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Title: Under the Skin

Author: Leslie Perri

Illustrator: Robert Engle

Release date: March 7, 2022 [eBook #67580]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Royal Publications, Inc

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDER THE SKIN ***

                            UNDER THE SKIN

                            By LESLIE PERRI

                         Illustrated by ENGLE

           The road to Ul was paved with danger, difficulty,
            and good intentions--and it's an open question
                which of the three was most disastrous!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                 Infinity Science Fiction, June 1956.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


I ran a story the other day about the arrival on Earth of a Martian
diplomat and his wife. And I okayed a picture of the lady presiding
over a tea at the Martian embassy. I looked at the picture for quite
a while. The lady in her costume, fresh from the Couture Syndicate in
Rio, was a carbon copy of every other woman. What was different about
her was no longer very different. It was sad, and it was frightening,
too.

It took me back to the days when Deborah and I were pioneering in the
gloomy bureau Universal News had set up in Marsport. I remember the
biggest story we ever covered; it was the only one we never wrote. And
I've been waiting for a time when I could break it because sooner or
later you can take the lid off anything. It illustrates a point I try
to make when I can.

In the early days we were frequently involved in Martian difficulties.
It was partly through genuine concern for their welfare; we liked the
Martians without question. But it was also, curiously, motivated by an
almost adolescent eagerness to demonstrate efficiency and speed and
worth to a people who remained friendly and grateful but aloof and
paternally amused by our energies.

This story started as suddenly and simply as most disasters usually
strike on Mars, or anywhere. A news flash was relayed in from an
interior hill community, Faleeng, to our Marsport office. The news
flash to Universal News came almost simultaneously with the official
SOS.

Disaster had struck a small community of Martians in the Ul
Mountains--a mining region, remote and inaccessible to the Martian land
machines. Power failure threatened the colony of 2,000 with extinction.
Intense cold was slowly, inexorably moving in from the cheerless
sandstone hills from which Ul had been carved.

It was top news as it stood, but there was an additional detail that
made it a real 72-point type headline, a screamer. Ul was the seat of
Martian diranium mining operations. And Mars ran on diranium ore and
whatever it was that the Martians did with it.

We didn't know anything about diranium then and the Martians kept
it that way. We had nothing like it and it drew the con boys like a
magnet. But fruitlessly. Ambassador Ferne, a real level guy with the
Martians, made sure nothing like diranium ever left in anyone's carpet
bag. Our relations with the Martians were smooth, as a result. There
was really nothing else we wanted from them.

Except maybe to see what their women looked like, and, oh yes, their
children. No ancient system of purdah was ever stricter. They were
inflexible on the subject. They had not only instituted elaborate
precautions for keeping their women invisible, it was, also, distinctly
a breach of good manners to mention them. We had been given a rough
idea of the methods the Martians employed in rearing children, but
while it excited a lot of psychologist chaps with its novelty, we were
still frustrated and speculative about their female relations. Who must
have been a pretty attractive and exotic lot, to judge by their men.

But you couldn't, if you were decent, do anything but defer to the
Martians in the matter. They were wonderful people, honest, friendly
and with no ax to grind. They invariably brought out your best without
any seeming effort. They made you examine into your motives, and the
darker nooks and crannies of your far-from-perfect-soul.

Consequently, the Ul disaster packed a real wallop for us.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the Martian authorities got the news from Ul they appealed to
Ferne for assistance. The U.F.S. Rocket Auxiliary was the fastest
transportation available on Mars, faster than anything the Martians
had. The Ambassador ordered the rocket fleet to assist in the immediate
evacuation of stricken Ulans to Marsport medical stations.

In addition a team of Martian and Earth Federation technicians boarded
the lead ship, _Electra_. Equipment, food and medical supplies were
crowded into the remaining ships. And a large fleet of Martian land
machines went into action. The land machines were like enormous onyx
bowling balls, rolling heavily but smoothly on bands of gripper treads.
They would go as far as they could into the hills, and the clumsy,
short-hop Martian _wings_ would make the rest of the trip to Ul.

Of course the monster maw of public interest on Earth devoured the
first news like a cocktail sandwich and clamored hungrily for more.
In those days news from Mars took priority. The New York bureau of
Universal News was explicit about wanting full coverage--and pictures.

And this was where Deborah Wayne first came into the
picture--unfortunately. Deborah was a nice girl, a bright girl, and
brilliant with her super-speed, super-sensitive cameras. But I think,
now, that the psychologist who screened her for that career was drunk.
She was supposed to be ready to cope with the rigors and exigencies of
the frontier. But in the showdown she turned out to be a sentimental
slob who all but got us kicked off Mars.

I didn't think about Debby when the news first broke. I might never
have thought of her myself, but the New York bureau did. When their
orders came in on the Spacetron, the message link between Earth and
Marsport, I was alone in our office with Charley Ray of Galactic News.
I read him the tape as it came off the machine.

    QUOTE PROSTEVELASKER EXWILSON COLON UNPICKLE SELF AND SUBQUOTE
    TALENT UNSUBQUOTE FOR FULLEST DISASTER COVERAGE WITH PICTURES
    PERIOD OFFER WAYNE BONUS IF DANGEROUS PERIOD REQUIRE LEAD FOR
    BLUELINE CASTS AND FULLEST UL BACKGROUNDING END UNQUOTE

"And where do you suppose Debby is?" Charley said. "To think I could
have forgotten her!"

"Debby!" I said. "Pictures!" I was thinking that the insatiable human
glut for horror and tragedy was a pretty sad and unchanging constant in
our Earth civilization.

"They want a real production," I said bitterly. "With a gallon count on
the blood running in the streets."

"And you get paid for counting it accurately," Charley said. "We got an
hour. Feel noble when we're comfortable. And on our way. With Debby. I
won't go without her. Mad about the girl."

"Mad," I agreed. "You'd better call our office and then check with
Ferne's office on which crate we get to ride in. While I try to locate
that two-legged witch."

Kibby came in. He was relief man and almost always shrouded in an
alcoholic fog from which the cleanest, clearest prose emerged. He
nodded at us, noticed we were looking less bored than usual and picked
up the tape for the answer. He groaned. "You mean I have to _work_ this
morning? With this head? Background on Ul! The rockpile of Mars."

