_One Thousand to One_
The scheme that Sira had imparted to Wasil was simple--simple and
direct. Moreover, it was sure, provided it succeeded. Its execution
was something else again. Its chances were, mathematically expressed,
about as follows:
If every single detail worked as expected, a great and smashing
success. Ratio: 1:1,000.
If one single detail failed, immediate and certain death for Wasil.
Ratio: 1,000:1.
The princess knew that the power of Wilcox, his supporting oligarchy
and the interplanetary bankers, was all based on the skilful use of
propaganda. If the people of Mars and of Earth knew the forces that
were influencing them, their revulsion would be swift and terrible.
There would be no war. There would be events painful and disastrous to
their present rulers, but a great betterment of humanity's condition.
The key to the situation was the news monopoly, the complete control
of all broadcasting--of the stereo-screens, the teletabloids--that
colored all events to suit the ends of the ruling group. The people of
Mars as well as of Earth were capable of intelligent decision, of
straight thinking, but they rarely had an opportunity to learn the
truth.
They had now, by a knowing play on their emotions, directed by
psychologists, been wrought to a point of frenzy where they demanded
war. Their motives were of the highest in many individuals--pure
patriotism, the desire to make the solar system safe for civilization.
The bright, flaming spirit of self-sacrifice burned clear above the
haze and smoke of passion.
What would happen if all these eager millions of two neighboring
planets were to learn the true state of affairs? Sira knew what
transpired in those secret conventions, when double guards stood at
all doors and at the infrequent windows; when all communication was
cut off and the twin lenses of the telestereos and the microphones
were dead. Prince Joro had told her, with weary cynicism. But Joro had
also told her that the oligarchs guarded this vital and vulnerable
point with painstaking care.
* * * * *
Sira had reached inside their first defense, however. Wasil was loyal
to his salt, but he had both loyalty and affection for Princess Sira.
As the day of the interplanetary financial conference leaped into
being, he was on his way to the executive hall that lay resplendently
on the south canal bank, ready to lay down his life.
The hall proper was really only the west wing of the magnificent,
high-arched building. Its brilliant, polished metal facade reflected
the light of the rising Sun redly. The east wing, besides housing
various minor executive offices, also contained the complicated
apparatus for handling the propaganda broadcastings. On the roof,
towering high into the air, was a huge, globular structure, divided
into numerous zones, from which were sent various wave bands to the
news screens both on Mars and on Earth. The planetary rulers had taken
no chances of tampering with their propaganda. The central offices,
where news and propaganda were dramatized, were in another building,
but as everything from that source had to pass the reviewing officer,
a trusted member of the oligarchy himself, in his locked and guarded
office, this did not introduce any danger of the wrong information
going out to the public.
When Wasil reached the broadcasting plant, he was admitted by four
armed guards. He locked the door behind him, to find his associates
already busy, testing circuits and apparatus. Stimson, the chief
engineer, was sitting at his desk studying orders.
* * * * *
A few minutes later he called the men to him. There were three others
besides Wasil: young Martians, keen, efficient, and, like most
technies, loyal to the government that employed them.
"Sure are careful to-day," Stimson grunted, scratching his snow-white
hair, which was stiffly upstanding and showed a coral tinge from his
scalp. "Must be mighty important to get this out right. Wilcox
personally wrote the order. If any man fumbles to-day, it's the polar
penal colony for him!" The Sun-loving old Martian shivered.
"And here's another bright idea. Only one man's to be allowed in the
plant after the circuits are all tested! How'n the name of Pluto will
he handle things if a fuse blows? But what do they care about that!
We're technies! We're supposed to know everything, and never have
anything go wrong!"
"But why only one man?" cried Scarba, one of the associate engineers.
"It's asking too much! I'll not take it on, far as I'm concerned. My
resignation will be ready soon's I can get a blank!"
"I too! I'm with you, Scarba!" "We work like dogs to get everything in
first-line condition, and then--" The hard-working and uncomplaining
technies were outspoken in their resentment.
"Oh, I see your point," Stimson agreed. "I could stand Balta, but
Wilcox is just one too many for me. But do you boys think for one
minute we could get away with a strike?" He laughed angrily. "I can
remember when the technies were able to demand their guild rights. But
you boys weren't even born then. Now, let's get this straight:
"We are going to do just as we are told. Wilcox, of course, never
explains an order, but the reason for having only one operator on the
job is simply to concentrate responsibility on that one man. There
will be no excuse if he fails. Before the convention starts, and after
it is over, there will be a message to send out. The convention itself
will be secret, as usual. During the convention, there will be some
kind of filler stuff from the central office."
"Yeh!" snorted one of the men. "That's the dope, all right. One of us
is stuck, but if it's me I'll walk out and head for the desert."
