My Best Science Fiction Story

by Leo Margulies

The two savants stared at each other angrily.

  “How,” inquired Dr. Mayhem, “do you like that? We propagandize Manx into making the trip, do our best to aid national defense, and what thanks do we get? I’ve a notion to send Colonel Stimson a bill for the power we used!”

  “Nix. I’m jinxed enough as it is,” Pete moaned. “You old duffers needn’t worry; you’re too old to fight, but I want to and they’ve turned me down just because I’m over thirty-seven. And me with military experience.”

  Aker snorted derisively.

  “What military experience?”

  “Artillery, that’s what. I got a special aptitude for a highly specialized job.”

  “Such as what?”

  “I useta earn ten bucks a shot at Casey’s Carnival,” Pete sighed. “I was the Human Cannonball!”

  WHY I SELECTED THE TEACHER FROM MARS

  It is hard for me to explain just why I choose this as my best short story. It was written nine years ago, yet somehow it still sticks out in my own mind as something I was very pleased about. It was one of those stories that “wrote itself,” once I had the basic idea and sat down at the typewriter. It went along smoothly, with rising crescendo, and when finished, I recall that without reservation or modesty I told myself—“Son, you’ve just done a good job of work!” So many other times I would sweat and struggle with a story and when it was done, I hadn’t the least idea whether it was good, bad, or indifferent. But this one—The Teacher From Mars—gave me a glow of pride and achievement.

  Why?

  For one thing, I thought the idea of presenting a story in the first person, as told by a Martian, helped make it unique, certainly, not run of the mill. So many Martian stories had been written but none, as far as I knew, giving the “inside story” of the thoughts and feelings of an alien being from another world. How would he think and feel and react, coming to our world? This alone gave the story a certain fire of inspiration.

  Second, the story was a good medium for showing the evils of discrimination and intolerance. Sadly enough, we have not yet eliminated those degrading influences on our world. The Martian in this story is the symbol of all such reasonless antagonism between “races.” Not that I wrote the story solely for that reason. It just happened to strike me as the best “human interest” approach. The “moral” was incidental.

  That last angle of “human interest” is another reason why I feel this to be my best effort. Too many science fiction stories overplay cold science and underplay human characters. I have been guilty of the same myself too open. For once I wanted to break away from this restriction and produce a living, breathing character. One whose emotions and innermost thoughts you could follow and sympathize with. The Teacher From Mars seems to me such a real character. At least, while writing the story, I was a Martian, and I was beginning to hate the whole human race for mistreating “my people!” That’s how much l was thrown into the story.

  I suppose in the last analysis this tale can be classified as a “tear jerker.” I freely confess it. And the above summary to the contrary, I still don’t know why I picked it. All I know is that in re-reading a dozen of my shorts, of many years’ vintage, this one jumped out at me and said—“I’m it! I’m your pet!”

  I only hope it finds as much favor in the eyes of the reader as it does in mine.

  EANDO BINDER

  The Teacher From Mars - Eando Binder

  The Old Professor From the Crimson Planet Feared Earth’s Savagery—Until Humanity Taught Him a Profound Secret!

  The afternoon Rocket Express train from Chicago came into the station, and I stepped off. It was a warm spring day. The little town of Elkhart, Indiana, sprawled lazily under the golden sunshine. I trudged along quiet, tree-shaded streets toward Caslon Preparatory School for Boys.

  Before I had gone far, I was discovered by the children playing here and there. With the dogs, they formed a shrill, raucous procession behind me. Some of the dogs growled, as they might at a wild animal. Housewives looked from their windows and gasped.

  So the rumors they had heard were true. The new teacher at Caslon was a Martian!

  I suppose I am grotesquely alien to human eyes, extremely tall and incredibly thin. In fact, I am seven feet tall, with what have often been described as broomstick arms and spindly legs. On an otherwise scrawny body, only the Martian chest is filled out, in comparison with Earth people. I was dressed in a cotton kimono that dangled from my narrow shoulders to my bony ankles. Chinese style, I understand.