"Yop," I told him. "SOS came in a couple of hours ago to the
communications center. Galactic and Universal got the flash from the
stringer in Faleeng, the nearest point to Ul. Sounds real rough out
there. And interesting. This is the closest we've ever come to their
diranium. But first I have to find Debby."

As I talked, I was looking over a list of stations.

"Ruin my day, altogether," Kibby muttered.

"Try the _Celestial_. She said she was doing a film on those historic
ruins outside of Marsport. The _Celestial's_ the only dump you can stay
in out there."

I rang up the _Celestial_. She had left hours ago.

"Great," I groaned. "She could be anywhere."

Charley put a cigarette in his mouth. And in between the calls I made
to different places on the list he told me the seats reserved for the
press, us, were on the _Starfish_. We were going along with some crates
of blankets and two mine experts, Sam Vechi and his assistant, Raeburn.

"But no pictures of the mines," Charley said. "Or the mining equipment.
This order is backed up with RA zap guns. Dipple, over there, was very
emphatic. If he didn't know much about anything else, he knew that. I'm
surprised he managed to figure out how we were going to get to Ul."

Kibby was at the water cooler, his head pressed lovingly against the
cold metal cylinders. "Why are they letting Vechi go along? He's no
humanitarian. His interest on Mars is diranium and they're giving him a
chance to run through it barefoot."

"Pure conjecture," I said, cautiously but not convincingly. I had
given up trying to locate Deborah. "It's a mine area and Vechi is an
engineer. With all that education he should be some help."

Vechi was a hard guy to figure and pretty much on his own for a member
of the small Earth Federation colony. He was more or less attached to
the United Federated States Geological Research Expedition. But he was
a free-lancer, too, and disappeared from Marsport for months at a time.
It gave rise to rumors about his being an agent on the side for some
big mine development syndicate on Earth. His comings and goings were
mysterious but you couldn't pin a thing on him. Vechi was slippery,
smooth and indefinably unpleasant. But smart.

       *       *       *       *       *

I had just suggested we haul our equipment out of the locker when the
door slid open. Deborah, her red hair half over her eyes as usual, came
in--a blazing little fireball of energy. She was going full blast.
I shrank within myself and wanted to crawl under a desk. If Charley
thought this was enchanting and feminine, he could have it.

Although--she had the throatiest, most electrifying voice I had ever
heard. It was a muted female foghorn with a lovely liquid cold. It
turned my spine to wax even though I got angry the minute she opened
her mouth and used it to say, witheringly, "What's the matter? How
many people have to die before you big shots get interested? You two
wouldn't dream of offering to help even if you aren't going after the
story!"

"I've been trying to get hold of you," I said coldly.

She just looked her contempt. "I've been at rescue headquarters since
6:00 a.m. You might have tried there. Two thousand people face death,
you know."

"And little Deborah has trundled out her armor and is in there pitching
like mad," I said.

"You hardboiled newsmen," she said, and she was really upset. "You
louses."

"Lice," I said. She had made me feel like a louse. I didn't want it
to show, so I got sly and mean. "Don't you think this trip is too
dangerous for you?"

She had calmed down. She didn't look like Joan of Arc, any more, just
tired and troubled. "No," she said briefly.

"O.K.," I said cheerfully. I was only a little bit sorry to be so
mean. "Then there's no bonus involved."

She buttoned a button on her sleek green workalls. "Louse, in the
singular. Keep your lousy bonus."

Charley gave me a long, disgusted look and left to get his gear.

       *       *       *       *       *

From the air all of Marsport seemed enclosed in a shimmering
transparent syntho-glass bag. And it was, as were all the other Martian
cities, enclosed in some virtually indestructable sheeting that rose
to heights of 20,000 feet--contracting and expanding in the extreme
temperature changes of the planet. These breathing, nearly invisible
_skins_ sheltered the cities, and within them strange hybrid species of
flora and fauna flourished. The Martians had evolved a way of life that
was tranquil, visually beautiful and civilized--if artificial, by our
standards.

Its very artificiality became, in fact, a new kind of reality. The
reality of a dream that persists, or a fantasy which retains its
unbelievable qualities but becomes actuality. And in this atmosphere we
set up our machines and agencies and extensions of Earth--bursting with
the conceits and importance of having conquered space. And, oddly, we
did not consider it strange that the Martians displayed no interest in
returning our visit.

The spaceport lay outside Marsport, however. When we ventured beyond
the protection of the city shelter we wore the pixie-like oxygen hoods
and adjusted the thermal dials on our workalls. I never got over being
surprised that our technicians on Earth could have been so clever at
keeping us comfortable. You got used to nearly everything, as a matter
of fact, except the psychological sense that freedom existed within the
city shelter--and not in the great outdoors. You could get agoraphobia
on Mars; it was rough outside.

When we arrived at the spaceport it seemed as though every citizen
in the capital city had turned out. The slender Martian men in their
colorful, oddly skirted costumes formed the bulk of the crowd. They had
need of extra oxygen, too, and the tall, transparent cones within which
they breathed glittered like a thousand needles in the early morning
air. Martian women were missing from the crowd, as usual, and as usual
you had a strangely wistful feeling about these withdrawn people--who
were always friendly but never intimate. Who would not trust you any
more than you would mischievous children with the treasures of their
ancient and beautiful civilization.

We rode past the crowds in our vehicle, with an R.A. sergeant directing
us to the _Starfish_.

It can be said for the Rocket Auxiliary that they worked like beavers
loading the U.F.S. Rocket Fleet. The array of ships was impressive.
The sleek, silver hulls mirrored the pastel, candy colors of a clear
Martian morning. They lay quiescent like glittering feathers on the
broad, red-earth field. Far in the distance, low, brown hills rolled
out to meet the horizon. Small yellow clouds swirled over a section of
the hills--a dust storm into which we would be heading presently.

Our sergeant hopped off the vehicle when we reached the _Starfish_.
She was a real old dowager, the _Starfish_, with the broadest beam
in the fleet: even slower, but more uncomfortable, than a ride on a
three-legged Martian _ileh_, the only beast of burden on the planet.

