He pointed to the empty sand-truck outside the labs, 'They got the stuff all right.'
Allen fell to, quietly. George wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, 'Say, All'n, how 'd y' find the city? I've been sitting here trying t' figure it all out.'
'It was the bonfires,' came the muffled answer. 'It was the only way they could get heat, and fires over square miles of land create a whole section of heated air, which rises, causing the cold surrounding air of the hills to sweep in.' He suited his words with appropriate gestures. 'The wind in the hills was heading for the city to replace warm air and we followed the wind. - Sort of a natural compass, pointing to where we wanted to go.'
George was silent, kicking with embarrassed vigor at the ashes of the bonfire of the night before.
'Lis'n, All'n, I've had y" a'wrong. Y' were an Airthman tanderfoot t' me till-' He paused, drew a deep breath and exploded with, 'Well, by Jupe 'n' domn, y'r my twin brother and I'm.proud o' it. All Airth c'dn't drown out the Carter blood in y'.'
The Earthman opened his mouth to reply but his brother clamped one palm over it. 'Y' keep quiet, till I'm finished. After we get back, y' can fix up that mechanical picker or anything else y' want. I drop my veto. If Airth and machines c'n tairn out y'r kind o' man, they're all right. But just the same,' there was a trace of wistfulness in his voice, 'y' got t' admit that everytime the machines broke down - from irrigation-trucks and rocket-ships to ventilators and sand-trucks -'twas men who had t' pull through in spite o' all that Mars could do.'
Allen wrenched his face from out behind the restraining palm.
The machines do their best,' he said, but not too vehemently.
'Sure, but that's all they can do. When the emairgency comes, a man's got t' do a damn lot better than his best or he's a goner.'
The other paused, nodded and gripped the other's hand with sudden fierceness, 'Oh, we're not so different. Earth and Ganymede are plastered thinly over the outside of us, but inside -'
He caught himself.
'Come on, let's give out with that old Gannie quaver.'
And from the two fraternal throats tore forth a shrieking eldritch yell such as the thin, cold Martian air had seldom before carried.
I got the cover again with 'Heredity.'
In connection with that story, I remember best a comment I received from a young fellow named Scott Feldman (who was then still in his teens but who was later, as Scott Meredith, to become one of the most important literary agents in the business). He disapproved of the story because I introduced two characters at the start who disappeared from the story and were never heard of again.
Once that was pointed out to me, it seemed to me that this was indeed a major flaw, and I wondered why neither Campbell nor Pohl had specifically pointed it out. I never quite had the courage to ask, however.
But it did cause me to look at my stories more closely thereafter, and to realize again that writing isn't all inspiration and free flow. You do have to ask yourself pretty mechanical questions, such as, 'What do I do with this character now that I've taken the trouble to make use of him?'
By the time Campbell was rejecting, and Pohl accepting 'Heredity,' I was writing 'History.' The same thing happened. I submitted it to Campbell on September 13. It was rejected, and, eventually, Pohl took it.
History [5]
Ullen's lank arm pushed the stylus carefully and painstakingly across the paper; his near-sighfed eyes blinked through thick lenses. The signal light flashed twice before he answered.
He turned a page, and called out, 'Is dat you, Johnnie? Come in, please.'
He smiled gently, his thin, Martian face alight with pleasure.
'Sit down, Johnnie - but first lower de window-shade. De glare of your great Eard sun is annoying. Ah, dat's good, and now sid down and be very, very quiet for just a little while, because I am busy.'
John Brewster shifted a pile of ill-stacked papers and seated himself. He blew the dust from the edges of an open book in the next chair and looked reproachfully on the Martian historian.
'Are you still poking around these musty old things? Don't you get tired?'
'Please, Johnnie,' Ullen did not look up, 'you will lose de page. Dat book dere is William Stewart's "Hitlerian Era" and it is very hard to read. So many words h§ uses which he doesn't explain.'
His expression as it focussed upon Johnnie was one of frowning petulance, 'Never do dey explain deir terms. It is so unscientific. On Mars, before we even start, we say, "Dis is a list of all definitions of terms to be used." How oderwise can people talk sensibly? Hmp! You crazy Eardmen.'
'Oh, nuts, Ullen - forget it. Why don't you look at me. Don't you even notice anything?'
The Martian sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned them thoughtfully and carefully replaced them. He stared impersonally at Johnnie, 'Well, I dink it is new clothes you are wearing. It is not so?'
'New clothes! Is that all you can say, Ullen? This is a uniform. I'm a member of the Home Defense.' He rose to his feet, a picture of boyish exuberance.
'What is dis "Home Defense"?' asked Ullen languidly.
Johnnie gulped and sat down helplessly, 'You know, I really think you haven't heard that Earth and Venus have been at war for the last week. I'll bet money you haven't.'
'I've been busy.' He frowned and pursed his thin, bloodless lips, 'On Mars, dere is no war - at least, dere isn't any more. Once, we used to fight, but dat was long ago. Once we were scientists, too, and dat was long ago. Now, dere are only a few of us - and we do not fight. Dere is no happiness dat way.' He seemed to shake himself, and spoke more briskly, 'Tell me, Johnnie, do you know where it is I can find what it means, dis "national honor?" It holds me back. I can't go furder unless I can understand it.'
Johnnie rose to his full height and glittered in the spotless green of the Terrestrial Service. He laughed with fond indulgence. 'You're hopeless, Ullen, - you old coot. Aren't you going to wish me luck? I'm hitting space tomorrow.'
'Oh, is dere danger?'
There was a squawk of laughter, 'Danger? What do you think?'
'Well, den, to seek danger - it is foolish. Why do you do it?'
'You wouldn't understand, Ullen. Just wish me luck and say you hope I come through whole.'
'Cer-tain-ly! I don't want anyone to die.' He slipped his hand into the strong fist held out to him. 'Take care of yourself, Johnnie - and wait, before you go, bring me Stewart's book. Everything is so heavy here on Eard. Heavy, heavy, -and de words have no definitions.'
He sighed, and was back at his books as Johnnie slipped quietly out of the room.
'Dese barbarous people,' he muttered sleepily to himself. 'War! Dey dink dat by killing-' His voice died away and merged into a slurred mumble as his eyes followed creeping finger across the page.
' "From the very moment of the union of the Anglo-Saxon world into a single governmental entity and even as far back as the spring of 1941, it was evident that the doom of-"'
'Dese crazy Eardmen!'
Ullen leaned heavily upon his crutches on the steps of the University library and one thin hand shielded his watering eyes from the terrible Earthly sun.
The sky was blue, cloudless, - undisturbed. Yet somewhere up above, beyond the planet's airy blanket, steel-sided ships were veering and sparking in vicious combat. And down upon the city were falling the tiny 'Drops of Death,' the highly-publicized radioactive bombs that noiselessly and inexorably ate out a fifteen foot crater wherever they fell.
The city's population was herding into the shelters and burying themselves inside the deep-set leaden cells. Upstaring, silent, anxious, they streamed past Ullen. Uniformed guards invested some sort of order into the gigantic flight, steering the stragglers and speeding the laggards.