There, fast unreeling before our eyes, were undeniable evidences of the
changed conditions that our radio broadcasts had wrought on Mars. I had
no misgivings now about our short wave programs reaching that planet.
We saw the Martians listening in to our daily broadcasts, and becoming
not only quite in sympathy with our American ideas but benefitting
therefrom.
Intercepting musical and talking programs from New York, London, Paris,
Rome, Bombay, Tokyo and Melbourne, and out of the strange babble of
voices and senseless prattle, soon, presto! evolves a translation of
the English language. Think of it!
But how, out of all this jumble of unintelligible words, which meant
nothing to them at all, did they succeed in translating the English
language? We shall see!
When the group of American scientists sent a message to Mars, in the
International Morse code, by directing a powerful beam of light on the
planet from the summit of the Jungfrau, in Switzerland, the beam was
brought into the range of the telescope of a young priest-astronomer
in one of the Martian temples. Having already made superficial
translations of the English language, as it registered on the temple
radio receiving set, this youthful Martian incarnation of an earthly
Marconi, succeeded in deciphering the code as registered by this
beam of light. The result was a rather crude transcription into the
English language, but sufficiently intelligible to exchange radio
communications, in code, with the earth.
Our short wave programs and code messages, it seems, have long been
registering on Mars, but their source was unknown until this beam of
light from the Jungfrau was picked up and decoded. The belief, long
persisting among the priest-scientists, that there were human beings
on the earth, known to them as the Blue Sphere, as intelligent as
themselves, it was perfectly natural that they should begin at once to
try and contact, by wireless, the planet from which they had caught the
beam of light.
For some reason or other, not made clear, they had failed. Perhaps
their signaling was mistaken for static on our radios, and was
unrecognizable among the weird chattering and apparitions, which
scientists claim are caused by the auroras and echoes of radio signals
sent from the earth. Certainly no one had the sense, or intelligence,
to pick them out of the static, and decode them, until Henry and
Olinski began their experiments.
It amazed me to learn that the radio had been developed by the
priest-scientists on Mars long before it became generally used on
the earth. But it had never been popularized. Its use there had been
confined solely to the temples in religious ceremonies, to awe the
superstitious masses, as the voice of their unseen gods, and in linking
up the various governmental and military outposts. The idea of making
it an instrument of popular education and entertainment first came from
the earth's music broadcasts, with the result that life on Mars has
become almost completely revolutionized.
It was my theory, then, that this clever, young Martian
priest-astronomer, who had first decoded the beam of light signals
into English, was the originator of the rocket-to-earth idea, and
the author and transmitter of the radio message, which had thrilled
the world, on the night of the public demonstration in Radio Center.
There was every likelihood, too, that he had composed and penned the
cuneiform message contained in the scroll, which had been so skillfully
translated to the screen for our entertainment and edification.
My amazement grew beyond bounds as the last episode of the travelogue
progressed, and I realized how completely Americanized the Martians
were becoming through the medium of our radio broadcasts. The short
waves from the American stations seemed to register stronger on Mars
than those of any other broadcasting stations in the world. And there
was the stark truth, galvanized into life on the screen.
Martians flocking in thousands to the temple areas, to listen in, by
means of loud speakers, to our educational broadcasts and national
programs, as interpreted by their priests. Our school curriculum,
talks on farming, science, finance and politics being discussed at
symposiums. Applications of American rules of health and hygiene
already in force, and largely decreasing the death rate.
Symphony orchestra concerts and grand opera broadcasts relayed from
the temples to loud speakers in all public squares of the various
communities. The younger generation learning to dance, with partners,
to jazz music. Martian youngsters hearing bedtime stories for the
first time in their lives--and learning of such important, earthly
make-believe characters as Mother Goose and Mickey Mouse. Baseball
rapidly displacing chariot racing and gladiatorial combats as a popular
amusement.
Furthermore, the masses were beginning to enjoy luxuries hitherto
unattainable; the Martian markets being flooded with soaps,
tooth-paste, perfumes, hair dressings, cold cream, face powder and
cigarettes, all patterned and manufactured after the American products,
advertised so extensively in all short wave broadcasts reaching that
planet. Martian women were being amazingly transformed into pinkly
powdered persons, smartly rouged and lipsticked, slender lined, and
giving out a fascinating scent.
