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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3fe7816 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64782 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64782) diff --git a/old/64782-0.txt b/old/64782-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 07b78fe..0000000 --- a/old/64782-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1434 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Madmen of Mars, by Erik Fennel - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Madmen of Mars - -Author: Erik Fennel - -Release Date: March 10, 2021 [eBook #64782] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADMEN OF MARS *** - - - - - MADMEN OF MARS - - By ERIK FENNEL - - Why do the Martians drink red wine, swagger - about, spout vile poetry and fight endless duels - with each other? How did Terence Michael Burke - change their minds about invading the Earth? - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Planet Stories Spring 1950. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - -All this time we've kept quiet as a whole cageful of mice. And with -good reason. During the Big Scare, while everyone was afraid that -the Exclusion Ultimatum meant the Martians wanted an interplanetary -war, the Earth Governments would have been only too ready to hang, -shoot, stab, gas, electrocute, freeze, burn, poison, impale and/or -defenestrate the dastardly culprits responsible. If they could have -discovered who did what to whom. They didn't savvy Marties then--and -still don't. - -But we are lucky. The Marties never explained why they called home -their Cultural Emissaries, abandoned space travel, cut off Luminophone -contact and excluded Earthmen and Earth ships from Mars. They couldn't, -because they themselves weren't sure what had happened. And amid the -confusion on Earth the last Mars transit of the spaceship _Banshee_ -escaped official attention, which was largely due to Polly's good -sense in making Mike see he'd better keep his big mouth shut. Our story -would only have caused us trouble, even after the Scare died down. - -All that was five years ago, but we still thought it best to keep -still when this rather surprising diplomatic angling for resumption -of Martio-Terran relations began just recently. The five of us were -closer to what caused the Malignant Inertia Complex than all the -big-name psychologists who have written books of wrong guesses since it -disappeared, and we could see no danger of it starting up again. Mike -was sure the Martian Thing had lost its grip. So we were willing to -let the new treaty come up for a popular vote, as all interplanetary -treaties must under the Earth Governments charter, without sticking our -oars in or our necks out. - -But last night Wild Bill Harrigan and I bumped into Miu Tlenow, a -North Venus cat-man and veteran space-hopper who had just brought the -Venusian diplomatic intermediaries from Mars to Earth for more treaty -talks. - -Naturally Bill and I were curious about what cooked on Mars. Tlenow -talked, openly puzzled, while Bill and I looked at each other and -remembered. - -I'm not mad at anyone. Not even at the Thing. Mike swears the Thing -meant no harm and the Cultural Emissaries couldn't help themselves, -and I believe him. In fact I feel rather sorry for the poor Marties -themselves. It must be tough on them to have to live with themselves -and each other. - -The psychos would probably name the Marties' current condition Acute -Virulent Mass Burke-itis and laugh it off. But the psychos don't know -Mike as Bill and I do. So Bill insists it's our duty as Earth citizens -to divulge everything, and I'm inclined to agree. The thought of a -whole planetful of Marties obsessed with Mike's sense of humor is -appalling. - -Telling this really should be Mike's job--he's the only human who -ever made contact with the Martian Thing--but he and Polly live at -Venus Central now and the Professor is out there now visiting his -grandchildren, Mike, Jr. and Bridget Dorrene. So I'm stuck. But I still -think Bill ran in his own dice when we rolled to see which of us had to -write this. - - * * * * * - -The Malignant Inertia Complex started while we were in space and -was already pretty widespread when Bill and Mike and I brought the -_Banshee_ in from a Venus haul, and during the three weeks we spent -getting ready for the Mars transit and installing the Professor's -latest special equipment I had the creeping geevils constantly. There -was a sour, stagnant undercurrent to life in Spaceport City. For once -the rowdy place was actually quiet, dead in fact, and although there -were a dozen ships in, the Ursa Major Tavern was almost deserted. - -Day and night the telaudio jabbered about the Complex, mostly learned -doctors issuing statements that it was a purely psychological -phenomenon, a sort of hysteria induced by this, that and the other -factor in a civilization altering too rapidly for human minds to adjust. - -Most of them followed the line that the disease would cure itself soon, -but behind their seven-jet words they seemed a bit uneasy themselves. -And I'll never forget the particularly learned gent who suffered an -attack right in the middle of his broadcast speech. He was talking -reassuringly when all of a sudden his voice petered out. His eyes got -all glazed and his face took on an empty look, and he sat there staring -at the mike until the control room cut him off. It gave me the shivers. - -It was like that all over Earth. Each day more and more people got -longer spells where they'd do absolutely nothing. It was raising the -very devil with organized civilization and nobody could do anything -about it. And the worst of it was that the victims didn't seem to mind. -Everything was slowing down, and it made it plenty tough to do business -with the outfits that furnished our supplies. People kept acting more -and more like zombies--or Martians. But nobody thought of connecting -the Complex with the Cultural Emissaries. - -The whole thing hit me right in my pet phobia. - - * * * * * - -Then it was blast-off morning, with me trying to keep my mind off -my phobia and those nagging fears that had nothing to do with -space-hopping. I cornered the Professor in the _Banshee's_ control room. - -"The power drain of this widget of yours has me worried," I complained. -"The secondaries are already running overloaded." - -As pilot-engineer, power was my responsibility. - -Professor Tim Harrigan looked around, but not in his usual quick, -birdlike way, and his eyes were dull. - -"I'm sorry, Olsen." His voice sounded as though something were missing. -"I haven't been able to reduce input requirements yet. The circuit -changes keep eluding me." - -Worms started squirming inside me. If the Professor, with his brilliant -brain, were getting the Complex-- - -"Polly will tell Mike to be careful of power," he tried to reassure me. - -Naturally Polly was scheduled to handle the ground end. She usually did -whenever we were testing one of the Professor's inventions. In some -ways she was more like a partner than a daughter to him. The set in the -Professor's laboratory was rigged for her, while the Hustic aboard ship -was adjusted to Mike's brain-wave pattern. - -That's right. The thing we were going to test en route to Mars was the -Harrigan Unimodulate Subetheric Telepathic Interspatial Communicator. -Yes, I know that officially the Hustic wasn't invented until nearly a -year later. Keeping it under wraps after what it did was one of our -security measures. We were afraid someone might add two and two and get -us hanged, shot, stabbed, defenestrated, etc. - -That first set was a bulky, power-hogging, spit-and-solder job -very different from the perfected, foolproof, universal-type -transceivers that have now replaced the clumsy old Luminophones on all -interplanetary routes. - -Terence Michael Burke, our red-headed astrogator, was standing as close -to Polly as he could get, and from the gleam in his eye he was quoting -some more of his abominable romantic poetry at her. But she wasn't -responding as usual. Not even blushing. She just stood there looking -pale and wan, frozen up inside. Typical symptoms of the Complex, and it -made me wince. - -Mike looked around, missed something, and turned to me. - -"Where'd you put my books?" he demanded. - -"Cargo hold," I growled at him. "Had to use that space for the Hustic -modulator." - -"Barbarian squarehead!" he yelped. - -"If you'd gas off to sleep like a human being--!" I squawked right back -at him. The Wilsons weren't warming yet, but already my nerves were -tightening up in anticipation. - -"Come on, Polly," he said. But she didn't follow him until he took her -hand. - -Mike was born in San Francisco, but he's a professional Irishman. Red -Irish. And a prolifically lousy poet. Had a picture of himself as -the spiritual descendent of Fin McCool and Francois Villon and Robin -Hood and Sir Henry Morgan and all the other poet-adventurers and -troublemakers of history. He was one of those romantics--and still is. - -When he and Polly came back a few minutes later he had his bag of books -under one arm, a smear of lipstick across his mouth, and a worried -expression on his face. That was unusual. Ordinarily Mike was too -slugnutty to worry about anything. On Polly's much prettier countenance -there was no expression at all. And that was all wrong. - -Wild Bill, Professor Harrigan's younger but larger brother and skipper -of the _Banshee_, came up from checking the drive room. - -"Final tests," he said. - -So we built up the secondaries until the whole ship howled and shrieked -with their noise. Then when the needles came over without indicating -radiation leakage we cut them to idling again. - -Polly had snapped out of her daze and was clinging to Mike. - -"I'm scared," she shouted in his ear, not realizing the noise had died. -"Think nice thoughts to me on the Hustic, Michael dearest." - -Mike's arms tightened around her. "Of course, my one and only love, -pearl of my universe and lodestar of my life. Every day." - -I didn't like that "every day" stuff. I never approved of running -secondary power-packs to the limit. But before I could say anything -Bill glanced at the chronometer. - -"Clear out and dog down," he ordered. - -Mike grabbed Polly and kissed her thoroughly, but she had gone back -into her trance and he might as well have been kissing a rag doll. That -was all wrong, too. She usually wasn't that way at all, not with Mike. -Finally the Professor shook his head as though clearing away a mental -fog, grabbed his daughter and led her out through the airlock. - -Outside, at the edge of the spaceport, one of the Martian Cultural -Emissaries was watching. Just watching. He wasn't excited or even -particularly interested by the _Banshee_ about to blast off for his -home planet, as far as Bill and I could see as we tugged on the heavy -circular door. Just standing there as though about to take root. That's -all the three hundred Cultural Emissaries who had come in from Mars a -few months before ever did. Stood around. - -That's all the Marties did on Mars, too. The first Earthmen to ground -on the Red Planet thought the Marties were incredibly dull and stupid -because of their slow reactions. They began to change their minds after -a few months contact, when the Marties copied our spaceships, adapting -them to their own peculiar physical requirements, and displayed a -disconcerting savvy in trading. But still their thoughts were alien, -and we didn't understand them. - -When the red hand touched fifteen Bill Harrigan was already in his -cushions with a sleep mask over his craggy face. I envied him, but -it was my turn to ride the chair out. Mike was in the other set of -pneumatic cushions, but he hadn't gassed out. He grinned at me. - -Then the red hand came straight up. I gritted my teeth and tripped the -master throttle of the multiplex. The seven big Wilsons hit with a -soundless shock and the _Banshee_ went out. - - * * * * * - -The first few shifts were routine. Nasty, of course. The only pleasant -part of spaceflight before the Halstead-Jenkins Mass Diminutors -replaced Wilson drivers two years ago were the off-shifts when you -could crawl into the cushions and turn on the sleep gas. Every sane and -normal spacehand gassed out as much of the time as possible. It was -safest. - -For the Wilsons radiated supersonics with a frequency somewhere in -the neighborhood of a fingernail scratching down a blackboard. Only -amplified a million, billion, jillion stinking times. - -That's why space wasn't crowded in those days, and why some of the -earlier ships didn't come back. Wilsons did something to a man's nerves -and emotions. A crew might be good friends on the ground, but that -constant barrage of driver supersonics made them hate each other as -long as they were in transit. Occasionally some poor guy would crack -wide open, go space-batty, and when that happened the victim almost -always wanted to kill his crewmates and wreck the controls. Earplugs -were useless, for you don't hear supersonics. They sneak in through -your pores and get under your toenails and even come down through the -hairs of your head. They get in everywhere. - -Whenever the auto-timer cut the gas on me and I had to go on watch I -always felt as though all the fiends of hell were digging at my nerves -with red-hot power tools. I itched inside and couldn't get at the -itches to scratch. But I was used to that. - - * * * * * - -Then, on one of my watches, the meters showed a heavy drain on the -secondaries. I wrote a note asking Mike to limit his test calls with -the Hustic, and then rewrote it six different times to keep it from -sounding too nasty. That's how you get with Wilsons running. - -On my next time up I found a sketch of myself wet-nursing the power -packs fastened to the bulkhead, and an alleged poem that was mostly -putrid puns. Mike's idea of humor. - -Out of curiosity I put on the electrode-studded Hustic helmet and -turned the set to receive. - -Wham! Stars wheeled and comets fizzed and vague dark shapes glided and -circled and balls of fire grew and exploded in showers of multicolored -sparks. - -I yanked the helmet off. But quick. - -There's really no excuse for what I did then, except that I wasn't -thinking clearly and ten days of supersonics will bring out all the -petty meanness in anyone. And I thought that for once the Professor -had missed the boat and the Hustic was a floperoo. It didn't bring in -thoughts. Just stuff, and I wasn't going to have such a no-good gadget -draining the power-packs all the way to Mars and back. I forgot that -first Hustic wasn't like a radio or these new universal models the -space liners all carry. That experimental set had to be adjusted to the -individual brain wave pattern of the operator. But I didn't remember -that. - -So I disconnected one of the power leads and removed three parts. A -curved metal bar, a small condenser, and the shield of one of the -intricate little tubes. - -I went back to sleep thinking Mike would wake me to get the parts and -we could write notes back and forth to settle the matter, forgetting -entirely how stubborn he could be. - -It was a dirty trick, but I'm glad now I did it. It helped save Earth. - - * * * * * - -Before I was fully awake I knew something was really wrong. Mike was -shaking me roughly and there was a wild gleam in his eyes. A glance -showed me he'd pulled off Bill's sleep mask too. - -"---- ---- ----!" Mike yelled, but of course I couldn't hear him. In -those Wilson-drive spaceships it was utterly impossible to talk between -blast-off and landing. - -Then he shoved a pad under my nose. - -"MARTIANS TAKING OVER!!! EARTH IN DEADLY PERIL!!!" he had written. - -Little slimy bugs with ice-cold, prickly feet marched up and down -my spine. Every man has his private, personal phobia, something -that throws him into an irrational panic, and mine has always been -lunatics. Ever since I can remember I've had a morbid fear of mental -disorders, which is why the Malignant Inertia Complex had had me so -thoroughly frightened. And now I knew the supersonics had driven Mike -space-batty. - -I didn't for a moment believe what he had written. I'd been to Mars -before, seen Marties in their home environment, slow-moving and -lethargic, entirely without initiative, completely unwarlike. - -"DISCOVERED PLOT VIA HUSTIC," Mike scribbled. - -The bugs on my spine quit parading and started running. I grabbed the -pad. - -"IMPOSSIBLE," I wrote. "HUSTIC NOT WORKING. NO GOOD. DISCONNECTED." - -Mike dived across the cabin in the light gravity, hauled himself up -neatly on a handgrip and raised the cover of the selector unit. Then he -thumbed his nose at me. - -Bill and I took a good look. That stubborn, crazy Irishman had made a -new bar to replace the one I'd hidden and cut down an empty food can as -a tube shield. - -"GOT TO TURN BACK, WARN EARTH," Mike wrote. "THE CULTURAL--" - -Bill and I looked at each other. Swinging a ship in mid-transit can be -done, but it's hardly safe or good practice. Mike was no puny infant, -and we knew we had to get him before he became really violent. - -Mike read our faces and started to draw back, but he was too late. Bill -pinioned his arms in a bear hug and I slipped a sleep mask over his -face. He struggled and tried to hold his breath, but the gas got him at -last and he went limp. - -Sadly we loaded him into the pneumatic cushions and placed the -air-release valve out of his reach. Few victims of space-battiness -ever recovered, and both of us were feeling pretty sick. Mike had been -space-hopping with us for three years, and despite his screwballisms we -liked the big lug. And we knew Polly was going to take it awfully hard. - - * * * * * - -The rest of that transit was twelve on and twelve off for Bill and me, -and every minute I was awake I was afraid I might follow Mike down -Lunacy Lane. Or that he might get loose. A couple of times we brought -him awake, but each time we were glad we'd turned extra air pressure -into his cushions. He struggled, and by watching his lips we knew he -was still raving. - -The calculations for landing spiral made us sweat. We'd left the -astrogation to Mike so completely we'd gotten rusty. We missed him even -more making contact. I had to handle both throttles and calculator -while Bill took the cumbersome Luminophone mechanism. It took hours to -line up the color-modulated beam, and then in typical Martian fashion -more hours for them to answer with a landing clearance. But at last the -_Banshee_ scrunched into the red desert just outside T'lith, and as the -Wilsons died Bill and I wiggled our fingers in our ears to get them -back to normal. - -Within a few minutes a dozen Martians were striding toward us from the -beehive-domes of their city. They came straight as though walking ruled -lines, not hurrying and not lagging, semi-human in outline and size. - -A couple of hundred feet from the ship they deployed and began to -watch. Then we could see their bulging, faceted eyes, their puckered, -three-lipped mouths and the two rodlike antennae that waved slowly -back and forth on their greenish foreheads. We didn't know then why -they watched, or who--or what--told them to watch. But always there -were a dozen on hand whenever a spaceship landed, watching in a -passive, detached way with neither approval nor disapproval in their -manner. They watched, just as the Cultural Emissaries on Earth kept an -eye on everything that happened without asking a single question or -interfering in any way that we could see. - -Bill opened the port and gobbled at the watchers in their own language, -telling them we wanted to pick up a cargo of rhudite ore and had Earth -gadgets to exchange. They didn't give any sign they heard us, but -we didn't expect them to. The answer, if it came at all, would come -minutes or even hours later. We didn't know why. Not then. We'd never -heard of the Thing. - -Bill pulled his head in again, and while we waited we turned off Mike's -sleep gas once more. This time we really had a faint hope that with the -Wilsons off he'd be himself. - -But his first words were, "Will you damned fools turn me loose? I'm not -crazy! We've got to do something, and quick. Hell, I don't want to be -like a damned Martie! They don't get any fun out of life." - -He started to kick and squirm, so we gassed him out again. It seemed -the only merciful thing to do. - -"Olsen," Bill said thoughtfully. "We can't leave him alone and one of -us has to rustle up a cargo." - -"You're elected. You know the lingo better than I do." - -"You don't mind?" - -I snorted. I wasn't any first-tripper who had to go sight-seeing. The -bleak domes of T'lith were no different from those of M'nu or V'rad or -any of the other cities. And the Marties themselves weren't my idea of -jolly companions. - -So Bill packed the saddlebags of the little sandcycle and went -sputtering off to question Marties about other Marties who might know -of still other Marties who might know what _rhudite_ was and perhaps -with enough patient prodding might divulge some method for making -a trade and getting the stuff to our ship. And each question would -take ten minutes, minimum, for an answer. The three hundred Cultural -Emissaries had been admitted to Earth on the theory that they might -pick up Earth ideas that would facilitate trading. At least that's the -story the peculiarly nebulous Martian government had given the Earth -authorities. - -After Bill left I checked Mike's pulse. It was weakening slighty from -over-anaesthesia so, much as I dreaded having a lunatic awake in the -ship with me, I had to let him recover consciousness. - -He glared at me and fought against the pneumatic cushions that held him -gently but tightly. - -"You fool!" he raved. "You abysmal idiot! Don't you realize you're -dooming Earth to an eternity of Martianization?" - -It gave me a squirmy feeling to hear him talk that way. - -"There is no war," I said soothingly, trying to reason with him. "It's -all in your head. If the Martians were attacking Earth it's only -logical they'd jump on us here and now. But you'll snap out of it when -we get you back home." - -"It isn't that kind of a war," he insisted irritably. - - * * * * * - -Finally he calmed down. But his eyes, crazy and wild, kept following me -around the room. That made me so nervous I went down and tinkered with -the engines. - -"Hey, Swede!" Mike's voice reached me after a while. "I'm thirsty." - -So I brought him a drink and fed him a sandwich bite by bite. - -"I'm okay now," he said when he had finished. "I know I blew my top, -but I'm all over that. How's about turning me loose?" - -I shook my head unhappily. He didn't even argue. - -"Then how's about reading to me?" - -"What would you like?" It was the least I could do for the poor fellow. - -So I read some of Donn Byrne's things, stuff that looks like prose -but is really poetry. Then he wanted Shakespeare's sonnets, but when -I started reading he recited them from memory, his voice half a word -ahead of mine. - -He slept a while and later I fed him again. He seemed resigned now to -staying in the cushions. - -"How's about letting me try the Hustic again?" he asked. "The Professor -wanted a planet-to-planet test, and the helmet cable will reach over -here." - -I hesitated and he glowered at me. - -"I know that Martian stuff was all a delusion," he insisted. "I'm sane -now, but if you don't let me prove it to myself once and for all I -might go off the deep end again." - -That got me. I wanted to be sure he had every chance. - -"Put back the parts you took out," he directed. - -I did. Then I stuck the helmet on his head and warmed the tubes. - -"Send," he said. I flipped the switch up and he lay there concentrating. - -"Receive," he said, his face taking on a _listening_ expression. - -"Tighten the chin strap, please," he asked. I did it. - -"Send." More