The Case Against Tomorrow - Frederik Pohl, ebook, Temp
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The Candle Lighter THE TRUSTEESHIP DIRECTOR fished out a pack of cigarettes
and offered them to Jaffa Doane. "I heard your speech last night," he said.
"Cigarette?" "I don't smoke," said Jaffa Doane. "It was a good speech." The
Director lit his cigarette thoughtfully, flicked the match away. Doane waited
with patience in his eyesan expression that seemed very much out of place on
the face of Jaffa Doane. But Doane had practiced patience before the
Director's "invitation" had reached him that morning. He knew it was coming;
you can't tell blunt truths on a world hookup and not expect to make a
stir. The Director said, "I've checked your record, Doane. It's a good one.
You have consistently fought for a lot of things that I happen to believe in
myself. Naturally, I think you're off base this time, but I was with you on
the Kaffirs; I was with you on the Ainus; I'll be with you again. I'm sure. In
fact, if you look it up in the books of your Equality League, you'll find that
I sent in my two dollars dues long ago." He peered at Doane under his eyebrows
and chuckled. "Don't look so surprised." "I can't help it," Doane said
severely. "After what your administration has done to the Martians" "The
Martians! Why, thoseNever mind." He clamped the words down in his throat.
"Just what," he demanded, "have we done to them?" Doane leaned forward.
"Turned them into savages! Exploited them, degraded them, reduced them to
barbarism. Do you want the entire catalogue, sir? / know how the Mars
Trusteeship has been run! The Administrators have made themselves gods, sir,
godsl Their every whim is a commandment. That's what you've done!" The
Director managed a smile, though his nostrils were flaring. "I said I heard
your speech," he reminded Doane. "You had some suggestions to make, didn't
you?" "I did," said Doane proudly. "And among them, you suggested that we
remove Administrator Kellem and replace him with someone acceptable to the
Equality League." "It was. Kellem's handling of the General Mercantile
incident was" "I know," the Director interrupted, and for the first time his
smile relaxed. "I have here a radiogram from the Administration Comzone on
Mars. Read it, Mr. Doane." Doane took it suspiciously, but as he read, he
began to beam. MEDICAL CHECKUP SHOWS LOW-PRESSURE ASTHMA APPROACHING TERTIARY
STAGE, INCURABLE AND DAN- GEROUS WITHOUT IMMEDIATE PERMANENT RETURN TO EARTH.
REQUEST IMMEDIATE CLEARANCE FOR REPLACEMENT AND RETIREMENT. KELLEM, MARS
Doane gloated, "He's retiring! Low-pressure asthma, my foot! I thought the
stink from General Mercantile would drive him out!" The Director said in a
level tone, "Kellem almost died last week, Doane." "All right." Doane
shrugged. "It makes no difference. In any case, I demand to be consulted in
choosing his successor." The Director eyed him. "You do, do you?" He pressed
a button on his desk and said, "Ask Ne Mieek to come in." A sexy contralto
replied, "Yes, sir." The Director looked at Doane. "Ever seen a Martian?" he
asked. "You take such an interest in them, I wonder if you've ever met one.
Face-to-face, I mean; the pictures don't quite do them justice. No? Well, it's
about time you did." He stood up and gestured toward the door. "Jaffa
Doane," he said, "meet Ne Mieek." Doane rose and turned to see who was coming
in. He swallowed. "How do you do," he managed to say. A suppressed sighing
sound came from the thing that dragged itself through the doorway. Doane
thought it formed words in a sort of airless whisper, the sound that might be
made by a man with a slashed throat. It went: "GI'd f n'w y" The vowels were
almost inaudible, the consonants as though they were being forced out against
a gag. It was English, all right; you could make it out if you tried. But if
the thing's words were understandable, its expression was not. As the Director
had said, you had to meet a Martian in the flesh; photos did not give more
than a hint. On the squashed, whitely translucent face was what Doane thought
a grin of savage glee, while the huge dull eyes held inexpressible sorrow.
Neither interpretation, Doane told himself, meant much; that was
anthrophomorphic thinking, and dangerous. But those looks took a little
getting used to, all the same. "Don't try to shake hands with him, Mr.
