A. Bertram Chandler- The Forest of Knives

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2024-11-25 0 0 88.13KB 28 页 5.9玖币

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the forest of knives

by . . . A. Bertram Chandler

A blonde, a hunch, a madman's song spell danger on Mars—and uncover an alien cabal that may

banish Man from the red planet.

What is Christmas without a goose—and what is Mars without canals? Though astronomers

are still arguing, after three centuries, not only what the odd markings are but whether they

actually exist, the public has accepted them as canals and would scarcely enjoy a Martian story

without them. Well, Mr. Chandler has come up with a veritable humdinger of a Martian story and

don't worry—the canals are in it too.

EVEN MY BEING a stretcher case did not save me from the Customs and Immigration routine at

Port Gregory. The Old Man was furious and tried to swing the weight of his rank to get me priority—but

if anything it made things worse. With anybody obliging the name of Basset-Wills — with a hyphen —

would have secured me a place among the B's. As it was I had to take my place at the tail end of the

queue with the W's.

"And that's what you get for airing a double-barreled moniker!" growled Captain Brown. "If you had

a sensible name like mine you'd be in the hospital by now."

I pointed out that as plain Peter Wills I should be just where I was now—and that with the preceding

Basset I had stood a sporting chance of a quick release. I would have liked to add that if he hadn't

rubbed the Immigration officials the wrong way it would have been better for everybody concerned—but

one likes to leave a ship on friendly terms with all and sundry.

Jane, in those days, ranked as an M. Jane Meredith—arid if the name isn't familiar you've never

looked at a television screen. But she got permission to stick by me and hold my hand and smooth my

fevered brow. She didn't do it by shouting that she was the great Jane Meredith, the Princess of the

Press.

She got it by working on the assumption that gold hair piles on more G's than gold braid. As for her

identity—she did her best to keep it quiet by wearing faintly tinted spectacles, a severe hair-do and a

very plain costume. The ladies and gentlemen of the news dissemination services have never been

over-popular on Mars.

I suppose she stuck by me because she felt a certain sense of responsibility for my condition. She

says to this day that it was all her fault. I think that it was mine—after all, one expects passengers to do

asinine things and one of the items we're paid for is to see that they don't.

It was when we had reached the Corner, that point in Space where the Navigator tells the Old Man

it's time to turn around and start deceleration. My job while this was going on was to make the rounds of

the decks and to see that nobody was taking advantage of the brief period of free fall to play pixies.

The routine is the same for all ships. You start right for'ard and work your way aft. When you begin

you have about half a dozen cadets with you. In each space you press a button that indicates to Control

that all hands are strapped into chairs or bunks, then you leave a cadet on guard to see that nobody slips

his safety belt and starts floating around.

By the time you get to the last compartment—which in Martian Queen was the main lounge—there's

only yourself and you act as your own policeman after you've given the all clear.

Well, I finally finished up in the main lounge. Everything had gone remarkably smoothly on this

occasion—usually there are at least a dozen people to whom you have to explain in words of one syllable

why they should be strapped down. This, perhaps, had made me careless.

I took a hasty glance around, unlocked the cover of the signal button and gave the all clear, then

pulled myself to the nearest vacant chair and started to strap myself in. The red warning light on the

bulkhead had begun to flash and we could hear the noise of the gyroscopes starting up as Control began

to swing the ship.

Then some old hen sitting next to me gave me a prod in the ribs with a knitting needle.

"Officer!" she cackled. "Why should she be allowed to run around loose?"

I dislike being called "officer," especially in that tone of voice, but my neighbor was now using her

weapon as a pointer. I looked in the direction she indicated—and at once decided that if I didn't act

quick this was where I got emptied out.

There, hanging against the deck-head, was Jane Meredith. I didn't know her then—but I found time

to think that she looked like a leggy blond angel, floating there above our heads. Perhaps a recording

angel—assuming that such beings have gone all modern and use cine-cameras.

"Come down!" I shouted, unsnapping the last buckle.

"Not until I've got this shot!" she replied.

By then the warning bell had started and I had to make my choice between giving Control a Stop

Signal and pulling Jane to a place of safety. To reach the pushbutton meant negotiating one or two

corners. To pull Jane to a position of safety meant straight up and then straight down to my chair. I still

think that it was the wiser choice.

My kick carried me up at such speed that I had to put out my hands to fend myself off from the

deckhead. Then I grabbed the girl around the waist and tried to maneuver into a position suitable for

shoving off back to the deck.

If she hadn't put up a struggle I might have done it in time. When the warning bell stopped I was still

trying but with a scant split second to go it was hopeless. And when the main drive opened up I knew it

was useless to try any more —although I did manage to get in one last kick at the deckhead that would

bring us down on the dance floor instead of among the chairs around the perimeter of the lounge.

Fortuitously I was underneath. Apart from a few bruises Jane was unhurt. But when I tried to get up I

found that I had a fractured femur. And that was the last thing I knew until I came around in the ship's

hospital a few hours later.