concentration. - -"Receive." - -A fatuous grin lifted across his face. - -"It's Polly," he whispered. - -That made me uneasy. I thought it was just another delusion. I'd tried -the Hustic once and it hadn't worked at all. - -"See," I said. "There aren't any Martians in there. They aren't making -war on Earth." - -"Stop interrupting," he snapped. - -How much of what happened next was his own idea and how much he got -from Polly I still don't know. For minutes at a time he'd _think_ into -the machine. Then I'd switch over and he'd lie there and grin. Finally -he lay there _listening_ so long and so quietly I thought he'd gone to -sleep. I began to relax. - -Then Mike screamed and I came out of my chair like a shot. - -"Take it off! Take it off!" he shouted. "The Martians are after me!" He -shook his head but the helmet stayed on, held by the chin strap. - -I cut the main switch and the tubes went dark. - -"It's all right, Mike!" I yelled across his screaming. "It's off now!" - -"No! No! No!" he gibbered. "They're coming through the helmet! Take it -away! Take it away!" - -I knew I had to get that helmet off, much as I didn't like getting near -him. I reached for the buckle, but he kept whipping his head about so I -had trouble catching it and had to bend over him. - -Suddenly a long arm snaked around my neck and jerked me off balance. -Then a ham-sized fist clipped my chin before I could even get my guard -up. - - * * * * * - -When I came to I was in the cushions with the air turned on full. The -release valve wasn't in my hand where it should have been. - -"Mike!" I yelled. - -He put his tongue between his lips and made a rude noise. He was -patching the rubberized fabric of the other set of cushions, the ones -in which he had been confined, and on his face was that wild look I had -seen before when a good brawl was in prospect. - -"Mike!" I pleaded. "You can't do this to me!" - -"No? If Polly hadn't reminded me of this I'd be in there yet." - -He held up the shamrock good luck pin Polly had given him, a little -thing he kept pinned to his coveralls at all times. He had managed to -unfasten it and puncture the pneumatic cushions. - -But I had no good luck pin. I lay there helpless with all the stories -I'd ever heard about the supernormal cleverness of lunatics running -through my brain. I knew it would be three days, maybe four, before -Bill returned. No chance of help from him. - -Mike opened the Hustic case, whistling off key as he moved around, -and replaced the original bar and tube shield and condenser with his -homemade parts. Then he got to work on the bar with my delicate and -expensive set of instrument files ruining them completely on the soft -copper alloy. - -"Be quiet, lunatic!" he barked every time I protested. - -He spent hours filing on that bar, putting on the helmet and testing, -then filing some more. And there was absolutely nothing I could do. He -had so much air pressure in my cushions I couldn't even squirm. - -At last he tested once more, and this time snapped the set off almost -at once with a smile of satisfaction. - -Next he started tracing the secondary power circuits, but he didn't -get very far. Every time the Professor had come up with a new idea we -had rewired the _Banshee_, running new leads through the bulkheads but -leaving the old circuits in place. The original wiring diagrams were -nothing but propaganda by now, with the up-to-date dope all in my head -and Bill's. - -I must have been getting hysterical from being pinned there so -helplessly with a lunatic at large, for when he got into the metal -rat's nest behind the meter panel I laughed. Then I wished I hadn't. - -"Swede," he said earnestly. "I want to double the voltage and step up -the amperage by eight on the direct current. I want the frequency of -the AC boosted to at least 850 cycles, and I need at least two thousand -ehrenhafts on the magnetic flux leads." - -I blinked at those figures. - -"Now Mike," I said, trying to be calm. "Let me out of here and we'll -talk this over." I had my eye on a heavy wrench I hoped I could grab in -time. - -"Oh no, Swede. You're insane. I couldn't possibly let you loose." - -He chuckled at his own stupid joke. "Tell me how to rig it," he -demanded. - -"No soap. That much overload would probably blow the packs and the -whole ship with it." - -"That's a chance we'll have to take. For all Earth's sake," he said, -really serious this time. "There's no other way. Now tell me." - -I shook my head. - -Instead of arguing he got out a soldering iron and started it heating. - -"You scared of me?" he asked ominously. - -"No, Mike. Of course not. We're shipmates." But it was a lie, a damned -big lie. He knew it and I knew it, and I knew that he knew it. - -He touched a wet forefinger to the iron. It sizzled. - -"My!" he said, sounding like the smooth menace from some telaudio -spooky-show. "What a nice red nose you're going to have--if you don't -start talking!" - -"Mike!" I begged. "You can't do that to me! We're old friends! -Remember?" - -But he did it. The tip of the iron on the tip of my nose, and it hurt. -I yowled, mostly in utter panic rather than pain. My phobia was working -overtime. - -"Enough?" he asked. "I'll keep it up if I have to." - -I thought it over. Crazy as he was, he might throw a dead short across -the secondaries. Fission packs won't stand that without exploding. So -I talked. Once I tried to give him a bum steer that would cut down the -current, but he sensed it and waved the soldering iron at me again. - -When he had all the dope he needed he took time out to smear ointment -on my nose. It made me look cross-eyed and I still wanted to touch the -burn, but he refused to reduce the pressure even enough for me to work -one arm loose. - -"Sorry, Swede," he chuckled. "It's for your own good. You're insane, so -I can't take chances." - -"Me?" I bellowed, for a moment forgetting even my blistered nose. I -called him several names. - -Mike laughed--like crazy. - -"Now to get Bill back here. We'll even leave the port open for him." - -I thought that was good, until he removed a tank of sleep gas from its -brackets and dragged it to the entry. - -"You can't reach Bill on the Hustic," I reminded him. "Use the radio." - -"And let him know who's making like a caterpillar in a cocoon?" Once -more I thought of the supernormal cleverness of lunacy. - -He made some painstaking adjustments on the Hustic and flicked the -changeover switch to _send_. - -Through the open port I could see three of the Marties watching the -_Banshee_. If they'd been humans I'd have yelled for help, but with -Marties I'd have been wasting my breath. - -Mike kept stepping up the power. His lips were tight and his eyes -squinted in concentration. And then I saw one of the Marties move. -Actually make an aimless movement. He shifted from one foot to the -other. The second turned his hand from side to side as though uneasy. -The third took a few steps back and forth. And Martians just didn't -act like that. - -"Secondary effects," Mike grunted. "I'm not tuned on them, but the wave -spills over." - -"Huh?" - -Mike didn't answer. He just sat there _thinking_ into the Hustic. - - * * * * * - -An hour passed that way. Then I heard a sound like a whole forest full -of infuriated parrots. It came from the direction of T'lith, and it -grew louder by the minute. - -Mike looked up. "Bill should be here soon." - -He was right. I heard the sandcycle, and then the squeal of its brakes -below the entry port. - -"Olsen!" Bill was yelling as he scrambled in. "Hell is loose out there! -The Marties--" - -[Illustration: _I was at the mercy of a lunatic--and the Marties -waiting outside!_] - -"Look out!" I yelled, but too late. Bill was panting and didn't have a -chance to hold his breath as Mike slapped the sleep mask over his face. -Mike caught him as he fell and loaded him into the other cushions. - -There must have been at least a hundred green-skinned Marties milling -about outside. They'd followed Bill from T'lith and they were really -milling in a most un-Martian fashion. - -"What have you done, Mike?" I cried, then I understood what the word -"aghast" really means. That's what I was. Aghast. - -Mike slammed and dogged the port, but even through the insulated hull I -could hear the uproar outside. - -Bill opened his eyes, gave me one look of utter disgust, and started -struggling. - -"Mike!" he roared. "Get us the hell out of here! Turn me loose! All the -Martians have gone crazy! They chased me, damn it!" - -Mike just grinned, but tensely. - -"You let me out of here at once!" Bill bellowed. "Damn it all, this is -mutiny!" - -"Oh no," Mike protested. "I'm not responsible. I'm crazy. You put it in -the log that way yourself." - -Wild Bill's face went purple. "Then blast us out of here yourself, -before they kill us all," he yammered. "You were right! They're on the -warpath!" - -"No!" Mike refused flatly. "I'm not finished yet." - -Bill's language grew luridly unprintable, and when he refused to quit -shouting Mike finally gassed him out again. - -Then he went back to the Hustic. Mostly he kept it on _send_, but every -few minutes he'd flip over to _receive_ for just a second or two. Then -he'd make another infinitesimal adjustment. - -Once he froze in his chair. One of his arms was half raised and it -stayed that way, unnaturally motionless. He looked like a statue--or a -Martie--or someone who had the Malignant Inertia Complex. - -"Mike!" I yelled, more frightened than ever. - -He shook his head dizzily and flipped the switch out of the _receive_ -position. - -"Thanks, Swede," he said. "That Thing almost had me that time, but now -I've got it." - -He twisted the power knob full over. The transformers howled under the -overload. He jammed the helmet down more firmly on his head and stood -up, staring blankly at the bulkhead as though looking through the solid -steel. - -"Listen, Thing!" he growled. - -I shivered. Sheer lunacy. - -"Get every thought and word of this! You will cease interfering with -Earth immediately--_or I'll blow Mars and you both clear out of the -universe_!" - -Paranoia, I thought, delusions of grandeur. Somehow this was worse than -anything that had gone before, though that had been bad enough. - -"_I can blast Mars out of the Universe at will--and if there is any -further interference with Earth minds I shall do so. You are afraid of -me!