Red Planet

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “That's an idea. How much do you think I could charge?” The other boy produced a can of lacquer and a brush, rapidly painted out Jim's proud design, using a pigment that was a fair match for the olive-drab original shade. “There! It'll dry in a couple of minutes. How about you, Sutton?”

  “Okay, bloodsucker,” Frank agreed.

  “Is that any way to talk about your benefactor? I've got a heavy date over on the girls’ side and here I am spending my precious Saturday helping you out.” Smythe made equally rapid work of Frank's mask.

  “Spending your time raising money for your date, you mean,” amended Jim. “Smitty, what do you think of these trick rules the new Head has thought up? Should we knuckle under, or make a squawk?”

  “Squawk? What for?” Smythe gathered up his tools. “There's a brand-new business opportunity in each one, if you only had the wit to see it. When in doubt, come see Smythe—special services at all hours.” He paused at the door. “Don't mention that deal about tickets to my grandmother's funeral; she'd want a cut on it before she kicks off. Granny is a very shrewd gal with a credit.”

  “Frank,” remarked Jim when Smythe was gone, “there is something about that guy I don't like.”

  Frank shrugged. “He fixed us up. Let's check in and get off the punishment list.”

  “Right. He reminds me of something Doc used to say. ‘Every law that was ever written opened up a new way to graft.’ “

  “That's not necessarily so. My old man says Doc is a crackpot. Come on.”

  They found a long line waiting outside the Headmaster's office. They were finally ushered in in groups often. Howe gave their masks a brief glance each, then started in to lecture. “I hope that this will be a lesson to you young gentlemen not only in neatness, but in alertness. Had you noticed what was posted on the bulletin board you would have been, each of you, prepared for inspection. As for the dereliction itself, I want you to understand that this lesson far transcends the matter of the childish and savage designs you have been using on your face coverings.”

  He paused and made sure of their attention. “There is actually no reason why colonial manners should be rude and vulgar and, as head of this institution, I intend to see to it that whatever defects there may have been in your home backgrounds are repaired. The first purpose, perhaps the only purpose, of education is the building of character—and character can be built only through discipline. I flatter myself that I am exceptionally well prepared to undertake this task; before coming here I had twelve years experience as a master at the Rocky Mountains Military

  Academy, an exceptionally fine school, a school that produced men.”

  He paused again, either to catch his breath or let his words soak in. Jim had come in prepared to let a reprimand roll off his back, but the schoolmaster's supercilious attitude and most especially his suggestion that a colonial home was an inferior sort of environment had gradually gotten his dander up. He spoke up. “Mr. Howe?”

  “Eh? Yes? What is it?”

  “This is not the Rocky Mountains; it's Mars. And this isn't a military academy.”

  There was a brief moment when it seemed as if Mr. Howe's surprise and anger might lead him to some violence, or even to apoplexy. After a bit he contained himself and said through tight lips, “What is your name?”

  “Marlowe, sir. James Marlowe.”

  “It would be a far, far better thing for you, Marlowe, if it were a military academy.” He turned to the others. “The rest of you may go. Weekend privileges are restored. Marlowe, remain behind.”

  When the others had left Howe said, “Marlowe, there is nothing in this world more offensive than a smart-aleck boy, an ungrateful upstart who doesn't know his place. You are enjoying a fine education through the graciousness of the Company. It ill behooves you to make cheap wisecracks at persons appointed by the Company to supervise your training and welfare. Do you realize that?”

  Jim said nothing. Howe said sharply, “Come! Speak up, lad— admit your fault and make your apology. Be a man!”

  Jim still said nothing. Howe drummed on the desk top; finally he said, “Very well, go to your room and think it over. You have the weekend to think about it.”

  When Jim got back to his room Frank looked him over and shook his head admiringly. “Boy, oh boy!” he said, “ain't you the reckless one.”

  “Well, he needed to be told.”

  “He sure did. But what are your plans now? Are you going to cut your throat, or just enter a monastery? Old Howie will be gunning for you every minute from here on out. Matter of fact, it won't be any too safe to be your roommate.”