When we had piled out of the vehicle the first thing I noticed was
Deborah's gear, all neat and ready to be stowed. Then Sam Vechi,
sitting on a fibreboard crate with his legs crossed at precise right
angles. His face in the transparent visor was thin, darkly tanned and
healthier looking than any of ours. And his workalls fitted as though
they had had him in mind when they tailored the original design. When
he got up at our approach I was surprised again by his height. You
remembered him, somehow, as being a small man, which he wasn't.

The audio cup in my oxygen helmet buzzed a little when he began to
talk, so I adjusted it and picked up the tail end of what he was
saying: "... terrible, this Ul thing, isn't it?" I nodded.

Deborah kept fiddling with her audio adjuster, as though she couldn't
hear, so she wouldn't have to acknowledge Vechi's greeting. She wasn't
good with people she didn't like and she didn't like Vechi.

Charley, who had a bright word for any slob, offered an apology for our
offhandedness. "They have a hate on," he lied blithely. "They turned
off audio so they couldn't hear my arguments for a reconciliation."

Deborah, who wouldn't let even phony opportunity go by, said nastily,
"I wouldn't give him two minutes or two words more than my contract
calls for."

"And it's a good thing it isn't up for renewal," I said.

Vechi smiled and there was something agreeable about all those white
teeth in that brown face.

I guess it made Deborah uncomfortable to have Vechi agreeable. "Excuse
me," she said. "I want some shots of the mob scene." She looked at me.
"Are you going to wave in a story to Kibby before takeoff? Lots of
color around."

It was a damnfool question. "I do news. You do pictures." I said it
patiently.

"I was only thinking of correlating the two, you crab!" she snapped and
stamped away.

"Real friendly type," Charley growled at me. "Quit riding her. She
knows her job and she does it."

"She knows her job but not her place," I growled back. "She has to run
every show."

"Boy, I bet your ancestors beat the spit out of their women when they
went out after the vote."

"That was the turning point in history," I said. "We have been paying
for it ever since."

Charley grinned. "It ain't such a big price, considering."

He looked around the field. "Well, I'll wave in my story on the takeoff
stuff. There's nothing else for the noon leads."

       *       *       *       *       *

I watched him leave. And then I looked for Debby--and watched her. From
a distance she looked mighty nice, it was true. She had a funny way of
moving, a little awkwardly like a young animal, but it had its appeal.
And so did her red hair, which was short and curly and never in place.
She was young all over except for her figure which was as grown up as
it had to be. What no one could understand, though, was why the best
looking gal in Marsport hadn't been trapped by any one guy as yet. And
how anyone that good looking could also be good. So far from home it
didn't usually work out that way. The girls did as they pleased and no
one blamed them. It was one of the rewards for being a sucker and doing
a stint on Mars.

It gradually dawned on me, as I watched her, that she wasn't doing much
active picture-taking. Her usual intensity was curiously missing. She
seemed to be thinking about something else as she aimed her camera,
up there on top of the _Starfish_. I made a mental note of this. I
had learned that when Deborah appeared abstracted there was usually a
damned interesting reason for it.

I fished out my communication gimmick and flicked a button. I got the
control tower, or, more accurately, underground shelter, and the latest
poop. Then I signalled Kibby and dictated a story to him. While I was
talking privately into the 'com. Vechi watched me in a disinterested
way. Raeburn, his assistant, arrived and they wandered off among the
fibreboard crates for a private conversation.

"Paragraph, Kibby," I said into the mouthpiece. "'The vast rocket
terminal at Marsport is soberly alive this morning with preparations
for the giant rescue job awaiting the joint forces of the U.F.S. Rocket
Auxiliary, and the Martian disaster crew....'"

Pundra Doh, the Martian premier, was in the lead ship, _Electra_.
But there wasn't time for an interview. Thin, electric-blue spits of
exhaust flickered all over the spaceport by the time I had finished
dictating. The high, keening sound of the rockets revving up tore
through my helmet and I shouted at Deborah who was still up there, on
top of the _Starfish_. My voice in her helmet must have blasted her
eardrums.

"Damn you, Steve," she screamed back at me. Then she clicked another
wide-angle shot of the field, sat down suddenly and slid down the
polished tail of the _Starfish_ on her fanny.

It's a wonder her camera survived the descent.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Starfish_ shuddered as she lurched along, keeping up with the rest
of the fleet. Her vibration was too heavy to be soporific but Deborah
slept like a baby on a pile of things she had scratched together. Or at
least she seemed to be asleep. Maybe because I was looking at her she
figured it was a good idea to pretend. There was something wrong with
her, something I couldn't put my finger on.

Charley took out a cigarette. He looked at me looking at her. "Why
resist?" he grinned.

"You've got a one-track mind," I said. "What I'm wondering is what
that little witch has up her sleeve. She's behaving like she's done
something--it makes me uneasy."

Charley looked real angry. He flicked an ash meticulously. "You
haven't got a damned thing to gripe about, have you? So, instead of
relaxing, you're _imagining_ enormities she could have committed! What
a jerk. Why don't you admit it to yourself; she attracts you. Like she
does everyone else. Say something nice about her for a change--you
don't impress me."

"She takes good pictures."

Charley laughed, derisively. "I guess you'd like it better if she went
space-crazy, like every other dame does here. She ought to drink more,
beef more, hell around. Maybe you could stand having her around if you
knew she took the guys home with her who would run at the chance.

"You're just waiting for her to make a slip. So, you can write her off.
But she won't. You might as well save time and admit what everybody
figured a long time ago."

"You through?" I asked.

"Sure."

"I'd still like to know what she's been up to."

I bent forward and started checking my gear. I was so mad my hands
shook. I took out a bottle of hooch and examined it while I calmed
down; it was vintage stuff, not home brew. I put it away again. I
didn't need a drink, really. Deborah! If it wasn't love it was
something just as insidious. I could get real boiled up because of her.

_Love_, now there was a fancy word! I toyed with it for a minute and
considered it in relation to Deborah. And all I came up with was a
mental picture of her mouth--very soft, with the ingenuous, upward
curve of an eager kid. It didn't solve a damned thing. I closed my gear
pack and looked at the other passengers.

Vechi and his boy, Raeburn, were checking gear, too. They spent a
little time admiring some scientific gadget Raeburn had fished out for
Vechi's approval. Vechi pushed a pointer on a small black dial and
sighted us through it; very cool. When they got through playing, they
leaned back comfortable-like and looked at us.

