PREFERMENT
Three weeks passed rapidly. I had mastered enough of the Barsoomian
tongue to enable me to converse with my host in a reasonably
satisfactory manner, and I was also progressing slowly in the mastery of
the written language of his nation, which is different, of course, from
the written language of all other Barsoomian nations, though the spoken
language of all is identical. In these three weeks I had learned much of
the strange place in which I was half guest and half prisoner and of my
remarkable host-jailer, Ras Thavas, the old surgeon of Toonol, whom I
had accompanied almost constantly day after day until gradually there
had unfolded before my astounded faculties an understanding of the
purposes of the institution over which he ruled and in which he laboured
practically alone; for the slaves and attendants that served him were
but hewers of wood and carriers of water. It was his brain alone and his
skill that directed the sometimes beneficent, the sometimes malevolent,
but always marvellous activities of his life’s work.
Ras Thavas himself was as remarkable as the things he accomplished. He
was never intentionally cruel; he was not, I am sure, intentionally
wicked. He was guilty of the most diabolical cruelties and the basest of
crimes; yet in the next moment he might perform a deed that if
duplicated upon Earth would have raised him to the highest pinnacle of
man’s esteem. Though I know that I am safe in saying that he was never
prompted to a cruel or criminal act by base motives, neither was he ever
urged to a humanitarian one by high motives. He had a purely scientific
mind entirely devoid of the cloying influences of sentiment, of which he
possessed none. His was a practical mind, as evidenced by the enormous
fees he demanded for his professional services; yet I know that he would
not operate for money alone and I have seen him devote days to the study
of a scientific problem the solution of which could add nothing to his
wealth, while the quarters that he furnished his waiting clients were
overflowing with wealthy patrons waiting to pour money into his coffers.
His treatment of me was based entirely upon scientific requirements. I
offered a problem. I was either, quite evidently, not a Barsoomian at
all, or I was of a species of which he had no knowledge. It therefore
best suited the purposes of science that I be preserved and studied. I
knew much about my own planet. It pleased Ras Thavas’ scientific mind to
milk me of all I knew in the hope that he might derive some suggestion
that would solve one of the Barsoomian scientific riddles that still
baffle their savants; but he was compelled to admit that in this respect
I was a total loss, not alone because I was densely ignorant upon
practically all scientific subjects, but because the learned sciences on
Earth have not advanced even to the swaddling-clothes stage as compared
with the remarkable progress of corresponding activities on Mars. Yet he
kept me by him, training me in many of the minor duties of his vast
laboratory. I was entrusted with the formula of the “embalming fluid”
and taught how to withdraw a subject’s blood and replace it with this
marvellous preservative that arrests decay without altering in the
minutest detail the nerve or tissue structure of the body. I learned
also the secret of the few drops of solution which, added to the
rewarmed blood before it is returned to the veins of the subject,
revitalizes the latter and restores to normal and healthy activity each
and every organ of the body.
He told me once why he had permitted me to learn these things that he
had kept a secret from all others, and why he kept me with him at all
times in preference to any of the numerous individuals of his own race
that served him and me in lesser capacities both day and night.
“Vad Varo,” he said, using the Barsoomian name that he had given me
because he insisted that my own name was meaningless and impractical,
“for many years I have needed an assistant, but heretofore I have never
felt that I had discovered one who might work here for me wholeheartedly
and disinterestedly without ever having reason to go elsewhere or to
divulge my secrets to others. You, in all Barsoom, are unique—you have
no other friend or acquaintance than myself. Were you to leave me you
would find yourself in a world of enemies, for all are suspicious of a
stranger. You would not survive a dozen dawns and you would be cold and
hungry and miserable—a wretched outcast in a hostile world. Here you
have every luxury that the mind of man can devise or the hand of man
produce, and you are occupied with work of such engrossing interest that
your every hour must be fruitful of unparalleled satisfaction. There is
no selfish reason, therefore, why you should leave me and there is every
reason why you should remain. I expect no loyalty other than that which
may be prompted by egoism. You make an ideal assistant, not only for the
reasons I have just given you, but because you are intelligent and
quick-witted, and now I have decided, after observing you carefully for
a sufficient time, that you can serve me in yet another capacity—that
of personal bodyguard.
