Scat felt a black pincher lightly touch his shoulder. "Don't mope,
Scat. I get a great kick out of going contrary to your orders;
after all, it's my badge of enlightenment. Most Martians are too
obliging--it's our great racial sin. Works all right when everybody's
telepathic--thought-pressure keeps the potential transgressor against
social welfare in line. But when a telepathic race comes up against a
non-telepathic one--ouch! Then the thought-pressure is all going one
way. Our Golden Rule worked on Mars, but it sure got us into trouble
here."
* * * * *
That evening, while Scat was having his last smoke, he wished that Len
were there to chin with. He kept wondering, profitlessly, how long
the regional court would hold out against the pressure Kemmerdygn was
undoubtedly bringing to bear. Vacillating governments were the curse of
eras like this--rather, the inevitable accompaniment. He wondered if
there would be a civil war and to what degree he would be responsible
for it. Tonight it was hard to dodge that question.
The talk-see button flashed, as he'd been expecting it to. This time
the screen didn't stay completely dark. A wavering "X" glowed there.
Black paper painted with phosphorescence and clapped over the screen at
their end, he judged.
"Jonas Scatterday, you have disregarded our advice," came the whisper.
"That is unwise. Your time-allotment is almost up. This is the last
warning."
Scat wondered if he ought to have the call traced. Fat chance, with all
the talk-see operators locals. Still, for the sake of the record ...
but he felt tired.
* * * * *
Sometime that night Click-Click departed, but Len got back with the
replacement in time for the morning edition. Afterwards he showed Scat
a big ugly splotch on the tail of the truck where squirt gun corrosive
was eating in.
"Tried to stop me on the way back just outside Bronsco," he explained
as he swabbed on the decontamination fluid. "Had a barricade up, but I
gunned my jets and managed to jump it."
He went on swabbing. "You know," he said reflectively, "the only good
sign I've noticed in this burg so far is that the kids aren't bothering
us so much. Maybe it's because we're running _Space Pals_ and
_In the Days of the Airplane_. Those're a lot better than the
crummy comics Donnolan was feeding them."
Scat laughed mirthlessly. "And maybe it's just because they've stepped
back to give their parents a chance."
Pessimism wasn't usually Scat's forte, but he'd just reached the mental
conclusion that it would be three days before the regional court would
weaken and give Kemmerdygn--and the Mystic X--what amounted to carte
blanche to handle the _Newsbeam_ situation any way they wanted to.
Actually, his guess was a day short. But that was no satisfaction;
they were miserable days, all four of them. Days of feeling that there
was no use beaming the news, because no one would watch it anyway. A
steady stream of cancelled subscriptions--sets coming back for refund.
Complaints. Threats from various sources. Attacks on their Martians.
Nuisances, like putting stench gas in the ventilators while they were
beaming an edition. No word from Click-Click, though Scat drove one of
the Martians past Bugtown to try to pick up something on the grapevine.
Fruitless conferences with the officers of the _Free Martian_ and
members of the Martian Lobby--they were moving heaven and earth to keep
the regional court in line, but it showed signs of wavering.
Most of all, the feeling that a wall was being built around the
_Newsbeam_, shutting it off from the rest of the world. You
couldn't see that wall, but everywhere in Bronsco you could touch it.
* * * * *
Late afternoon the fourth day, while they were getting out the evening
edition, the wall was completed. Beam power went.
Len tried to flash the repair offices. The talk-see was dead.
"Looks like this is it," he told Scat.
Scat nodded. "Now look here. Len ..." he began.
A half hour later he was still trying to persuade Len to take the boys
in the truck and make a run for it, when the spokesman of the Young
Freeworkers stumbled into the office.
"Ran the slidewalks to warn you, Mr. Scatterday," he panted. "Mystic
X. They're planning to get you tonight. Everybody's whispering.
There's a lot of cars in the air, and they got big guards on all the
trafficways--some of 'em are blocked off."
"What'd I tell you?" crowed Len. "We couldn't have got out anyway."
This was it all right, thought Scat. The regional court had knuckled
under; the _Newsbeam_ was finished. Kemmerdygn's victory was so
complete that they were being saved up as a kind of tidbit for the
Mystic X.
Just like the Martian Clinic in Scarnston.
Of course, they'd known it was coming. The _Free Martian_ would
demand that the regional government send in troops to prevent violence.
Failing there, they would ship some of their own people into Bronsco.
If they could.
"Thanks for telling us, kid," said Scat. "You better beat it now. No
objections! Push him out, Len."
* * * * *
Slowly the night came down. It was like being in a fortress with the
silence, and the pocket illuminators casting a ghostly light and every
now and then one of the Martians clicking a terse report. Scat's stump
bothered him.
Gradually a crowd gathered, outside the range of Martian telepathy, but
inside perception.
"Mostly pensioners, but some bug guard," one of the Martians coded.
"Donnolan's there, and...." He ticked off the names of a half dozen
fairly prominent Bronsco figures. "Hold on; there's a new contingent
moving in; they're wearing masks."
The talk-see began to work again. "Jonas Scatterday and Len Cutt, we're
giving you one more chance. We want all of you outside. You two come
out with your hands in the air, your bugs on all fours."
"We don't propose to die so quietly," Scat answered. "If you want us,
come get us. I intend to defend my property. We're armed--_all_ of
us."
Arming bugs! If they'd had any chance, that action had queered it.
The minutes dragged. From somewhere a pellet gun opened up and began
to rattle interminably against the glastic. Len began to swear in a
low, steady voice. The Martians moved their guns around as if admiring
the internal workmanship. Scat realized that he was tapping out "Come
on, Come on," in Martian code over and over again with his duraplast
fingers.
"There's a new bunch joined them," a Martian informed him finally.
"They seem to be arguing. I don't know about what--too far. They're
moving off!"
"Kemmerdygn Interests calling Mr. Scatterday."
They all started at that musical voice--even the Martians. Scat jumped
for the desk and flipped on the screen. He recognized the secretary he
had conferred with.
"Mr. Kemmerdygn hopes you haven't suffered any unpleasantness," she
informed him smilingly. "He took steps as soon as he heard you were
in trouble. He particularly desires you to resume publication of the
evening edition of the _Newsbeam_. Oh, and about that article
you were planning. He would like to confer on it at some later date.
You _will_ finish beaming the evening edition, won't you? Good
evening."
As she flashed off, Len began to swear again, but in a different vein.
"There's more in this than ..." Scat began. "... but we got tapes to
beam. Get going!"
* * * * *
He didn't return until after the _Newsbeam_ had been put to bed.
There was a black figure sitting at his desk.
"Click-Click!"
"Absolutely." The Martian waved his pinchers airily--a startlingly
human gesture. "You probably guessed what happened, but I thought maybe
you'd want a personal report. The Martians at Ten Mile struck--every
last one of them. Almost unprecedented, but not quite."
And with those government contracts hanging over his head, Kemmerdygn
couldn't afford to lose half a day, Scat appended mentally.
"I won't say that I didn't have anything to do with it," Click-Click
continued. "I kept the old grapevine humming. But most of the credit
goes to the Martian Tape. The Martians were wild when it wasn't
published today--especially because it carried the answers to
yesterday's puzzles. Even Kemmerdygn couldn't figure out that one.
They're going back to work now, but I imagine they'll be a long time
forgetting this initial lesson in self-assertion."
Scat looked down at Click-Click. He grabbed his pincher and squeezed
it--hard. Click-Click squeezed back--harder. But since it was Scat's
duraplast hand, it didn't matter.