Doane," said the Director. "He hasn't any." It was true. Four supple,
articulated tentacles waved around the .Martian's midsection, but there were
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 no hands or arms. The pear-shaped body was supported on stubby little legs
which had neither knee nor ankle, as far as Jaffa Doane could see. The
Director was saying, "Ne Mieek is the Martian legate here in Washington and,
like Kellem, the strain of an alien environment has hurt his health. He'll be
going back to Mars on your ship, Doane, and you'll be working with
him." "Working with him?" Doane gasped. The Director allowed himself a look
of surprise. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Doane? Since we must replace
Kellem anyhow, we have decided to grant the Equality League's request. We are
picking a man for the post that the League is certain to approvebecause he is
the president of it I mean you, Mr. Doane." "Me? Me? But I've never been on
Mars!" "In eighteen days," said the Director, "you will no longer be able to
make that statement. That is, unless you refuse the appointment." Jaffa Doane
stood up and there was corrosive anger in his voice. "You'd like that,
wouldn't you? You want me to turn it down, so you can tell the news services
what a lot of hot air the president of the Equality League really is. Well, I
can recognize a shoddy little political trick when I see one. You hand me a
political hot potato, throw me in on a job that your fat-cats have finally
messed up to the point where there are riots and investigations. If things go
wrong. I'm the goat that shuts up the Equality League. If things go right,
your administration gets the credit." "I take it you refuse," said the
Director. "No, sir! I don't refuse! It's a cheap trickand I'll make you wish
you'd never thought of it. I accept!" He looked over his shoulder at the
Martian who had become, in the space of a heartbeat, one of his
charges. Jaffa Doane couldn't help wincing a littlethey did look so much like
ragged corpses! But he said, "Come along, Ne Mieek. We're going to your
home." For more than a million members of the Equality League, Jaffa Doane
was a severe and shining leader; his words were trumpet calls and his surging
drive for justice was a bright flame. One or two of the members, however, took
a more personal view of their president, among them a young lady whose name
was Ruth-Ann Wharton. On the books, she was listed as Mr. Doane's personal
secretary, but it had been several months now since she had first begun to
contemplate a promotion for herself. It had occurred to her that the
eighteen-day flight to Mars on the shuttle rocket might provide the time and
leisure for Jaffa Doane to notice just what a pearl he had as a secretary. But
it had been a disappointing voyage; Doane had kept to his stateroom most of
the way. A hatful of hours out of Marsport, Ruth-Ann was banging on her
boss's stateroom door. "Jaffa," she called plaintively, and not for the first
time, "Ne Mieek and another Martian are waiting for you. Please
hurry." Doane's low, controlled voice said, "I'll be there in a moment, Miss
Wharton." She scowled at the door. "Ill give you exactly one minute." But she
didn't give him that much. She hammered again. "Jaffa, they're
waiting." Pause. Then the calm, relaxed voice. "Yes, of course. One
moment." Ruth-Ann stamped her foot. "Oh, darn you!" she said and did what she
had wanted to do in the first place. She turned the knob and walked in.
"They've been waiting half an hour and Ne Mieek says it's very
important." The room was in semi-darkness, lit only by the light from the
corridor outside. From the rumpled heap of bedclothing, Jaffa Doane's voice
said placidly, "I'm aware of that, Miss Wharton." Her hands found the light
switch. The bedclothing erupted and Jaffa Doane sat up, leaning on an elbow,
blinking at her. "What?" he croaked blearily. "Say, haven't I asked you to
call me only from the outside?" "You have," she said hotly, flinging back the
ray-screen on the port. The tempered glass was treated to filter out most of
the glare, but the direct sunlight lit up the little room like a movie
set. "Get up," she ordered. "If you're not outside and fully dressed in five
minutes, I'm coming back and I'll dress you myself. Anyway, Jaffa, it looks as
if it really is important. Ne Mieek is sighing and talking about your duty to
your job. And the other Martianwell, it's hard to tell, everything considered,
but he looks sick." "Sick?" Jaffa Doane yawned and scratched. "Sick
how?" Ruth-Ann shook her head. "Come on out and see for yourself." Looking
hazily at his face in the mirror of the tiny washroom as he shaved, Jaffa
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 Doane decided that Ruth- Ann, after all, was right. He did have a tendency to
be not difficult, exactly, not grumpy or nasty, but a little hard to wake up
in the mornings. And besides, this was an important day. He was about to meet
his charges. He wiped off the depilatory and stubble and stood erect, eyes
burning into his own reflection in the mirror. The sound of his stateroom
door made him jump. "I'm coming right out!" he yelled. In the room that had
been fitted out as his office for the duration of the tripand which he had
hardly set foot inNe Mieek and Ruth-Ann were waiting. With them was another
Martian and, looking at him, Jaffa Doane knew what the girl had meant when she
said there was something wrong. A strapping young adult Martian, with a life
expectancy of hundreds of years, somewhat resembles a wilting fungus; but this
one looked rotten. "Good morning, Ne Mieek," Jaffa Doane said courteously.