Since we were newsmen the conversation was bound to be a little formal.

Vechi must have known he had a doubtful reputation. I guess he figured
we were curious about his berth on the _Starfish_; how come he was
riding with the press?

Raeburn was a pudgy, balding civil service sycophant. He had little
quick brown eyes, a loose wide mouth filled with an unpleasantly
self-conscious smile--and practically no chin to balance the naked
shine of his brow. He made bad jokes and thought he was quite the boy.

Since I was never at the head of the class for tact I started the ball
rolling down the center alley. "What's your interest in this trip,
Vechi?" I said.

I heard Charley sigh resignedly.

"I'm a civil engineer," Vechi said. "It seems they need technical
people as well as reporters. Technical people to save as much as they
can and newsmen to dramatize what hasn't been saved."

Score one, and not for us! I grinned at him. "Got any ideas for the
press on what caused the power failure?"

Vechi smiled a gentle, patronizing smile. "Apparently, the Martians
use diranium as a source of atomic power. But since no one knows the
characteristics of diranium it would be difficult to imagine the type
of power installation they employ. It seems evident to me, also, that
we will know as little about diranium, later, as we do now--with the
strong security measures taken to safeguard the secrets of diranium.

"Furthermore, the Martians have evolved totally different scientific
systems based on materials, limitations and planetary conditions which
are alien to us. Entirely different engineering skills are required."

"Then what earthly good are our boys going to be?" I asked.

Vechi stretched his legs. Raeburn listened and said nothing. "We
have no way of knowing that Ul station did not sustain a physical
catastrophe--in which case a knowledge of construction, how to salvage
tunnels, buildings, bridges, heating systems and the like will probably
prove useful. We know something of their building techniques from
Marsport."

"Well, you certainly appear to be well qualified," I said as
courteously as possible. But somewhere a dim instinct warned that this
was eye-wash. Why wasn't this joker with the other engineering boys up
front?

"Thank you, Mr. Lasker," he said, equally courteous. End of interview.

I looked at Charley. He looked at me. Then he handed me his bottle.
Trust Charley. "Have a slug, pal," he said cheerfully. "Stop working."

"I will, pal," I said. "Thanks."

It felt good going down and for the first time I realized I had a
hangover from the night before. And the night before that. And then I
saw that Deborah's green eyes were wide open and fixed on me.

I took another slug, over and above Charley's little pained
exclamation. I didn't like the look in those green eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Hey, Steve," Debby called in that indecent voice of hers. "I want to
talk to you."

"You see, my friend," I said to the owner of the bottle, "she wants to
talk to me."

"That makes you lucky," Charley said. He was very carefully putting the
top back on the bottle.

"So, talk," I said to her.

"No, _you_ come over here for a change."

Then I knew something was wrong. In some crazy way Deborah and I
operated on the same frequency. I could always sense things about
her--and, I knew, she could about me, too. I grunted. I moved
reluctantly. But I went over to her and sat down.

Her face was propped up by an elbow and about six inches from mine
after she had drawn my head down for a real private tete-a-tete.

"Steve, I've got to talk to you."

She was real, damned pretty that close up. But that wasn't the reason I
got the breathless feeling in my stomach. I wondered how much this was
going to cost Universal. I was thinking in terms of money at that point.

"All right," I said. "I couldn't hit you even if I wanted to. What did
you do this time?"

"Well. It's not awfully bad and it's not awfully good. It's a delicate
situation. And I need your help."

My alarm grew. "Deborah!" I said warningly.

She drew a deep breath through a small, round red mouth. "I smuggled
someone on board," she said very quietly.

Well, that was interesting. I patted her cheek; I wanted to wring her
neck. "Fascinating," I said lightly. "Let me know how you make out with
customs, or whatever."

I made like I was getting up. She grabbed my collar. "Steve!" she
whispered, agonized about something.

"Mr. Lasker," I said briskly. "I'm your boss, not your friend. Take
your problem to Charley; he's softheaded."

"I'll give Charley an exclusive," she whispered three inches from my
face. "I could tie up the spacetron for the next two days with this
story.

"This is Pundra Doh's wife!"

I sank back on my haunches and stared at her. "You've stowed a Martian
_woman_ on this tub?"

She nodded a small nod, once.

I grabbed her by the shoulders and I guess it wasn't gently.

"The holiest of all holy Martian women, the Premier's woman!"

"Yes, Mr. Lasker."

I was speechless and, I will admit, scared. This was real serious
business. This no newsman on Mars would wade into without a clearance
covered with red seals and blazing with blue ribbons. The Martians were
_touchy_ about their women, and they meant it.

And our doll, our Deborah had done this all by herself. But why? I
asked the burning question even if it was crazy, "You didn't kidnap
her, did you? Just for laughs or something?"

"Steve, please!"

She was scared. I loosened a button on my collar. "Okay, baby, give it
to me. All of it. You realize this constitutes a breach of faith with
the Martians. Not to mention an assault on U.F.S. policy. A lot of
people are going to find their heads on the block if this gets out."

"Well, I don't know about that," Deborah said quietly. "I was asked to
do this. To arrange this trip for Laapet, in exactly this way. And I
gave it a lot of thought before I agreed to do it."

"Laapet? The lady's name?"

She nodded. She backed away a little, down on her elbow again. She had
been upsetting that close; even with everything else charging through
my brain, I noticed it. Had she?

"I was at the _Celestial_ when the first news from Ul broke," Deborah
said. "I was about to go to bed, as a matter of fact, when the Martian
innkeep hammered on my door and told me about the disaster. I packed
my gear right away and got transportation for rescue headquarters.
I figured the biggest picture-wise things would be happening there.
Besides, I wanted to help if I could.

"I hadn't gone very far from the _Celestial_ when my vehicle was
stopped by a Martian."

I listened to her story incredulously. It was eerie and unbelievable.
There in the merciless cold of the white-lighted night desert Deborah
had made the first crossing into the secret, private world of the
Martians.

       *       *       *       *       *

The man who intercepted her appeared out of the night, without warning.
Tall and slender in a cloak of soft furs, his feet in fine leather
quilted boots, the tall glittering oxygen cone crested with the
phoenix-like emblem of the ruling group--he was regal, and tragic with
uncertainty. He had no taste for his mission but he was urgent.