  “Confound it, Frank, if that's the way you feel, you're welcome to find another roommate!”

  “Easy, easy! I won't run out on you. Fm with you to the end. ‘Smiling, the boy fell dead.’ Fm glad you told him off. I wouldn't have had the courage to do it myself.”

  Jim threw himself across the bunk. “I don't think I can stand this place. Fm not used to being pushed around and sneered at, just for nothing. And now Fm going to get it double. What can I do?”

  “Derned if I know.”

  “This was a nice place under old Stoobie. I thought I was going to like it just fine.”

  “Stoobie was all right. And Howe is a prime stinker. But what can you do, Jim, except shut up, take it, and hope he will forget it?”

  “Fook, nobody else likes it either. Maybe if we stood together we could make him slow up.”

  “Not likely. You were the only one who had the guts to speak up. Shucks, I didn't even back you up—and I agreed with you a hundred percent.”

  “Well, suppose we all sent letters to our parents?”

  Frank shook his head. “You couldn't get them all to—and some pipsqueak would snitch. Then you would be in the soup, for inciting to riot or some such nonsense. Anyhow,” he went on, “just what could you say in a letter that you could put your finger on and prove that Mr. Howe was doing something he had no right to? I know what my old man would say”

  “What would he say?”

  “Many's the time he's told me stories about the school he went to back Earthside and what a rough place it was. I think he's a little bit proud of it. If I tell him that Howie won't let us keep cookies in our room, he'll just laugh at me. He'd say—”

  “Dawggone it, Frank, it's not the rule about food in our rooms; it's the whole picture.”

  “Sure, sure. I know it. But try to tell my old man. All we can tell is little things like that. It'll have to get a lot worse before you could get our parents to do anything.”

  Frank's views were confirmed as the day wore on. As the news spread student after student dropped in on them, some to pump Jim's hand for having bearded the Headmaster, some merely curious to see the odd character who had had the temerity to buck vested authority. But one two-pronged fact became apparent: while no one liked the new school head and all resented some or all of his new “disciplinary” measures, no one was anxious to join up in what was assumed to be a foregone lost cause.

  One of the senior boys summed it up. “Get wise to yourself, kid. A man wouldn't go into school teaching if he didn't enjoy exercising cheap authority. It's the natural profession of little Napoleons.”

  “Stoobie wasn't like that!”

  “Stoobie was an exception. Most of them like rules just for the sake of rules. It's a fact of nature, like frost at sundown. You have to get used to it.”

  On Sunday Frank went out into Syrtis Minor—the terrestrial settlement, not the nearby Martian city. Jim, under what amounted to room arrest, stayed in their room, pretended to study and talked to Willis. Frank came back at supper time and announced, “I brought you a present.” He chucked Jim a tiny package.

  “You're a pal! What is it?”

  “Open it and see.”

  It was a new tango recording, made in Rio and direct from Earth via the Albert Einstein, titled iQuien Es La Senorita? Jim was inordinately fond of Latin music; Frank had remembered it.

&
nbsp; “Oh, boy!” Jim went to the study desk, threaded the tape into the speaker, and got ready to enjoy it. Frank stopped him.

  “There's the supper bell. Better wait.”

  Reluctantly Jim complied, but he came back and played it several times during the evening until Frank insisted that they study. He played it once more just before lights-out.

  The dormitory corridor had been dark and quiet for perhaps fifteen minutes when iQuien Es La Senorita? started up again. Frank sat up with a start. “What the deuce? Jim—don't play that now!”

  “I'm not,” protested Jim. “It must be Willis. It has to be Willis.”

  “Well, shut him up. Choke him. Put a pillow over his head.”

  Jim switched on the light. “Willis boy—hey, Willis! Shut up that racket!” Willis probably did not even hear him. He was standing the middle of the floor, beating time with his eye stalks, and barrelling on down the groove. His rendition was excellent, complete with marimbas and vocal chorus.