  Thus far I am pseudo-human. For the rest, a Martian is alien, from the Earth viewpoint. Two long tentacles from the back of my shoulders hang to my knees, appendages that have not vanished in Martian evolution like the human tail. The top of my skull is bulging and hairless, except for a fringe of silver-white fur above large conch-shaped ears. Two wide-set owlish eyes, a generous nose and a tiny mouth complete my features. All my skin is leathery and tanned a deep mahogany by the sun of our cloudless Martian skies.

  Timidly I stopped before the gates of Caslon Prep and looked within the grounds. The spectacles on my large nose were cup-shaped and of tinted glass that cut down the unnatural glare of the brighter, hotter sun. I felt my shoulders drooping wearily from the tug of more than twice the gravity to which I was conditioned.

  Luckily, however, I had brought leg-braces. Concealed by my long robe, they were ingenious devices of light metal, bracing the legs against strain. They had been expensive—no less than forty dhupecs—but they were worth even that much.

  Gripping my cane and duffel-bag, I prepared to step into the sanctuary of the school grounds. It looked so green and inviting in there, like a canalside park. It would be a relief to escape from those Earth children. They had taken to tossing pebbles at me, and some of the canines had snapped at my heels. Of course I didn’t blame them, nor must I resent the unwelcome stares I had felt all around me, from adult Earthlings. After all, I was an alien.

  I stepped forward, between the gates. At least here, in the school that had hired me to teach, I would be accepted in a more friendly fashion… .

  Ssss!

  The hiss of a thousand snakes filled the air. I reacted violently, dropping my bag and clamping my two hands around my upraised cane. For a moment I was back on Mars, surrounded by a nest of killer-snakes from the vast deserts. I must beat them off with my cane!

  But wait. This was Earth, where snakes were a minor class of creature, and mainly harmless. I relaxed, then, panting. The horrible, icy fear drained away. Perhaps you human be-tags can never quite know the paralyzing dread we have of snakes.

  Then I heard a new sound, one that cheered me somewhat.

  A group of about fifty laughing boys trooped into view, from where they had been hidden behind the stone wall circling Caslon’s campus. They had made the hissing sound, as a boyish prank. How foolish of me to let go of my nerves, I thought wryly.

  I smiled at the group in greeting, for these were the boys I would teach.

  “I am Professor Mun Zeerohs, your new teacher,” I introduced myself in what, compared with the human tone, is a reedy voice. “The Sun shine upon you. Or, in your Earthly greeting, I am happy to meet you.”

  Grins answered me. And then murmurs arose.

  “It talks, fellows.”

  “Up from the canals!”

  “Is that thing alive?”

  One of the boys stepped forward. He was about sixteen, with blue eyes that were mocking.

  “I’m Tom Blaine, senior classman. Tell me, sir, is it true that Mars is inhabited?”

  It was’ rather a cruel reception, though merely another prank. I waved my two tentacles in distress for a moment, hardly knowing what to do or say next.

  “Boys! Gentlemen!”

  A grown man with gray hair came hurrying up from one of the buildings. The boys parted to let him through. He extended a hand to me, introducing himself.

  “Robert Graham, Dean of Caslon. You’re Professor Mun Zeerohs, of course.” He turned, facing
the group reprovingly. “This is your new instructor, gentlemen. He will teach Interplanetary History and the Martian language.”

  A groan went up. I knew why, of course. The Martian tongue has two case endings to every one in Latin.

  “Now, gentlemen, this is for your own good,” Dean Graham continued sternly. “Remember your manners. I’m sure you’ll like our new professor—”

  “I’m sure we won’t!” It was Tom Blaine again. Behind him, an air of hostility replaced the less worrisome mockery. “We’ve never had a Martian teacher before, and we don’t want one!”

  “Don’t want one?” The dean was more aghast than I.

  “My father says Martians are cowards,” Tom Blaine continued loudly. “He ought to know. He’s in the Space Patrol. He says that in the War, the Martians captured Earthmen and cut them to pieces slowly. First their hands, then—”

  “Nonsense!” Dean Graham snapped. “Besides, the War is over. Martians are in the Space Patrol, too. Now, no more argument. Go to your dormitory. Professor Zeerohs will begin conducting class tomorrow morning. Oscar, take the professor’s bag to his quarters.”

