The Martian Cabal Read online

  CHAPTER II

  _Scar Balta_

  Sime breakfasted on one of the juicy Martian tropical pears, and as hedug into the luscious fruit with his spoon he looked about thespacious dining hall, filled with wide-eyed tourists on their firsttrip to Mars, blissful and oblivious honeymooners, and a sprinkling oflocal residents and officials.

  Through broad windows of thick glass (for on Mars many buildingsmaintain an atmospheric pressure somewhat higher than the normaloutside pressure) could be seen the north banks of the canal, teemingwith swift pleasure boats and heavily loaded work barges. Down thelong terraces strolled hundreds of people, dressed in garments ofvivid colors and sheer materials suitable to the hot and cloudlessdays. Brilliant insects floated on wide diaphanous wings, waiting topounce on the opening blossoms.

  But the terrestrial agent felt that in this scene of luxury there wasa menace. Out of sight, but instantly available, were frightfulengines of destruction, waiting to be mobilized against the Earthbranch of the human race. And on that distant green planet were peoplemuch like these, unconscious still of the butchery into which theywere being deftly maneuvered by calculating psychologists, expertwar-makers.

  His meal completed, Sime sauntered out into the wide, clean streets ofNorth Tarog. He purchased a desert unionall suit, proof against theheat of day and cold of night, and a wide-brimmed Martian pith helmet.Hailing a taxi, he relaxed comfortably in the cushions.

  "Nabar mine," he told the driver.

  The driver nosed the vehicle up, over the domed roofs of the city andover the harsh desert landscape. The rounded prow cut through the thinair with a faint whistling, and the fair cultivated area along thecanal was soon lost to sight.

  * * * * *

  After half an hour the metal mine sheds grew out of the horizon. Buteven from a distance of several miles Sime could see that everythingwas not as it should be. There were no moving white specks of thelaborers' white fatigue uniforms against the brown rocks, and noclouds of dust from the borium refuse pile.

  The levitator screws of the taxi sank from their high whine to agroan, and the wheels came to the ground before the company office. Aman in the Martian army uniform came out. His beetle-browed face wastruculent, and his hand rested on the hilt of his neuro-pistol.

  "No visitors allowed!" snapped the guard.

  "I'm not exactly a visitor," Sime objected, but making no move to getout of the taxi. "I'm an engineer sent here by the board of directorsto see why the output of this mine has dropped. Where's Mr. Murray?"

  "All settled!" the guard retorted. "Murray's in jail for mismanagementof planetary resources, and the mine's been expropriated to thegovernment. Now, you--off!"

  The driver needed no further order from his fare. The taxi leaped intothe air and tore back toward the city. It was clear that the militaryrules of Mars brooked no nonsense from the civilian population, andthat the latter were well aware of it.

  "Fast work!" Sime said to himself with grudging admiration. Murray wasa trusted agent of the terrestrial government. It was he who had firstuncovered the war cabal. Sime knew his face well from the stereoscopicservice record--a bald, placid man of about forty, a bonafideengineer, a spy with an unbroken record of success, until now. And afighter who asked no odds, who could manage very well on less than aneven break. Well, he was up against something now.

  They passed the line of shield-ray projectors, North Tarog's firstline of defense against an attack of space, hovered over the teemingstreets and parks, and settled on the pavement at the Hotel of theRepublic. Sime wanted to go to his room and think things over.

  * * * * *

  From the concealment of a doorway an officer with a squad of soldierscame up quickly.

  "You are under arrest!" said the officer, placing, his hand on Sime'sshoulder, while the soldiers rested their hands on theirneuro-pistols.

  "Would it be asking too much to inquire on what charge?" Sime askedpolitely.

  "Military arrests do not require the filing of charges," the officerexplained stiffly. "Come out of there now, Mr. Hemingway."

  "I demand to see the terrestrial consul," Sime said, getting out.

  "How about my fare?" asked the taxi-driver.

  Sime put his hand into his pocket, where he kept a roll ofinterplanetary script; but the officer restrained him.

