The road to Ul was paved with danger, difficulty,
and good intentions--and it's an open question
which of the three was most disastrous!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity Science Fiction, June 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I ran a story the other day about the arrival on Earth of a Martian
diplomat and his wife. And I okayed a picture of the lady presiding
over a tea at the Martian embassy. I looked at the picture for quite
a while. The lady in her costume, fresh from the Couture Syndicate in
Rio, was a carbon copy of every other woman. What was different about
her was no longer very different. It was sad, and it was frightening,
too.
It took me back to the days when Deborah and I were pioneering in the
gloomy bureau Universal News had set up in Marsport. I remember the
biggest story we ever covered; it was the only one we never wrote. And
I've been waiting for a time when I could break it because sooner or
later you can take the lid off anything. It illustrates a point I try
to make when I can.
In the early days we were frequently involved in Martian difficulties.
It was partly through genuine concern for their welfare; we liked the
Martians without question. But it was also, curiously, motivated by an
almost adolescent eagerness to demonstrate efficiency and speed and
worth to a people who remained friendly and grateful but aloof and
paternally amused by our energies.
This story started as suddenly and simply as most disasters usually
strike on Mars, or anywhere. A news flash was relayed in from an
interior hill community, Faleeng, to our Marsport office. The news
flash to Universal News came almost simultaneously with the official
SOS.
Disaster had struck a small community of Martians in the Ul
Mountains--a mining region, remote and inaccessible to the Martian land
machines. Power failure threatened the colony of 2,000 with extinction.
Intense cold was slowly, inexorably moving in from the cheerless
sandstone hills from which Ul had been carved.
It was top news as it stood, but there was an additional detail that
made it a real 72-point type headline, a screamer. Ul was the seat of
Martian diranium mining operations. And Mars ran on diranium ore and
whatever it was that the Martians did with it.
We didn't know anything about diranium then and the Martians kept
it that way. We had nothing like it and it drew the con boys like a
magnet. But fruitlessly. Ambassador Ferne, a real level guy with the
Martians, made sure nothing like diranium ever left in anyone's carpet
bag. Our relations with the Martians were smooth, as a result. There
was really nothing else we wanted from them.
Except maybe to see what their women looked like, and, oh yes, their
children. No ancient system of purdah was ever stricter. They were
inflexible on the subject. They had not only instituted elaborate
precautions for keeping their women invisible, it was, also, distinctly
a breach of good manners to mention them. We had been given a rough
idea of the methods the Martians employed in rearing children, but
while it excited a lot of psychologist chaps with its novelty, we were
still frustrated and speculative about their female relations. Who must
have been a pretty attractive and exotic lot, to judge by their men.
But you couldn't, if you were decent, do anything but defer to the
Martians in the matter. They were wonderful people, honest, friendly
and with no ax to grind. They invariably brought out your best without
any seeming effort. They made you examine into your motives, and the
darker nooks and crannies of your far-from-perfect-soul.
Consequently, the Ul disaster packed a real wallop for us.
* * * * *
When the Martian authorities got the news from Ul they appealed to
Ferne for assistance. The U.F.S. Rocket Auxiliary was the fastest
transportation available on Mars, faster than anything the Martians
had. The Ambassador ordered the rocket fleet to assist in the immediate
evacuation of stricken Ulans to Marsport medical stations.
In addition a team of Martian and Earth Federation technicians boarded
the lead ship, _Electra_. Equipment, food and medical supplies were
crowded into the remaining ships. And a large fleet of Martian land
machines went into action. The land machines were like enormous onyx
bowling balls, rolling heavily but smoothly on bands of gripper treads.
They would go as far as they could into the hills, and the clumsy,
short-hop Martian _wings_ would make the rest of the trip to Ul.
Of course the monster maw of public interest on Earth devoured the
first news like a cocktail sandwich and clamored hungrily for more.
In those days news from Mars took priority. The New York bureau of
Universal News was explicit about wanting full coverage--and pictures.
And this was where Deborah Wayne first came into the
picture--unfortunately. Deborah was a nice girl, a bright girl, and
brilliant with her super-speed, super-sensitive cameras. But I think,
now, that the psychologist who screened her for that career was drunk.
She was supposed to be ready to cope with the rigors and exigencies of
the frontier. But in the showdown she turned out to be a sentimental
slob who all but got us kicked off Mars.
I didn't think about Debby when the news first broke. I might never
have thought of her myself, but the New York bureau did. When their
orders came in on the Spacetron, the message link between Earth and
Marsport, I was alone in our office with Charley Ray of Galactic News.
I read him the tape as it came off the machine.
QUOTE PROSTEVELASKER EXWILSON COLON UNPICKLE SELF AND SUBQUOTE
TALENT UNSUBQUOTE FOR FULLEST DISASTER COVERAGE WITH PICTURES
PERIOD OFFER WAYNE BONUS IF DANGEROUS PERIOD REQUIRE LEAD FOR
BLUELINE CASTS AND FULLEST UL BACKGROUNDING END UNQUOTE
"And where do you suppose Debby is?" Charley said. "To think I could
have forgotten her!"
"Debby!" I said. "Pictures!" I was thinking that the insatiable human
glut for horror and tragedy was a pretty sad and unchanging constant in
our Earth civilization.
"They want a real production," I said bitterly. "With a gallon count on
the blood running in the streets."
"And you get paid for counting it accurately," Charley said. "We got an
hour. Feel noble when we're comfortable. And on our way. With Debby. I
won't go without her. Mad about the girl."
"Mad," I agreed. "You'd better call our office and then check with
Ferne's office on which crate we get to ride in. While I try to locate
that two-legged witch."
Kibby came in. He was relief man and almost always shrouded in an
alcoholic fog from which the cleanest, clearest prose emerged. He
nodded at us, noticed we were looking less bored than usual and picked
up the tape for the answer. He groaned. "You mean I have to _work_ this
morning? With this head? Background on Ul! The rockpile of Mars."
"Yop," I told him. "SOS came in a couple of hours ago to the
communications center. Galactic and Universal got the flash from the
stringer in Faleeng, the nearest point to Ul. Sounds real rough out
there. And interesting. This is the closest we've ever come to their
diranium. But first I have to find Debby."
As I talked, I was looking over a list of stations.
"Ruin my day, altogether," Kibby muttered.
"Try the _Celestial_. She said she was doing a film on those historic
ruins outside of Marsport. The _Celestial's_ the only dump you can stay
in out there."