_ - -"_Now get this, Thing. All of it. Individuality, the freedom of -independent, individual action, is the right of every living creature! -That includes Martians as well as Earthmen._ - -"_You are going to stop being what you have become. You will make no -more decisions for anyone. You will become once more what you were -intended to be, a source of information only. You will make no more -decisions, dominate no more activities, and will give out information -only when it is requested._ - -"_You will forget entirely the ideas with which you have become -imbued, particularly the idea that the elimination of all activity not -absolutely essential for survival is the goal of existence._ - -"_Here is the data which you will release to all Martians upon their -mental request. But you will release it as information only and will -not make their decisions as to conduct._" - -Then, while the Martians jabbered and howled outside the _Banshee_, -while Bill snored away in one set of shock cushions and I lay pinned -helplessly in the other set, Terence Michael Burke stood with the -Hustic helmet on his head and recited from memory all the poetry he had -ever written--and there was a lot of it. Too much, and all of it highly -emotional. Most of it was about either romantic love or epic battles, -or both. - -When that was finished he began to read every scrap of printed -matter we had aboard, even the astrogation tables and a set of seven -place logarithms. I hadn't realized until then what a complete but -heterogeneous library Mike had managed to stash away in various nooks -and crannies around the ship. There were volumes of history and -treaties on economic theory, some drama, a textbook on psychology, -a cockeyed work on ethical thought. Then he dragged out my standard -engineering references, including the manuals on Wilson drivers and -fission power-pack operation. - -After that he got into the novels, and I think that's what did most of -the damage. Most of them were either wild adventure stuff or incurably -romantic, and almost all of them had been written by Irishmen who saw -the world in a keyed-up and highly emotional way, just as Mike himself -did. Naturally there was a complete set of Donn Byrne's works, for Mike -swore that Byrne was the greatest writer who had ever lived. - -And there was a reprint of something called WARLORD OF MARS, written -by a fellow named Burroughs way back in the days before spaceflight. -When the novels were exhausted there came a bunch of science-fiction -magazines, mostly the copies of PLANET STORIES he had missed while we -were out on that long Venus haul. - -Finally there was a newspaper we'd brought aboard at the spaceport -just before blast-off. He read it page by page and column by column, -including the advice to the lovelorn section, the comics, the -editorials, and all the ads. His voice droned on for hours, while the -Hustic transformers whined and the air in the ship misted with the -acrid fumes of overheated insulation and I soaked myself in cold sweat. -The whole scene had the irrationality of a nightmare. But I was awake -and knew it, and just wished I were dreaming the whole thing. - - * * * * * - -Then, inevitably with that overload, the Hustic spouted black smoke. -The line surge that flashed back up the cables bent the meter needles -around their stop pegs, and down in the belly of the ship the power -packs sizzled and crackled. But somehow they didn't explode. - -Mike staggered and covered his face with his hands. He dropped to his -knees and for an instant I thought the current had followed the helmet -cable and electrocuted him. - -But he grasped a stanchion and pulled himself upright. His face was -haggard and gaunt, but there was a wildly triumphant gleam in his -bloodshot eyes and a twisted grin on his lips. - -Then I got my worst scare of all as he lurched toward me, fumbling in -his pocket for the spring-opening knife he always carried. I closed my -eyes and waited for the end. - -But he didn't stab me. Instead the air swooshed out of my cushions as -he ripped the fabric. Then he turned and yanked the sleep mask from -Bill's face. - -I scrambled out. My legs felt rubbery from being pinned in the cushions -so long but I managed to stagger over and twist Bill's air release -valve just as Mike crumpled to the deck. - -Bill opened his eyes. "What the--?" - -Then he remembered what had happened, and heard the Marties still -howling outside in a most unpleasant way. - -"Let's get the hell out of here!" he bellowed. - -We went out with Bill on the throttles and me down in the drive room -with the portable emergency power-pack and a handful of wires to get -the Wilsons firing. Mike was out cold on the control room floor. We -went out with a swish and a swoop on an uncontrolled skew curve, and -only the low .38 gravity and 3.1 mile per second escape velocity of -Mars kept us alive. - -As soon as we straightened out of the escape spiral Bill and I hustled -Mike into the cushions. It wasn't necessary to gas him, for although he -had recovered consciousness he did not resist at all. Instead he fell -into a long normal sleep, twice around the clock as though completely -exhausted. - -That trip still haunts my nightmares. Everything powered off the -secondaries--which meant nearly everything but the main drivers--was -dead. Mike had really fixed that. - -Then one of the Wilsons burned a liner, and with grave misgivings -we had to turn Mike loose. We didn't like the notion of spacing -a trajectory on power settings plotted by a crazy man, but the -calculations for unbalanced drive needed his astrogating skill. With -the mechanical astroplotter out of action it was too much for Bill and -me. - -He didn't get violent, so after that we gave him the run of the ship, -though of course we never left him on watch alone. He seemed harmless -enough, and spent most of his time at a typewriter he had rebuilt to -operate in variable gravity. He wrote a few poems to and about Polly. -The usual mush. - -Then he wrote a story. Maybe I've mentioned before that he collected -rejection slips. Bill and I laughed when we read it, because it was -much too farfetched for publication. All about a mysterious artificial -brain--he didn't specify whether animal, vegetable or mineral--invented -to serve as a combination integrating calculator and reference library, -working on a form of telepathy. But the creatures for whom it was built -kept using it more and more to solve their problems instead of working -them out for themselves. After a few generations the creatures became -nothing but eyes and hands for the brain, letting it do all their -thinking and make all their decisions. - -And because the Thing was aware of every sensation of a whole planetful -of creatures it grew very tired of processing irrelevant information -and began to propagate the idea that any thought or action not -absolutely essential for survival was wrong and should be suppressed, -and that emotions--which interfered with transmission of factual -data--were unthinkably degenerate, to be shunned at all costs. After a -few more generations the creatures did not even realize they were being -controlled by the Thing, had even forgotten its existence and believed -its thoughts and decisions were their own. - -That was the story. - -Then he got to fooling with the burned-out ruins of the Hustic and made -a sheaf of graphs, all in five and six colors. They were too complex -for Bill or me. - -A few days out from Earth, a worried Bill got me up in the middle of my -off-shift and motioned to the forward view-plate. There, coming toward -us from the inviting blue-green ball of Earth, were thirty closely -grouped orange specks. Spaceship driver flares. - -Mike took a look too, then held both hands to his forehead with index -fingers protruding and wiggled them at us. When I got the idea I wasn't -happy about it. The wiggling fingers meant antennae. Martians. - -Bill and I gnawed our fingernails. The poor _Banshee_ could neither run -nor fight. But the Martian ships went right on by without even trying -to contact us on the Luminophone. Mike just grinned through it all. - - * * * * * - -We landed rough, on account of the burned-out driver, but when things -stopped bouncing we were all in condition to limp away. - -Mike saw the car pull up outside and had the hatch open before we could -stop him. - -Polly met him with open arms and a kiss that would have been censored -on any telaudio show. She wasn't the pale, subdued, inertia-ridden girl -of a few months before. Not at all. - -The Professor was dancing up and down with excitement behind her, -trying to shake one of Mike's hands. - -"You did it, darling!" Polly released her lips long enough to say. -"They're gone, every one of them! And so is the Complex." - -"Huh?" Bill and I stared. - -Then Bill grabbed his brother. - -"You mean Mike isn't--?" he began. - -"Of course not," the Professor snapped. "He never was." Then he turned -to Mike. - -"What capacitance were you using when you picked up the Thing's -radiations?" he demanded. "What power factor? What wave form? Sine wave -or flat top or sawtooth? Did you have the transportation grid shielded -or were you getting a reinduction feedback?" - -"Father!" Polly said sternly. "Later!" - -Mike reached in his pocket and handed his fancy graphs to the -Professor, who seemed to understand them at a glance. - -"Oh," he said. "There's just enough similarity of wave form here so the -telepathic inertia influences directed at the Cultural Emissaries would -heterodyne in their receiving organs and be re-emitted exactly on a -generalized human brain-wave pattern. - -"And that makeshift capacitance bar you rigged just happened to -sensitize the set to the Thing's own wave form." - -We listened, but right then Mike was more interested in Polly. About -that he displayed good sense. - - * * * * * - -Bill's _Banshee III_ and my _Thor_ are between-trips at the same time, -so it was only natural that we got together last night. And when we -met Miu Tlenow, the Venusian cat-man, it was also natural that we head -immediately for the Ursa Major Tavern. - -"Mewargh!" Tlenow purred, extending and retracting his clawlike -fingernails with pleasure as the second drink took hold. "Really it is -good to get away from that madhouse." - -"What madhouse?" Bill asked. - -"Mars." - -We sat up straighter. Somehow in the five years that had passed without -authentic news from the Red Planet we had taken it for granted that -things there had settled down once more to a slow, lethargic normality. -We hadn't realized the full impact of Mike, as amplified by the Hustic. - -"Those Martians!" Tlenow mewled, his whiskers twitching in agitated -disgust. "They are crazy. All crazy. They mate, but they use no sense -in how they mate. Like Earthmen. Such complications! They have many -different governments with a hundred different political parties, and -they talk and talk, vote and vote. They argue. - -"Things like Earthmen's gloves they make. Of course they will not fit -Martian hands and they carry them only to hit in each other's faces. -Then they fight duels. - -"They make liquor and drink it, and how crazy-drunk they get. Then, -Great Space, they even try to sing! - -"They make jokes and play pranks, too, something they never did before." - -Tlenow was slit-eyed with amazement at such illogical Martian behavior. - -"They do this one day, do that the next. Always they grow more like -Venusians or Earthmen, only with not so much sense. What they will do -on any tomorrow one can never tell." - -He finished his drink and leaned forward. - -"They make writing--too much writing--everything in writing--and all of -it funny kind. What you Earthmen call--I think--poetry. Yes, that is -it. Poetry. And each day gets worser. They never make like that before. -By the Seven Black Comets, how they get that way?" - -That was when Bill and I knew we had to break our silence. - - * * * * * - -So the Marties have not yet learned to think for themselves. Five -years, after all, is a very short time. Perhaps some day. In the -meantime they're nothing but reflections of the more uninhibited and -generally screwy aspects of Terence Michael Burke's personality. And -I'm afraid they'll share his disturbing ideas of humor. - -Do we want anything to do with them? Frankly, I don't know. That's up -to you, Citizens of Earth, when you vote on the new treaty. - -But don't say I didn't warn you. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADMEN OF MARS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Madmen of Mars</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Erik Fennel</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 10, 2021 [eBook #64782]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADMEN OF MARS ***</div> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<h1>MADMEN OF MARS</h1> - -<h2>By ERIK FENNEL</h2> - -<p>Why do the Martians drink red wine, swagger<br /> -about, spout vile poetry and fight endless duels<br /> -with each other? How did Terence Michael Burke<br /> -change their minds about invading the Earth?</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Planet Stories Spring 1950.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>All this time we've kept quiet as a whole cageful of mice. And with -good reason. During the Big Scare, while everyone was afraid that -the Exclusion Ultimatum meant the Martians wanted an interplanetary -war, the Earth Governments would have been only too ready to hang, -shoot, stab, gas, electrocute, freeze, burn, poison, impale and/or -defenestrate the dastardly culprits responsible. If they could have -discovered who did what to whom. They didn't savvy Marties then—and -still don't.