  Jim picked him up. “Willis! Shut up, fellow.”

  Willis kept on beating it out.

  The door burst open and framed Headmaster Howe. “Just as I thought,” he said triumphantly, “no consideration for other people's rights and comforts. Shut off that speaker. And consider yourself restricted to your room for the next month.”

  Willis kept on playing; Jim tried to hide him with his body. “Didn't you hear my order?” demanded Howe. “I said to shut off that music.” He strode over to the study desk and twisted the speaker switch. Since it was already shut off full, all he accomplished was breaking a fingernail. He suppressed an unschool-masterly expression and stuck the finger in his mouth. Willis worked into the third chorus.

  Howe turned around. “How do you have this thing wired?” he snapped. Getting no answer, he stepped up to Jim and said, “What are you hiding?” He shoved Jim aside, looked at Willis with evident disbelief and distaste. “What is thatl”

  “Uh, that's Willis,” Jim answered miserably, raising his voice to be heard.

  Howe was not entirely stupid; it gradually penetrated that the music he had been hearing came out of the curious-looking, fuzzy sphere in front of him.

  “And what is ‘Willis,’ may I ask?”

  “Well, he's a … a bouncer. A sort of a Martian.” Willis picked this moment to finish the selection, breathe a liquid contralto bue-nas noches, and shut up—for the moment.

  “A bouncer? I've never heard of one.”

  “Well, not very many have seen one, even among the colonists. They're scarce.”

  “Not scarce enough. Sort of a Martian parrot, I assume.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “What do you mean,'Oh, no’?”

  “He's not a bit like a parrot. He talks, he thinks—he's my friend!”

  Howe was over his surprise and recalling the purpose of his visit. “All that is beside the point. You saw my order about pets?”

  “Yes, but Willis is not a pet.”

  “What is he, then?”

  “Well, he can't be a pet. Pets are animals; they're property. Willis isn't property; he's … well, he's just Willis.”

  Willis picked this time to continue with the next thing he had heard after the last playing of the tango. “Boy, when I hear that music,” he remarked in Jim's voice, “I don't even remember that old stinker Howe.”

  “I can't forget him,” Willis went on in Frank's voice. “I wish I had had the nerve to tell him off the same time you did, Jim. You know what? I think Howe is nuts, I mean really nuts. I'll bet he was a coward when he was a kid and it's twisted him inside.”

  Howe turned white. Frank's arm-chair psychoanalyzing had hit dead center. He raised his hand as if to strike, then dropped it again, uncertain what to strike. Willis hastily withdrew all protuberances and became a smooth ball.

  “I say it's a pet,” he said savagely, when he regained his voice. He scooped Willis up and headed for the door.

  Jim started after him. “Say! Mr. Howe—you can't take Willis!”

  The Headmaster turned. “Oh, I can't, can't I? You get back to bed. See me in my office in the morning.”

  “If you hurt Willis, I'll … I'll…”

  “You'll what?” He paused. “Your precious pet won't be hurt. Now you get back in that bed before I thrash you.” He turned again and left without stopping to see whether or not his order had been carried out.

  Jim stood staring at the closed door, tears streaming down his cheeks, sobs of rage and frustration shaking him. Frank came over and put a hand on him. “Jim. Jim, don't take on so. You heard him promise not to hurt Willis. Get back into bed and settle it in the morning. At the very worst you'll have to send Willis home.”

  Jim shook off the hand. “I should have burned him,” he muttered. “I should have burned him down where he stood.”

  “Suppose you did? Want to spend the rest of your life in an asylum? Don't let him get your goat, fellow; if he gets you angry, you'll do something silly and then he's got you.”

  “I'm already angry.”

  “I know you are and I don't blame you. But you've got to get over it and use your head. He was laying for you—you saw that. No matter what he does or says you've got to keep cool and outsmart him—or he gets you in wrong.”

  “I suppose you're right.”

  “I know I'm right. That's what Doc would say. Now come to bed.”

