“All right, Mr. Hennesy, just wait outside in the sitting-room with the
others.”
Outside, I sat in the plush chair next to Vera. “See?” she said. “What
did I tell you? You got the job, didn’t you? As easy as pie. I’ll bet
the Quoron brothers will be the top agents in the business pretty soon.”
I nodded. Little Meldon was still talking about how hard it was to get
jobs, and I wondered for a moment why he wanted to impress that on us
so much. But then I shrugged, especially when the gorgeous secretary
brought about refreshments for everybody. And this was surprising--the
stuff looked like little cubes of candy, and you sucked on it like
candy, only it tasted like filet mignon. But I wasn’t complaining.
Meldon could talk all he wanted to. I wouldn’t complain a bit. They had
a job for me, and that’s what counted.
Presently the last of the hopefuls came dancing out of Quoron’s office,
his ventriloquist-dummy riding jauntily on his shoulder. The dummy’s
head bobbed up and down, and the dummy said, in a high, squeaky voice.
“We’re hired. I don’t know what they want with my lousy sidekick here,
but we’re hired.”
I fidgeted about against the plush cushions. “Well, what do we do,
just wait?” I directed the question at no one in particular, but Vera
nodded. Vera had taken me to her sagging bosom, it seemed, since she
had given me wind of this agency, and I didn’t mind at all. If she were
fifteen years younger, I could have loved the gal.
“Of course we wait,” she said. “We don’t want to be impolite.”
For the first time, I noticed that there were no windows in the
building. That struck me as strange, but I hardly had time to think
about it. A buzzer sounded and a red light glowed above Quontas
Quoron’s door.
Meldon’s head jerked up. He muttered, “That’s all this trip, I
suppose.” And he disappeared inside his brother’s office.
Then I jerked upright in my chair, and Vera screamed. A great peal of
thunder ripped through the building, and the whole structure shuddered.
I patted Vera’s hand. “Take it easy, honey. It’s only a summer storm.
Relax.”
But that thunder had been close; I could still feel the structure
shuddering. And then, suddenly, I was slammed back hard in my seat like
some invisible giant had pushed me with a hand the size of a Greyhound
bus.
“What the hell....” I started to say. But then I couldn’t talk. I could
hardly move and the words wouldn’t come out. I could only move my eyes
around slowly, and everyone was sitting around like I was, paralyzed.
In a little while, the giant hand lifted up. It did more than that--it
lifted and took something with it, because, abruptly, I leaned forward,
and I found myself _floating_ off my plush-cushioned chair. Floating is
the only word I can use, because that’s what I was doing.
There were a lot of screams all around, and I could see most of the
other people floating, too. Even the seal, and he was oinking like
crazy. After a while, I learned. It was almost like swimming, swimming
in water. This was crazy, this couldn’t be happening--but I did a neat
breast-stroke through the air and reached Quoron’s door.
I pounded on it but it was locked, and then I kicked off again with my
feet, but I kicked too hard and I hurtled across the room, bumping into
the far wall like a battering ram. A lot of stars exploded in my head,
and then I felt myself floating down to the floor like a feather, only
I never remember hitting....
I awoke slowly, like you do when you’re having a bad nightmare, and I
tried to shake my head to clear the stars out of it, but I couldn’t.
The giant hand was pressing against my chest again, and I couldn’t move.
No one was floating any more. Everyone was on the floor, stationary,
and Vera looked like she was trying to whimper, only no sound came out.
Then I heard the thunder, booming through the structure once more,
and then, with a gentle bump, the giant hand was gone. I stood up and
brushed my clothing off and, brother, was I furious. I didn’t know what
was going on, but I intended to find out. I almost ran to Quoron’s
door, but it opened before I could reach it, and Quontas Quoron stepped
out.
“Well,” he said, “we have arrived.”
I stuck out my hand and prodded my index finger into his chest to say
something, but there was just nothing to say. I didn’t know what this
was all about. And Quoron walked right by me, heading for the outer
door.
He opened the door and I saw a lot of red light come spilling in, and
when I strode over to the door I saw the craziest damned place....