"What can I do for you?" The Martian's wheezy voice was somewhat easier to
understand in the spaceship's half-and-half atmosphere pressure an even eight
pounds to the square inch, composition largely heliumthan it had been when he
was laboring to force his voice into the dense Earth air. "Indeed you can,
honored sir. Gadian Pluur has the sickness and wishes Your Honor to cure him
in the way that is known." Jaffa Doane's eyebrows went up. "Cure him? You
mean you want me to call a doctor?" "Ah, no," whispered the Martian. "Your
Honor will cure him yourself, surely." Ruth-Ann was signaling. "You don't
know what he wants, do you?" she said in a low tone. "Good heavens, no." She
nodded smugly. "He wants you to touch this other one. That's all, just touch
him." "Touch him?" Doane stared at the Martian. "Ne Mieek, are you out of
your mind?" "Not so," the Martian whispered indignantly, the mad face
working. "It is our custom, as is known. The Administrator Kellem and the
Admiral Rosenman who was his assistant have always healed those ill of the
sickness." "Barbarous," marveled Jaffa Doane, forgetting to be angry. "And
you, an intelligent manan intelligent Martian like you, you believe in
this?" "There is nothing to believe or disbelieve," sighed Ne Mieek, his
tentacles agitated, the pale eyes desolate. "It is our custom since the first
of your honored administrators came." Doane shook his head
wonderingly. "Touch him," Ruth-Ann advised. "But" "Go ahead, touch
him!" Doane frowned. "Miss Wharton, this is a matter of principle. I am
responsible not only to the Trusteeship Director, but to the League, and I
certainly couldn't Justify" "Touch him!" The girl's face was set. Doane was
about to reply, but the ship gave a gentle course-correcting lurch and
everyone in the little room staggered slightlyeveryone but the sick Martian,
Gadian Pluur, who staggered halfway across the room and brushed against
Doane's fingers. Jaffa Doane jerked back his hand. It had been a curious
sensation, almost like an electric shock, but not localized he could feel a
tiny tingle up his backbone and at the base of his skull. "Thanks to Your
Honor," whispered Ne Mieek. And the two Martians slipped slowly out, leaving
Jaffa Doane staring frustratedly after them. "But I have a speech all ready,"
Doane objected reasonably. "Jfs not just a lot of glowing promises and empty
words, but facts. It tells how I am going to put a stop to" he hesitated over
the word "the indiscretions of the previous Administrators." Admiral Rosenman
said cheerfully, "Fine." He was a chunky man with a big head of curly white
hair. And he wore the severe uniform as though he had been born with it on.