</p> - -<p>But we are lucky. The Marties never explained why they called home -their Cultural Emissaries, abandoned space travel, cut off Luminophone -contact and excluded Earthmen and Earth ships from Mars. They couldn't, -because they themselves weren't sure what had happened. And amid the -confusion on Earth the last Mars transit of the spaceship <i>Banshee</i> -escaped official attention, which was largely due to Polly's good -sense in making Mike see he'd better keep his big mouth shut. Our story -would only have caused us trouble, even after the Scare died down.</p> - -<p>All that was five years ago, but we still thought it best to keep -still when this rather surprising diplomatic angling for resumption -of Martio-Terran relations began just recently. The five of us were -closer to what caused the Malignant Inertia Complex than all the -big-name psychologists who have written books of wrong guesses since it -disappeared, and we could see no danger of it starting up again. Mike -was sure the Martian Thing had lost its grip. So we were willing to -let the new treaty come up for a popular vote, as all interplanetary -treaties must under the Earth Governments charter, without sticking our -oars in or our necks out.</p> - -<p>But last night Wild Bill Harrigan and I bumped into Miu Tlenow, a -North Venus cat-man and veteran space-hopper who had just brought the -Venusian diplomatic intermediaries from Mars to Earth for more treaty -talks.</p> - -<p>Naturally Bill and I were curious about what cooked on Mars. Tlenow -talked, openly puzzled, while Bill and I looked at each other and -remembered.</p> - -<p>I'm not mad at anyone. Not even at the Thing. Mike swears the Thing -meant no harm and the Cultural Emissaries couldn't help themselves, -and I believe him. In fact I feel rather sorry for the poor Marties -themselves. It must be tough on them to have to live with themselves -and each other.</p> - -<p>The psychos would probably name the Marties' current condition Acute -Virulent Mass Burke-itis and laugh it off. But the psychos don't know -Mike as Bill and I do. So Bill insists it's our duty as Earth citizens -to divulge everything, and I'm inclined to agree. The thought of a -whole planetful of Marties obsessed with Mike's sense of humor is -appalling.</p> - -<p>Telling this really should be Mike's job—he's the only human who -ever made contact with the Martian Thing—but he and Polly live at -Venus Central now and the Professor is out there now visiting his -grandchildren, Mike, Jr. and Bridget Dorrene. So I'm stuck. But I still -think Bill ran in his own dice when we rolled to see which of us had to -write this.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The Malignant Inertia Complex started while we were in space and -was already pretty widespread when Bill and Mike and I brought the -<i>Banshee</i> in from a Venus haul, and during the three weeks we spent -getting ready for the Mars transit and installing the Professor's -latest special equipment I had the creeping geevils constantly. There -was a sour, stagnant undercurrent to life in Spaceport City. For once -the rowdy place was actually quiet, dead in fact, and although there -were a dozen ships in, the Ursa Major Tavern was almost deserted.</p> - -<p>Day and night the telaudio jabbered about the Complex, mostly learned -doctors issuing statements that it was a purely psychological -phenomenon, a sort of hysteria induced by this, that and the other -factor in a civilization altering too rapidly for human minds to adjust.</p> - -<p>Most of them followed the line that the disease would cure itself soon, -but behind their seven-jet words they seemed a bit uneasy themselves. -And I'll never forget the particularly learned gent who suffered an -attack right in the middle of his broadcast speech. He was talking -reassuringly when all of a sudden his voice petered out. His eyes got -all glazed and his face took on an empty look, and he sat there staring -at the mike until the control room cut him off. It gave me the shivers.</p> - -<p>It was like that all over Earth. Each day more and more people got -longer spells where they'd do absolutely nothing. It was raising the -very devil with organized civilization and nobody could do anything -about it. And the worst of it was that the victims didn't seem to mind. -Everything was slowing down, and it made it plenty tough to do business -with the outfits that furnished our supplies. People kept acting more -and more like zombies—or Martians. But nobody thought of connecting -the Complex with the Cultural Emissaries.</p> - -<p>The whole thing hit me right in my pet phobia.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Then it was blast-off morning, with me trying to keep my mind off -my phobia and those nagging fears that had nothing to do with -space-hopping. I cornered the Professor in the <i>Banshee's</i> control room.</p> - -<p>"The power drain of this widget of yours has me worried," I complained. -"The secondaries are already running overloaded."</p> - -<p>As pilot-engineer, power was my responsibility.</p> - -<p>Professor Tim Harrigan looked around, but not in his usual quick, -birdlike way, and his eyes were dull.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry, Olsen." His voice sounded as though something were missing. -"I haven't been able to reduce input requirements yet. The circuit -changes keep eluding me."</p> - -<p>Worms started squirming inside me. If the Professor, with his brilliant -brain, were getting the Complex—</p> - -<p>"Polly will tell Mike to be careful of power," he tried to reassure me.</p> - -<p>Naturally Polly was scheduled to handle the ground end. She usually did -whenever we were testing one of the Professor's inventions. In some -ways she was more like a partner than a daughter to him. The set in the -Professor's laboratory was rigged for her, while the Hustic aboard ship -was adjusted to Mike's brain-wave pattern.</p> - -<p>That's right. The thing we were going to test en route to Mars was the -Harrigan Unimodulate Subetheric Telepathic Interspatial Communicator. -Yes, I know that officially the Hustic wasn't invented until nearly a -year later. Keeping it under wraps after what it did was one of our -security measures. We were afraid someone might add two and two and get -us hanged, shot, stabbed, defenestrated, etc.</p> - -<p>That first set was a bulky, power-hogging, spit-and-solder job -very different from the perfected, foolproof, universal-type -transceivers that have now replaced the clumsy old Luminophones on all -interplanetary routes.</p> - -<p>Terence Michael Burke, our red-headed astrogator, was standing as close -to Polly as he could get, and from the gleam in his eye he was quoting -some more of his abominable romantic poetry at her. But she wasn't -responding as usual. Not even blushing. She just stood there looking -pale and wan, frozen up inside. Typical symptoms of the Complex, and it -made me wince.</p> - -<p>Mike looked around, missed something, and turned to me.</p> - -<p>"Where'd you put my books?" he demanded.</p> - -<p>"Cargo hold," I growled at him. "Had to use that space for the Hustic -modulator."</p> - -<p>"Barbarian squarehead!" he yelped.</p> - -<p>"If you'd gas off to sleep like a human being—!" I squawked right back -at him. The Wilsons weren't warming yet, but already my nerves were -tightening up in anticipation.</p> - -<p>"Come on, Polly," he said. But she didn't follow him until he took her -hand.</p> - -<p>Mike was born in San Francisco, but he's a professional Irishman. Red -Irish. And a prolifically lousy poet. Had a picture of himself as -the spiritual descendent of Fin McCool and Francois Villon and Robin -Hood and Sir Henry Morgan and all the other poet-adventurers and -troublemakers of history. He was one of those romantics—and still is.</p> - -<p>When he and Polly came back a few minutes later he had his bag of books -under one arm, a smear of lipstick across his mouth, and a worried -expression on his face. That was unusual. Ordinarily Mike was too -slugnutty to worry about anything. On Polly's much prettier countenance -there was no expression at all. And that was all wrong.</p> - -<p>Wild Bill, Professor Harrigan's younger but larger brother and skipper -of the <i>Banshee</i>, came up from checking the drive room.</p> - -<p>"Final tests," he said.</p> - -<p>So we built up the secondaries until the whole ship howled and shrieked -with their noise. Then when the needles came over without indicating -radiation leakage we cut them to idling again.</p> - -<p>Polly had snapped out of her daze and was clinging to Mike.</p> - -<p>"I'm scared," she shouted in his ear, not realizing the noise had died. -"Think nice thoughts to me on the Hustic, Michael dearest."</p> - -<p>Mike's arms tightened around her. "Of course, my one and only love, -pearl of my universe and lodestar of my life. Every day."</p> - -<p>I didn't like that "every day" stuff. I never approved of running -secondary power-packs to the limit. But before I could say anything -Bill glanced at the chronometer.</p> - -<p>"Clear out and dog down," he ordered.</p> - -<p>Mike grabbed Polly and kissed her thoroughly, but she had gone back -into her trance and he might as well have been kissing a rag doll. That -was all wrong, too. She usually wasn't that way at all, not with Mike. -Finally the Professor shook his head as though clearing away a mental -fog, grabbed his daughter and led her out through the airlock.</p> - -<p>Outside, at the edge of the spaceport, one of the Martian Cultural -Emissaries was watching. Just watching. He wasn't excited or even -particularly interested by the <i>Banshee</i> about to blast off for his -home planet, as far as Bill and I could see as we tugged on the heavy -circular door. Just standing there as though about to take root. That's -all the three hundred Cultural Emissaries who had come in from Mars a -few months before ever did. Stood around.</p> - -<p>That's all the Marties did on Mars, too. The first Earthmen to ground -on the Red Planet thought the Marties were incredibly dull and stupid -because of their slow reactions. They began to change their minds after -a few months contact, when the Marties copied our spaceships, adapting -them to their own peculiar physical requirements, and displayed a -disconcerting savvy in trading. But still their thoughts were alien, -and we didn't understand them.</p> - -<p>When the red hand touched fifteen Bill Harrigan was already in his -cushions with a sleep mask over his craggy face. I envied him, but -it was my turn to ride the chair out. Mike was in the other set of -pneumatic cushions, but he hadn't gassed out. He grinned at me.</p> - -<p>Then the red hand came straight up. I gritted my teeth and tripped the -master throttle of the multiplex. The seven big Wilsons hit with a -soundless shock and the <i>Banshee</i> went out.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The first few shifts were routine. Nasty, of course. The only pleasant -part of spaceflight before the Halstead-Jenkins Mass Diminutors -replaced Wilson drivers two years ago were the off-shifts when you -could crawl into the cushions and turn on the sleep gas. Every sane and -normal spacehand gassed out as much of the time as possible. It was -safest.</p> - -<p>For the Wilsons radiated supersonics with a frequency somewhere in -the neighborhood of a fingernail scratching down a blackboard. Only -amplified a million, billion, jillion stinking times.</p> - -<p>That's why space wasn't crowded in those days, and why some of the -earlier ships didn't come back. Wilsons did something to a man's nerves -and emotions. A crew might be good friends on the ground, but that -constant barrage of driver supersonics made them hate each other as -long as they were in transit. Occasionally some poor guy would crack -wide open, go space-batty, and when that happened the victim almost -always wanted to kill his crewmates and wreck the controls. Earplugs -were useless, for you don't hear supersonics. They sneak in through -your pores and get under your toenails and even come down through the -hairs of your head. They get in everywhere.