* * * * *
Here on Mars, there are no cities like we have on earth. Instead, they
have these long canals with urban and rural communities stretched out
along them for hundreds of miles. You just keep traveling and traveling
in one direction, and all you see is houses--but look off to the right
or the left, and there’s that rusty desert, a wilderness which would
make the Sahara look like an oasis. These canals give the Martians
water and life on a very thirsty planet. The water famine of 1950 in
New York was a Deluge compared to the constant trouble here. But don’t
get me wrong: I like it here.
Here on Mars, there are no nations like we know them on earth, no
international boundary lines, no wars, warm or cold, no disputes--just
one huge planetary nation, extending along the network of canals.
There’s no time for squabbles: everyone’s too busy keeping warm and
getting enough water to drink. And in one huge network city there’s
an artificial supply of air, because Mars’ atmosphere is too thin to
support a kite. Ever have an oxygen jag? It’s a lot more fun than
bourbon. So I like it here.
And best of all, I like the status of Martian entertainers.... But
before I go further, let me answer your question--yeah, sure, we’re on
Mars.
Quontas Quoron’s “office” was a spaceship: the first earth
interplanetary travelers came to Mars via a theatrical agent. Quontas
Quoron is a Martian.
The most amazing thing is the fact that there _was_ no entertainment
on Mars. Don’t ask me where Quoron got the idea, but it was a natural:
all the Martians are too busy trying to eke out their existence.
They have no music, no plays, no movies, no Minsky’s, no sports, no
television--not even the Martian equivalent, with pointed head, of
course, of Milton Berle.
We couldn’t miss. We were a success overnight, all of us--all except
the poor ventriloquist who can’t do much since he doesn’t know the
language. Instead, he’s started an Actor’s Equity for us, and already
it’s functioning better than it ever did on earth. Mars will do
anything to keep us. We’re wonderful. Everything is still pantomime
because we don’t know the language, but we’re learning it. Even Vera
is a hit. Sagging, dragging, round where she should be flat, and flat
where she should be round, she’s still the answer to a Martian prayer.
Popular? We gave them a pantomime of Romeo and Juliet last night,
and Vera had ’em roaring for more. They don’t applaud on Mars; they
jump up and down, and, because the gravity is lighter here, a lot of
pointy heads almost made a lot of holes in the ceiling of our brand new
theater!
Me? I don’t sing--I can’t until we learn the language, and I’m learning
that fast. Meanwhile, all I do is hum. Ever hear _All the Things You
Are_ hummed to an audience of screaming Martian females? I won’t
comment because I don’t want to sound egotistical but Sinatra should
see me now....
* * * * *
Tonight, Quontas Quoron had a bright idea. He’s taking his ship back to
earth for more talent. Or that is, he thinks he is. But Actor’s Equity
voted him down. He can bring in new talent: but only five people a
year, and theatrical people of our choosing. They’ve got to be out of
work and they’ve got to be guys and gals who won’t conflict. Take me:
one crooner on Mars is enough--we leave for the Northern Hemisphere
tomorrow on the first swing of our Canal Circuit. And I wouldn’t want
to think there’s another crooner here down south while I’m gone. All by
myself I want to melt the ice cap out of every Martian gal’s heart.
Vera just came in. Vera looks radiant, making allowances, of course.
But anyway, it’s all a matter of standards, and these Martian
women, too busy with the nasty matters of water and temperature,
are beauty-starved: as a sideline, Vera is starting a planet-wide
beautician’s organization.
And, as I’ve said, it’s all a matter of standards. Everything is
relative.
Vera looks more beautiful every day, and right now she’s the most
beautiful woman on Mars--that is, discounting Quontas Quoron’s
secretary--but technologically Mars has an advanced culture, and rumor
has it that Quoron’s secretary is a robot.
Pardon me, please. My wife is calling to me from our kitchen.
“What’s that, dear? Tired? Well, why don’t we turn in, Vera?”
You’ll have to excuse us. Tomorrow there’s a matinee. Vera and I will
kill ’em!
Transcriber’s note:
Milton Lesser changed his legal name to Stephen Marlowe in 1960.
Before this he used it as an occasional pseudonym.
This etext was produced from Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader,
April 1953 (Vol. 1, no. 2).
Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but
minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.