He frightened Deborah with his intensity but she trusted him. The way
you always trusted the Martians. She left her chauffeur to wait for
her and went with him in his machine. They drove into the desert for a
long while in silence. He did not tell her what to expect, but it was
obviously important and secret. He was without attendants. He did not
even have a driver but operated his own vehicle.

"I could not understand why I had been chosen," Deborah said. "But I
had the feeling that I was very unimportant, in myself."

They came to the rendezvous spot where one of the larger and better
land machines waited--like a black monument rising from the white sand.
Inside, Laapet waited. He had taken her to his sister, Pundra Doh's
wife.

The compartment was luxurious and dimly lit. Laapet sat behind
semi-opaque hangings, shy, frightened and all but invisible. But
desperate. Her two children were in Ul and she was beside herself with
anxiety for them.

Deborah's face was very soft and saddened. I understood something,
suddenly, something I had not come close to before. Laapet was not
a stowaway to Deborah, or a diplomatic catastrophe, but a woman
distraught with concern for her children. If Deborah had any motivation
it was to help this other woman--even if she broke the iron rules of
the Martian code. She was, in that instant, an entire woman, herself.

And what could you do about it? Forget you were a good guy, too,
someplace in your cynical old fibers? And just berate her for getting
you involved in an absolutely untenable situation--one that would
presently have the Ambassador, himself, running for a bromo fizz?

"So, she wanted to go to Ul. And you were the only woman going and
she trusted you to understand?" I said it as gently as I could. Maybe
Deborah understood that I understood, for once.

Deborah was thoughtful. "I don't understand all of it," she said
slowly. "She was, naturally, not permitted to accompany the Premier.
I'm sure she didn't even ask. If you know anything about the way they
rear their children, here ..." she said expectantly, and I nodded
because I had read a report or two on the subject.

"Well, it seems she had been ill--not physically, but emotionally, I
gather. She was unstable and the children were sent to Ul on a holiday,
to escape her tensions. Since they had been sent to Ul because of her,
she felt it was her fault they were in danger. And because she knew
they would receive no better attention, or be found more quickly, under
the Martian code, she decided to go herself to make sure they would
survive."

"They will not honor her for it," I said. And I was doubtful that
Madame Pundra's stability had returned.

"I am sure they won't," Deborah said bitterly. "But I can understand
that her children are worth more to her than her honor. And maybe
that's an instinct that's common to all mothers regardless of their
origin."

I couldn't argue with her. I didn't say that maybe if Madame Pundra had
been well, emotionally, according to Martian standards, she wouldn't
have done it. What was the point?

       *       *       *       *       *

The generators of the _Starfish_ hammered through the silence that
hung between us. I had never before been touched emotionally, myself,
by anything Martian. And here, suddenly, I was a hapless party to a
certain tragedy--all the more tragic because it was based on mores I
did not understand entirely, or sympathize with.

"Maybe we can help her avoid dishonor?"

Deborah shrugged. "She will, in any event, confess to having petitioned
us into helping her. The Martians do not dissemble. That will be enough
to condemn her."

I shook myself out of a peculiar gloom. "There may be a way." I said,
but I doubted it. "How did you ever get her on board? And where is she?
And how did she ever hear about you?"

Deborah looked tired. "The plan was to smuggle her aboard in my
portable developing unit; it worked out very smoothly. I don't know how
she heard about me. I wish she hadn't."

"That makes two of us," I muttered. "Deborah?"

Her mouth shook a little. "Yes, Steve, I know." Her voice was a
register lower and all but inaudible. "I'm glad I can count on you, you
louse."

Something pretty incredible was happening to us. In spite of the way
she phrased it she was suddenly not out there striding along manfully
by herself, any more. Nor had she ever been. To have her suddenly
lapse atavistically into a woman instead of a termagent was more than
I could handle. I, who had all but resigned myself to the inevitable,
eventual appeal of one of the moronic but less assertive ewes of our
society! How had Deborah been flushed through the nets and traps
and conditioners of our psychologists--to land, thus, a compound
personality in my lap?

Here, I thought exultantly, is no glitteringly compatible equal with
every brain impulse carefully measured, and every muscle vibrating in
harmony with the males on her level. But a thoroughly mixed-up female
in the romantic tradition of the last century!

"You damned little fake," I said huskily.

"It took you the longest time to figure me out," Deborah sighed. "I
hope you'll treat it as a confidential disclosure or they'll try to
cure me and make me _normal_."

"Heaven forbid!" I let her voice crawl up and down my spine with a
freedom I'd never allowed before. It made me feel pretty drunk.

I looked at her and her eyes were green and wide. "God, you're
beautiful," I said with the unbidden frankness that comes with any kind
of drunkenness.

"You make me feel that way," she said.

I touched her hand very briefly. "It'll turn out as good as I can
manage."

"I needed you, Steve. I was so afraid you wouldn't be there. I couldn't
be alone with this one. She's going to _kill_ herself, Steve."

"Aren't any of her people interested in helping her? What about her
brother?"

"Another potential suicide, I suppose," Deborah said bitterly. "He's
with Pundra Doh in the lead ship. He will ostensibly take over when he
reaches Ul."

"Well, heaven bless him."

       *       *       *       *       *

I didn't have to go back and sit next to Charley, but I did. I had a
couple of things to think about and if I'd stayed with Deborah I would
have thought about only one of them.

Charley was half asleep. Raeburn seemed to be asleep. Vechi was
reading. I leaned back and closed my eyes. And still I thought about
only one thing. Deborah. Not thinking, really, feeling. I resented
Pundra Doh's wife for crowding in on that feeling. And for the vague
presentiment I had about Vechi. And Charley's eternally undisturbed
equanimity.

Deborah! I wished we were anywhere but where we were. With this new
thing to explore and understand, I wanted to be near her, alone. But
everything had its price; I had been conditioned successfully enough to
accept that.

There was Laapet, Madame Pundra. And what if her brother did not
materialize when we reached Ul?

I opened my eyes and watched Charley. He was pouring a shot from his
bottle. "Here, pal," he said, "have a medicinal."

I wondered if we would have to tell him about Laapet? Not yet. "Wait,"
I told myself reassuringly, "her brother will take the whole thing off
your hands." But I wasn't sure. I had the uneasy feeling that something
would prevent it.