  Neither one of them got much sleep that night. Toward morning Jim had a nightmare that Howe was a withdrawn Martian whom he was trying to unroll—against his better judgment.

  THERE WAS A BRAND-NEW NOTICE ON THE BULLETIN BOARD at breakfast time. It read:

  IMPORTANT NOTICE

  All students possessing personal weapons will turn them in at the main office for safekeeping. Weapons will be returned on request whenever the student concerned is leaving the limits of the school and the adjoining settlement. The practice of wearing sidearms in areas where there is no actual danger from Martian fauna will cease.

  (signed) M. Howe, Headmaster

  Jim and Frank read it together. “This is the worst one yet,” said Jim. “The right to bear arms is guaranteed. Doc says it's the basis of all freedom.”

  Frank studied it. “Do you know what I think?”

  “No. What?”

  “I think he's afraid of you personally.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because of what happened last night. There was murder in your eyes and he saw it. I think he wants to pull your teeth. I don't think he gives a hoot about the rest of us hanging on to our heaters.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do. The question is: what are you going to do about it?”

  Jim thought about it. “I'm not going to give up my gun. Dad wouldn't want me to. I'm sure of that. Anyhow, I'm licensed and I don't have to.”

  “Neither will I. But we had better think up a wrinkle before you have to go see him this morning.”

  The wrinkle showed up at breakfast—the student named Smythe. Frank spoke to Jim about it in a low voice; together they accosted the student after breakfast and brought him to their room. “Look, Smitty” began Jim, “you're a man with lots of angles, aren't you?”

  “Mmm … could be. What's up?”

  “You saw that notice this morning?”

  “Sure. Who didn't? Everybody is grousing about it.”

  “Are you going to turn in your gun?”

  “I did before breakfast. What do I need a gun for around here? I've got a brain.”

  “In that case you won't be called in about it. Now just supposing that you were handed two packages to take care of. You won't open them and you won't know what's in them. Do you think you could find a safe, a really safe place to keep them and still be able to give them back on short notice?”

  “I don't suppose you want me to tell anybody about these, uh, packages?”

  “Nope. Nobody.”

  “Hmm … this sort of service comes high.”

  “How high?”


  “Well, now, I couldn't afford to do it for less than two credits a week.”

  “That's too much,” Frank put in sharply.

  “Well—you're friends of mine. I'll make you a flat rate of eight credits for the rest of the year.”

  “Too much.”

  “Six credits then, and I won't go lower. You've got to pay for the risk.”

  “It's a deal,” Jim said before Frank could bargain further.

  Smythe left with a bundle before Jim reported to the Headmaster's office.

  LITTLE PITCHERS HAVE BIG EARS

  HEADMASTER HOWE KEPT JIM WAITING THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE admitting him. When he was finally let in, Jim saw that Howe seemed to be quite pleased with himself. He glanced up. “Yes? You asked to see me?”

  “You told me to see you, sir.”

  “I did? Let me see now, what is your name?”

  He dam well knows my name, Jim said savagely to himself; he's trying to get my goat. He recalled Frank's solemn warning not to lose his temper. “James Marlowe, sir,” he answered evenly.

  “Oh, yes.” The headmaster picked up a list from his desk. “I suppose you have come in to surrender your gun. Turn it over.”

  Jim shook his head. “I didn't come in for that.”

  “You didn't? Well, that's beside the point. You've seen the order; give me your gun.”

  Jim shook his head again. “I don't have a gun.”

  “Why did you come here without it? Go back to your room and fetch it. Quickly—I give you three minutes.”

  “No,” said Jim slowly, “I've already told you that I haven't got a gun.”

  “You mean you haven't one in your room?”

  “That's what I said.”

  “You're lying.”

  Jim counted slowly to twenty then answered, “You know that I have no gun, or you wouldn't dare say that.”

  Howe stared at him for what seemed a long time, then stepped into his outer office. He returned shortly and appeared to have regained his cockiness. “Now, Marlowe, you said you wanted to see me about something else?”

  “You told me to see you. About Willis.”