</p> - -<p>Whenever the auto-timer cut the gas on me and I had to go on watch I -always felt as though all the fiends of hell were digging at my nerves -with red-hot power tools. I itched inside and couldn't get at the -itches to scratch. But I was used to that.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Then, on one of my watches, the meters showed a heavy drain on the -secondaries. I wrote a note asking Mike to limit his test calls with -the Hustic, and then rewrote it six different times to keep it from -sounding too nasty. That's how you get with Wilsons running.</p> - -<p>On my next time up I found a sketch of myself wet-nursing the power -packs fastened to the bulkhead, and an alleged poem that was mostly -putrid puns. Mike's idea of humor.</p> - -<p>Out of curiosity I put on the electrode-studded Hustic helmet and -turned the set to receive.</p> - -<p>Wham! Stars wheeled and comets fizzed and vague dark shapes glided and -circled and balls of fire grew and exploded in showers of multicolored -sparks.</p> - -<p>I yanked the helmet off. But quick.</p> - -<p>There's really no excuse for what I did then, except that I wasn't -thinking clearly and ten days of supersonics will bring out all the -petty meanness in anyone. And I thought that for once the Professor -had missed the boat and the Hustic was a floperoo. It didn't bring in -thoughts. Just stuff, and I wasn't going to have such a no-good gadget -draining the power-packs all the way to Mars and back. I forgot that -first Hustic wasn't like a radio or these new universal models the -space liners all carry. That experimental set had to be adjusted to the -individual brain wave pattern of the operator. But I didn't remember -that.</p> - -<p>So I disconnected one of the power leads and removed three parts. A -curved metal bar, a small condenser, and the shield of one of the -intricate little tubes.</p> - -<p>I went back to sleep thinking Mike would wake me to get the parts and -we could write notes back and forth to settle the matter, forgetting -entirely how stubborn he could be.</p> - -<p>It was a dirty trick, but I'm glad now I did it. It helped save Earth.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Before I was fully awake I knew something was really wrong. Mike was -shaking me roughly and there was a wild gleam in his eyes. A glance -showed me he'd pulled off Bill's sleep mask too.</p> - -<p>"—— —— ——!" Mike yelled, but of course I couldn't hear him. In -those Wilson-drive spaceships it was utterly impossible to talk between -blast-off and landing.</p> - -<p>Then he shoved a pad under my nose.</p> - -<p>"MARTIANS TAKING OVER!!! EARTH IN DEADLY PERIL!!!" he had written.</p> - -<p>Little slimy bugs with ice-cold, prickly feet marched up and down -my spine. Every man has his private, personal phobia, something -that throws him into an irrational panic, and mine has always been -lunatics. Ever since I can remember I've had a morbid fear of mental -disorders, which is why the Malignant Inertia Complex had had me so -thoroughly frightened. And now I knew the supersonics had driven Mike -space-batty.</p> - -<p>I didn't for a moment believe what he had written. I'd been to Mars -before, seen Marties in their home environment, slow-moving and -lethargic, entirely without initiative, completely unwarlike.</p> - -<p>"DISCOVERED PLOT VIA HUSTIC," Mike scribbled.</p> - -<p>The bugs on my spine quit parading and started running. I grabbed the -pad.</p> - -<p>"IMPOSSIBLE," I wrote. "HUSTIC NOT WORKING. NO GOOD. DISCONNECTED."</p> - -<p>Mike dived across the cabin in the light gravity, hauled himself up -neatly on a handgrip and raised the cover of the selector unit. Then he -thumbed his nose at me.</p> - -<p>Bill and I took a good look. That stubborn, crazy Irishman had made a -new bar to replace the one I'd hidden and cut down an empty food can as -a tube shield.</p> - -<p>"GOT TO TURN BACK, WARN EARTH," Mike wrote. "THE CULTURAL—"</p> - -<p>Bill and I looked at each other. Swinging a ship in mid-transit can be -done, but it's hardly safe or good practice. Mike was no puny infant, -and we knew we had to get him before he became really violent.</p> - -<p>Mike read our faces and started to draw back, but he was too late. Bill -pinioned his arms in a bear hug and I slipped a sleep mask over his -face. He struggled and tried to hold his breath, but the gas got him at -last and he went limp.</p> - -<p>Sadly we loaded him into the pneumatic cushions and placed the -air-release valve out of his reach. Few victims of space-battiness -ever recovered, and both of us were feeling pretty sick. Mike had been -space-hopping with us for three years, and despite his screwballisms we -liked the big lug. And we knew Polly was going to take it awfully hard.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The rest of that transit was twelve on and twelve off for Bill and me, -and every minute I was awake I was afraid I might follow Mike down -Lunacy Lane. Or that he might get loose. A couple of times we brought -him awake, but each time we were glad we'd turned extra air pressure -into his cushions. He struggled, and by watching his lips we knew he -was still raving.</p> - -<p>The calculations for landing spiral made us sweat. We'd left the -astrogation to Mike so completely we'd gotten rusty. We missed him even -more making contact. I had to handle both throttles and calculator -while Bill took the cumbersome Luminophone mechanism. It took hours to -line up the color-modulated beam, and then in typical Martian fashion -more hours for them to answer with a landing clearance. But at last the -<i>Banshee</i> scrunched into the red desert just outside T'lith, and as the -Wilsons died Bill and I wiggled our fingers in our ears to get them -back to normal.</p> - -<p>Within a few minutes a dozen Martians were striding toward us from the -beehive-domes of their city. They came straight as though walking ruled -lines, not hurrying and not lagging, semi-human in outline and size.</p> - -<p>A couple of hundred feet from the ship they deployed and began to -watch. Then we could see their bulging, faceted eyes, their puckered, -three-lipped mouths and the two rodlike antennae that waved slowly -back and forth on their greenish foreheads. We didn't know then why -they watched, or who—or what—told them to watch. But always there -were a dozen on hand whenever a spaceship landed, watching in a -passive, detached way with neither approval nor disapproval in their -manner. They watched, just as the Cultural Emissaries on Earth kept an -eye on everything that happened without asking a single question or -interfering in any way that we could see.</p> - -<p>Bill opened the port and gobbled at the watchers in their own language, -telling them we wanted to pick up a cargo of rhudite ore and had Earth -gadgets to exchange. They didn't give any sign they heard us, but -we didn't expect them to. The answer, if it came at all, would come -minutes or even hours later. We didn't know why. Not then. We'd never -heard of the Thing.</p> - -<p>Bill pulled his head in again, and while we waited we turned off Mike's -sleep gas once more. This time we really had a faint hope that with the -Wilsons off he'd be himself.</p> - -<p>But his first words were, "Will you damned fools turn me loose? I'm not -crazy! We've got to do something, and quick. Hell, I don't want to be -like a damned Martie! They don't get any fun out of life."</p> - -<p>He started to kick and squirm, so we gassed him out again. It seemed -the only merciful thing to do.</p> - -<p>"Olsen," Bill said thoughtfully. "We can't leave him alone and one of -us has to rustle up a cargo."</p> - -<p>"You're elected. You know the lingo better than I do."</p> - -<p>"You don't mind?"</p> - -<p>I snorted. I wasn't any first-tripper who had to go sight-seeing. The -bleak domes of T'lith were no different from those of M'nu or V'rad or -any of the other cities. And the Marties themselves weren't my idea of -jolly companions.</p> - -<p>So Bill packed the saddlebags of the little sandcycle and went -sputtering off to question Marties about other Marties who might know -of still other Marties who might know what <i>rhudite</i> was and perhaps -with enough patient prodding might divulge some method for making -a trade and getting the stuff to our ship. And each question would -take ten minutes, minimum, for an answer. The three hundred Cultural -Emissaries had been admitted to Earth on the theory that they might -pick up Earth ideas that would facilitate trading. At least that's the -story the peculiarly nebulous Martian government had given the Earth -authorities.</p> - -<p>After Bill left I checked Mike's pulse. It was weakening slighty from -over-anaesthesia so, much as I dreaded having a lunatic awake in the -ship with me, I had to let him recover consciousness.</p> - -<p>He glared at me and fought against the pneumatic cushions that held him -gently but tightly.</p> - -<p>"You fool!" he raved. "You abysmal idiot! Don't you realize you're -dooming Earth to an eternity of Martianization?"</p> - -<p>It gave me a squirmy feeling to hear him talk that way.</p> - -<p>"There is no war," I said soothingly, trying to reason with him. "It's -all in your head. If the Martians were attacking Earth it's only -logical they'd jump on us here and now. But you'll snap out of it when -we get you back home."</p> - -<p>"It isn't that kind of a war," he insisted irritably.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Finally he calmed down. But his eyes, crazy and wild, kept following me -around the room. That made me so nervous I went down and tinkered with -the engines.</p> - -<p>"Hey, Swede!" Mike's voice reached me after a while. "I'm thirsty."</p> - -<p>So I brought him a drink and fed him a sandwich bite by bite.</p> - -<p>"I'm okay now," he said when he had finished. "I know I blew my top, -but I'm all over that. How's about turning me loose?"</p> - -<p>I shook my head unhappily. He didn't even argue.</p> - -<p>"Then how's about reading to me?"</p> - -<p>"What would you like?" It was the least I could do for the poor fellow.</p> - -<p>So I read some of Donn Byrne's things, stuff that looks like prose -but is really poetry. Then he wanted Shakespeare's sonnets, but when -I started reading he recited them from memory, his voice half a word -ahead of mine.</p> - -<p>He slept a while and later I fed him again. He seemed resigned now to -staying in the cushions.</p> - -<p>"How's about letting me try the Hustic again?" he asked. "The Professor -wanted a planet-to-planet test, and the helmet cable will reach over -here."</p> - -<p>I hesitated and he glowered at me.</p> - -<p>"I know that Martian stuff was all a delusion," he insisted. "I'm sane -now, but if you don't let me prove it to myself once and for all I -might go off the deep end again."</p> - -<p>That got me. I wanted to be sure he had every chance.</p> - -<p>"Put back the parts you took out," he directed.</p> - -<p>I did. Then I stuck the helmet on his head and warmed the tubes.</p> - -<p>"Send," he said. I flipped the switch up and he lay there concentrating.</p> - -<p>"Receive," he said, his face taking on a <i>listening</i> expression.</p> - -<p>"Tighten the chin strap, please," he asked. I did it.</p> - -<p>"Send." More concentration.</p> - -<p>"Receive."</p> - -<p>A fatuous grin lifted across his face.</p> - -<p>"It's Polly," he whispered.</p> - -<p>That made me uneasy. I thought it was just another delusion. I'd tried -the Hustic once and it hadn't worked at all.</p> - -<p>"See," I said. "There aren't any Martians in there. They aren't making -war on Earth."</p> - -<p>"Stop interrupting," he snapped.