are others here?” Her eyes grew round.
“Most of the others have finished with this outgrown eyrie and are away on larger affairs. Only I return with a few friends once each year to sing of past glories and weep over present desecrations.”
“Two ceremonial tears?” she asked with a return of bitterness. There was something in his attitude that she found disquieting.
“Many more than two. But....” he shrugged angrily, “I grow tired of weeping. On this visit I plan to wipe out you little humans who foul the nest of my ancestors.”
“How?” She gripped his arm, fear racing through her.
“Tomorrow all this junk—” he nodded his handsome head at the robots—“will have been replaced by real Martians ... youngsters out for a lark with me. We’ll tend shop, make jewelry and all that until I give a signal. Perhaps this shrine would be the best place. When it’s crowded, just at sunset. Then we pounce!”
Mura ruffled himself up and sprang at her so convincingly that she shrieked.
“How juvenile!” she managed to laugh shakily.
“What did you say, human?” The Pitaret was taken aback by this unexpected thrust.
“I said your plan is childish!” She stamped her foot. “So you cut the throats of a few stupid people. Then Earth sends up cobalt bombs and blows this cradle of Martian civilization to smithereens. The others won’t like that, even if they are occupied with larger affairs. You would be in real trouble.”
“Hmmm!” He looked at her with new respect and a faint tinge of uncertainty. “But some punishment is justified. Even you can see that.”
“Yes,” she admitted, wrinkling her nose at him, now that the worst was over. “This place is a horror. And we tourists are horrors too, for having let ourselves be taken in by it. But death isn’t punishment, just an ending.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Mura slipped an arm around her shoulders and looked down at her impishly. “You suggest a fitting punishment then.”
*
Here was the final test. If she could keep the hold that she had somehow gained over this immature superman, horrible things might be averted. Her thoughts raced in circles.
“Martians can play tricks with time?” she asked at last.
“Oh, yes. Time is like this mural. Let me show you: Aim your light at the left-hand corner of the picture. See the sun and its planets forming out of cosmic dust? Now move the beam toward the right. Slowly.... Slowly! Notice how Martian oceans form and living things crawl out of them.
“Now continue. There you see the winged Martians with their cities that long have crumbled to dust. Next, water grows scarce and canals are built. Here all but a few of us have lost our wings.
“Here we colonize Earth ... to our eternal regret. Finally, you see us abandon Mars rather than risk another test of strength with you pushing troglodytes.”
“I-I don’t understand,” she whispered, strangely moved.
“That searchlight beam represents the living present. Where it shines, life pulses briefly on a vast mural that is painted across time, from its beginning to its end. Martians manipulate the light of the present as we please, living when we please, so long as we please.”
“How dreadful.... Wonderful, I mean.” She gazed at him worshipfully. “And you can do this for humans too?”
“For short periods, yes. But stop fluttering your lovely eyelashes at me. Punished you are going to be. If you can suggest nothing better than my plan, I’ll go back to it and take the consequences. Otherwise I’ll be the laughing stock of my friends.”
“And you couldn’t stand that, could you, poor boy?” She patted his hand before he snatched it away. “How is this, then, for an alternative? Tonight, when I couldn’t sleep, I got to thinking that there could be no more fitting punishment for tourists than to be forced to live, for years and years, in a plush hotel at Atlantic City, Las Vegas ... or Dawningsburgh. Think how miserable they would become if they had to take the same tours over and over with the same guides; stuff themselves on the same meals; dance to the same orchestras with the same new friends. Can you hold your time spotlight still here for, say, ten years?”
“Of course,” Mura crowed as he swept her into his downy arms and danced her about among the robot perches. “A wonderful idea. You’re a genius. Even the others may come back, now, to watch humans squirm, yawn—and perhaps learn to respect their elders. How can I repay you?”
*
“Let me go back to New York,” she said, feeling like a traitor.
“That wouldn’t be fair. You’re a tourist. You came here to prove to yourself that, as your Bible puts it, ‘a living dog is better than a dead lion.’ You must learn your lessons along with others.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She felt cleaner now, even though the prospect of a decade at Dawningsburgh, with The Quest unfinished, appalled her. To be forty-one and still single when she returned to Earth! Two tears trickled down her freckled nose.
“That’s better,” the Pitaret sang happily. “You’re already beginning to understand the meaning of our ancient ceremonial. Give me ten years and I’ll make a real Martian of you!”
Outside, the lean wind echoed his glee as it tossed a hatful of Good Humor sticks and sand-coated lollipops against the cathedral wall.
Extracts from the Galactick Almanack
(Music Around the Universe)
By Larry M. Harris (Laurence Janifer)
Don’t take your eye off music ... there is going to be a lot more to it than meets the ear!
This first selection deals entirely with the Music Section of the Almanack. Passed over in this anthology, which is intended for general readership, are all references to the four-dimensional doubly extensive polyphony of Green III (interested parties are referred to “Time in Reverse, or the Musical Granny Knot,” by Alfid Carp, Papers of the Rigel Musicological Society) or, for reasons of local censorship, the notices regarding Shem VI, VII and IX and the racial-sex “music” which is common on those planets.
All dates have been made conformable with the Terran Calendar (as in the standard Terran edition of the Almanack) by application of Winstock Benjamin’s Least Square Variable Time Scale.
*
FEBRUARY 17: Today marks the birth date of Freem Freem, of Dubhe IV, perhaps the most celebrated child prodigy in musical history. Though it is, of course, true that he appeared in no concerts after the age of twelve, none who have seen the solidographs of his early performances can ever forget the intent face, the tense, accurate motions of the hands, the utter perfection of Freem’s entire performance.
His first concert, given at the age of four, was an amazing spectacle. Respected critics refused to believe that Freem was as young as his manager (an octopoid from Fomalhaut) claimed, and were