“You may have noticed that I alone of all those connected with my
laboratory am armed. This is unusual upon Barsoom, where people of all
classes, and all ages and both sexes habitually go armed. But many of
these people I could not trust armed as they would slay me; and were I
to give arms to those whom I might trust, who knows but that the others
would obtain possession of them and slay me, or even those whom I had
trusted turn against me, for there is not one who might not wish to go
forth from this place back among his own people—only you, Vad Varo, for
there is no other place for you to go. So I have decided to give you
weapons.
“You saved my life once. A similar opportunity might again present
itself. I know that, being a reasoning and reasonable creature, you will
not slay me, for you have nothing to gain and everything to lose by my
death, which would leave you friendless and unprotected in a world of
strangers where assassination is the order of society and natural death
one of the rarest of phenomena. Here are your arms.” He stepped to a
cabinet which he unlocked, displaying an assortment of weapons, and
selected for me a long-sword, a short-sword, a pistol and a dagger.
“You seem sure of my loyalty, Ras Thavas,” I said.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I am only sure that I know perfectly where
your interests lie—sentimentalists have words: love, loyalty,
friendship, enmity, jealousy, hate, a thousand others; a waste of
words—one word defines them all: self-interest. All men of intelligence
realize this. They analyse an individual and by his predilections and
his needs they classify him as friend or foe, leaving to the weak-minded
idiots who like to be deceived the drooling drivel of sentiment.”
I smiled as I buckled my weapons to my harness, but I held my peace.
Nothing could be gained by arguing with the man and, too, I felt quite
sure that in any purely academic controversy I should get the worst of
it; but many of the matters of which he had spoken had aroused my
curiosity and one had reawakened in my mind a matter to which I had
given considerable thought. While partially explained by some of his
remarks I still wondered why the red-man from whom I had rescued him had
seemed so venomously bent upon slaying him the day of my advent upon
Barsoom, and so, as we sat chatting after our evening meal, I asked him.
“A sentimentalist,” he said. “A sentimentalist of the most pronounced
type. Why that fellow hated me with a venom absolutely unbelievable by
any of the reactions of a trained, analytical mind such as mine; but
having witnessed his reactions I become cognizant of a state of mind
that I cannot of myself even imagine. Consider the facts. He was the
victim of assassination—a young warrior in the prime of life,
possessing a handsome face and a splendid physique. One of my agents
paid his relatives a satisfactory sum for the corpse and brought it to
me. It is thus that I obtain practically all of my material. I treated
it in the manner with which you are familiar. For a year the body lay in
the laboratory, there being no occasion during that time that I had use
for it; but eventually a rich client came, a not overly prepossessing
man of considerable years. He had fallen desperately in love with a
young woman who was attended by many handsome suitors. My client had
more money than any of them, more brains, more experience, but he lacked
the one thing that each of the others had that always weighs heavily
with the undeveloped, unreasoning, sentiment-ridden minds of young
females—good looks.
“Now 378-J-493811-P had what my client lacked and could afford to
purchase. Quickly we reached an agreement as to price and I transferred
the brain of my rich client to the head of 378-J-493811-P and my client
went away and for all I know won the hand of the beautiful moron; and
378-J-493811-P might have rested on indefinitely upon his ersite slab
until I needed him or a part of him in my work, had I not, merely by
chance, selected him for resurgence because of an existing need for
another male slave.
“Mind you now, the man had been murdered. He was dead. I bought and paid
for the corpse and all there was in it. He might have lain dead forever
upon one of my ersite slabs had I not breathed new life into his dead
veins. Did he have the brains to view the transaction in a wise and
dispassionate manner? He did not. His sentimental reactions caused him
to reproach me because I had given him another body, though it seemed to
me that, looking at the matter from a standpoint of sentiment, if one
must, he should have considered me as a benefactor for having given him
life again in a perfectly healthy, if somewhat used, body.
“He had spoken to me upon the subject several times, begging me to
restore his body to him, a thing of which, of course, as I explained to
him, was utterly out of the question unless chance happened to bring to
my laboratory the corpse of the client who had purchased his carcass—a
contingency quite beyond the pale of possibility for one as wealthy as
my client. The fellow even suggested that I permit him to go forth and
assassinate my client, bringing the body back that I might reverse the
operation and restore his body to his brain. When I refused to divulge
the name of the present possessor of his body he grew sulky, but until
the very hour of your arrival, when he attacked me, I did not suspect
the depth of his hate complex.