The most astounding revelation was contained in the fact that the whole
political, social and economic order of the planet was being threatened
by the new ideas caught from the American short wave broadcasts. Armed
with this new knowledge, the political order of the planet, a form
of despotism, was facing disruption, the people actually demanding a
democratic form of government, patterned after the American plan.
Even the State religion, the idolatrous worship of fire and water, and
the twin moon goddesses, was being undermined. Flashing across the
sidereal abyss that yawns between the earth and Mars, had come the
first message of Christ. Christian cults were springing up in all parts
of the planet despite the drastic action on the part of the State, to
forestall the accomplishment of the people's designs, and the overthrow
of their ancient religion. Hundreds of pagan priests had become
converts to Christianity; they were deserting the temples, and sallying
forth to preach a new gospel of salvation.
The slavery of the ape-men was being attacked by the Christians as
inhuman. Thousands of slaves owned by the whites had actually been
freed. Christian missionaries were penetrating the jungles. A truce
had been declared in the warfare that had long been raging between
the white race and the ape-men. Mediation was already in progress. A
movement for peace and good will among men, and charity for all, was
sweeping the planet. Better days were coming to Mars....
The picture was over all too soon; enthusiasm ran high and oratory
flowed freely. It marked the close of a great day in the life of Henry.
The toastmaster moved his fellow-diners to thunderous applause when he
declared: "This event will go down in scientific history as one of the
greatest achievements of man." Subsequent speakers showered flowery
encomiums on Henry, whose courage and capital had made the occasion
possible. Even the sceptics conceded that it all seemed feasible.
The startling disclosures, together with the pictorial creation and
grandeur of their interpretation, had held me spellbound. I was
impressed as never before in my life; convinced now, in fact, that the
information contained in the scroll of life on Mars, extraordinary
and incredible as it seemed, was genuine. "Henry's a great man," I
thought. My faith was pinned on him now; I didn't care what any one
else thought. Transplanted for more than an hour, into a region of wide
spaces, as I watched the film unroll, and grasping ultimately the idea
that order and efficiency, among human beings like ourselves, could
reign on another planet as well as our own, it took me several minutes
to come out of my trance, after the close of the picture.
When I did, finally, just as the lights were turned on, I no longer saw
a populous planet, with its strange and romantic people being dominated
by American ideas, but Pat and McGinity hurriedly disengaging hands. I
pretended to take no notice of them. Yet I smiled to myself. While the
procession and pageantry of life, in a faraway world, had been weaving
their patterns on the screen in astonishing illumination, these two had
been holding hands under the table. New worlds might be created, and
others grow dim and crumble, I thought, but love would go on just like
that--holding hands under the table.
Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps McGinity was just patting Pat's hand to
soothe her. She hadn't been well lately; her face had grown pale and
anxious from the strain and excitement under which we were living.
McGinity turned to me. "Well, what d'you make of it?" he asked.
"Wonderful!" I replied.
"Oh, I wouldn't have missed seeing this, not for worlds!" Pat chimed
in. "I feel as though I'd been up in the clouds, among the stars. It
was so thrilling, so overpowering, I don't really feel let down yet.
How do you feel?" she added, looking at McGinity.
"Me?" McGinity answered. "Oh, I feel as if I'd fallen down a couple of
flights of stairs."
"I've seen great revelations in my time," I remarked, "but this is the
most triumphant--" I stopped. The reporter's rather cryptic remark
was puzzling me. I glanced at him quizzically. He did not look right,
somehow; too much gravity and anxiousness in his pose and countenance,
considering this crowning moment in his life. "Something displeased
you?" I inquired. "You look worried."
His reply, though vague, immediately aroused my curiosity. "I'd like to
see you, alone--tonight--after we return to the castle," he said, in a
low voice. "I want to talk over something with you."
That ended our conversation. He excused himself, and hurried away
to telephone to the Recorder. Newspapers, not only in New York but
throughout the country, and the rest of the world as well, were
prepared to devote columns to the momentous event; far more important,
to my mind, than the radio message from Mars, and the landing of
the Martian rocket, with its strange passenger, for here were actual
revelations direct from the planet, proving conclusively that it was
inhabited by human beings, who were subject to the same laws, the same
temptations and passions which affect ordinary humanity.