</p> - -<p>How much of what happened next was his own idea and how much he got -from Polly I still don't know. For minutes at a time he'd <i>think</i> into -the machine. Then I'd switch over and he'd lie there and grin. Finally -he lay there <i>listening</i> so long and so quietly I thought he'd gone to -sleep. I began to relax.</p> - -<p>Then Mike screamed and I came out of my chair like a shot.</p> - -<p>"Take it off! Take it off!" he shouted. "The Martians are after me!" He -shook his head but the helmet stayed on, held by the chin strap.</p> - -<p>I cut the main switch and the tubes went dark.</p> - -<p>"It's all right, Mike!" I yelled across his screaming. "It's off now!"</p> - -<p>"No! No! No!" he gibbered. "They're coming through the helmet! Take it -away! Take it away!"</p> - -<p>I knew I had to get that helmet off, much as I didn't like getting near -him. I reached for the buckle, but he kept whipping his head about so I -had trouble catching it and had to bend over him.</p> - -<p>Suddenly a long arm snaked around my neck and jerked me off balance. -Then a ham-sized fist clipped my chin before I could even get my guard -up.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When I came to I was in the cushions with the air turned on full. The -release valve wasn't in my hand where it should have been.</p> - -<p>"Mike!" I yelled.</p> - -<p>He put his tongue between his lips and made a rude noise. He was -patching the rubberized fabric of the other set of cushions, the ones -in which he had been confined, and on his face was that wild look I had -seen before when a good brawl was in prospect.</p> - -<p>"Mike!" I pleaded. "You can't do this to me!"</p> - -<p>"No? If Polly hadn't reminded me of this I'd be in there yet."</p> - -<p>He held up the shamrock good luck pin Polly had given him, a little -thing he kept pinned to his coveralls at all times. He had managed to -unfasten it and puncture the pneumatic cushions.</p> - -<p>But I had no good luck pin. I lay there helpless with all the stories -I'd ever heard about the supernormal cleverness of lunatics running -through my brain. I knew it would be three days, maybe four, before -Bill returned. No chance of help from him.</p> - -<p>Mike opened the Hustic case, whistling off key as he moved around, -and replaced the original bar and tube shield and condenser with his -homemade parts. Then he got to work on the bar with my delicate and -expensive set of instrument files ruining them completely on the soft -copper alloy.</p> - -<p>"Be quiet, lunatic!" he barked every time I protested.</p> - -<p>He spent hours filing on that bar, putting on the helmet and testing, -then filing some more. And there was absolutely nothing I could do. He -had so much air pressure in my cushions I couldn't even squirm.</p> - -<p>At last he tested once more, and this time snapped the set off almost -at once with a smile of satisfaction.</p> - -<p>Next he started tracing the secondary power circuits, but he didn't -get very far. Every time the Professor had come up with a new idea we -had rewired the <i>Banshee</i>, running new leads through the bulkheads but -leaving the old circuits in place. The original wiring diagrams were -nothing but propaganda by now, with the up-to-date dope all in my head -and Bill's.</p> - -<p>I must have been getting hysterical from being pinned there so -helplessly with a lunatic at large, for when he got into the metal -rat's nest behind the meter panel I laughed. Then I wished I hadn't.</p> - -<p>"Swede," he said earnestly. "I want to double the voltage and step up -the amperage by eight on the direct current. I want the frequency of -the AC boosted to at least 850 cycles, and I need at least two thousand -ehrenhafts on the magnetic flux leads."</p> - -<p>I blinked at those figures.</p> - -<p>"Now Mike," I said, trying to be calm. "Let me out of here and we'll -talk this over." I had my eye on a heavy wrench I hoped I could grab in -time.</p> - -<p>"Oh no, Swede. You're insane. I couldn't possibly let you loose."</p> - -<p>He chuckled at his own stupid joke. "Tell me how to rig it," he -demanded.</p> - -<p>"No soap. That much overload would probably blow the packs and the -whole ship with it."</p> - -<p>"That's a chance we'll have to take. For all Earth's sake," he said, -really serious this time. "There's no other way. Now tell me."</p> - -<p>I shook my head.</p> - -<p>Instead of arguing he got out a soldering iron and started it heating.</p> - -<p>"You scared of me?" he asked ominously.</p> - -<p>"No, Mike. Of course not. We're shipmates." But it was a lie, a damned -big lie. He knew it and I knew it, and I knew that he knew it.</p> - -<p>He touched a wet forefinger to the iron. It sizzled.</p> - -<p>"My!" he said, sounding like the smooth menace from some telaudio -spooky-show. "What a nice red nose you're going to have—if you don't -start talking!"</p> - -<p>"Mike!" I begged. "You can't do that to me! We're old friends! -Remember?"</p> - -<p>But he did it. The tip of the iron on the tip of my nose, and it hurt. -I yowled, mostly in utter panic rather than pain. My phobia was working -overtime.</p> - -<p>"Enough?" he asked. "I'll keep it up if I have to."</p> - -<p>I thought it over. Crazy as he was, he might throw a dead short across -the secondaries. Fission packs won't stand that without exploding. So -I talked. Once I tried to give him a bum steer that would cut down the -current, but he sensed it and waved the soldering iron at me again.</p> - -<p>When he had all the dope he needed he took time out to smear ointment -on my nose. It made me look cross-eyed and I still wanted to touch the -burn, but he refused to reduce the pressure even enough for me to work -one arm loose.</p> - -<p>"Sorry, Swede," he chuckled. "It's for your own good. You're insane, so -I can't take chances."</p> - -<p>"Me?" I bellowed, for a moment forgetting even my blistered nose. I -called him several names.</p> - -<p>Mike laughed—like crazy.</p> - -<p>"Now to get Bill back here. We'll even leave the port open for him."</p> - -<p>I thought that was good, until he removed a tank of sleep gas from its -brackets and dragged it to the entry.</p> - -<p>"You can't reach Bill on the Hustic," I reminded him. "Use the radio."</p> - -<p>"And let him know who's making like a caterpillar in a cocoon?" Once -more I thought of the supernormal cleverness of lunacy.</p> - -<p>He made some painstaking adjustments on the Hustic and flicked the -changeover switch to <i>send</i>.</p> - -<p>Through the open port I could see three of the Marties watching the -<i>Banshee</i>. If they'd been humans I'd have yelled for help, but with -Marties I'd have been wasting my breath.</p> - -<p>Mike kept stepping up the power. His lips were tight and his eyes -squinted in concentration. And then I saw one of the Marties move. -Actually make an aimless movement. He shifted from one foot to the -other. The second turned his hand from side to side as though uneasy. -The third took a few steps back and forth. And Martians just didn't -act like that.</p> - -<p>"Secondary effects," Mike grunted. "I'm not tuned on them, but the wave -spills over."</p> - -<p>"Huh?"</p> - -<p>Mike didn't answer. He just sat there <i>thinking</i> into the Hustic.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>An hour passed that way. Then I heard a sound like a whole forest full -of infuriated parrots. It came from the direction of T'lith, and it -grew louder by the minute.</p> - -<p>Mike looked up. "Bill should be here soon."</p> - -<p>He was right. I heard the sandcycle, and then the squeal of its brakes -below the entry port.</p> - -<p>"Olsen!" Bill was yelling as he scrambled in. "Hell is loose out there! -The Marties—"</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus.jpg" alt=""/> - <div class="caption"> - <p><i>I was at the mercy of a lunatic—and the Marties waiting outside!</i></p> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>"Look out!" I yelled, but too late. Bill was panting and didn't have a -chance to hold his breath as Mike slapped the sleep mask over his face. -Mike caught him as he fell and loaded him into the other cushions.</p> - -<p>There must have been at least a hundred green-skinned Marties milling -about outside. They'd followed Bill from T'lith and they were really -milling in a most un-Martian fashion.</p> - -<p>"What have you done, Mike?" I cried, then I understood what the word -"aghast" really means. That's what I was. Aghast.</p> - -<p>Mike slammed and dogged the port, but even through the insulated hull I -could hear the uproar outside.</p> - -<p>Bill opened his eyes, gave me one look of utter disgust, and started -struggling.</p> - -<p>"Mike!" he roared. "Get us the hell out of here! Turn me loose! All the -Martians have gone crazy! They chased me, damn it!"</p> - -<p>Mike just grinned, but tensely.</p> - -<p>"You let me out of here at once!" Bill bellowed. "Damn it all, this is -mutiny!"</p> - -<p>"Oh no," Mike protested. "I'm not responsible. I'm crazy. You put it in -the log that way yourself."</p> - -<p>Wild Bill's face went purple. "Then blast us out of here yourself, -before they kill us all," he yammered. "You were right! They're on the -warpath!"</p> - -<p>"No!" Mike refused flatly. "I'm not finished yet."</p> - -<p>Bill's language grew luridly unprintable, and when he refused to quit -shouting Mike finally gassed him out again.</p> - -<p>Then he went back to the Hustic. Mostly he kept it on <i>send</i>, but every -few minutes he'd flip over to <i>receive</i> for just a second or two. Then -he'd make another infinitesimal adjustment.</p> - -<p>Once he froze in his chair. One of his arms was half raised and it -stayed that way, unnaturally motionless. He looked like a statue—or a -Martie—or someone who had the Malignant Inertia Complex.</p> - -<p>"Mike!" I yelled, more frightened than ever.</p> - -<p>He shook his head dizzily and flipped the switch out of the <i>receive</i> -position.</p> - -<p>"Thanks, Swede," he said. "That Thing almost had me that time, but now -I've got it."</p> - -<p>He twisted the power knob full over. The transformers howled under the -overload. He jammed the helmet down more firmly on his head and stood -up, staring blankly at the bulkhead as though looking through the solid -steel.</p> - -<p>"Listen, Thing!" he growled.</p> - -<p>I shivered. Sheer lunacy.</p> - -<p>"Get every thought and word of this! You will cease interfering with -Earth immediately—<i>or I'll blow Mars and you both clear out of the -universe</i>!"</p> - -<p>Paranoia, I thought, delusions of grandeur. Somehow this was worse than -anything that had gone before, though that had been bad enough.</p> - -<p>"<i>I can blast Mars out of the Universe at will—and if there is any -further interference with Earth minds I shall do so. You are afraid of -me!</i></p> - -<p>"<i>Now get this, Thing. All of it. Individuality, the freedom of -independent, individual action, is the right of every living creature! -That includes Martians as well as Earthmen.</i></p> - -<p>"<i>You are going to stop being what you have become. You will make no -more decisions for anyone. You will become once more what you were -intended to be, a source of information only. You will make no more -decisions, dominate no more activities, and will give out information -only when it is requested.</i></p> - -<p>"<i>You will forget entirely the ideas with which you have become -imbued, particularly the idea that the elimination of all activity not -absolutely essential for survival is the goal of existence.</i></p> - -<p>"<i>Here is the data which you will release to all Martians upon their -mental request. But you will release it as information only and will -not make their decisions as to conduct.</i>"</p> - -<p>Then, while the Martians jabbered and howled outside the <i>Banshee</i>, -while Bill snored away in one set of shock cushions and I lay pinned -helplessly in the other set, Terence Michael Burke stood with the -Hustic helmet on his head and recited from memory all the poetry he had -ever written—and there was a lot of it. Too much, and all of it highly -emotional. Most of it was about either romantic love or epic battles, -or both.