The Martian Epic

by Octave Joncquel

  Towns where the joy and dancing were unconstrained—which were numerous—received “Ladislas, Savior of the World” and his companions with acclamation, but none of them offered to restore power to Gideon Botram. In two or three instances, when the latter made a speech emphasizing the urgency of governmental restoration, howls of reprobation drowned him out, and—a detail that a member of the mission recounted to me in horror—among all the assembled crowds that had interrupted their dancing to listen to the orator, thousands of arms were raised, offering the threat of the black blasters of Anarchism.

  Humankind was dancing in the ruins, but it was dancing armed with weapons. The ancestral bestiality that everyone carries in his heart had shaken off the chains of the law and the habits of morality; the tiger had tasted blood, and woe betide anyone who attempted to put it back in its cage!

  The mission returned to Saintes-Maries on August 7, without having accomplished the tour’s purpose, disappointed by the reception it had received in Europe from the organized authorities. The news from the rest of the world was no more comforting.

  The torpedoes continued to arrive, deflected every time with the same success, projected to the bottom of a sea or an ocean, where their satanite generators fulminated for days, like an archipelago of Strombolis. Humankind could no longer doubt its deliverance. Its mad rout of pleasures lost its dismal and desperate character—but, far from easing, it developed into a chronic condition.

  Here and there, a few strikes had ended, and a few public services—most of them having passed into the hands of Anarchists—were re-established, after a fashion. Nothing was done, however, to reconstitute the stocks of food in which the looting, the partying and the destruction of large cities had made irreparable breaches. The gravest of all the symptoms of the popular state of mind was that the former local governments were powerless witnesses to the reign of brutal force that had been reinstated upon the debris of civilized justice.

  A single month of disorganized panic had sufficed to return humankind to the primitive barbarity from which it had taken centuries and millennia to raise itself—and the acquired momentum persisted beyond the moment when the cause of the madness had disappeared, still drawing the race down that fatal slope.

  How could it be stopped? Ladislas Wronsky extolled the re-civilizing influence of scientific committees disseminated in every country, receiving the orders from a central Institute. Gideon did not cling obstinately to political power in a personal sense, but deemed its re-establishment to be the first priority. That supposed a general disarmament of the population, though, and to recover the blasters that had become as common as the revolvers of yesteryear, it would be necessary to deploy superior armaments that remained to be found.

  The conclusion was, therefore, inevitable. The Directorate of Saintes-Maries had to resign itself, for the time being, to its new role as the thinking organ of the world, to centralize news items and retransmit them urbi et orbi with the initial fundamental intention of reviving confidence in the future. That confidence was insufficient. Despite the undeniable deliverance, the Anarchist Committees, interested in the prolongation of the disorder that facilitated their reign, did their utmost to sow and foster mistrust.

  The Transatlantic Tube came back into service—it was discovered that a broken-down train full of passengers had been “forgotten” during its abrupt abandonment by the strikers, stranded beneath a 1000 meters of water off the Azores—bringing us the American newspapers, of which a certain number had begun to reappear. The troubling question of what the Martians might do next was raised there, viewed in the most pessimistic light.

  These extracts from the August 15 edition of the Minneapolis Daily Soviet News, printed in demi-folio in view of the paper shortage, are among the most characteristic:

  No, comrades, you must not let yourselves be deceived by the affirmations of the former Boss of the World 13 and his damned French clique, which are stuffing your heads with humbug.

  The danger is past, they say? Why? Because the Martian artillery ceased firing on the day when they saw that our Wronsky had discovered a trick that would sent their missiles to the Devil? So be it—they would lose no more of those costly machines. But can you believe that they have renounced their enterprise of blowing up the whole Earthly shebang?

  No, comrades! These people of Mars have acted with a scientific method and practical know-how that would be worthy of Americans if they had a little more personal bravery. They certainly have vast technological means at their disposal and unlimited stocks of radium—but the preparations for their main business are bound to take them several years. This is serious. They have resolved to emigrate to the Earth and will not desist, no matter what—be sure of that. This setback cannot make them change their minds; that is impossible. They have too many good reasons for quitting their home world: lack of water, increasing cold, thinning atmosphere, and others that we cannot see through a telescope…

  You know, comrades, that the two planets have not ceased to approach one another since the moment when the Martians judged the range appropriate at the end of June, but the distance will begin to increase again in two or three days. In a month, six weeks at the most, not only will we be out of range of their cannon—if there really is a cannon—but the line of fire between Mars and the Earth will come closer and closer to the Sun, whose extreme mass would perturb the course of the projectiles excessively.

  Only six weeks, therefore, at the maximum, remain for the Martians to finish us off. If they let the opportunity pass, they will have to wait nearly two years—until the end of June 1980—for the astronomical positions of the two planets to become favorable again.

  They cannot wait, and they will not wait!

  They can see us, remember! They know how to construct televisors, for which those other soft-heads, the Jovians, gave them the plans. They are following all our actions. Be assured that they are taking a good long look, laughing heir heads off as they see us dancing because we imagine that we are sheltered from their next step.

