hear, even though you knew it all along, were sure of it on the day you
married her. What they didn't know and would have to guess about was
the feeling of oneness we had whenever we were together.
I let that ride too, sweet as it was to dwell upon, and thought about
how mistaken I'd been about the doctor. He wasn't the kind of guy
I'd thought him. The "nurse this, nurse that" talk had been either a
performance, put on for my benefit just in case I was a little more
than semiconscious or--a routine, quickly-dropped formality.
The second supposition seemed the most likely. A kind of ritual they
went through from habit, and because it's more ethical to keep a
doctor-nurse relationship on a formal plane when the patient is under
clinical scrutiny. After that, they could relax and be human.
I had no complaint, because I liked both aspects of Gruff Voice's
personality. That I liked the nurse goes without saying, not only
because of what she'd said about Joan, but because of a certain
something....
All right. Gruff Voice had said that he was susceptible beyond the
average and so was I. A sweet soft woman bending over you, denying
herself sleep just to make sure you'll stay alive, doing her best to
ease your pain, sort of ... does things to you. It had nothing to do
with the way I felt about Joan. It wasn't actual disloyalty ... didn't
come within a mile of disloyalty. It was just the man-woman absurdity
she'd mentioned, only ... it wasn't an absurdity and never had been.
It may be a hard thing for a woman to understand, sometimes. But it's
never hard for a man to understand, if he's honest with himself and
knows just how powerful the mating impulse can be in human beings.
Call it sex attraction if you want to, but when you've called it that
it's important to remember that the mating impulse is the basic,
anthropological prime mover. Sex is simply its _modus operandi_. On
Earth and on Mars, whenever a normal man and a normal woman are in
close proximity, even for ten or twelve seconds, the mating impulse
starts unwinding. On another planet of another star the _modus
operandi_ may not be sex as we know it, but something quite different,
if you can imagine another way of choosing a mate, building a home, and
filling it with healthy, happy children.
It's a coiled-spring, trigger-mechanism kind of impulse and neither the
man nor the woman have to be attracted to each other on the personality
level, unless you want to be technical and regard the purely physical
as an attribute of personality. They can be young or old, plain or good
looking. Some attraction will be present, even under the most adverse
circumstances. But when the woman is young and beautiful and the
personality level warm and appealing you'll be deceiving yourself if
you think the impulse can be kept from arising just because you already
have a mate you're desperately in love with.
You can conquer the impulse if you try hard enough and your love for
someone else is strong enough. That's what is meant by loyalty. But you
can't keep the impulse from arising and it makes no sense at all to
feel guilty about it.
The human brain is a resourceful instrument and there are a dozen ways
of keeping a tight grip on your nerves when you wake up on a hospital
cot and hear unfamiliar voices talking about you. I chose the way that
was most natural to me. I concentrated on the scientific construct
I've just summarized, letting my mind glide over, and play around with
it for a minute or two and telling myself that I must thank the nurse
for all that she had done for me. When Gruff Voice left there would be
a glow, a brief moment of warmth between us that might have become a
high-leaping flame if I hadn't been in love with Joan and she hadn't
been carrying a torch for Gruff Voice.
I wasn't even sure she was beautiful, but it seemed likely, because you
can tell a great deal about a woman just from the sound of her voice.
Even if she bent over and kissed me, her eyes shining a little because
she'd helped me outdistance Death a yard from the finish line and was
feeling grateful and thrilled about it ... well, that would have been
all right too. I didn't think Joan or the man who had just taken her
into his arms would have held that kind of kiss against us.
I had the feeling that Gruff Voice was a generous-minded, all right
guy, and if an operation had been necessary to save my life he'd done
his best to increase my chances with all of the surgical know-how at
his command.
Just that thought made me decide to open my eyes and try to raise
myself a little, because he had a right to know how grateful I felt.
He was just going through the door. I could see that he was tall, blond
and rather sturdily built, but a wave of dizziness made me sink back
against the pillows again before I could get a really good look at him.
It's hard to tell what a man looks like anyway, when he's facing away
from you, and you can only see his disappearing shoulders and the back
of his head.
