by Jack Sharkey
I stared, confused, into Clatclit’s lizardy eyes.
“They—they aren’t dangerous to man?”
The sideways rocking motion.
“They’re a danger to some men—Baxter’s men!”
A nod, but with a kind of hesitation about it.
“But also to the boys?” I marvelled.
The yes-no motion.
“Under certain conditions, they’re a danger to the boys!"
Yes.
“These conditions; do they have anything to do with Baxter?”
Yes.
“Hmmm…” I leaned back on my hands on the cot, and studied Clatclit’s face, thinking hard. "Could it be that these Ancients want, something with regard to Baxter, but that the boys’ safety is the price of it?”
A jump up from the stool, a laughably Earthlike clap of the hands, and a triple series of very positive nods. Clatclit sat down again, a much happier sugarfoot than when he’d entered.
“But,” I protested, “Baxter, from my last contact with him, isn’t the sort who’d care about the boys, right?”
Nods.
“Well, then, for pete’s sake,” I protested loudly, “over whose heads are the Ancients holding Hie safety of the boys?”
Clatclit extended a ruddy talon directly at me, and then aimed it toward the corridor outside.
“Me and Snow?” I cried, standing up. “They’re trying to force me and Snow to do something for them, and making the boys’ safety the price of it. Why, that’s—that’s criminal!”
In my rage, I’d taken a step toward Clatclit, not even thinking of the fact that his crystalline constitution would be an easy match for my fists. Genially, though, Clatclit leaned back on the stool, widened his already wide eyes, and, pointing two index fingers at his chest, shook his head from side to side.
“What?” I said, not getting it. Then, “Oh, I see. It’s not your fault what the Ancients have done. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Clatclit.”
He shrugged off the apology, and waited for more of my investigative monologue.
I dropped back to sit on the edge of the cot, and let him wait a while, while I tried to figure the whole mess out. Then I remembered something, and looked up at him.
“Clatclit, back in Marsport, when I first met you, I asked why I had been chosen, and you indicated that you’d tell me later. Why was I chosen?”
Clatclit just stared, uncertainly.
“You know what I mean. Why was I the one you didn’t blast with that collapser? And why’d you go off without me the first time, but want to take me along the second?”
A very disgusted stare.
I slowed down and fed him questions one at a time.
“Back at that bar, you blasted the other men, then left without me. Why?”
Clatclit pointed to himself, then to his cranium, then to me, then made a palms-down hand-spreading gesture.
“You…thought…I…negation—You thought I’d been blasted, too! Except that I’d flattened out behind that wall, and you couldn’t see me behind the remaining bottom section. You originally meant to get me out of there alive?”
Nods, vigorous.
“And you thought you’d goofed with the collapser, and gotten me, too!"
Nods.
“So what happened in the street? How’d you happen to stick around?”
The talon went to his earhole, then he spread his hands wide, in a gesture of “many-ness,” and waited hopefully.
“You heard a lot of—what? Oh! You heard those men coming up the street, and stuck around to see what was up. But I didn’t hear them,, and I was closer. In fact, they were sneaking after me.”
Clatclit pointed to his ears and nodded, then indicated mine and shook his head.
I got it then. Supersensitivity. It made sense. Just as man’s ears, accustomed to use in air, are even more receptive to sounds in a denser medium, as, for instance, underwater where sound waves are more powerful; so the sugarfeet’s cars, built for use in the rarefied Martian atmosphere, could hear all the better in the heavier air of Marsport.
“Okay, so you heard them, saw me, and came to the rescue. Fine. Now, the big question: Why? What is so special about me, Clatclit?”
He stood up and made the same strange gesture he’d made the night on Von Braun Street. Alternate pointing to his head, then to me.
The “me” part was easy enough, but the other…I tried a series of likely meanings.
“That motion to your head, Clatclit. You mean I’m the head of something, the investigation, for instance?”
Negative.
“I’m intelligent?”
A pause, then the yes-no motion.
“You mean I am, but that’s the wrong answer. Hmmm. Very tactful of you, Clatclit. You could have given me a no on that one.”
