Oh, how decadent these Martians were! Burke,
Barnes and the rest of the Conquerors laughed
loudly at the dusty shrines, those crude and
homely temples in the desert. More softly laughed
the Martians, who dreamed of laughing last....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1950.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
When the Martians had built the village of Kinkaaka there had been
water in the canal, a cool, level sweep of green water from the
northern icecap. Now there was none, and Kinkaaka clung to the upper
swell of the bank and curved its staggered residential terraces like
tragic brows over the long slope of sand and clay, the dead wall
baked criss-cross by the sun, that bore at its deep juncture with the
opposite bank the pitiful, straggling trench cut by Mars' last moving
waters an untold time ago.
Kinkaaka's other side, away from the canal, was coated rust-red by
the desert winds that came with sunset. Here were the crumbling
market arenas of the ancient traders, the great mounds of underground
warehouses long empty; and here now, with Mars' conquest, was
the "native" section into whose sandstone huts the village's few
inhabitants were shoved firmly, but not brutally, to rest when they
weren't needed to work.
Like most of the Conquerors, Jack Burke and his companions preferred
the canal side of Kinkaaka. There they could sit in the stone-cool
shade of the Expedition Restaurant and look through the broad glassless
windows down the sun-scalded canal bank, across to the opposite slope
with its dotting of nomad caves, the desert beyond and the red-tainted
blue of the sky.
"Happy day we came to Mars," said Jack Burke. He picked up his stone
mug and drank with a shudder.
He was big and brown, typical of the Conquerors, and spoke, as they
all did when within earshot of natives, the Martian dialect which the
Linguistics Squad had translated and reasoned to completion from the
pages of script found in the metal cairn, half-buried in desert sands
and upon which they had conveniently almost landed their space-cube
upon arrival two days ago.
That was one of the dicta of the Psychologists: Always speak the native
tongue, and learn it preferably from graphics or a specimen before
contacting the native collective.
There were other policies as strange, or more so; but the
Psychologists, off-world in the home-ship and poring over the
translations beamed to them, must know what they were doing.
Barnes looked up in quick response to Burke's sarcasm. Of the three
Conquerors at this table, he was the smallest. He fiddled nervously
with his one-pronged fork, turning a piece of badly cooked _huj_ over
and over, not looking at it.
"That," he said, and he included the _huj_, "is a mouthful. There
doesn't seem to be a Martian in this village who can cook worth a
damn, and you--" this to the pasty faced Martian who stood attentively
by--"are no exception. You're getting off easy with this job, Martian.
Or would you rather go back to digging up history with the rest of your
tribe?"
"I am sorry." The Martian advanced and bobbed his head. "The
preparation of your foodstuffs is difficult for me to comprehend. Would
you care to try something else, perhaps?"
Barnes skidded the fork onto the plate and put his hands flat on the
stone table. "No. Just take this away."
The Conquerors watched the creature as it moved silently off with the
plate of _huj_. All except Randolph, the youngest of the trio.
* * * * *
He sat nearest the stone-silled window, his gaze reaching out distantly
over the sandscape. On the far bank of the canal he could see a few
natives with their guards, emerging from a wood and stone structure
that thrust finger-shaped into the pink sky.
"No race should have its soul dissected," he said slowly. "Not, at
least, until they're extinct and can't feel it." He avoided Barnes'
sudden, sharp look. "Our Archaeologists over there--" pointing at the
moving dots--"are poking around in burial crypts or sacred temples or
whatever--it's like cutting someone up alive. We don't know what those
things mean to these Martians."
Barnes laughed, more of a snort. "You speak as if 'these Martians' were
people." He leaned forward and blinked his emphasis. "What in hell
ever happened to you that you've got such ideas? Primitive, misshapen
morons--you can't think of them as persons! Don't let an Intelligence
Officer hear you talking that way or you'll find yourself getting
shipped home!"
Randolph's eyes flicked Barnes' heavy face, then turned to the mural on
the restaurant wall.
"This is very beautiful," he said. He bent closer, examining the
delicate work. "This isn't moronic. You're wrong, Barnes."
Burke spoke harshly: "You'd better shut up, Randolph. You're sitting
there emoting over decadent art and there's an Intelligence Officer at
the bar."
Young Randolph stiffened and forced a smile. "Of course, the Martians
are a degenerated race. Our Archaeologists have revealed that Mars was
spiritually effeminized thousands of years ago. Our colonization will
have a reforming effect upon them. It is a healthy thing. That is our
mission in time and space."
The Martian had returned and was again standing at service. Randolph
caught his eye and flushed, returned his gaze to the mural.
Burke cleared his throat. The Intelligence Officer at the bar was still
looking icily at Randolph's back, twiddling his drink with a wooden
mixer.
"You cannot doubt," Barnes took up the fraying thread, "that our
conquest of these Martians is a very good thing. For them. I ...
for _us_, too.... That is our mission in time and space. The first
desert shrine--the metal one from which we learned this tongue we
speak--is ugly enough proof. Sheaves of manuscript, recording the most
disgusting standards and attitudes. And the contents of subsequently
found structures--like that one across the canal--show an even greater
decline into sensualism and the subjugation of creative energies."
The Martian stood quietly, his small-featured face blank and smooth. He
was meant to hear all this.
"I heard one of our Archaeologists say something about the language of
that first shrine--the metal one--being different from all the others."
Randolph shifted his great bulk to lean back against the wall. "The
others are mostly alike, but this one we learned is totally different."
The Martian's eyes flickered.
"So what?" Barnes grunted. "Dialects. Same thing at home."
"But, I mean they--"
"But what? These Martians here speak the language we learned, don't
they?"
"But--"
"Hell! Do you speak _Ahrian_?"
"You know I don't."
"So when we get through investigating here and move on to other
villages, we'll find Martians who speak the other dialects."