he reminded himself that it was not their fault they weren’t as lucky as himself.
Myra came in, her three eyes aglow, and said, “Boss, you were wrong for once in your life.”
“What is it this time?” he asked.
“About that Martian ship,” she repeated. “It just landed on the old spaceport. You can see it from the window.”
“For God’s sake!” Bliss was on his feet, moving swiftly to the window. It was there—needle-nosed, slim as one of the mermaids in his private washroom, graceful as a vidar dancer. The entire length of it gleamed like silver in the sunlight.
Bliss felt the premature old age that had been crowding upon him of late fall away like the wool of a sheep at shearing. Here, at last, was hope—real hope. After almost two and a half centuries of non-communication, the men of the infant planet had returned to the aid of the aging planet. For, once they saw the condition of Earth, and understood it, there could be no question of anything else.
Mars, during the years of space-flight from Earth, had been the outlet for the mother planet’s ablest, toughest, brightest, most aggressive young men and women. They had gone out to lick a hostile environment, they had been hand-picked for the job—and they had done it. The ship, out there in the poisonous Sahara, was living proof of their success.
He turned from the window and went back to his desk. He said, “Myra, have their leader brought here to see me as soon as possible.”
“Roger!” she said, leaving him swiftly, gracefully. Again he thought it was too bad about her third eye. It had made it awfully hard for her to find a husband. He supposed he should be grateful, since it had made him an incomparably efficient secretary.
The young man was space-burned and silver-blond of hair. He was broad and fair of feature and his body was tall and lean and perfect in his black, skin-tight uniform with the silver rocket-burst on the left breast. He stood at attention, lifted a gauntleted hand in salute and said, “Your excellency, Chancellor Bliss—Space-Captain Hon Yaelstrom of Syrtis City, Mars, bearing official rank of Inter-planetary legate plenipotentiary. My papers, sir.”
He stood stiff as a ramrod and laid a set of imposing-looking documents on the vast desk before Bliss. His accent was stiff as his spinal column. Bliss glanced casually at the papers, nodded and handed them back. So this, he thought, was how a “normal,” a pre-atomic, a non-mutated human, looked. Impressive.
Catching himself wandering, he pushed a box of costly smokes toward the ambassador.
“Nein—no thank you, sir,” was the reply.
“Suppose you sit down and tell me what we can do for you,” said Bliss, motioning toward a chair.
“Thank you, sir, I prefer to stand,” was the reply. And, when Bliss motioned that it was all right, “My mission is not a happy one, excellency. Due to overpopulation on Mars, I have been sent to inform the government of Earth that room must be made to take care of our overpopulation.”
“I see,” Bliss leaned back in his chair, trying to read the situation correctly. “That may take a little doing. You see, we aren’t exactly awash with real estate here.”
The reply was rigid and harsh. Captain Yaelstrom said, “I regret to remind your excellency that I have circled this planet before landing. It is incredibly rich in plant growth, incredibly underpopulated. And I assure your excellency that my superiors have not sent me here with any idle request. Mars must have room to emigrate.”
“And if we find ourselves unable to give it to you?”
“I fear we shall have to take it, your excellency.”
Bliss studied the visitor from space, then said, “This is rather sudden, you know. I fear it will take time. You must have prospered amazingly on Mars to have overpopulated the planet so soon.”
“Conditions have not been wholly favorable,” was the cryptic reply. “But as to time, we are scarcely in condition to move our surplus population overnight. It will take years—perhaps decades—twenty-five years at a minimum.”
Twenty-five years! That was too soon. If Captain Yaelstrom were a typical Martian, there was going to be trouble. Bliss recalled again that Earth had sent only its most aggressive young folk out to the red planet. He made up his mind then and there that he was somehow going to salvage for Earth its final half-century of peace.
He said, “How many people do you plan to send here, Captain?”
The ambassador hesitated. Then he said, “According to the computations of our experts, taking the population curve during the next twenty-five years into account, there will be seventeen million, three hundred thirty-two thousand five hundred—approximately.”
The figure was too large to be surplus, Bliss decided. It sounded to him as if humanity were about to abandon Mars completely. He wondered what the devil had gone wrong, decided this was hardly the time to ask. He offered Captain Yaelstrom a drink, which was refused, then asked him if he wouldn’t like to wash up.
To his mild surprise, the ambassador nodded eagerly. “I shall be grateful,” he said. “You have no idea how cramped spaceship quarters can be.”
“I can imagine,” said Bliss dryly. He led the way into the black-and-gold washroom, was amused at the slight but definite popping of ambassadorial eyes. Earth might be dying, he thought, but at least her destroyers would leave a heritage. He motioned toward the basin with its mermaid taps and Captain Yaelstrom hesitated, then began pulling off his black gauntlets.
Bliss thought of something. “You mentioned twenty-five years,” he said. “Is that Martian time or Earth time?”
“Martian time,” said the ambassador, letting the water run over his hands.
Twenty-five years, Martian time—a Martian year was 1.88 Earth years. Bliss exhaled and said, “I think perhaps we shall be able to come to an agreement. It will take a little time, of course—channels, and all that.”
The Martian held his hands in front of the air-drier. They were strong, brown hands with long, muscular fingers. Bliss looked at them and knew the whole story. For, like himself, Captain Yaelstrom had seven fingers on each. Man had done no better on Mars than he had at home. The reason for such a desperate move as emigration was all too clear.
Captain Yaelstrom stood back from the bowl, then noticed the stall shower. He said, “What is this? We have nothing like it on Mars.”
Bliss explained its several therapeutic uses, then said, “Perhaps you’d like to try it yourself while I order us luncheon.”
“May I, excellency?” the Martian legate asked eagerly.
“Go right ahead,” said Bliss magnanimously. “It’s all yours.”
Rex ex Machina
by Frederic Max
The domination of the minds of tractable Man is not new. Many men have dreamed of it. Certainly some of them have tried. This man succeeded.