* * * * *
Stimson looked at him with a sardonic smile. "I forgot to mention: the
doors will be locked and barred, and of course there's no such thing
as windows."
Wasil whistled. "They're sure careful. Well, Stimson. I haven't a
thing to do all day. I'll take it on."
They all looked at him, not sure that they had heard him right.
"What's the matter, sonny?" Stimson said slowly. "Too much Merclite
last night? You're shaking!"
"It's an opening!" Wasil insisted.
"An opening to tramp ice at the pole for the rest of your life!"
"All right. I'll chance it!"
They consented, without very much argument, to let Wasil have the
dangerous responsibility. At 2:30, two and a half hours after sunrise
by the Martian reckoning, he signed a release acknowledging all
circuits to be in proper order, and was locked behind the heavy doors,
alone with a maze of complicated apparatus and cables that filled the
large room from floor to ceiling.
Now it was done! Chance had thrown Wasil into a position where he
could, without great danger of failure, carry out his plan. But at the
same time things had so fallen that he, Wasil, must now die,
regardless of the outcome!
If he succeeded in broadcasting the proceedings of the convention, and
if they had the effect of arousing the public against Wilcox, there
would still be no escape for Wasil. Wilcox, or Scar Balta, would come
straight for this prison, neuro-pistol or needle-ray in hand!
Even if he should fail, death would be his portion for the attempt.
* * * * *
So thinking, Wasil sat down and carefully re-checked the circuits. The
filler broadcast from central office must be sent to the twin cities
of Tarog. Otherwise the convention would learn too soon what was
happening, and would interrupt its business. The thousands who waited
outside on the broad terraces must be regaled with entertainment, as
had been originally planned.
But as for the rest of Mars, and Earth, they would get the truth for
once. Those bankers would speak frankly, in the snug isolation of the
hall. No supervision here. Conventions, empty politeness, would be
forgotten. Sharp tirades, biting facts, threats, veiled and open,
would pass across the table between these masters of money and men.
But this time they would be pitilessly bared to the worlds!
Feverishly, Wasil inspected the repeater. It was a little-used device
that would, an hour or two later, as desired, give out the words and
pictures fed into it. Although Tarog would not learn the convention's
secrets as quickly as the rest of Mars, or Earth, Tarog would learn.
Wasil threw over the links and clamped down the bolts with a grunt of
satisfaction. When a man is about to die, he wants to do his last job
well.
Suddenly a red light glowed, and a voice spoke.
"Special broadcast. Tarog circuit only!"
"Mornin', Lennings," Wasil remarked to the face in the screen. "All
set? Go ahead."
The central office man held up a thick bundle of I. P. scrip, smiled
pleasantly, saying:
"Somebody in North or South Tarog, or in the surrounding territory, is
going to be 100,000 I. P. dollars richer by to-morrow. How would you
like to have 100,000 dollars? You all would like this reward. It
represents the price of a snug little space cruiser for your family; a
new home on the canal; maybe an island of your own. It would take you
on a trip to the baths of Venus and leave you some money over. Of
course you all want this reward!
"Now, if you'll excuse me a moment--"
* * * * *
The man's picture faded, and the screen glowed with the life and
beauty of Princess Sira--Sira, smiling and alluring.
"You all know this young lady," the announcer's voice went on. "The
beloved and lovable Sweetheart of Mars, the bride of Scar Balta--"
The Martian's sleek and well-groomed head appeared beside that of the
girl.
"--Scar Balta, whose services to Mars have been great beyond his
years; who, in the threatening war with Earth, would be one of our
greatest bulwarks of security."
The announcer's face appeared again, stern and sorrowful.
"A great disaster has befallen these lovers--and all the world loves a
lover, you know. Some thugs, believed by the police to be terrestrial
spies, have kidnapped the princess from the palace of her uncle,
Prince Joro of Hanlon. It is believed that they had drugged her and
hypnotized her, so that she has forgotten her duty to her lover and
her country."
The green light flashed, and Wasil broke the circuit. The central man
lingered a moment, favoring Wasil with a long wink.
"What a liar you're getting to be!" Wasil remarked coldly. But the
central man, not offended, laughed.
So they were offering a reward! And urging further treachery as an act
of patriotism! Wasil was not too much excited, however. The disguise
the princess had chosen would probably serve her well. Besides, she
had promised to keep in retirement as much as possible.
_Clack! Clack!_ The electrically controlled lock of the door was
opening. Only Wilcox knew the wave combination. Wasil felt a chill of
apprehension as the door opened and Scar Balta strode in. He was fully
armed, dressed in the military uniform; but the former colonel was now
wearing on his shoulder straps the concentric rings denoting a
general's rank.