"But you can't get out of the Conjunction Offering." "That's nothing short of
murder! And my speech" "It's merely an execution, Mr. Doane. The Martian has
had his trial and he has been convicted. It's up to you." "But I'm not a
hangman!" "You're the Earth Administrator on Mars and one of your duties is
carrying out the decisions of the Martian courts." Doane glowered. "What's he
convicted of?" he demanded suspiciously. "What's the difference? Under the
Martian laws, it's a crime punishable by death. They call it bad
thinking." "Bad thinking." Doane shook his head and walked over to the window
of the Ad-Building office that was now his. The orange sandscape, dotted with
smoke-trees, hurt his eyes; it was the Martian idea of a formal park, in the
heart of the little city of Marsport, and it was a great honor to have one's
office looking out over it. Or so the Martians thought. They also thought it
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 was an honor to be the executioner in what seemed to have some of the aspects
of a ritual murder. "I can't even see the conjunction of the moons," Doane
said peevishly. "The Martians can. Both moons are perfectly visible to
them." "And this Conjunction Offering is traditional? What did they do back
forty or fifty years ago, before the first Earthmen got here?" Admiral
Rosenman shrugged and glanced at the clock. "You ought to be getting ready,"
he said. "Am I dismissed?" "You're dismissed," Doane said ungraciously and
frowned at the Admiral's back as he left, using the weaving, flat-footed Mars
walk that Doane had not yet mastered. He sat down at his desk, carefully
allowing for the light gravitationand misjudged it, as he had six times
before, and bumped his shin against the desk, as he had six times
before. Ruth-Ann Wharton said sympatheticaUy, "It takes a little getting used
to. Do you want me to come to the Conjunction Offering with
you?" "No!" "There's no need to take my skin off." He said stiffly, "I am
sorry, Miss Wharton. Perhaps I'm a little upset." "I understand, Jaffa." "It
didn't seem like this back on Earth," he said morosely, staring out at the
smoke-trees. "You haven't heard the worst of it. Miss Wharton. Not only do I
have to slit some poor devil's throat this eveningnot only am I expected to
perform the laying on of hands like somebody from the Dark Agesbut look at
this!" He turned to his desk and picked up a thick sheaf of papers. "Duties
for the Earth Administratorme! The most ridiculous mass of superstitious
nonsense I ever saw. If this is the way Kellem kept the Martians down, I can
understand why there were riots at the General Mercantile base." "At Niobe?
But those were Earthmen involved in the brawl, Jaffa, not Martians." "How do
you know?" he asked pugnaciously. "Because Kellem's publicity men said so? All
we know for sure is that there was trouble. There's bound to be trouble when
you try to keep an intelligent, civilized race like Ne Mieek's down with
barbarous tricks like these." He glanced at the list and flinched. "Well,
there's an end to it," he said grimly. "Kellem's gone and I'm here now. I'll
be at the Conjunction Ceremony tonight, all right, and I'll start things
rolling right then and there. You'll see! I'm telling you, Miss Wharton, Mars
is going towhat's the matter?" he demanded irritably. "You look like you've
got a question." The girl nodded emphatically. "I have. Why do you call me
Miss Wharton instead of Ruth-Ann?" The Conjunction Offering was to take place
in what the Martians had named the Park of Sparse Beauty. "It's sparse
enough," Jaffa Doane said from the rostrum, watching the Martians gather
before him. "But is it beautiful enough?" Admiral Rosenman asked sourly, "Are
you ready for the ceremony?" "Oh, quite ready," said Jaffa Doane. He started
to hum to himself with a satisfied air, but you do not hum with oxygen plugs
in your nostrils. He coughed and choked, and looked at the Admiral
suspiciously. But the Admiral wasn't laughing. The Admiral didn't think he
had very much to laugh about. He had been on duty on Mars for seven years,
surviving five Administrators, only one of whom had completed his three-year
term. He had formed certain conclusions about the Martians and one of them was
that they weren't too likely to get along well with the likes of Jaffa Doane.
... It was dark and the Martians carried torchesnot flaming brands, for
flames do not thrive in Mars' thin atmosphere, but glowing balls of punk from
the little bushes that grew wild in the wide reaches between settlements. The
scene was hardly brightly illuminated. Martian eyes were not human eyes,
though, and to them, Doane realized, it might have been bright as day. He
looked fruitlessly at the spot in the sky where the two moons were supposed to
be in conjunction with a particular star. One moon was visible, the other not.