Clatclit showed a friendly array of deadly-looking teeth. I interpreted this as an evidence of camaraderie, so I just grinned back.
“Okay, Clatclit. Let’s see. It has nothing to do with my brain power?”
A wild light came into his eyes, and he seemed ready to crack out of his glittering pelt, so agitated did he become. Apparently, I’d hit on something, but he didn’t know what sort of signal to make.
“I’m getting warm?” I said.
Clatclit stared, and I realized that, even knowing and understanding colloquial English, he might still have missed a few of the slangier expressions.
“That is,” I said, “I’m close to the answer?”
Nod.
“Something to do with brain power?”
Vigorous nod.
“Mine?”
Negative.
“Baxter’s?”
Negative.
“Anyone’s?”
I got the yes-no and a climactic shrug. Clatclit was apparently stuck for a response.
I tried to figure it out. Brain power, but not mine, not really anyone’s, and yet, in a way, someone’s. Then I jumped up and faced him, elated.
“The Brain I The composite brain of International Cybernetics!”
Clatclit emitted something that sounded very much like a sigh of relief, and nodded.
I thought back to his head-then-me gesture. “Then you mean I was rescued because I was the man chosen by the Brain?”
Three brisk nods.
Now I was really confused. I shook my head at Clatclit, and said, “I give up, friend. I’m out of questions you can answer.”
He gave me a curious look, an expectant look.
“The only question I can think of is “Why should Mars be interested in me just because I was selected by the Brain back on Earth?” And that’s a tough one to do in pantomime.”
Clatclit rose up proudly on tiptoe, as if stubbornly denying the slur I’d cast on his miming abilities. He looked hurt, and I felt like a crumb.
“Okay, friend. Try. But I don’t guarantee I’ll get it.”
Clatclit stood a moment in thought, then pointed upward.
“Up? Out? Above?” I said. All received negatives. “It’s no use, Clatclit, I can’t—Oh, all right, once more. Uh…away up?”
Nod.
“Earth?” I said, excitedly.
Nod.
“Well, what about it?” I said.
Clatclit pointed up to Earth, then to me, and shook his head. Then he pointed down, to Mars, I guessed by association, and to me again. This time he nodded.
“Earth-me-no. Mars-me-yes,” I said mechanically. “Earth-no-what?”
Talon to head.
“Earth-me-no brain?” I choked out. “The Brain did not select me?”
Side-to-side motion.
“Not exactly? Well, then—No, that’s crazy!”
Clatclit looked a question.
I laughed wearily and sank back onto the cot. “All I get, chum, is the ridiculous impression that Mars was behind the Brain’s selecting me back on Earth—”
I sat bolt upright, slightly stunned.
Clatclit was nodding.
13
An hour later, when Clatclit had gone off to do whatever it is that sugarfeet do when they’re not playing charades with Earthmen, I joined Snow in a so-so luncheon she’d been able to put together with the help of a few of our dragonish friends. It seemed to be mostly a species of watery tumbleweed, plus a smattering of rubbery white cubes that tried hard to taste like mushrooms, but failed. I was trying to be light and casual.
“We may be poisoned, you know,” I remarked, chewing valiantly on a mouthful of the stuff.
“It’s quicker than starving,” she observed, continuing to eat. “If we don’t eat, we’re sure to die, but—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. If we do, we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of survival. Too bad you don’t carry sandwiches in that all-purpose handbag of yours.”
“I do,” she said, calmly. “But they’re all enjoyably gone, thank you. I couldn’t wait forever for you to come out of your coma.”
“Thanks loads,” I muttered, chomping doggedly on a stubborn white cube, and wishing I didn’t have to tell her what I knew.
“So tell me more about what Clatclit said,” she urged, washing down her alien meal with a cupped rock filled with clear but alkaline water.
I shrugged, and let the rest of the vegetation sit where it was. Until I grew a lot hungrier, it was safe from my alimentary system for a spell.