  What will that be, exactly? That I don’t know; I have no televisor in my pocket. But I can give you a guarantee that they have something good up their sleeve. Perhaps they’ll arrive here in person, a whole colony of them, armed from head to toe, ready to make us jump like a jack-in-the box. And if we do not close ranks, comrades; if we bite the bullet and dispose of our bonny blasters, as that mooncalf the Antichrist proposes, we shall be like lambs bound for slaughter—by the claws of the bourgeois tyrants if the Martian do nor come…

  As for the famous promise of the Jovian astronomers to come to our aid—in a pig’s eye! It’s understandable that they dare not explain it via the TSF—there’s a third party on the line—but they were able to tell us that their guillotine, or whatever other vengeful blade these high justices propose to apply to the Marian felons, will not be ready until the next opposition. “Have courage! Hold on until then!” they added. They don’t get out much! No, between now and then—in a few weeks time, comrades!—we’ll all be put through the grinder…

  Let’s live in the meantime, comrades! Let’s help ourselves to what we can! If we must die, let’s not die without first having our fill of the enjoyments that the filthy Capitalists have shamefully monopolized until now!

  We’ve had enough of wage-slavery and the unjust privileges of our employers! Everything for everyone! All for one and one for all!

  In the time of order and Directorial censorship, of course, not a single line of these scandalous statements would have been published, and the cynicism of these appeals to the basest passions gave us the measure of the social decay in which humankind was complacently wallowing.

  Nevertheless, it must be confessed that, beneath the brutal buffoonery of that gross style, it was our own fears that were being echoed—fears that were the subject of constant discussion in the “governmental” milieu of Saintes-Maries, as we called it by force of habit.

  Although I abstained from talking to Raymonde a
bout them as we wandered along the deserted beach in the exquisite gentleness of the Mediterranean night after a hard day’s work, such apprehensions still obsessed us. Suddenly falling silent, we would embrace one another urgently, shivering as we saw the bloody topaz of Mars rising above the southern horizon, in close proximity with Antares in Scorpio.

  II. Isaac Schlemihl, Monopolist of Soviets

  Although the re-establishment of the Directorate to political supremacy remained a distant dream, the material conditions in which it members lived were ameliorated. Two hotels were entirely reserved for them, and the village of Saintes-Maries, proud to accommodate Ladislas Wronsky and the spiritual authorities of intellectual society, cast out refugees from the communes and people suspected of subversive opinions. The indefatigable Leduc maintained food supplies to our Lilliputian Versailles despite the increasing difficulties. Monsieur Van Culden, in his capacity as ex-Treasury minister, dealt with financial problems quite cleverly.

  The most obvious progress, however, concerned our security, so ill-assured at first by the five local gendarmes. Eight hundred Senegalese—escapees from the destruction of Marseilles, the fury of Anarchism or revolutionary contagion, who came to offer us their services or were collected throughout the region, some from as far way as North Africa, by Leduc’s emissaries—mounted a vigilant and devoted guard around our refuge, the supreme sanctuary of Order and Civilization. It was comforting to see all these superb black men in white uniforms and colonial helmets marching in military formation on the parade-ground of the airfield next to the TSF station, practicing anti-aircraft maneuvers or embarking rapidly on the ten white-painted military helicopters bearing the Directorate’s arms. We were no longer at the mercy of an arbitrary strike; it would have required a veritable army to get through our defenses.

  One morning, at 10 a.m., the clarion sounded unexpectedly; while the engines of the air-fleet roared as the helicopters took to the air, commands blared forth from the loudspeakers: “Approaching aircraft! Stop here! It is forbidden to fly over! Steer away or be fired on!”

  I ran to my office window. Like bizarre black bats against the beautiful summer sky, three helicopters bearing death’s-heads were hovering, facing a semicircular formation of our white birds. How did they dare? But a guttural and forceful voice cried from above through a loud-hailer: “Friends, it’s comrade Isaac Schlemihl, who begs comrades Gideon Botram and Ladislas Wronsky to grant him an audience!”

  “Land behind the antennae!”

  The ringing of my telephone prevented me from seeing any more. Our Master wanted me in his office.

  There, I found myself in the company of the “Savior of the World.”

  “Sit down, Rudeaux,” said the latter. “You can make a record of the conversation. What can this Schlemihl possible want from us?”

  The sound of military footsteps was audible in the corridor. Schlemihl appeared, flanked by a Senegalese escort and followed by two singular individuals. One, whose thick black moustache connected to his side-whiskers, wore a crimson uniform trimmed with collar-badges representing the fateful death’s head. He clicked his heels and raised his hand to his helmet.

  Schlemihl bowed deeply, and introduced us to him. “Excellencies,” he said, “I have the honor of presenting to you Comrade Peter Kropatchek, my good friend and Generalissimo of the United Soviet Forces of Provence and various other places.” He moved aside to display the other person, who bowed his head in embarrassment. “This is my devoted pilot, Chelra.”

  Beneath a flying-suit shaped in a provocative feminine form, I recognized the blonde woman from the helicopter, Isaac’s wife.

