The Martian, Allen Glasser and A. R. Hilliard [early reader chapter books .TXT] 📗

world in which he lived.

There was a long silence when he had finished. At last Blumberg coughed, and shook himself.

"That's a fine story," he grumbled, "but you left somethin' out.... What I wanta know is: how did you get here?"

"In a space traveller," said the Martian.

"What's that?"

Carefully, laboriously, he described the space ship. With the pencil he sketched diagram after diagram, while the pale young man helped him and labeled them as he directed. The young man was becoming visibly excited. When the Martian had finished, he burst out:

"By god, it would—it would do it!... Look—"

"Shut up!" said Blumberg. The perspiration was standing out in large beads on his forehead.

"Fellow," he said heavily, "if you're lying, you've got one hell of an imagination!"

"You not have space travellers?" asked the Martian tensely.

"No.... Just ships that travel in air," answered the pale young man. He heard the other's painful catch of breath, and continued quickly: "But with these diagrams it would be easy to—"

"Shut up, Edgar.... Shut up—an' get outta here!" barked the big man. The other turned, and left the room without a word.

"Now, look here, fellow," said Blumberg, "I'm goin' to take your word for it. I'm probably crazy to believe you; but I've seen most of the funny critters of this world in my time, an' I ain't ever seen one like you. So you may come from Mars, for all I know."

The other looked at him eagerly, trying to understand his words. "You think I am man of Lo—of Mars?"

"Yes—that's right."

The Martian quivered with excitement. He held out his arms in a gesture of appeal.

"You help me?..."

"Yes."

"You help me go to Mars?"

Blumberg looked down at the desktop, and was silent.

"Yes. I'll help you," said Blumberg suddenly. He stood up, and patted the other softly on the head.... "Sure ... you bet!"

The Martian lay upon his back on a leather couch in a small room where they had taken him. His eyes were wide and shining. His hands clenched and opened convulsively. It seemed to him that he had been waiting for days.

The door opened, and Blumberg entered, followed by a smaller man. As the Martian struggled to his knees to greet him, he spoke heartily.

"Hello there! Think I wasn't comin'? No use being in too much of a hurry, y'know.... Meet Dr. Smith. He's a scientist like you...."

The Martian nodded and smiled at them happily. Dr. Smith looked at him long and curiously, meanwhile automatically seating himself in a chair close to the couch. Blumberg, who was pacing the room, cleared his throat.

"Now, look here," he said, "I'm willing to help you, but you've got to help me do it ...—"

The Martian understood him immediately.

"Yes!" he replied quickly. "Yes."

"Good!... Now, Dr. Smith is going to ask you questions about things we need to know. You tell him all you can."

"Yes ... I tell him!"

Dr. Smith had many questions to ask, on many and diverse subjects. At first, communication between the two was very difficult; but both were highly intelligent and understanding men, and before long they became fairly successful in exchanging ideas. Blumberg paced constantly about the room. Occasionally he went out, but always returned quickly.

The catechism went on for hours; and ended only to be resumed early the next day.

And so it continued on the following day, and on the day after. The Martian was puzzled. They seemed to want to know so many things! Dr. Smith had questioned him on every subject—mechanics, electricity, magnetism, chemistry, colloids, catalysts, transmutation of metals—everything. He feared that they were wasting time, but did not think it proper to object when they were going to so much trouble on his account. Nevertheless, he could not help worrying; and that night, when the pale young man brought him his food, he asked timidly:

"Do they make the ship?..."

The pale young man looked at the floor, biting his lips. Then he went to the door, opened it, and looked out into the hall. He closed the door softly, and came near the couch. He looked straight into the Martian's eyes.

"There is no ship!"

"No ship?"

"No." The young man was flushed and angry. He spoke very fast: "That fat crook is not helping you.... But you are helping him—you bet!..."

"Does—does he not think—think I am the Martian?..."

"Oh, he thinks you're a Martian, all right! He knows you are. He's taking out patents already."

The other shook his head uncomprehendingly.

"Don't you see it? Where you come from they know things that they never even imagined here. You got knowledge in your head worth millions of dollars; I mean, you have facts which are of great value to Blumberg. Why, already you've told him to make gold out of lead—something very precious from something worthless. And a hundred other things besides.

"He does not care about you; he cares about your knowledge.... Do you see?"

"Yes."

The young man's anger suddenly abated, and he glanced fearfully at the door.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly, "but somebody had to tell you. You won't get any help here!"

He turned, and almost ran from the room.