  Oscar, the school’s menial robot, obediently stalked forward and picked up the bag. Somehow, I felt almost a warm tide of friendship for the robot. In his mechanical, rudimentary reflex mind, it was all the same to him—Martian or Earthman. He made no discrimination against me, as these human boys did.

  As Oscar turned, Tom Blaine stood as though to block the way. Having his orders, the robot brushed past him. A metal elbow accidentally jabbed the boy in the ribs. Deciding against grabbing the bag away from steel fingers, Tom Blaine picked up a stone and flung it clanging against the robot’s metal body. Another dent was added to the many I could see over Oscar’s shiny form.

  The rebellion was over—for the time being.

  I realized that the boys were still hostile as I followed the dean to his rooms. My shoulders seemed to droop a little more.

  “Don’t mind them,” the dean was saying apologetically. “They’re usually outspoken at that age. They’ve never had a Martian teacher before, you see.”

  “Why have you engaged one for the first time?” I asked.

  Graham answered half patronizingly, half respectfully.

  “Many other schools have tried Martian teachers, and found them highly satisfactory.” He didn’t think it necessary to add, “And cheaper.”

  I sighed. Times had been hard on Mars lately, with so many dust storms raging up and down the canal regions, withering the crops. This post on Earth, though at a meager salary, was better than utter poverty. I was old and could live cheaply. Quite a few Martians had been drifting to Earth, since the War. By nature, we are docile, industrious, intelligent, and make dependable teachers, engineers, chemists, artists.

  “They always haze the new teachers,” Dean Graham said, smiling uneasily. “Your first class is at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Interplanetary History.”

  Freshened after a night’s sleep, I entered the class room with enthusiasm for my new job. A hundred cold, unfriendly eyes watched me with terrifying intensity.

  “Good morning,” I greeted as warmly as I could.

  “Good morning, Professor Zero!” a chorus bellowed back, startling me.

  So the hazing campaign was still on. No, I wouldn’t correct them. After all, even the Martian children I had taught had invariably tagged me with that name.

  I glanced around the room, approving its high windows and controlled sunlight. My eyes came to rest on the blackboard behind me. A chalk drawing occupied its space. It depicted, with some skill, a Martian crouching behind an Earthman. Both were members of the Space Patrol and apparently were battling some space desperado. It was young Tom Blame’s work, no doubt. His father claimed all Martians to be cowards and weaklings.

  My leathery face showed little of my feelings as I erased the humiliating sketch. Ignoring the snickers behind me, I grasped two pieces of chalk in both tentacles, writing with one and listing dates with the other.

  1955—First space flight

  1978—Earthmen claim all planets

  1992—Pioneer-wave to Mars

  2011—Rebellion and war

  2019—Mars wins freedom

  2040—Earth-Mars relations friendly today

  “Interplanetary History,” I began my lecture, “centers about these dates and events, Not till Nineteen fifty-five were Earth people assured that intelligent beings had built the mysterious canals of Mars. Nor were we Martians positive till then that the so-called Winking Lights of your cities at night denoted the handiwork of thinking creatures. The exploring Earthmen of the last century found only the Martians equal to them in intelligence. Earth has its great cities, and Mars has its great canal-system, built ten thousand Martian years ago. Civilization began on Mars fifty centuries previous to that, before the first glimmering of it on Earth—”

  “See, fellows?” Tom Blaine interrupted loudly. “I told you all they like to do is rub that in.” He became mockingly polite. “Please, sir, may I ask why you brilliant Martians had to wait for Earthmen to open up space travel?”

  I was shocked, but managed to answer patiently.

  “We ran out of metal deposits for building, keeping our canals in repair. Our history has been a constant struggle against the danger of extinction. In fact, when Earth pioneers migrated in Nineteen ninety-two, it was just in time to patch up the canals and stave off a tremendous famine for Mars.” “And that was the appreciation Earth got,” the boy charged bitterly. “Rebellion!”