I glanced at Deborah. She was lying on her back, staring at the dome of
the _Starfish_. She didn't look like she was thinking about us, only.

Charley was tuned in on the same vibration band. He gave me the answer.
"You know," he said quietly, "I've been thinking about Vechi. I don't
like his being on the _Starfish_."

"Go fight the R.A.," I said sarcastically.

"I don't like other things, too," he went on, ignoring me. "Why hasn't
one of the pilots come out for a smoke, yet? Or a drink--or for some
bright chatter with us educated chaps?"

"Things too dull for you, pal?" I asked routinely. It hadn't
penetrated, yet.

Charley had on his patient expression. "Listen, Brain. While you and
Debby were having your big conference I went to the men's lounge to
gargle my throat. It's a funny thing how cautious the R.A.'s getting;
the door to the control room is locked. I tried it gently. If they
didn't want to come out and talk to us--I thought I'd go talk to them."

My stomach froze into a hard knot. I looked at Charley and he said,
"There's the barest possibility that Vechi is pulling a fast one.
Figure that he wants a diranium sample. With a couple of pals driving
this bus he could get into and out of Ul slick as anything."

"But we complicate things," I muttered hopefully.

"It's four to two if you don't count Debby for a muscle man. And with
the element of surprise on their side, they think--what have they got
to worry about?"

"Vechi wouldn't dare--not with the whole R.A. out there to protect the
mines!"

"I dunno," Charley said. "He's real cool."

"Well, well," I said. I was thinking about the additional complication
of Madame Pundra. "And if you aren't just off on a pipe night how do we
find out for sure? And then what, Charley?"

"I don't know, Master Brain. You think about it. No man of action, I!"

"Why would the control room be locked?" I mused.

"I don't know, Brain."

"Do you suppose Vechi thinks we've caught on?"

"No. He's a Superior Type; to him we're just alcoholic writer chaps."

"I'm glad you're a student of human nature, Charley, old pal. But how
do we act effectively without a weapon of some sort?"

"Now, it's real hilarious," Charley said with a broad smile, "but say I
had a vision, or planned a stick-up on the First National Bank of Ul. I
have a popgun in my gear."

Well. Old Charley. You never could tell.

"Where is it?"

"It has taken the bottle down two inches but I've managed to get it out
of the gear-bag and into my workalls."

"A real efficient type, Charley, old pal." I looked about me wondering
if we weren't just imagining everything. And if the Ul disaster weren't
enough reason for this trip. "How about Deborah?"

"If we had a game of stud king," Charley said, fishing out a token,
"and Debby joined us, we could have a lot of conversation between
hands."

"Heads," I said clearly.

"Son of a space cook," he said loudly. "You deal."

I glanced at Vechi casually, as though satisfying myself that he didn't
want to be disturbed. He was looking at us over his book. He smiled, I
thought, in a superior way.

"Want to lose some money?" I called to Deborah.

"I've got some change," she said, sitting up.

And so we commenced to play stud king on a cleared-off space on the
floor. Between the laughs we got in a lot of conversation.

       *       *       *       *       *

We figured we had time. The trip to Ul took four hours and we were only
half-way there. If Vechi was up to something it would probably involve
a "forced" landing somewhere just outside of Ul, away from the main
rocket fleet. After all, what he wanted was in Ul.

If the pilots and Raeburn were in on the deal with him--and they had to
be--we were badly outnumbered. Our only chance was not in waiting but
in somehow getting control of the _Starfish_ while it was still aloft.
And of contacting the lead ship for help.

Deborah was scared. And I was glad she was scared. And I was glad she
didn't turn up a single, bright idea for our salvation. Except that she
would have to tell Madame Pundra about this development.

It was then that we told Charley about our stowaway. It was to his
credit that his expression remained unchanged. And indicative of
something that his only excitement was at the possibility of finally
seeing a Martian woman.

It may have seemed very little to go on, our conviction that Vechi
was masterminding a coup. But it's the little things that make you
suspicious. The R.A. is made up of casual characters. They like to
talk, gripe about no smoking in the control room, come back to sniff
out a drink or a game of stud king, maybe an off-color story. There
seems to be a kind of conspiracy to get the rockets to fly themselves
while the pilots visit aft--or so it seems to the passengers.

You get to expect informalities from the R.A.; they're usual. And it's
the kind of detail a slick, factual guy like Vechi could overlook, or
think you might overlook, if he were planning something. The longer the
pilots stayed away--the more certain we were.

We were also sure that if Vechi and Raeburn were in the pay of an Earth
syndicate to get hold of diranium ore they could have slugged the
pilots of the _Starfish_, put in their own crew and trailed along with
the rescue fleet. We didn't represent much of a threat; they could dump
us anyplace. The _Starfish_ was no beauty but she could make the trip
back to Earth.

We did not want to think they were planning to do anything more serious
than dump us. And Charley and I were determined that Vechi wasn't going
to reduce us to a trio of dumb pawns. But I guess we couldn't help what
happened, at that. There was another mighty powerful piece in this
chess game we hadn't even thought about.

Deborah was hopeful almost to the end that we were just imagining the
whole thing. "How can we be sure?" she wanted to know.

Then Charley had the inspiration. He remembered one of the pilots
permanently assigned to the _Starfish_, Fats Berenson. The joke was
that Fats was too big for the sleek speed-boats up ahead but better
suited to this boxcar.

"If Fats were aboard," Charley said, looking over a new hand of stud
king, "he would have been out here two hours ago and using every
gimmick to stay out here. He's just naturally the laziest slob in the
R.A. Besides, I owe him some money from an old bet. Knowing from the
passenger list that I was aboard he would have come up from hell,
itself, to collect."

"But we're still not sure," Deborah insisted.

"Tell you what," Charley said quietly, raking in a pot, "I'm going to
find out who the pilots are. I'll use the gun on the lock--and keep the
boys at the controls orderly after that. Then I'll try to contact the
lead ship for help. If the pilots aren't old friends."

"The hero type," I muttered. But I was grateful he had the gun. "Okay,
Charley. I'll keep Vechi occupied and Deborah can take off to the
ladies' lounge for safety, and to tell Madame Pundra what we plan to
do."

