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 tumble-weed, 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 co-existence. 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 appelation 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 well 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."