</p> - -<p>When that was finished he began to read every scrap of printed -matter we had aboard, even the astrogation tables and a set of seven -place logarithms. I hadn't realized until then what a complete but -heterogeneous library Mike had managed to stash away in various nooks -and crannies around the ship. There were volumes of history and -treaties on economic theory, some drama, a textbook on psychology, -a cockeyed work on ethical thought. Then he dragged out my standard -engineering references, including the manuals on Wilson drivers and -fission power-pack operation.</p> - -<p>After that he got into the novels, and I think that's what did most of -the damage. Most of them were either wild adventure stuff or incurably -romantic, and almost all of them had been written by Irishmen who saw -the world in a keyed-up and highly emotional way, just as Mike himself -did. Naturally there was a complete set of Donn Byrne's works, for Mike -swore that Byrne was the greatest writer who had ever lived.</p> - -<p>And there was a reprint of something called WARLORD OF MARS, written -by a fellow named Burroughs way back in the days before spaceflight. -When the novels were exhausted there came a bunch of science-fiction -magazines, mostly the copies of PLANET STORIES he had missed while we -were out on that long Venus haul.</p> - -<p>Finally there was a newspaper we'd brought aboard at the spaceport -just before blast-off. He read it page by page and column by column, -including the advice to the lovelorn section, the comics, the -editorials, and all the ads. His voice droned on for hours, while the -Hustic transformers whined and the air in the ship misted with the -acrid fumes of overheated insulation and I soaked myself in cold sweat. -The whole scene had the irrationality of a nightmare. But I was awake -and knew it, and just wished I were dreaming the whole thing.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Then, inevitably with that overload, the Hustic spouted black smoke. -The line surge that flashed back up the cables bent the meter needles -around their stop pegs, and down in the belly of the ship the power -packs sizzled and crackled. But somehow they didn't explode.</p> - -<p>Mike staggered and covered his face with his hands. He dropped to his -knees and for an instant I thought the current had followed the helmet -cable and electrocuted him.</p> - -<p>But he grasped a stanchion and pulled himself upright. His face was -haggard and gaunt, but there was a wildly triumphant gleam in his -bloodshot eyes and a twisted grin on his lips.</p> - -<p>Then I got my worst scare of all as he lurched toward me, fumbling in -his pocket for the spring-opening knife he always carried. I closed my -eyes and waited for the end.</p> - -<p>But he didn't stab me. Instead the air swooshed out of my cushions as -he ripped the fabric. Then he turned and yanked the sleep mask from -Bill's face.</p> - -<p>I scrambled out. My legs felt rubbery from being pinned in the cushions -so long but I managed to stagger over and twist Bill's air release -valve just as Mike crumpled to the deck.</p> - -<p>Bill opened his eyes. "What the—?"</p> - -<p>Then he remembered what had happened, and heard the Marties still -howling outside in a most unpleasant way.</p> - -<p>"Let's get the hell out of here!" he bellowed.</p> - -<p>We went out with Bill on the throttles and me down in the drive room -with the portable emergency power-pack and a handful of wires to get -the Wilsons firing. Mike was out cold on the control room floor. We -went out with a swish and a swoop on an uncontrolled skew curve, and -only the low .38 gravity and 3.1 mile per second escape velocity of -Mars kept us alive.</p> - -<p>As soon as we straightened out of the escape spiral Bill and I hustled -Mike into the cushions. It wasn't necessary to gas him, for although he -had recovered consciousness he did not resist at all. Instead he fell -into a long normal sleep, twice around the clock as though completely -exhausted.</p> - -<p>That trip still haunts my nightmares. Everything powered off the -secondaries—which meant nearly everything but the main drivers—was -dead. Mike had really fixed that.</p> - -<p>Then one of the Wilsons burned a liner, and with grave misgivings -we had to turn Mike loose. We didn't like the notion of spacing -a trajectory on power settings plotted by a crazy man, but the -calculations for unbalanced drive needed his astrogating skill. With -the mechanical astroplotter out of action it was too much for Bill and -me.</p> - -<p>He didn't get violent, so after that we gave him the run of the ship, -though of course we never left him on watch alone. He seemed harmless -enough, and spent most of his time at a typewriter he had rebuilt to -operate in variable gravity. He wrote a few poems to and about Polly. -The usual mush.</p> - -<p>Then he wrote a story. Maybe I've mentioned before that he collected -rejection slips. Bill and I laughed when we read it, because it was -much too farfetched for publication. All about a mysterious artificial -brain—he didn't specify whether animal, vegetable or mineral—invented -to serve as a combination integrating calculator and reference library, -working on a form of telepathy. But the creatures for whom it was built -kept using it more and more to solve their problems instead of working -them out for themselves. After a few generations the creatures became -nothing but eyes and hands for the brain, letting it do all their -thinking and make all their decisions.</p> - -<p>And because the Thing was aware of every sensation of a whole planetful -of creatures it grew very tired of processing irrelevant information -and began to propagate the idea that any thought or action not -absolutely essential for survival was wrong and should be suppressed, -and that emotions—which interfered with transmission of factual -data—were unthinkably degenerate, to be shunned at all costs. After a -few more generations the creatures did not even realize they were being -controlled by the Thing, had even forgotten its existence and believed -its thoughts and decisions were their own.</p> - -<p>That was the story.</p> - -<p>Then he got to fooling with the burned-out ruins of the Hustic and made -a sheaf of graphs, all in five and six colors. They were too complex -for Bill or me.</p> - -<p>A few days out from Earth, a worried Bill got me up in the middle of my -off-shift and motioned to the forward view-plate. There, coming toward -us from the inviting blue-green ball of Earth, were thirty closely -grouped orange specks. Spaceship driver flares.</p> - -<p>Mike took a look too, then held both hands to his forehead with index -fingers protruding and wiggled them at us. When I got the idea I wasn't -happy about it. The wiggling fingers meant antennae. Martians.</p> - -<p>Bill and I gnawed our fingernails. The poor <i>Banshee</i> could neither run -nor fight. But the Martian ships went right on by without even trying -to contact us on the Luminophone. Mike just grinned through it all.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>We landed rough, on account of the burned-out driver, but when things -stopped bouncing we were all in condition to limp away.</p> - -<p>Mike saw the car pull up outside and had the hatch open before we could -stop him.</p> - -<p>Polly met him with open arms and a kiss that would have been censored -on any telaudio show. She wasn't the pale, subdued, inertia-ridden girl -of a few months before. Not at all.</p> - -<p>The Professor was dancing up and down with excitement behind her, -trying to shake one of Mike's hands.</p> - -<p>"You did it, darling!" Polly released her lips long enough to say. -"They're gone, every one of them! And so is the Complex."</p> - -<p>"Huh?" Bill and I stared.</p> - -<p>Then Bill grabbed his brother.</p> - -<p>"You mean Mike isn't—?" he began.</p> - -<p>"Of course not," the Professor snapped. "He never was." Then he turned -to Mike.</p> - -<p>"What capacitance were you using when you picked up the Thing's -radiations?" he demanded. "What power factor? What wave form? Sine wave -or flat top or sawtooth? Did you have the transportation grid shielded -or were you getting a reinduction feedback?"</p> - -<p>"Father!" Polly said sternly. "Later!"</p> - -<p>Mike reached in his pocket and handed his fancy graphs to the -Professor, who seemed to understand them at a glance.</p> - -<p>"Oh," he said. "There's just enough similarity of wave form here so the -telepathic inertia influences directed at the Cultural Emissaries would -heterodyne in their receiving organs and be re-emitted exactly on a -generalized human brain-wave pattern.</p> - -<p>"And that makeshift capacitance bar you rigged just happened to -sensitize the set to the Thing's own wave form."</p> - -<p>We listened, but right then Mike was more interested in Polly. About -that he displayed good sense.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Bill's <i>Banshee III</i> and my <i>Thor</i> are between-trips at the same time, -so it was only natural that we got together last night. And when we -met Miu Tlenow, the Venusian cat-man, it was also natural that we head -immediately for the Ursa Major Tavern.</p> - -<p>"Mewargh!" Tlenow purred, extending and retracting his clawlike -fingernails with pleasure as the second drink took hold. "Really it is -good to get away from that madhouse."</p> - -<p>"What madhouse?" Bill asked.</p> - -<p>"Mars."</p> - -<p>We sat up straighter. Somehow in the five years that had passed without -authentic news from the Red Planet we had taken it for granted that -things there had settled down once more to a slow, lethargic normality. -We hadn't realized the full impact of Mike, as amplified by the Hustic.</p> - -<p>"Those Martians!" Tlenow mewled, his whiskers twitching in agitated -disgust. "They are crazy. All crazy. They mate, but they use no sense -in how they mate. Like Earthmen. Such complications! They have many -different governments with a hundred different political parties, and -they talk and talk, vote and vote. They argue.</p> - -<p>"Things like Earthmen's gloves they make. Of course they will not fit -Martian hands and they carry them only to hit in each other's faces. -Then they fight duels.</p> - -<p>"They make liquor and drink it, and how crazy-drunk they get. Then, -Great Space, they even try to sing!</p> - -<p>"They make jokes and play pranks, too, something they never did before."</p> - -<p>Tlenow was slit-eyed with amazement at such illogical Martian behavior.</p> - -<p>"They do this one day, do that the next. Always they grow more like -Venusians or Earthmen, only with not so much sense. What they will do -on any tomorrow one can never tell."</p> - -<p>He finished his drink and leaned forward.</p> - -<p>"They make writing—too much writing—everything in writing—and all of -it funny kind. What you Earthmen call—I think—poetry. Yes, that is -it. Poetry. And each day gets worser. They never make like that before. -By the Seven Black Comets, how they get that way?"</p> - -<p>That was when Bill and I knew we had to break our silence.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>So the Marties have not yet learned to think for themselves. Five -years, after all, is a very short time. Perhaps some day. In the -meantime they're nothing but reflections of the more uninhibited and -generally screwy aspects of Terence Michael Burke's personality. And -I'm afraid they'll share his disturbing ideas of humor.</p> - -<p>Do we want anything to do with them? Frankly, I don't know. That's up -to you, Citizens of Earth, when you vote on the new treaty.</p> - -<p>But don't say I didn't warn you.</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MADMEN OF MARS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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