When I opened my eyes for the second time, a full minute later, the
eyes that looked back at me were just as I'd pictured them. A deep,
lustrous brown. Her face was very much as I'd pictured it too, except
that I'd no way of knowing whether she was a blonde or a brunette. She
looked a little like Joan. Her hair was done up in a different way, and
her lips were a little fuller than Joan's and her cheekbones not quite
so prominent. Her nose, too, was a fraction of an inch shorter. But
otherwise she could have passed for Joan's sister. Not a twin sister,
for the resemblance wasn't anything like that pronounced. But it was
close to the family likeness you see quite often in portraits of two
sisters when one is smiling and the other looks seriously troubled.
It flashed across my mind that if they had been standing side by side,
both wearing the same expression, the resemblance would have been
considerably more striking.
It shouldn't have surprised me too much, because of what she'd said
to the doctor. Women who think and feel in much the same way are very
likely to bear a family resemblance physically. It's the sort of thing
which makes an anthropologist shake his head in vigorous denial. But
facts are facts and who was I to dispute them?
"Just lie quiet," she whispered, patting me on the shoulder. "Dr.
Crawford says you mustn't try to talk. You're going to be all right.
I'm Miss Cherubin, your day nurse."
She smiled, her eyes crinkling a little at the corners. "You should
have a night nurse too, but I've been staying on in her place."
Cherubin. An angel? No--cherubim was spelt with an "M." And she wasn't
_that_ young or quite as rosy-cheeked as cherubs are supposed to be.
What made it really tragic was my inability to reach out and touch her
or ask her a single question, because right at that moment another wave
of dizziness swept over me and I blacked out again.
11
Right at this point there has to be a shift in the way I've been
recording events as they happened, because what happened next took
place elsewhere, while I was flat on my back in the hospital. By "what
happened next" I mean ... to me and Joan personally and to Commander
Littlefield and the Martian Colonization Board and everything I'd come
to Mars to take cognizance of, and do my best to change for the better.
I know, I know. Ten million separate events are taking place all the
time on Earth and on Mars and by no stretch of the imagination could
they be thought of as an immediate part of this record. But when
the threads all start to draw together and tighten about you in a
destiny-altering way you have to keep the time-sequence in order and
record developments as they take place. Otherwise when they become of
immediate concern later on the entire picture will seem out of focus.
The frame will start lengthening out and the people in the picture will
be out-of-kelter also, and scattered all over the landscape. The only
way you can keep them sharply in focus is to record what happens to
them _when_ it happens.
It shouldn't be too difficult, because there's a seeing eye that hovers
over the Mars' Colony day and night. The big Time-Space eye that
records everything that takes place in the universe, so that nothing
is ever really lost beyond re-capture. The past, the present and the
future keep flickering, in a backward-forward way, across that immense
retina, and some day a technique may be developed for running history
off in reverse and you'll see events that took place thousands of years
ago as if they were happening today on a lighted screen.
So ... let's look through that Big Eye straight down at the Mars
Colony, you and I together. And remember. In this particular instance
we won't need a history-reversing gimmick at all, because what we'll
see and hear is NOW. It starts as a two-person conversation:
"John, I'm frightened. What if the insulation isn't absolutely
foolproof? What if one of those Endicott Fuel containers isn't
shielded in just the right way? Suppose the radio-active stuff inside
builds up to what the nuclear physicists call critical mass and there's
an atomic explosion? Blowups have happened ... even in the Endicott
Laboratories under the strictest kind of supervision."
"Now look. There's not the slightest danger. Do you think for one
moment Endicott would take that big a risk--even though Wendel has the
entire combine backed into a corner?"
"They'd take any kind of risk now, because they have no choice. John,
if you were going to give me another baby you'd have given me fair
warning. I could have steeled myself to endure the harshness and
unfairness of it. But when you bring death home with you--"
The woman had been very pretty once. You could see that just by
glancing at her. But now her face had a drawn, haggard look and her
pallor was more than pronounced. It verged on grayness. Her hair was
thinning and turning white and only her eyes remained lustrous, truly
alive, as if all that remained of the woman she had once been had
been drawn to a focus in the gaze she was training on her husband in
desperate appeal.