  “You forget that the Earth pioneers on Mars started the rebellion against taxation, and fought side by side with us—” “They were traitors,” he stated bluntly.

  I hurdled the point, and continued the lecture.

  “Mars won its independence after a nine-year struggle—” Again I was interrupted.

  “Not won. Earth granted independence, though it could have won easily.”

  “At any rate,” I resumed quietly, “Earth and Mars today, in Twenty-forty, are amicable, and have forgotten that episode.” “We haven’t forgotten!” Tom Blaine cried angrily. “Every true Earthman despises Martians.”

  He sat down amidst a murmur of defiant approval from the others. I knew my tentacles hung limply. How aggressive and intolerant Earth people were! It accounted for their domination of the Solar System. A vigorous, pushing race, they sneered at the Martian ideals of peaceful culture. Their pirates, legal and otherwise, still roamed the spaceways for loot.

  Young Tom Blaine was representative of the race. He was determined to make things so miserable here for me that I would quit. He was the leader of the upper-class boys. Strange, that Earthpeople always follow one who is not wise, but merely compelling. There would have to be a test of authority, I told myself with a sinking heart.

  “I am the teacher,” I reminded him. “You are the pupil, Mr. Blaine.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” he retorted in false humility. “But you’d better teach history right, Professor Nothing, or not at all!”

  I hastily switched to the Martian language.

  “The Martian language as is well known, is today the official language of science and trade,” I went on guardedly. “Through long usage, the tongue has become perfected. Official Earth English is comparatively cumbersome. For instance, the series of words meaning exaggerated size—big, large, great, huge, enormous, mighty, cyclopean, gargantuan. Is ‘big’ more than ‘large,’ or less? You cannot tell. In Martian, there is one root, with a definite progression of size suffixes.”

  I wrote on the blackboard:

  bol, bola, boli, bolo, bolu—bolas, bolis, bolos, bolus—bolasa, bolisi, boloso, bolusu

  “Martian is a scientific language, you see.”

  “Bragging again,” sneered a voice.

  An eraser sailed toward me just as I turned from the board. It struck full in my face in a cloud of chalk-dust. As if at a signal, a barrage of erasers flew at me. They had been sneaked previously from
the boards around the classroom. I stood helplessly, desperately warding off the missiles with my tentacles. The boys were yelling and hooting, excited by the sport.

  The pandemonium abruptly stopped as Oscar stumped into the room. His mechanical eyes took in the scene without emotion. One belated eraser flew toward him. His steel arm reflexively raised, caught it, then hurled it back with stunning force. To a robot, anything that came toward it must be returned, unless otherwise commanded. Tom Blaine yelped as the eraser bounced off his forehead.

  “Dean Graham,” said Oscar like a phonograph, “wants to know if everything is going along smoothly.”

  I could see the boys hold their breaths. Oscar went the rounds daily, asking that routine question in all the classes. If this disturbance were reported, the boys would lose an afternoon of freedom.

  “Everything is well,” I murmured, though for a moment I was sadly tempted to take revenge. “You may go, Oscar.”

  With a click of internal relays, the robot left impassively. He had seen or heard nothing, without being otherwise commanded.

  “Afraid to report it, eh?” Tom Blaine jeered. “I told you Martians are yellow!”

  It was more than gravity now that made my shoulders sag. I dreaded the days that must follow.

  Even outside the classroom, I was hounded. I can use only that word. Tom Blaine thought of the diabolical trick of deliberately spilling a glass of water before my eyes.

  “Don’t—don’t!” I instinctively groaned, clutching at the glass.

  “What’s the matter, Professor?” he asked blandly. “This is nothing but water.”

  “It’s sacrilege—”

  I stopped there. They wouldn’t understand. How horrible to see water spill to the ground in utter waste! For ten thousand years, on Mars, that precious fluid has been the object of our greatest ingenuity. It* hurt to see it wantonly flung away, as they might flinch if blood were shed uselessly before them.

  As I stumbled away from their laughter, I heard Tom Blaine confide to his cohorts: