one that was immediately obvious to all of us—was that she could hardly have stood comfortably erect on Earth—and even if so would have been in constant danger of fracturing a bone. Her lungs and heart were also unusually large and well-developed. Of course, I must explain immediately that neither would have suited her in any way to live unprotected on the surface of Mars. Even her enlarged organs would not have sufficed to keep her alive any longer than I would survive without my environmental suit.
Still...if she clearly could not have survived on Earth, what did that make her?
That was the point that most concerned the Patriarch.
“We must deal with this carefully, Brother Raoul,” he told me as he combed his beard with his long fingers. “This discovery presents difficulties of which even you may not be yet aware.”
“I can suspect what some of them may be. I’ve heard that it is being whispered about among the junior acolytes that these, um, beings may be, ah, of non-terrestrial origin.”
“Yes...and this is talk that will be stopped at once! It is the basest heresy and won’t be tolerated for an instant. These bodies are of those of human beings and, therefore, must have Earth as their origin. There is no other possibility.”
“I understand, your Holiness. It is a dangerous thing to think otherwise. A danger to one’s immortal soul, I mean.”
“Have you learned anything new since we last spoke?”
“No, your Holiness. The mystery only grows deeper the further we look into it. We’re all pretty convinced now that the bodies are not Russian; no one ever seriously believed they were Chinese. Still, we could devise any number of plausible explanations for the presence of the male—humans have, after all, had a presence on Mars for nearly a century. It’s the female who is presenting the greatest difficulty.”
“Her physical anomalies, you mean? As you say, humans have been on Mars for more than three generations. I’ve seen children with my own eyes who have adapted to the low gravity of the planet and the reduced air pressure of the habitats.”
“That is true, your Holiness, and it was one of the first things that occurred to us. But...the physical changes you mention are only just now beginning to show up in third and fourth generation children. The problem lies in the fact that the woman obviously died a very long time ago. I don’t think there’s any question that her burial dates at least from the earliest Russian occupation. Humans hadn’t been on Mars long enough at that time to allow for the sort of physiological changes we see in her to take place.”
“You think she may in fact predate the Russian colony?”
“That is, as you said yourself, your Holiness, getting into the realm of dangerous speculation. But the fact of the matter is that we really have no way of determining just how long those bodies have been in the cave. Going just by the physical evidence alone, they could have been hidden a few months ago...or thousands of years.”
“But of course we know there were no humans on Mars before the first ones arrived from Earth.”
“Of course.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, as you know, when the bodies were found they were completely nude. This isn’t entirely true, however. There were scraps of what appear to be small pieces of leather that may have once been clothing of some sort. It’s difficult to tell. In my opinion, no. There simply isn’t enough. Even if there were originally ten times as much as we found, it would hardly have sufficed even for modesty’s sake.”
“You’ve had the jewels and jewelry analyzed?”
“Yes. Most were scattered around the female body. I think they may have been placed there as part of some sort of ceremony. Others, Brother Thomas, for instance, thinks they may have once been part of some sort of costume the woman had been wearing. In any event, there is nothing unusual about them. Ordinary rubies, sapphires and the like. The jewelry itself is much more peculiar. The fact that it consists almost entirely of gold is puzzling enough since, as you know, that element is vanishingly rare on this planet. But more puzzling is the design. It must be the work of a highly original, idiosyncratic artist since we can relate it to nothing found in any Earthly record. That is, the patterns resemble no historical styles or known goldsmiths of either the past or present. It is completely unique.”
“Hmmm,” said the Patriarch, still stroking his long beard as he stared through the window at the pink hills beyond. “Keep me informed. There is no question that the bodies are of terrestrial origin, so we must quell any discussion—no matter how lightly made—that suggests otherwise.”
“I understand, your Holiness.”
Work continued. To keep rumors to a minimum, I reduced the on-site team to its five most essential—and most trusted—members. Men who were both good scientists and good, solid theologians. We discovered little to report to the Patriarch. The cave had been bare of anything other than the bodies, the platforms they lay upon and the few scraps we’d found near them.
Then we made the discovery.
“I’ve closed the cave,” I reported to the Patriarch.
“So I understand. You’ve also scattered the men after making them take oaths of secrecy.”
“I felt it was necessary, your Holiness.”
“You’ll explain why?”
“Yes, your Holiness, and I think you’ll agree that my actions were prudent. Brother Audrey was our physiologist, as you know, and had been performing most of the anatomical studies. Yesterday morning he discovered that the female was oviparous.”
“She was an egg-layer?”
“Yes, your Holiness. There’s no question about it. Her, ah, reproductive, um, equipment was not unlike that of the terrestrial platypus. She had no womb in the normal, human sense of the word.”
“A mutation? A freak of some kind?”
“No, your Holiness, I am sure she wasn’t. You, of course, immediately see what this means. The woman is, in fact, not of the Earth. If not of the Earth, than of somewhere Else. And if somewhere Else, then somewhere where Man may not have fallen, may never have known sin nor salvation. You can readily see all that is implied.”
“Yes, yes...of course. You did the right thing, naturally. You will have the cave sealed immediately and permanently. Do this thoroughly, you understand? I want no possibility of these bodies ever again being found.”
“Rumors of their existence have already spread through the monastery, your Holiness. That bodies have been found, at any rate. It occurs to me that we can claim they were Russians—no one will seriously doubt that: even the Russians’ records are spotty regarding the earliest years they occupied this spot. But if we simply seal the bodies in the cave, we’ll be raising more questions than ever. I’d suggest a mock burial. That will satisfy most.”
“Good. I want all the records destroyed as well. I know you and your team put a great deal of time and effort into your researches, but you understand the greater necessity?”
“Of course, your Holiness.”
And it was done.
And that was many decades ago now. Two aluminum coffins filled with sand and cove
red by the holy flag of the United North American Theocracy were ceremoniously interred into the rim of the crater. There would be no reason for anyone to ever disturb them. The five brothers who worked in the cave with me so many years ago were eventually scattered across Mars, Earth and the solar system. Most are now dead. The Patriarch is long gone, God rest his soul, and the Patriarchs who succeeded him were simply never made privy to the Great Discovery. If they every heard of the burial, it was only as an uninteresting footnote in a particular uninteresting period of the order’s history. I think it can now be safely assumed to be forgotten...or at least as good as forgotten.
By everyone but myself.
After I finish writing these words, I’ll follow the regular routine that has closed every one of my days for the past eighty-odd years. I’ll put my journal back into hiding, clean my pen, extinguish my candle and prepare myself for bed. Once safely under my comforter and in the deep silence of the darkness of my cell I will slip my hand into the secret recess in the wall and withdraw the object hidden there and, for a moment or two, feel its hard outlines in the darkness. I dare not look at it in the light.
It is a gun. Specifically, it is a 0.36-inch five-shot 1862 Colt single-action percussion revolver. I found it under the male body. In the wooden grip someone had carved the name “John Carter”.
FOR I AM A JEALOUS GOD
I just love my little pussycats. I don’t care what the neighbors say. The little darlings have been my only comfort since Desmond passed away eleven years ago—twelve years come the day after this next Candlemas. And twelve kitties is not so many for a house as big as this one—they keep the rooms from seeming so awfully empty. I’ve just never been able to bring myself to shut the rooms up...it seems too much like closing a grave.
I don’t really see much of the rooms anymore anyway, of course, since it’s gotten so hard these days to get up and down the stairs. In fact, there’s not much reason for me to ever go anywhere but the kitchen, bath and parlor. I surely never go into the cellar any more. There’s no way I could trust these rickety old legs to those even more rickety old stairs. Besides, there’s no reason to go down there...I’m afraid there may be mice, squirrels or even, God forbid, rats. Of course, I realize that a rodent would have to have taken leave of what little senses a rodent must have to even consider wandering into this house. But they do, sometimes. I’ve seen them. Perhaps even mice get depressed and suicidal. I wouldn’t know about such things, of course. I don’t like to think about mice. They give me the fantods.
My friends think my kitty cats are a terrible waste of money, but they are not, not at all. Why, I hardly notice the expense, it’s so little. I mean, I receive a small income from Desmond’s pension and have nothing else to spend it on so why not my kitties? The house is mine free and clear, my health is adequate and I don’t require much to live on. I’ve never been a big eater. I have no children, so what else do I have to spend my money on?
Besides, it’s the very least I could do for my little friends. It’s small recompense for the companionship they give me. They really are devoted to me, no matter what anyone may tell you about cats. I don’t know about anyone else’s pussycats, but my little darlings wouldn’t know what do without me. They follow me everywhere, like a flotilla of little ships, if flotilla is the word I want, their tails sticking up like masts...but without sails, of course. And when I’m feeling poorly, which, in spite of my general good health, is bound to happen as it might to anyone my age, they lie in bed with me. The darlings can sense that I’m not well and bravely try their best to comfort me. Of course, there’s little they can do beyond curling up alongside me or sit on my lap, purring as loudly as they can to bring surcease to my discomfort.
As I was saying, I require so little for myself that it’s no sacrifice to spend the remainder of my income on my loyal friends. After all, how could I not treat them as well as they try to treat me? They do the best they can, given their limited facilities, so the least I can do is my best for them in return. Besides, as my nosy neighbors don’t seem to realize, canned cat food purchased by the case is surprisingly inexpensive. Much the same can be said for the occasional fresh fish or the many other delicacies of which my feline darlings are so fond. They drink scarcely a couple of quarts of milk every week. Every Sunday, of course, they share a pound of ground beef. As for myself, I get by very nicely on toast, peanut butter, tea and my vitamins, which I take religiously since one cannot be too careful about one’s health.
Emira Mae Slate, my neighbor to the north, is a perfect example of how little people understand or, for that matter, even try to understand. Not that I mean to say anything against Elmira Mae, understand, she is a decent enough soul as such go and I really have nothing I can say against her. Yet she’s never made even the slightest effort to understand my situation. “How can you live like you do?” she asks me at every opportunity. “Shut up in that dreary old house with all those filthy animals!” See what I mean? Filthy animals indeed!
Just this morning, in fact, Emira Mae was over—entirely uninvited, of course, as usual. She probably realizes that I would make some excuse if she called first. If I had a telephone, that is, which I do not. And what do I need a telephone for anyway? I never leave the house. The boy comes from the grocery every Thursday morning to see what I need, I pay my water and gas and electric bills by mail, I do not own a car (and would not know how to drive one if I did), so you can see that I am wholly self-sufficient and that Elmira’s concerns are entirely without basis.
Anyway, Emira was over this morning, as I said, bringing me some fresh-baked bread, half a leftover lamb casserole and some preserves. She does this because she thinks I am starving, but she is a superb cook so I certainly appreciated her gifts regardless of the misguided motives that may have inspired them. As soon as she stepped through my kitchen door, I saw her nostrils flaring to twice their normal width—and I don’t think anyone could honestly deny that Emira already has the nostrils of a horse.
“My dear Petunia, I simply don’t understand how you can stand the...well, the odor of these dreadful animals!”
“They are not dreadful, Elmira! They are my dearest friends!”
“Dearest friends, indeed! Why, if the health department ever got in this place...”
“Well, they won’t. I’m perfectly happy living just as I do—you know that as well as I do!”
“Well, I think it’s just a scandal. And you know I’m only speaking to you as a friend who has your best interests at heart.”
“Oh, I know you do. I’m sorry I was so snippish. It was certainly very kind of you to bring these things over for me. The boysenberry preserves look delicious. They will be wonderful on my toast tonight.”
“That’s just what I mean, Petunia. The way you eat! Toast! No one can live on a diet of toast and tea!”
“And peanut butter, Elmira, don’t forget the peanut butter. Peanut butter is just chock-a-block with nutrition.”
“It should be you eating well, Petunia, not those...those darn cats of yours. I know you can afford it.”
“Oh, but Elmira, you just don’t understand! I’m over eighty years old and never leave the house. I don’t go anywhere or do anything—I don’t even go upstairs anymore. Tea and toast and peanut butter suit me just fine. But my pussycats need their vitamins and minerals and protein and, and, and all of those other nourishing things—you know. What does an old lady like me need who doesn’t do much more than breathe regularly? Besides, they enjoy their treats so much! How could I disappoint them?”
“They are selfish little opportunists! If you stopped spoiling them the way you do they’d disappear so fast you wouldn’t believe it!”
“That’s not true at all! Why, my little darlings are devoted to me!”
“Hmph! Like a cat has ever cared about anyone beyond wondering when they’re going to get their next handout.”
“Would you care for some tea, Elmira? I have peanut butter and saltines to go with it.�
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“That’s very kind of you, Petunia, but no, thanks. I must get over to the church hall—it’s quilting bee Tuesday, you know. Now there’s a good idea, Petunia—you should come over some time, meet the girls. Be good for you to get out of this old house now and then, meet some new people.”
I told Elmira that I would think about doing that sometime, though, of course, I had no intention of ever doing any such thing. It wasn’t really a lie because I did think about it...just for a couple of seconds to keep my conscience clear. Elmira simply doesn’t understand. How could I leave my babies all alone? What if something were to happen? What if they needed me and I wasn’t there? I know this sounds awfully silly, but it isn’t. Last summer I went to a lecture at the public library given by a gentlemen who’d been to Peru, with color slides, and when I got home I discovered that Captain Wow had gotten himself all tangled up in an extension cord and was already half throttled to death when I found him. Why, if I hadn’t gotten home when I did goodness knows what might have happened.
So you see what I mean.
Although I hate the idea of having to go down to the cellar—and I’ve told you why—I’m afraid I must. I searched the house for my boxed set of chromium-plated crochet hooks before I remembered they were in the old red trunk in the cellar. Not that I needed them—my fingers are much too arthritic to do anything fiddly like crocheting any more—no...I thought perhaps I could talk the grocery boy into taking them over to Mr. Guildersleeve’s pawn shop. I receive plenty to live on from Desmond’s pension, of course...but there’s not much left over for extras. And I had seen something wonderful in the latest cat catalog: a mechanical mouse I was certain my precious kittens would just utterly adore.
I hadn’t gone down to the cellar for years and if it weren’t for thinking of the delighted meows I would soon be hearing I would’ve turned back at the top set. The sight of those rickety wooden steps disappearing into the gloom was daunting. Somehow the single fly-specked light bulb seemed only to make things darker.