"Why did you do it, John? You're not just endangering your life and
mine. If we didn't have four children ... maybe I wouldn't be talking
this way."
"I told you I was forced into it, didn't I? Wendel is calling
Endicott's bluff. We can no longer go on buying Endicott fuel cylinders
openly on margin, hundreds of them and letting all of them stay in
Wendel's custody, because we don't really own them at all. The price
goes up or the price goes down and we sell out and buy again--and we're
supposed to own four-fifths of the Endicott Combine. But there's not
a single Colonist who owns the equivalent of four or five cylinders
outright. I don't own these six cylinders. But I had to bring them home
with me."
"I just don't understand why. It's too complicated for me. A nuclear
explosion would be much easier for me to understand."
"All right ... I'll go over it again. But try to listen more carefully
this time. Before this big, cut-throat war started only one man
suspected that one of the two competing combines might try to sell
its fluid property to the Colonists on margin. They were supposed to
cooperate, not compete, because it was thought that Wendel couldn't
possibly keep its nuclear generators operating without fuel. It can't,
of course, but only one man suspected that Endicott might refuse to be
dwarfed by Wendel in a sharp-practice duel and fight to stay big and
powerful by letting the Colonists buy and sell fuel on speculation.
That would put the Colonists right in the middle, don't you see?"
"Yes ... I do," the woman who had once been almost beautiful said.
"Thank you for giving me credit for having that much intelligence. You
seem to forget that I have a fairly good memory too. We've gone over
this a hundred times."
"Sure we have. But it doesn't seem to have made too deep an impression
on you. You can sum it all up by saying that _on paper_, from day to
day, it's the Colonists who now own the Endicott Combine, or most
of it. So it's the Colonists who are carrying the battle directly
to Wendel, fighting for the right to go on wildcatting, to get rich
overnight or end up pauperized. It's wildcatting in a sense, just as
it was when oil instead of atomic fuel was the big prize to be fought
over Earthside. When a Colonist buys Endicott fuel cylinders on margin,
it's practically the same as if he were digging an oil well in his own
backyard."
"Go on, John," the woman said wearily.
"There's that much uncertainty in it, don't you see? And he's really
doing it entirely single-handed and on his own, because he's digging in
what is practically a paper graveyard in some respects, unless he's one
of the lucky ones. Endicott keeps the fuel. It doesn't go out of their
hands. But Wendel still has to buy it directly from the Colonists, who
are supposed to own it, and the price fluctuations keep Wendel from
becoming all-powerful and Endicott from going under or being dwarfed.
"In the main, it's the Colonists who have most to gain by keeping
Endicott powerful and solvent ... although the battle lines aren't so
tightly drawn that it doesn't become profitable, at times, to go over
to the Wendel side. There's a lot of sniping between the lines."
"I know all that, John."
"Well, here's what it all boils down to, what you didn't seem to grasp.
You asked me why I brought these six cylinders home. It's because
of the one man who did suspect, right from the first, and when the
charters were drawn up, that a war of this kind might be waged. I can't
even tell you his name. He was probably a minor legal expert or auditor
employed by the Board, who had shrewd prophetic gifts ... enough
foresight, at least ... to insert in fine print in both of the charters
a provision that Wendel is now using to call Endicott's bluff.
"That provision doesn't say that Endicott can't sell some of their
fluid assets on margin. But it sets a limit to that kind of speculative
buying and selling. The same limit would apply to Wendel, but Wendel
has no fluid assets to sell on margin, and it can't very well break
up its generators and big transmission lines and sell them to the
Colonists piecemeal, even on margin. It wouldn't look right, because
you can't pretend that a fragment of a pipe that is still being
operated by a combine is a speculative commodity that has passed into
other hands and is subject to day-to-day fluctuations.
"If you want to think of fluid assets as simply a share in a Combine's
profits, that's another matter. But I'm not talking about that kind of
fluid asset. Endicott has been selling to the Colonists in a literal
sense--_moveable fluid assets_. And in fine print in the Endicott
charter it says that Endicott can only sell about a third of its fuel
cylinders on margin. The others have to be purchased outright and
carried home and held by the purchaser until the price is right and he
can dispose of them at a profit. Or sell at a loss, as property."
