Remember, you got this first from Lait and Mortimer. And we defy
anyone to call us liars--and prove it!
Only chumps bring babes with them to Mars. The temperature is a little
colder there than on Earth and the air a little thinner. So Terra
dames complain one mink coat doesn't keep them warm; they need two.
On the other hand, the gravity is considerably less than on Earth.
Therefore, even the heaviest bim weighs less and can be pushed over
with the greatest of ease.
However, the boys soon discovered that the lighter gravity played
havoc with the marijuana trade. With a slight tensing of the muscles
you can jump 20 feet, so why smoke "tea" when you can fly like crazy
for nothing?
Martian women are bags, so perhaps you had better disregard the
injunction above and bring your own, even if it means two furs.
Did you ever see an Alaska _klutch_ (pronounced klootch)? Probably
not. Well, these Arctic horrors are Ziegfeld beauts compared to the
Martian fair sex.
They slouch with knees bent and knuckles brushing the ground, and if
Ringling Bros, is looking for a mate for Gargantua, here is where to
find her. Yet, their manner is habitually timid, as though they've
been given a hard time. From the look in their deep-set eyes they seem
to fear abduction or rape; but not even the zoot-suited goons from
Greenpernt gave them a second tumble.
The visiting Mafia delegation was naturally disappointed at this state
of affairs. They had been led to believe by the little guy who
escorted them that all Martian dames resembled Marilyn Monroe, only
more so, and the men were Adonises (and not Joe).
Seems they once were, at that. This was a couple of aeons ago when
Earthmen looked like Martians do now, which seems to indicate that
Martians, as well as Men, have their ups and downs.
The citizens of the planet are apparently about halfway down the
toboggan. They wear clothes, but they're not handstitched. Their
neckties don't come from Sulka. No self-respecting goon from Gowanus
would care to be seen in their company.
The females always appear in public fully clothed, which doesn't help
them either. But covering their faces would. They buy their dresses at
a place called Kress-Worth and look like Paris _nouveau riche_.
There are four separate nations there, though nation is hardly the
word. It is more accurate to say there are four separate clans that
don't like each other, though how they can tell the difference is
beyond us. They are known as the East Side, West Side, North Side and
Gas House gangs.
Each stays in its own back-yard. Periodic wars are fought, a few
thousand of the enemy are dissolved with ray guns, after which the
factions retire by common consent and throw a banquet at which the
losing country is forced to take the wives of the visitors, which is a
twist not yet thought of on Earth.
Martian language is unlike anything ever heard below. It would baffle
the keenest linguist, if the keenest linguist ever gets to Mars.
However, the Mafia, which is a world-wide blood brotherhood with
colonies in every land and clime, has a universal language. Knives and
brass knucks are understood everywhere.
The Martian lingo seems to be somewhat similar to Chinese. It's not
what they say, but how they say it. For instance, _psonqule_ may mean
"I love you" or "you dirty son-of-a-bitch."
The Mafistas soon learned to translate what the natives were saying by
watching the squint in their eyes. When they spoke with a certain
expression, the mobsters let go with 45s, which, however, merely have
a stunning effect on the gent on the receiving end because of the
lesser gravity.
On the other hand, the Martian death ray guns were not fatal to the
toughs from Earth; anyone who can live through St. Valentine's Day in
Chicago can live through anything. So it came out a dead heat.
Thereupon the boys from the Syndicate sat down and declared the
Martians in for a fifty-fifty partnership, which means they actually
gave them one per cent, which is generous at that.
Never having had the great advantages of a New Deal, the Martians are
still backward and use gold as a means of exchange. With no Harvard
bigdomes to tell them gold is a thing of the past, the yellow metal
circulates there as freely and easily as we once kicked pennies around
before they became extinct here.
The Mafistas quickly set the Martians right about the futility of
gold. They eagerly turned it over to the Earthmen in exchange for
green certificates with pretty pictures engraved thereon.