  Isaac smiled at my astonishment. “Yes, it’s a little obvious. She’s not yet 35, you know, and it’s necessary, when dealing with our friends, to observe certain principles; this concession satisfies them.” On seeing Wronsky impatiently drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, however, he continued: “But your time is precious, Excellencies, and so is mine, so I’ll put my cards on the table.”

  He explained to us, succinctly, the results he had obtained. He did not attempt to conceal the manner in which he had used his official privilege. With the cooperation of honest citizens as well as the approbation of Anarchism—obtained God knows how!—this indefatigable businessman had organized the systematic pillaging of ruins, with particular respect to Martian radium. His traveling salesmen had offered radium to Soviets ill-supplied with this indispensable product, in exchange for airbus-loads of goods and foodstuffs, which had been heaped up, in anticipation of dark days, in his warehouses in Avignon.

  “And despite everything, Excellencies, I still have tons of radium. If the bombardment had continued, I would have been able to offer you—in return for certain guarantees, of course—enough to fuel the propulsive engines of a number of vehicles adequate to transport yourselves and anyone else desirous of making the voyage to the safety of the polar regions…but here we are, tranquil. Business goes on—my business, I mean—and this isn’t the time to leave the country. What I propose to you, Excellencies, is a Restoration…”

  Ladislas frowned, but Gideon’s eyes sparkled behind his spectacles. The idea brought a smile to his face. “A Restoration of the Terrestrial Directorate?” he asked, eagerly.

  “Terrestrial…hmm. Not immediately—but that would come. European, for the moment, is what I’m offering you. You’re formulating the ideology, gentlemen—I’ve read your communiqués: the consciousness of the planet, the refuge of true civilization, and so on. It’s very nice, but this isn’t the time. While going about my humble business, I’ve observed that society would like nothing better than to be reorganized—but on a new plan, gentlemen! The revolution has taken place, and there’s no longer any question of going back. The hour of communism has sounded! It’s necessary to resign ourselves to that. The new world is in place, gentlemen, and it will only accept power under that label. I say ‘label,’ for, once the inevitable era of transition is past, friction will be reduced and everything will be reconstituted, under different labels, exactly as it was. That is already happening among our comrades. They accept the notes issued by my Avignon bank because they are printed in white on black paper with the death’s head and the inscription “Reward of Labor”—and my divisional coinage is made of chocolate. Don’t laugh, gentlemen; that’s one of the reasons for my success. Everyone eats, in my house; there’s plenty of everything, because I’m not afraid of words—while your banknotes are refused everywhere and you sit here, nibbling away at the remains of the old regime, waiting for the world to submit benevolently to your orders!

  “It’s true that I don’t govern… I’m just a humble merchant, poor Isaac Schlemihl, gentlemen, although His Holiness Pope Benedict XXII has deigned to accept hospitality in the ancient Palais d’Avignon, renewing the tradition of his distant predecessors. He has even conferred on me the titles of Chevalier de Saint-Grégoire and Comte-Venaissin,14 by reason of that small service and a few others…the enlightened Pontiff, you see, is not afraid of words himself. I’ve confided my plans to him, and he approves of them…

  “But I’ve told you that I don’t go in for government. I lack the prestige; I know that. My excellent friend here, Peter Kropatchek, has it—he’s the great-grand-nephew of the glorious Bolshevik Lenin—but only among our comrades. He’s used that prestige to organize an army. One by one, all the Soviets in the region have linked up with him. Do you think yourselves strong, gentlemen, with your four battalions of Senegalese? We—or, rather, General Kropatchek—can count on 28,000 Black Guardsmen, who are only waiting for the order to march. Six hours would be sufficient for my commercial airbuses to actualize a general mobilization of those forces and concentrate them in Avignon. All the Soviets in France will follow. Russia is won to our cause, and will help us if necessary…but that’s not all we need to conquer Europe; we need a name, a name that is known. It’s yours, Monsieur Gideon Botram! To reassure the bourgeoisie, the timorous men, who are legion…all those who a
re afraid of words! Antichrist or not, only a Terrestrial Director can give a new regime established by the power of blasters the stability necessary to moral order and commerce.”

  Isaac Schlemihl collected himself momentarily. Then, striking the classic pose of Napoleon I, with his right hand tucked into his frock-coat, he continued solemnly: “In the name of all our comrades, in the name of their Generalissimo, here present, and in my own name, I have the honor of offering Your Excellency the title of President of the Communist Republic of the United Soviets of Avignon and the Provençal Region!”

  The former Master of the World had gone pale. The desire for power, the horror of the means that would assure him of its possession, and the price that humankind would pay for its culpable weakness, were visibly tormenting his mind. Twice he opened his mouth and closed it again, without being able to utter a word.

  Ladislas came to his aid. “Monsieur,” he said to Schlemihl, in a dry and peremptory tone, “my esteemed colleague”—he emphasized the word—“is overwhelmed by the vast confidence you have in him; he is incapable of answering you, but I know his mind well enough to serve as his interpreter. I admit that you have at your disposal the required military forces…”

  “All our Soviets march as one man!” cried the great-grand-nephew of Lenin, impetuously.