The star might or might not be visiblewith all the stars in the Martian sky,
one more or less made very little difference. But to the Martians, of course,
with their very much more acute vision, both moons were as visible as Luna
from Earth and each star of the tens of thousands was an individual in its own
right. Jaffa Doane sighed. It was hard remembering all the differences
between Martians and Earthmenand trying to remember, at the same time, the
diamond-clear principles of the Equality League, which said that the
differences were as nothing. . . . There was no sound of trumpets, no burst
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 of prompted applause from the idly drifting audience, but all of a sudden the
ceremony seemed to have begun. Ne Mieek appeared on the high platform where
the Earth party was standing. "In three of your minutes and eleven seconds,
as is known to Your Honor," he said, "the conjunction will occur. This is he
who is to die." He stepped aside to reveal another Martian, who gestured
courteously with his tentacles. "This is Fnihi Bel." The condemned Martian
said politely, "It is an honor to meet Your Honor. I am most sorry for the
circumstances." Doane looked embarrassedly at Ruth-Ann and the Admiral. He
had had no lessons in how Jack Ketch greeted his clients; there was no
precedent in his experience with the Equality League to guide him in the
proper conduct of the maul-man meeting the steer at the top of the slippery
chute. But the Martian was tactful. He said, "Since I shall not have the
power afterward, let me now thank Your Honor for the greatest of
favors." "For killing you?" Doane blurted, scandalized. He made a face
expressing his mood about the enforced subjection of the Martians; it was
wasted on the Martians who expressed their feelings with formalized gestures
of the tentacles, but not on Admiral Rosenman, who licked his lips and started
to speak. But not soon enough. "Fnihi Bel," Doane said compassionately,
"under the authority vested in me as Administrator, I grant a stay of
execution pending review of your case. You shall not die tonight." Admiral
Rosenman swore and looked helplessly at Ruth-Ann. "If the crazy idiot had only
talked it over first! No, not him! He made up his mind ten years before he
ever saw a Martian and nothing's going to change it, especially facts!" "What
facts?" asked Ruth-Ann hotly. "You never told him anything." "It's all in the
files." "Which he hasn't had a chance to look at. Honestly, Admiral, you're
unreasonable." Ruth-Ann looked fretfully out the window. It was nearly
daybreak; the sharp Martian dawn had popped into light over the horizon
minutes before. "Do you suppose he's all right?" The Admiral growled and
flipped the switch on the intercom. "Any word?" The uniformed man whose face
appeared in the screen said, "Not yet, sir. The Administrator was seen about
an hour ago near the Shacks. A detail has gone to search the area, but they
haven't reported in yet." "All right," the Admiral grumbled, clicking
off. "What are the Shacks?" Ruth-Ann wanted to know. "Abandoned part of
town. The Martians gave it up years ago. Nobody lives there now. Unpleasant
place. Serves him right, the" "Watch yourself!" Ruth-Ann warned. "He's your
boss!" The Admiral glowered at her, but stopped. He yawned and stretched.
"Not used to staying up all night any more," he said. "Kind of takes it out of
me, but Go ahead!" he snapped as the intercom called hi name. "Administrator
Doane has been located by the search party, sir," said the officer. "Any
orders?" "Hold him there," roared the Admiral. "And get a car in front of the
door in thirty secondsI'm going to meet him!" He clicked off the switch as
Ruth-Ann corrected, "We're going to meet him, Admiral! If that big
stuffed-shirt thinks he can scare me out of my wits and stir up every Martian
from here to" "Hey, wait a minute!" the Admiral protested. "I thought you
wouldn't let me call him names!" "That's you," Ruth-Ann said shortly. "The
rules are different for me. Come on. Admiral. What are you waiting for?" They
found Earth Administrator Jaffa Doane sitting on the ramp before an abandoned
and decrepit Martian dwelling, staring into space. Admiral Rosenman dismissed
the detail and helped the Administrator into the pressurized car. Doane's
attention was elsewhere. Rosenman had to remind him even to take the oxygen
plugs out of his nostrils. "Thanks," said Doane absently. And, after a
pause, "I messed it up, didn't I?" "You did," the Admiral told him. "You
messed it up enough to put forty-eight Martians in the hospitalthe Earth
hospital." Doane biinked. "For physical injuries," the Admiral explained.
"The Martians don't ordinarily hospitalize for that; a couple of hours of what
they call good thinking and they can patch almost anything that's wrong with
themselves. But these were pretty well beat up, mostly from running into
moving vehicles, and I don't think there's a Martian within fifty miles that's
capable of good thinking right now." Jaffa Doane shook his head. "I don't get
it," he complained. "All I did was try to save a man's life. Maybe I was
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