"But you say you didn't buy those cylinders outright. How could you
have done that?" the woman protested. "Just one cylinder would cost--a
third of a million dollars."
"Naturally I didn't buy them outright. I bought them on margin. But
Wendel can't prove that. Endicott is covering up for me and because
I've brought them home and can slap my hand on the cool metal and tell
Wendel to go to hell if they try to dispute my ownership--Endicott
still has a chance to come out on top. Wendel is calling Endicott's
bluff, sure. But Endicott is countering with another bluff and they can
make it stick. Their auditing department knows just how to do that.
So every Colonist who wants to go on wildcatting now has to bring a
few cylinders home, to make it look as if he'd bought them outright.
Possession puts you nine-tenths on the winning side in any legal
argument. You ought to know that!"
"Ought I? Just suppose I did. Would that stop me from becoming
terrified, when I know exactly what could happen if the metal isn't
as cool as you hope it will be when you slap your hand on it, and the
Wendel police stay cold-blooded about it, and wait around for the
fissionable material inside to reach critical mass."
"You know damn well it would take an awful lot of accidental jarring
and jolting to trigger a fuel cylinder and make it blow up. It probably
couldn't happen, _except_ in a laboratory where they're careless about
such things because of overconfidence."
"Dinner's on the table," the woman said. "We may as well go back into
the house while we've still got a home, and gather the children around
us, and tell them a few more lies about what the future is going to
be like in the Colony, now that one father in three will be bringing
nuclear fuel cylinders home with him."
The man--his name was John Lynton--nodded and they returned into the
pre-fab. Lynton preceded his wife into the dwelling and the woman
paused for an instant in the doorway to stare back at the long metal
shed where the six cylinders were reposing ... letting her gaze take
in as well the double row of foot-high cactus plants which encircled
the yard and the sun-reddened stretch of open desert beyond. Then she
let the door swing shut behind her, and turned to face her four hungry
children.
One thought alone sustained Grace Lynton at that moment. There had
never been any need, so far, for the children to go to bed hungry.
Their hunger was due solely to the demands of healthy young appetites
when dinner was a little delayed and they had been playing strenuously
in the yard all afternoon or going on exploring expeditions.
12
They were all downstairs now, waiting to be fed, hardy perennials like
all children everywhere. Thomas with his shining morning face--it
seemed to stay that way right up until bedtime--and Susan, seven, and
still doll-wedded, and the twins, Hedy and Louise. Three girls and one
boy, and Grace Lynton felt a little sorry for her son at times, until
she remembered that a boy of thirteen isn't troubled by too many girls
in a family when he's seven or eight years their senior. The girls were
simply very young children to him and he was--well, right next door at
least to being grown up.
"All right," John Lynton said, seating himself at the head of the
table. "Let's fall to and see who gets through first."
"Did you have a tough day, Dad?" Thomas asked, reaching for a knife and
fork, and drawing a still steaming serving bowl toward him. His unruly
hair was so blond it seemed almost white and there was a double row of
freckles across the bridge of his nose.
The other three children were brunettes, with hair ranging in color
from chestnut brown to jet black. Even the twins did not closely
resemble each other, as non-identical twins so often fail to do.
"Don't annoy your father with questions now, Thomas ... please," Grace
Lynton said.
"Why not?" Lynton asked, frowning at his wife. "I did have a tough day
and there's no sense in soft-pedaling it. Sometimes I almost wish we
hadn't come to Mars. No matter how rigorous a Board screening is ...
there are some things it can't tell you about yourself. Will you make a
good father on a world without trees or grass, with no way of getting
out into the green countryside and sitting down on the moss-covered
bank of a trout stream, with your kid at your side and having a heart
to heart talk with him in the cool shade of a big oak or cedar."
"The stew's good, Mom," Thomas said. "Is it all right if I fill up my
plate again?"
"Did I ever say you couldn't, Thomas?" Grace Lynton snapped, unable
to keep irritation out of her voice, despite her son's compliment.
"There'll never be any food shortages in this house, if we have to sell
all of the furniture."