"You got it, Bright Boy," Charley grinned. "Debby leaves first and then
I stroll out real casual. It doesn't matter if Vechi and Raeburn catch
wise once I've contacted the lead ship. They won't dare pull anything
because the _Electra_ could catch this tub with half its generators
conked out."

"It's a comforting thought," I said. And then I looked at Deborah. "Go
on," I told her, "get out of here and stay out of sight until I collect
you. I've got my mark on you."

It caught Charley off balance. "Well, I'll be damned," he said. "Where
was I when this happened?"

"Lushing it up," I said. I watched Deborah get up and leave the
compartment. Vechi watched her, too. His chest heaved up as though
he were sighing wearily; he turned a page in his book and looked at
Raeburn. His assistant lay flat on his back. His wide mouth hung open
slack, ugly and resonant with a snore. Vechi went back to his book.

Then, with some elaborate stretching, Charley stood up and I watched
him leave, too. Vechi watched him go, as well. He glanced at me,
pleasantly.

"The bum," I said conversationally, "he took me for ten fish in stud
king!"

"That so?" Vechi smiled agreeably. He folded his book. And then he very
calmly reached into the pocket of his work-all and took out a gun. He
held it very steadily and it was aimed at me.

"You can't win at everything," he said. "Some days aren't lucky." He
had a nice sense of the ironic.

Raeburn, beside him, snored peacefully. And I sat there numb and
helpless.

"What in the hell is that for?" I asked and my throat was full of
gravel.

Vechi smiled as if I should know and I thought I did. But I was never
more mistaken.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then Vechi did a strange thing. He prodded Raeburn with his foot. It
took a lot of prodding to wake him. When Raeburn's eyes opened he was
looking straight down the blast channels of Vechi's weapon. It was a
hell of a way to wake up. His Adam's apple froze half way through a
convulsion of shock.

"Get up," Vechi said gently, "and get over there with our friend in the
press box."

Raeburn was a little slow in comprehending and from the way Vechi urged
him with the toe of his boot you could tell nobody loved Raeburn.

It didn't figure. The timing was off. Why the switch on Raeburn? Vechi
was going to need help getting what he wanted in Ul. If there was going
to be a double-cross, why now? Before Raeburn had been useful? Or was
Raeburn in on it at all?

"Now, look, Vechi," I blustered, "this is a pretty dumb joke. What's it
all about?"

He smiled. "It's no joke."

Raeburn, who was now sitting beside me, stared at his boss in
amazement. "You're crazy," he bleated. "You can't pull this thing off
by yourself!"

Vechi ignored him. "I'm afraid, Mr. Lasker, I can't wait any longer.
You and your friends might discover certain irregularities about this
flight. If you haven't, already."

I had nothing to say.

He went on in quiet earnest, "I am about to put into action a plan
of great personal importance to me and I must warn you against any
opposition. I have no desire to injure you or your colleagues. But
there must be no interference."

I listened to Vechi and I watched, fascinated. The man with the gun
in his hands was a different personality. The superficial oiliness
had washed off clean, revealing, surprisingly, a man I felt I could
like. I was less and less sure of his objective. Raeburn was obviously
thunderstruck by the turn of events.

Vechi's hard, tanned face was grim. He was a determined man. He got
up lightly and his arm reached for a hand-grip on the side of the
compartment. The gun covered us. "We are almost at Faleeng," he said to
me. "There we part company."

I thought about that; I was agreeable. But I also thought about Charley
and how he was making out, if at all. And about Deborah. And last,
but not least, about Madame Pundra. Vechi was obviously planning to
herd Deborah and Charley into the "press box" as they returned to the
compartment.

"Why Faleeng?" I asked. "The diranium is at Ul."

He grinned in genuine amusement. "That is very true," he agreed. "But I
am not interested in diranium."

Raeburn made a peculiar sound and Vechi looked at him with contempt.
"Raeburn is, however. I'm afraid I'm going to be a great disappointment
to him."

I began to feel something of Raeburn's incredulity. If Vechi wasn't
going for diranium what in hell was he going for? I opened my mouth to
say something like that when the door to the compartment slid back.

I jumped to my feet and would probably have tried something asinine if
Vechi hadn't waved me back with his gun. "He's all right," he said.

Charley, our hero, was being carried in on the powerful shoulders of a
Martian serf. The Martian, in an ill-fitting R.A. uniform, was one of
the semi-slave groups, strong, brutish, and low on the Martian scale of
evolution. He put Charley down very gently at Vechi's command.

       *       *       *       *       *

I envied Charley his blissful oblivion but not the collision he must
have sustained with his ham-handed friend. I tried to spot the emblem
on the Martian's wrist band; I could have learned which Martian house
he belonged to. But no luck. I don't think I was even greatly surprised
to discover we had Martians on board.

"All right, Vechi," I said. "What's your game?" The explanations were a
little overdue.

What _were_ Martians doing in the control room, Martians who obviously
belonged to some powerful family? Why was Vechi hijacking an R.A. ship?

"This will become obvious shortly," Vechi said quietly. "I need the
_Starfish_ because I am about to make a long journey, a journey
which no authority on Mars will permit in the orthodox fashion." He
looked tired but oddly relaxed and deeply happy; it was a tantalizing
combination.

"You can't get away with it," I said. And I didn't know what he was
trying to get away with.

"I think it possible." Vechi looked at Raeburn. Then he looked back at
me. I was staring at the Martian. Standing by the door, with folded
arms, oblique black eyes and inscrutable features he made the scene
more than unreal.

Vechi waited for me to return his glance. He shrugged at Raeburn. "This
is the human garbage you can try, and sentence, and imprison. His
crime is greed. He wants money. He will sell anything for money. He is
a contact man for the Andean Research Society on Earth. And they are
curious about diranium. They pay well. When Raeburn is finished they
will send someone else, and someone else. Their persistence is as great
as their greed. They have no morality. Eventually, they will succeed,
I have no doubt."

"You were in it with me!" Raeburn cried. "It was your plan to go to Ul!"

Vechi paid him no attention. "My crime is something else again," he
said softly. "If it is a crime."

Vechi, clinging to the hand-grip, was a strangely intense figure in the
compartment. I felt that he directed no ill will towards me. That he
was even appealing to me in some way.