  "Never mind now," he said ironically. "You are a guest of thegovernment." Then to the driver he added:

  "Get on, now! Get on! File your claim at the divisional office."

  The driver departed, outwardly meek before the power of the military,and Sime was hustled into an official car. He had little hope that hisdemand to see the terrestrial consul would be complied with, and thisopinion was verified when the car rose into the air and sped over thewaters of the canal to South Tarog. It did not pause when it came overthe military camps there--the massive ordnance depots in which werestored new and improved killing tools that had long been idle in thatirksome interplanetary peace.

  They flew on, over the desert, until the Gray Mountains loomed on thehorizon. On, over the tumbled rocks, interspersed with the strange redthorny vegetation common in the Martian desert.

  Far below them, in a ravine, a cylindrical building was now visible,and toward this the car began to drop. It landed on a level spacebefore the structure. A sliding gate opened, and the car wheeled intoa sort of courtyard, protected from the cold of night by an archingroof of glass.

  Sime was hustled out and led into an office located on the lower floorof the fortification, or whatever the structure was.

  As he saw the man who sat at the desk he gave a startled explanation.

  "Colonel Barkins!"

  * * * * *

  The elderly, white-haired man smiled. He brushed back his hair with acharacteristic gesture, and his twinkling blue eyes bored into thoseof the I. F. P. special officer. The colonel wore the regular uniformof the service; his little skullcap, with the conventionalized sunsymbol denoting his rank, was on the table before him. He put out hislean, strong hand.

  "Surprised to see me, eh, Hemingway?" he inquired pleasantly.

  Sime managed an awkward salute. "I don't quite understand, sir. Yougave me my instructions at the Philadelphia space port just before Imade the _Pleadisia_. She's the fastest passenger liner in the solarsystem: I've barely landed here, and it seems you got here before me.It don't seem right!"

  Sime watched the colonel narrowly, a vague suspicion in his mind, andhe thought he saw a slight flicker in the man's eye when Sime spoke.

  But the colonel answered smoothly, with a hint of reproof.

  "Never mind questioning me now, Hemingway. The mission is important. Iwant to know if you remember every detail of what I told you." Henodded to the men, and they filed out of the room. "Repeat yourorders."

  "Nothing doing, Colonel!" Sime replied promptly and respectfully. "Infact, Colonel, you can go to hell! This is the first time that a manof the I. F. P. has turned traitor, and if your men hadn't sothoughtfully taken my neuro I'd be pleased to finish you right now!"

  "But you observe I have a neuro in my hand," remarked the colonelpleasantly, "and so you will remain standing where you are."

  * * * * *

  So saying, he slipped off the white wig he was wearing, wiped his faceso that the brown powder came off, and sat, obviously pleased withthe success of his masquerade, useless though it was. He was a typicalMartian, dark, sleek-haired, coral-skinned.

  "I hate to send a man to his death mystified," said the Martian aftera moment, "so I'll explain that I am Scar Balta!"

  "Scar Balta!"

  "You've heard of me?"

  "Uh--yes and no," Sime suddenly remembered the girl of the eveningbefore--the imperious little Martian. She had warned him of ScarBalta.

  "If I do say it," said the Martian, "I am the best impersonator in theservice of the interests I represent. I did not exp
ect to getinformation of great value from you, but we do not neglect even themost unpromising leads."

  He pressed a button; two Martian soldiers answered promptly.

  "Take this man to the cell," Balta ordered. "Provide him with writingmaterials so that he can write a last message to his family. In themorning take him to the end of the ravine and finish him with yourshort sword."

  "Yes, Colonel!"

  "The fellow's a colonel, anyway," Sime thought as they led him away.

  They led him downward, along a straight corridor that evidently wentfar beyond the boundaries of the ravine fortress. In places the walls,adequately lit by the glow-wands the guards carried, were plainly cutout of the solid rock; in others they were masonry, as though thechannel were passing through pockets of earth; or--the thoughtelectrified him--through faults or natural caverns.