"Leave enough for me, Thomas," Hedy Lynton said.
"Don't worry, I will," Thomas said. "But if you keep on eating the way
you do you'll grow up fat, and no man in the Colony will marry a fat
woman when there are so many thin ones."
"That's very well put, Thomas," Lynton said. "I have a brilliant
son--practically a genius. But don't let it go to your head, boy.
Unless you're in the electronic field or have some other technical
specialty a straightforward, rugged he-man can do more for the Colony."
"What kind of talk is that, John?" Grace Lynton demanded. "There's
nothing unmanly about a genius, in any field."
"No, I suppose not. But I wouldn't want him to be a poet or a painter.
They just stand back and observe life and I'd like to see my son wade
in fighting."
The daylight outside had started fading before Lynton and his wife had
returned indoors. But now the quickly-arriving Mars' night was almost
at hand, and the twilight had deepened outside and was giving way to
complete darkness at the edge of the desert.
The two adults and four children seated about the table hadn't once
glanced toward the window, for the food and contentious conversation
had absorbed all of their attention.
It was Thomas who saw the light first, flickering on and off close to
the shed. He had always wanted, deep down, in a secret way that he
had never dared to discuss with anyone, to be an artist and paint at
least a hundred pictures that would show the people who looked at them
exactly what life on Mars was like. And his father's gaze, trained
upon him in such a steady way, had made him squirm inwardly, as if his
secret might at any moment be exposed. To avoid his father's gaze he'd
looked straight out the window and seen the strange light flickering on
and off.
"Dad!" he said.
"What is it, son?"
"There's a light moving around out in the yard, close to the shed."
If Thomas had suddenly toppled over dead his father could not have
leapt up from the table with more horror in his eyes.
"Why ... why ... Good God! Wendel wouldn't go _that_ far! It would be
an act of madness!"
"John, you don't think--"
Thomas' mother was on her feet too now, her face drained of all color,
her eyes darting to the window and back to the tight-lipped, violently
trembling man at the head of the table. John Lynton's face had gone as
white as her own.
For a minute Thomas thought that his father was going to rush right out
into the yard and grab hold of the intruder, as fast as he'd leapt up
from the table. Then he saw he'd guessed wrong about that.
Lynton crossed the room in five long strides, swung open the weapon
locker and grabbed hold of a holstered hand-gun instead. He strapped
the holster to his waist before whipping out the weapon and snapping
off the safety mechanism.
He was starting for the door when Grace Lynton called out warningly:
"John, don't! _John!_"
He swung about, staring at her in consternation. "Don't what? If
they've tampered with those cylinders I'll make sure they won't live to
blow up another man's home--or half the Colony!"
"You can't blast them down!" Her voice rose shrilly. "No, John! A
hand-gun blast that close to a fuel cylinder would set off a chain
reaction--"
"No, it won't. The blast is channeled. Don't be a fool, Grace. I know
what I'm doing."
"You're the fool! You'll get us all killed!"
"If they've tampered with just one of those cylinders we won't have to
worry about what a hand-gun blast will do. But they won't save their
own skins before the _big_ blast hits us. That's one thing I can make
sure of."
He turned and was gone. She started to follow him out into the yard,
but became aware of how dangerous that would be just in time. If she
followed her husband the children would almost certainly follow her,
for she couldn't order them to stay indoors and hope to be obeyed.
She rushed to the window and stared out, her face pressed to the pane.
She could feel Thomas pressing close to her--or was it Hedy or Susan?
There was a heaviness in his body which made her almost sure it was
Thomas. But that meant nothing, because she loved all of her children
equally.
Suddenly she was sure it was Thomas, because he was speaking to her.
"Take it easy, Mom! Dad'll take care of whoever it is. He's got a
hand-gun to protect him."
"Oh, I know he has!" she wanted to scream. "It will be a beautiful way
of protecting us all ... by sending us straight into eternity. God,
dear God, don't let him blast. Don't--"
The blast came then, lighting up the darkness outside, making the
windowpanes rattle. For an instant Grace Lynton could see her husband
clearly, standing by the shed with a white flare spreading outward from
his shoulders.