So here I was in the main lounge once more—this compartment having been taken over by the port

officials as their office. Many was the time that I had watched the formalities of landing being gone

through on other worlds but this was my first trip to Mars. And I had never seen anything as thorough as

these Martians.

"You haven't anything in your baggage that you shouldn't?" whispered Jane, pitching her voice low so

that it would not be overheard by the two shore stretcher-bearers.

"No," I began and then it was my turn.

They carried me up to the lie detector and while grasping its handles I had to state that I had neither

livestock nor radioactives. But a mere statement wasn't good enough—even when backed up by the

machine. One of the Customs officers went over every piece of baggage with an electroscope and when

he had finished another one, armed with a stopwatch, put the articles into what, looked like a domestic

refrigerator.

"We give 'em all a cooking with HF," the senior man condescended to explain to Jane. "You might

have something in your cases and not know about it—the eggs of some insect, for example.

"Had a case not so long ago—dame had half a dozen parrot's eggs, suspended development jobs,

tucked away in her undies. As far as the lie detector went she'd been able to kid herself that they weren't

livestock—but she nearly threw a fit when she twigged what we were doing to 'em in the oven."

The Immigration wasn't such a tough hurdle. They sent for the surgeon to make him swear everything

he had put on my certificate of discharge was correct, and that was all. They gave each of us a

respirator—this they said was for use either outside the dome or inside if the power supply to the

compressors should fail. We had to sign a receipt for these.

Jane came with me as far as the hospital. There was ample room in the monowheeled ambulance that

bore us swiftly and silently through the gleaming corridors of Port Gregory and her charm worked on the

driver and the two attendants as it had done on the port officials.

It was at the hospital door, however, that she met her first setback. She had a woman to deal with

there. It was not visiting hours. And it was no use her coming outside visiting hours. No, not even if she

had a dozen press cards to flash, not even if a Second Pilot with a broken leg was the world's hottest

news. Which he wasn't. And he didn't feel like it, either.

I was not sorry when they put me in my bed and I was able to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

While waiting for Jane the next morning it occurred to me that I had never asked her what she was

doing on Mars. I knew her reputation and it occurred to me that Port Gregory might not be too healthy a

city in which to spend a convalescence.

Where Jane Meredith was things happened. The riot and bloodshed were due to begin at any

moment. She had, and still has, a keen nose for news. Some even go so far as to say that she herself is a

sort of catalyst, that things just naturally happen around her.

I mentioned this to Captain Brown, who was my first visitor.

"H'm!" he grunted. "Never thought of that. Suppose you'll be wanting to come home in the old wagon

now, broken leg and all. Had enough red tape to cut through to get you ashore—but that old woman

Parks swore that with the continual vibration of the drive the bone was not knitting properly. If you want

to take the risk I'll contact whoever is in charge of this hospital and see if I can get you out by sailing

day."

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way, sir. Just mentioned it as a point of interest. I suppose that at bottom it's

no more than a pressman's yarn. We all know that they can spin some tall ones."

"Perhaps you're right, Basset. But if you do feel that you'd rather be homeward bound with us, just

let me know. I don't like leaving one of my officers in this dump—never have had any time for Martians

and never will. And . . ."

And then Jane came breezing in.

I liked the way everybody in the ward followed her with his eyes as she swung down the aisle

between the rows of beds. I liked the way that the Sister on duty and the few women who were there

visiting their menfolk looked at her. There was envy, cattish dislike and reluctant admiration. And she was

coming to see me.

Gone was the intentional severe plainness of arrival day. I'm no hand at describing women's clothes

and such—but this Jane Meredith was the Jane who had charmed the worlds over the television

networks. Everything was just right from the top of her hatless head to the toes of her little shoes.

I was dimly aware that the Old Man had eased his bulky form out of the chair beside the bed. I have

a vague memory of his saying, "Well, Basset, I must be running along now. Have to see the agent and the

consul. And I think it might be as well if I did try to get you out and back aboard the ship."

I hoped that last sentence was in jest.

"Hiya, Peter," said Jane. "How's the corpse?"

"Could be worse. They tell me they're going to start some kind of ray therapy and they're feeding me

some goo that they get from one of the local plants. Supposed to be an absolute cure-all."

"And when do they plan to throw you out?"

"In about two weeks."

"And Martian Queen is here for about six days more. H'm."

I didn't like that h'm. It seemed to bode ill for somebody—probably me. I vaguely remembered that

this same Jane Meredith was persona non grata on more than one inhabited world of the system and

didn't see that it would help my career as an astronaut any if I became involved in any of her escapades.

As it was she had already done my prospects of promotion a bit of no good. But it was unfair to

blame her for that—I had slipped up badly and if it had been her leg that was broken and not mine it

would have spelled O-U-T.

"Tell me," I said to switch my train of thought to more, pleasant tracks, "what are you doing here?

What's due to happen?"

"Wish I knew. But something's cooking, Peter, something big. The home office got a tip that the

rabbits are mixed up in it, and the crabs. And I have a feeling that Collinsia Utilensis may be involved."

"What is this—Alice in Wonderland?"

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A. Bertram Chandler- The Forest of Knives

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