It was amusing to see the small regiment of reporters present, rushing
off to their different papers to write their stories, as soon as the
picture had faded from the screen. McGinity, being more advantageously
placed, was ahead of the rest of them in that he had filed his story
for the Daily Recorder earlier in the evening. After he had telephoned
to his office, and given word for its release, and told what had
happened at the banquet table, excerpts from the speeches, etceteras,
he was free to accompany us to Sands Cliff.
He had something to tell me. What? It might be nothing, and it might
be a good deal. The time of surmising came to its end. Within a few
minutes after our arrival at the castle, we were closeted together in
his apartment. Middle of the night though it was, I felt excited and
bouyant, and filled with a sense of adventure. Lighting a cigar, I
settled down in an easy chair, and waited.
The reporter walked up and down the room with his hands plunged deep in
his trousers' pockets, and his head bent downwards. He appeared to be
tracing the designs in the rug beneath his restless feet. Suddenly, he
pulled himself out of his concentrated mental effort, stopped dead, and
turned to me.
"Mr. Royce," he said, "do you believe all this stuff that's been
happening?"
"Yes," I replied, promptly. "That is, in a way. Why, what do you
think?"
For a moment he stood gazing at me in silence, intently. Then he asked:
"I wonder if you think what I think?"
"Well," I answered, "if you want to know, I think that if all this
that's been happening was contrived and worked out by a human mind,
then a human mind can discover what it's all about."
He stared thoughtfully at me a moment before he spoke. "It wouldn't
surprise me a bit if you've hit on something," he said at last.
"Yes?" I said. "I'm afraid I don't see it yet. I'm just telling you
what I think."
"Exactly," said McGinity. "Now, you think something, and I think
something. Very good. If we're both convinced on one point, why not
join hands, and follow a new line, which may lead us out of all this
mystery to something in the way of solution?"
"That," I replied, instantly, "is just the very thing we shall do!"
"Of course, you must know, as well as I do, that it's all highly
improbable, utterly impossible," the reporter observed.
"I suppose it is," I answered, "yet the Science Editor of the Times
declared only last Sunday that radio signaling to Mars was 'technically
possible.'"
"Granted," agreed McGinity; "but that's another question. What concerns
us now is what has already occurred--to prove that it isn't true,
without injuring your brother's standing as a scientist."
"I've never known a man so positive as Henry is on this Martian radio
signaling and rocket business," I said. "He believes it's all true,
and I see no reason whatever to think that it isn't. While there's
considerable scepticism in the outside world, no one has yet come
forward with a clue--not a single clue--to prove that Henry and
Olinski are all wrong, or are being duped."
"Would it surprise you very much if I produced--a clue?" McGinity asked.
"It certainly would," I replied.
The reporter then did a most surprising thing, which gave a startling
and dramatic turn to our conversation.
"I've been convinced all along," he said, as he walked over to a
secretary, in which he unlocked and opened a drawer, "that there was a
human agency--a master mind--at the bottom of all this. In what way, I
didn't know--couldn't guess. But, now, I'm sure of it."
From an inner receptacle of the drawer, he produced the scroll,
which was found in the rocket, the contents of which Olinski had so
skillfully decoded, and he had put into scenario form. He laid it on
the table before me.
"Take a look at that," he said.
Carefully unrolling the scroll, I inspected it closely through a
reading glass. The tiny cuneiform writing was no more intelligible to
me than the hieroglyphics on Cleopatra's Needle in Central Park. It
was inscribed on what I judged to be papyrus, the writing-paper of the
ancient Egyptians. No doubt the papyrus-plant also grew on Mars. As I
looked it over carefully, I detected a curious, subtle scent, like some
rare perfume. The roller, I took to be ebony.
I smiled dryly, and made a move to hand it back to the reporter. "I'm
afraid I can't make anything out of it," I said; "at least, nothing
suspicious, or in the way of a clue."
He waved it off. "You're not finished with it yet," he said. "Try
holding it up against the light. Study it again--carefully."
I did as he directed, unrolling the scroll a little at a time, and
looking through it, against the bright light of the reading lamp.
Suddenly, I stopped--startled; my eyes seemed to pop.
McGinity's voice broke in on the silence.
"You see it?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered, my voice trembling. "I see it."
"Very well," he said. "Now, we know where we are."