The Martian sat perfectly still for a long time. Then he climbed down from the couch, and crawled to the door. He reached up and grasped the knob. The young man had left it unlocked, and in a moment he was in the dim hallway. He crawled along, keeping close to the wall, until he came to the top of a stairway. He felt the cool night air on his face. Very slowly he lowered himself down the steps. He came to a wide door leading out into the open.

Seated in a chair by this doorway was a man, whistling. The Martian waited patiently in the shadows until the man stood up, yawned, and strolled away.

Outside, there were high, dark buildings all around him. He found himself in a narrow canyon running between them. He crawled down this canyon to the right, close against the buildings. The paving beneath him was hard, and hurt his knees. But he did not stop.

Someone was walking towards him. He could not escape being seen. He was near a large light on a pole. He raised his hand in a gesture of greeting....

It was a woman. Suddenly she saw him, and gasped. Then she screamed—piercingly. The sound echoed and re-echoed between the high walls of the buildings.

Windows and doors banged. Footsteps pounded on the pavement. Soon there were many people around him. Some of them were holding the woman. She hung limply in their arms.

A man strode into the group, swinging a club, and speaking authoritatively:

"Here! What's the trouble? Move on there!" He glanced at the woman. "Fainted? Take her to a drug store, somebody. She'll be all right.... What's this?" He grasped the Martian by the arm, and raised him to the light.... "Well, I'm damned!"

Followed by the curious crowd, he half carried, half dragged his captive along the street, around a corner, and through a lighted doorway. He slammed the door shut.

"Found a freak, Yer Honor.... Scared a woman half to death! It musta got outa the 'Garden'; I found it on Forty-ninth Street...."

The man seated behind the high desk nodded, and picked up a telephone. Into this he spoke in a low voice, waited, and then spoke again. Finally he laid it down, and said, "He is coming over. Hold on to it." He resumed his writing.

The Martian watched the man writing on the high desk. He thought that this man must be some person of authority—some ruler of the people, perhaps. After long and painful uncertainty, he nerved himself to speak:

"Please help me...."

The man behind the desk looked up and smiled. "Yes. That is what we are here for.... Only be patient," he said, and returned to his writing.

The Martian remained quiet. He would not dare disturb the man again, but he kept watching him....

"Good morning, Your Honor!"

At the sound of the voice, he gave a start of surprise and fear. Blumberg walked towards him, smiling. He struggled, and averted his eyes. But his captor held him tightly. Blumberg patted him on the head with his large, soft hand. He trembled.

"One of yours?" said the man behind the high desk. "What is the trouble with him? He seems distressed."

Blumberg smiled at the other, and tapped his own head three times with his fingertip. The other raised his eyebrows.

"Tell the Judge about yourself," said Blumberg softly. "He is a great man, and he can help you."

The Martian was surprised that Blumberg would allow him to speak. He made a desperate effort:

"I am a native of Mars. Please, I must return home. Please help me.... I—"

"See!" said Blumberg. He was laughing.

The Judge nodded. "Can you handle him?" he asked.

"Sure! They get along better with me than in—other places. I know how to treat 'em; and they make a good living."

"All right," said the Judge. "Take him along. But don't let me catch him running around the streets again, or you might rate a fine."

"Don't worry! We're going on the road in a couple of days now. You won't see him again.... Well, good morning to you!"

"Good morning!" said the Judge.

The Martian lay, face down, on the leather couch. Over him stood Blumberg, breathing hard. With a light cane that he carried he struck the Martian sharply on his frail back.

"Don't try it again, or you'll get more of that!" he said softly.

The Martian did not move or utter a sound until he heard the door slam. Then he made his way to the table; and, grasping the edge, pulled himself erect. There was something on the table that he wanted....

The door opened softly, and the pale young man came in.

"You should not have tried it," he whispered.

The Martian pointed to the window. Over the top of a building lower than its neighbors a small, square patch of sky was visible, and in this patch a few stars twinkled faintly.

"Is Mars there?" he asked.

The young man was silent for a moment, looking at the floor and biting his lips. Then:

"Yes," he said. "As it happens, it is. Mars is the brightest of those stars, and the topmost."

"Thank you," said the Martian. "You have been very kind to me!"

The pale young man looked at him, and at the table. Then he turned, without a word, and left the room.

The Martian did not take his eyes from the little point of light. But one of his hands reached over the table, and grasped a knife which lay there. His eyes still on Loten—his home, he plunged the knife into his heart. And the little point of light, while he fixedly watched it, flickered—and died.

THE END. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Martian, by Allen Glasser and A. Rowley Hilliard