“As I see it, Baxter is a menace to the Ancients. They, as a self-protective gesture, decided to get an Earthman up here who could find the fact of their existence, and make it known to Earth. Then a meeting between Earth and Mars can be arranged, and we can come to some sort of peaceful coexistence. Right now, Baxter’s in the dastardly position of being able to destroy the Ancients with no one back home even knowing there was anyone to destroy, see?”
“All but how they got hold of you.”
“They exerted some kind of influence—heaven only knows what kind of technology they possess—and it triggered the Brain, back on Earth, into selecting me. Then the sugarfeet, who are, by the way, not servants of the ancients, but another distinct race, were used as go-betweens. First one to spot me got the hand-painted ashtray, or something. Who knows? But anyhow, they selected me, and—”
“Jery,” said Snow, crinkling up her brow, “how did they know that you even existed?”
“I guess I could have put that more clearly; they didn’t know there was a me, a Jery Delvin. But they knew what qualifications such a man must have, and so they influenced the Brain to choose such a man when Security tried to find a solution to the mystery of the missing Scouts.”
“Who are missing only in order to create a mystery so that the IS people would use the Brain to select the man whom the Martians had gimmicked the Brain to fake.” Snow shook her head, and shut her eyes. “It’s got my head going in circles, Jery!”
I grinned at her. “Okay. We’ll take it from the top. Baxter, for reasons yet unknown, is a menace to the ancients. In a manner yet unknown, also. Their plight must come to the attention of the peoples of Earth. With me so far?”
She nodded impatiently.
“Okay, then. So what would make the people back home sit up and take notice of little old Mars? Well, how about swiping the Space Scouts? It’s a great plan, really. Not only are Earthmen suckers for a child in trouble, but these particular children are representatives of every civilized nation on our planet. So they are swiped.”
“Jery…Snow tried to interrupt.
“I know. The kids left of their own free will. I’ll get to that in a minute.”
She bit her lip and kept still, and I went on.
“Baxter, sensing the hand of the Ancients in this, makes a good countermove. He keeps the Earth people under the impression that all is well with the kids. This, of course, cannot go on for too damned long; he’s got to find those kids and fast. So, unwittingly following the plan set up by the ancients, he feeds the known data into the Brain. However, they’ve geared the Brain to react to that particular data by selecting a man who will not conform to Baxter’s standards—that is, a man who would have assisted Baxter’s race-destruction plan—but one who will be able to size up the situation and act on it in a manner beneficial to the Martians.”
“How can you be so sure of this?” Snow demanded.
“I’m not, for pete’s sake!" I snapped. “Remember, I had to dredge all this information out of Clatclit by tortuous questioning. A lot of it I had to conjecture, to fill the gaps. But hell, it fits, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” Snow said, contritely.
“Okay, okay,” I said, relenting. “Pardon me for biting your head off. Where was I?”
“Acting beneficial to the ancient Martians.”
“Ummm. Yeah, okay. So I’m picked. Baxter is a little surprised when I show up, since I just don’t look the race-annihilating type, I guess, but he has to follow what the Brain selected, since he has no other way of getting to those missing kids. Still with me? Okay. However, unknown to even Baxter, there is a third contingent at work: Neo-Martians.”
“Those men who tried to kill you,” said Snow.
“Right. These are the characters who want to team with the Martians against Earth, and make this planet the ruling one in the solar system.”
“I don’t understand their motivation at all.”
“It’s—Well, it’s a little like the feelings of the early colonists in New England toward King George. They’re off here on a new planet, but they’re still paying taxes to Earth, and—At any rate, they want to be a separate country. Not all the Neo-Martians feel this way, just a disgruntled few. But it’s always those few groaners who seem to run things, because the other people, in their neutral way, don’t take any action against them…Hell, I don’t want this turning into a lecture on political science. Let me go on.
“When the news hits the stereos that a girl with a forged Amnesty is on the loose in Marsport, these people show a lot of sense. Since the customs office wouldn’t let you off Earth with such a thing, and the customs people here wouldn’t have let you bring one onto Mars, they know it must be the real McCoy. But if real, why this to-do about shooting to kill? Obviously, you’ve taken the Amnesty from the real person who should have it. Now, they don’t know me from Adam, but they put the word out all over town to keep watch for anyone who might be the actual Amnesty-bearer. I qualify.”