“Sentiment is indeed a bar to all progress. We of Toonol are probably
less subject to its vagaries than most other nations upon Barsoom, but
yet most of my fellow countrymen are victims of it in varying degrees.
It has its rewards and compensations, however. Without it we could
preserve no stable form of government and the Phundahlians, or some
other people, would overrun and conquer us; but enough of our lower
classes have sentiment to a sufficient degree to give them loyalty to
the Jeddak of Toonol and the upper classes are brainy enough to know
that it is to their own best interests to keep him upon his throne.
“The Phundahlians, upon the other hand, are egregious sentimentalists,
filled with crass stupidities and superstitions, slaves to every variety
of brain withering conceit. Why the very fact that they keep the old
termagant, Xaxa, on the throne brands them with their stupid idiocy. She
is an ignorant, arrogant, selfish, stupid, cruel virago, yet the
Phundahlians would fight and die for her because her father was Jeddak
of Phundahl. She taxes them until they can scarce stagger beneath their
burden, she misrules them, exploits them, betrays them, and they fall
down and worship at her feet. Why? Because her father was Jeddak of
Phundahl and his father before him and so on back into antiquity;
because they are ruled by sentiment rather than reason; because their
wicked rulers play upon this sentiment.
“She had nothing to recommend her to a sane person—not even beauty. You
know, you saw her.”
“I saw her?” I demanded.
“You assisted me the day that we gave her old brain a new casket—the
day you arrived from what you call your Earth.”
“She! That old woman was Jeddara of Phundahl?”
“That was Xaxa,” he assured me.
“Why, you did not accord her the treatment that one of the Earth would
suppose would be accorded a ruler, and so I had no idea that she was
more than a rich old woman.”
“I am Ras Thavas,” said the old man. “Why should I incline the head to
any other? In my world nothing counts but brain and in that respect, and
without egotism, I may say that I acknowledge no superior.”
“Then you are not without sentiment,” I said, smiling. “You acknowledge
pride in your intellect!”
“It is not pride,” he said, patiently, for him, “it is merely a fact
that I state. A fact that I should have no difficulty in proving. In all
probability I have the most highly developed and perfectly functioning
mind among all the learned men of my acquaintance, and reason indicates
that this fact also suggests that I possess the most highly developed
and perfectly functioning mind upon Barsoom. From what I know of Earth
and from what I have seen of you, I am convinced that there is no mind
upon your planet that may even faintly approximate in power that which I
have developed during a thousand years of active study and research.
Rasoom (Mercury) or Cosoom (Venus) may possibly support intelligences
equal to or even greater than mine. While we have made some study of
their thought waves, our instruments are not yet sufficiently developed
to more than suggest that they are of extreme refinement, power and
flexibility.”
“And what of the girl whose body you gave to the Jeddara?” I asked,
irrelevantly, for my mind could not efface the memory of that sweet body
that must, indeed, have possessed an equally sweet and fine brain.
“Merely a subject! Merely a subject!” he replied with a wave of his
hand.
“What will become of her?” I insisted.
“What difference does it make?” he demanded. “I bought her with a batch
of prisoners of war. I do not even recall from what country my agent
obtained them, or from whence they originated. Such matters are of no
import.”
“She was alive when you bought her?” I demanded.
“Yes. Why?”
“You—er—ah—killed her, then?”
“Killed her! No; I preserved her. That was some ten years ago. Why
should I permit her to grow old and wrinkled? She would no longer have
the same value then, would she? No, I preserved her. When Xaxa bought
her she was just as fresh and young as the day she arrived. I kept her a
long time. Many women looked at her and wanted her face and figure, but
it took a Jeddara to afford her. She brought the highest price that I
have ever been paid.
“Yes, I kept her a long time, but I knew that some day she would bring
my price. She was indeed beautiful and so sentiment has its uses—were
it not for sentiment there would be no fools to support this work that I
am doing, thus permitting me to carry on investigations of far greater
merit. You would be surprised, I know, were I to tell you that I feel
that I am almost upon the point of being able to produce rational human
beings through the action upon certain chemical combinations of a group
of rays probably entirely undiscovered by your scientists, if I am to
judge by the paucity of your knowledge concerning such things.”
“I would not be surprised,” I assured him. “I would not be surprised by
anything that you might accomplish.”