  At last they came to the end. One of the guards unlocked a metal door,motioned his prisoner into the prison cell. A light-wand, badly rundown and feeble, with only a few active cells left, gave the onlylight. As the door slammed behind him, Sime took in the depressingscene.

  * * * * *

  The stone walls were mildewed, leprous. The only ventilation wasthrough small holes in the door. Chains, fastened to huge staples inthe uneven stone floor, with smooth metal wrist and ankle cuffs, werespaced at regular intervals, and musty piles of canal rushes showedwhere some forgotten prisoner had dragged out his melancholy lastdays. Sime was glad they had not chained him down. Probably didn'tconsider it necessary unless there were many prisoners, who might rushthe guards.

  "Ho, there, sojer!"

  The voice was startling, so hearty and natural in this sad place. Simesaw something coming out of a far corner. It was a man in the blouseand trousers of civilian wear; a bald and good-natured man, with ashocking growth of beard.

  "Murray's the name," said this apparition with mock ceremony. "Andyou?"

  "I'm Hemingway, Sime Hemingway. Sergeant Sime Hemingway, to be exact.Suppose you'd like to hear my orders?"

  "I don't get you," said Murray, shaking hands.

  "I mean," Sime explained elaborately, "that I'd like to know if you'reScar Balta, or really Murray, as you say you are."

  The other laughed.

  "I'm Murray, all right. Feel this scalp. Natural, ain't it? That's onething Balta won't do--shave off his hair. Too vain. He'd hate to havethe Princess Sira see him that way. Ever hear of her? Say, she's araving beauty. This Balta'd like to be elected planetary president,see--to succeed Wilcox, who has bigger plans. There's always been astrong sentiment for the old monarchy, anyway. The oligarchy never didgo big. Follow me?"

  "Yeh; go on."

  * * * * *

  "Well, this Princess Sira has ideas. She wouldn't mind sitting on thethrone again. Her great-great-grandpa was jobbed and murdered, and thenobles who did it formed a closed corporation and called it arepublican government. So Sira started holding audiences, and gained alot of power. Among the people--even among some of the nobles.

  "Get the idea? Scar Balta is one of the electors. If he married Sirahe'd have the backing of the monarchists, and of course he's done alot for the bosses. They'd elect him to head off the monarchists,anyway. Then heigh-ho for a war with the Earth, to kill off a lot ofthe kickers--and soft pickins in a lot of ways. Neat, huh?"

  "Very neat!" Sime assented drily. "But we won't live to see it.Anyway, I won't. They're going to bump me off in the morning."

  "As they have a lot of our men," Murray agreed. "But they won't do itin the morning. Or for several days. Look here!"

  He held up his hand. On the back of it was what appeared to be a boil.

  "But it isn't a boil," Murray explained. "That was done by a stream ofwater, fine as a needle, under a thousand pounds pressure. They heldit there for a minute at a time--I don't know how many times, becauseI keeled over. Any time I was willing to give them the informationthey wanted they'd turn it off. Wasn't important info, either. Butwhat is it to them, how much they make me suffer for a trifle?"

  Sime couldn't help the lump that rose in his throat. Men like Murraycertainly justified the world's faith in the service.

  "Listen, old man," Sime said in a low voice, "out in the corridor--"

  But Murray squeezed his hand warningly, pulled him to the floor.

  "Might as well get some sleep," the old man said in ordinary tones."Plenty cool here. Let's lie together."

  He kept his hold on Sime's wrist, and, by alternately squeezing andreleasing, began to talk in a silent telegraphic code.

  "Don't say anything of importance," he spelled out. "They have mikesin here to pick up all we say. Probably infra-red telenses too, sothey can see what we do."

  So Sime told him, as they huddled together in simulated sleep, aboutthe walled passages, and they speculated on the possibility of fellingthe guards and breaking their way to freedom through some undergroundcavern. But at last they slept soundly to await the tortures of thenext morning.