"Presently, Lasker," he said to me, "you will be able to judge my crime
for yourself. It is no easy judgment to make.

"But I have no desire to bare myself before this obscene caricature of
man!"

"Rocz!" he said sharply. He inclined his head to Raeburn.

The powerful Martian moved across the compartment. In the pale blue
light Raeburn's vast brow glittered with perspiration. His lips twisted
back in the ugliness of terror.

It was over as suddenly as his cry. And infinitely less painful. The
Martian went back to his position by the door and I discovered that my
breathing was normal again; Raeburn was only unconscious.

Vechi slid his gun back in his pocket. What need had he of it? Then he
went to the compartment door and slid it open.

I should have known it was coming, but I didn't. I said, later, that I
had suspected it, but I hadn't.

       *       *       *       *       *

She came in. She was gold and violet and seemed to float in a cloud of
silk. She was tiny and slender and her oblique dark eyes looked first
at Vechi, and then at me. There was in her manner the shyness of deer
and the brightness of birds. This, then, was Vechi's treasure. I could
blame him for nothing.

I had not noticed Deborah. I was stunned; she was too. She looked like
a bewitched child in the presence of a fairy. Who was, of course,
Laapet.

The powerful Martian, Rocz, had dropped to one knee at her entrance,
shielded his face with one hand, and kept his eyes fixed on us. I
marveled at his restraint and the conditioning which kept him from
staring with the rest of us. If I had kicked Charley into sensibility
at that point our relations today might be better; he has never really
forgiven me.

Laapet touched Deborah very gently--so that she came over to me, I rose
to my feet and put my arm around Deborah; she was trembling.

"Oh, Steve," she whispered huskily.

Vechi took his eyes from Laapet and looked at us.

"There is something more valuable on Mars than diranium--to me," he
said. "You have guessed, of course, at her identity. And you can
understand, now, why we must make a long journey to be with each other."

I realized suddenly that we had been duped. That Laapet had used
Deborah and me--and our faith in her honesty. It came as a greater
shock than I imagined it would. The bubble had burst and these proud,
untouchable people had become suspect and ugly with one lie. The
disillusionment made me belligerent.

"She is Pundra Doh's wife," I said to Vechi.

"She is Pundra's concubine," Vechi said gently. "She will be my wife."

"And what of her poor children in Ul?"

"They are Pundra's children. Under the system she is a communal mother.
They are with their true mother in Ul."

"She lied," I said obstinately. I had been deceived into sympathy. She
had used a powerful and terrible weapon and I remembered the ancient
proverb, "God deliver us from the lies of honest men."

But Vechi perceived my disillusionment and all of its meaning. "Yes,"
he said. "It is necessary for others to lie before they can live by our
code."

"You can't blame her duplicity on us," I said.

"Only in so far as we are not acceptable to the people who live in
truth. And those who would live with us must break into truth. As she
has been forced to do--to protect our secret. It has not been easy for
her."

"Steve, Steve, can't you see that it must have been terrible for her?"
I looked at Deborah.

"Yes, I suppose it must have been. But--how could you have met?"

"It happened three years ago," Vechi told us. "There was an accident
in the desert. Laapet's driver had been killed in an explosion in her
machine. I came along quite by chance and I helped her. It was not
difficult to fall in love with her."

I watched the man unbelievingly. For three years he, too, had practised
deceit. He had deliberately permitted rumor to distort his purpose and
character and reputation. And during those three years, his frequent
and mysterious trips--were they to see Laapet? I asked him.

"No," he said, "I have been building a place of refuge for us. We could
not stay here, and where could we be at ease on Earth?"

"And that is why you are taking the _Starfish_, to make the trip?"

"I am borrowing it," Vechi said. "Rocz and the pilot will return it
once we have reached our destination."

Deborah moved within my arm. Her voice was deep with sympathy for them.
"They are going to Venus, Steve, with this story. As a gentleman," he
went on, "you can respect a trust."

"You have my word," I said. "But what's the good of telling me if you
don't want the story told?"

"Some day," he smiled, "it will occur to you that the time has come
to tell this story, when people will not be at all interested in its
implications. Though they should be."

I did not understand him, then. But I agreed. "And what will you do
with us?"

"Send you down in an 'egg.' The space-raft will hold the four of you.
Once we are over Faleeng we'll release it."

"And just how will I explain the disappearance of the _Starfish_?"

"I don't think there will be any trouble," Vechi smiled. "You can tell
them you caught Vechi and Raeburn in a diranium conspiracy, that Vechi
pulled a double-cross and got away. It will explain the pilots Raeburn
slugged back in Marsport, too. It will do for popular consumption; they
expect something like this of me anyway."

"You still don't mind being called a rat?" I said.

Vechi drew Laapet closer to him. "No," he said.

"But why did you drag Raeburn in on this?"

"He's my peace offering to the ambassador, and to Pundra. There's a
complete file on Raeburn in my office in Marsport. The ambassador and
Pundra will arrive at a diplomatic understanding about the rest, I'm
sure. It won't get out that I left with Laapet."

A buzzer sounded in the _Starfish_. "That'll be Faleeng," Vechi said.

Rocz carried Raeburn, and then Charley into the "egg." They were still
unconscious.

Before we got in Deborah impulsively took Laapet's hands in hers.

"I hope you make out, Vechi," I said.

Some of the strain shucked off him. "Thanks, pal," he smiled and while
I was shaking hands with him I realized I admired him tremendously. But
I did not envy him.

When the door to the "egg" had screwed shut, I turned to Deborah. We
were almost alone--Charley and Raeburn were beyond reach. I took her
in my arms and I kissed her.

"I've caught it, too," I said. "I don't want to live on Venus--but will
you set up housekeeping with me someplace less strenuous?"

"Oh, Steve," she whispered in that husky voice that belonged to me as
of then, "what else would I rather do?"

She took some more pictures, though, when we finally got to Ul, and I
used them. But not the story about Vechi and Laapet. Not until now--now
that the Martian diplomat has learned double talk, and his wife pours
tea and smiles for the news cameras. They aren't untouchable any more.

Which is the point I like to make, whenever I can. Though Vechi is
right--nobody is particularly interested. If anything, they're much
more comfortable now that the Martians are--different.

More like us.

And it's _our_ fault.



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