“How?” Snow asked, narrowing her eyes with interest.
“First, I’m a stranger. Secondly, though not in a Security uniform, I’m toting a collapser, which means—unless I have the approval of IS—the death penalty. I’ve carried it openly, so they know I haven’t stolen it anyplace. Okay, I’m a stranger who has an in with Security, a collapser on my belt, and the word is out that an Amnesty-bearer minus the Amnesty is in town. What would you do if you were a Neo-Martian and I walked into your bar?”
“I’d slip you a mickey,” Snow said sweetly.
“Uh…Yeah, okay.” I muttered, declining an urge to snarl something back at her. Besides, she had a cruel blow coming.
“But why did they want you?” Snow demanded.
“Honey—” I said, before I could catch myself. But she hadn’t flinched, so I decided to let the appellation stand, “—they don’t know the Scouts are missing! As far as Marsport is concerned, those kids took off in the Phobos II, see? So what do you suppose they decide the Amnesty-bearer is after?”
Snow’s eyes widened into violet pools, and she exclaimed, finally getting the point, “Them!”
“At last a light dawns in that lovely skull,” I sighed. “They figured I was here to round up the rebels among the Neo-Martians and stash them in that lousy prison I was blasted free of. So they lock me in that cellar, and have a meeting to decide what’s to be done. Only, Clatclit, knowing I’m the guy the ancients have been waiting for, can’t let these men keep me. So he goes to the meeting, too.”
"But wouldn’t the rebels be surprised at a sugarfoot—”
“Dearest girl, the rebels are wel
l aware of the fact that sugarfeet are more than just dumb animals. Clatclit tells me that they’re counting on the sugarfeet for support, if it even comes to open battle. Why do you suppose that bartender went to the trouble of learning that gosh-awful clacketty language of theirs?”
“But why would the sugarfeet join with them?” Snow asked. “Aren’t they friendly, on the neutral side?”
“Unh-uh,” I said. “Not in the way you mean. The sugarfeet, from planetary sympathies, are on the side of the Ancients. The Neo-Martians were anti-Earth, hence, anti-Baxter. So Plan A of the Ancients was a joining of forces between sugarfeet and rebel Neo-Martians. It was a slim chance, but they needed allies. Clatclit tells me that this thing’s been growing for nearly a year, now. But a few weeks ago, what happens? Up 'to Mars come these kids, who are not only good emotional contacts with Earth, but with all the powerful nations. The ancients immediately scrap the first scheme, and switch to Plan B, the one we’re currently enmeshed in.”
“So that’s why Clatclit was dickering for the collapser at that meeting you eavesdropped on!” Snow exclaimed.
“Sure,” I said. "The rebels wanted that collapser for purposes of duplication. Its mechanism is one of Security’s best-kept secrets. Only now, the Ancients don’t want to help the rebel cause, so Clatclit was instructed to get that thing from them at all costs. He did. You know the cost.”
Snow shuddered. “All those men—poof! Just like that!"
“Honey, this is war,” I sighed sadly. “And you and I are the key figures in it, whether we 'like it or not.”
“I think I’m all clear except on the one point: Why did the boys leave the Phobos II willingly?”
“Male children, especially that brother of yours, love intrigue and adventure and secret codes. Clatclit and his ruby-red friends, knowing they’d pique the kids’ curiosity, let them know that they were more than dumb animals. This, being in direct conflict with all they’d been taught back on Earth, put them in the enviable position of being ‘in the know.’ And kids are quick to pick up new tongues, too. I have no doubts that within three hours those kids knew more of the sugarfoot language than I’ll learn in a lifetime. Here, they were told, was their chance to be heroes. Plan B was told to them, and the part they must play in it. What kid wouldn’t go along with a chance to take part in a real-life adventure? And so, after leaving the evidence that they’d apparently vanished in space—Clatclit tells me this was one of the boys’ idea; nice kids we grow on Earth!—leaving this baffling trail, they tramped off after the sugarfeet into the cave, like the happy youngsters following the Pied Piper.”