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"Make that clearer. Incidentally, was your high-school coeducational?"
No.
"Any queers?"
"A few. At least one in every class. The seniors used to use paddles on the ones they suspected."
"Did it help?"
"No. Of course not."
"Okay. You've got two sets of circumstances under which a high rate of homosexuality occurs. In both cases you've got three conditions: a reasonable amount of leisure, no women, and a disciplinary pecking order. You need a third example."
"I couldn't think of one."
"The Nazi organization."
"Oh?"
"I'll give you details." Cousins went on reading. He finished the report and put it aside. "This'll cause merry hell," he said.
"I know."
"The worst thing about it is your threat to give the whole thing to the newspapers. If I were you I'd leave that out."
"If you were me you wouldn't," said Shute. "Everyone who had anything to do with WARGOD knew they were risking everything that's happened. They preferred to let us take that risk rather than risk public opinion themselves. There are hundreds of Decency Leagues in the United States. Maybe thousands, I don't know. But they'll all come down on the government like harpies if anyone tried to send a mixed crew to Mars or anywhere else in space. The only way I can make the government act is to give them a greater threat."
"You win. This is a greater threat."
"Did you find anything else to cut out?"
"Oh, hell yes. I'll go through this again with a red pencil. You talk too much, and use too many words that are too long, and you generalize. You'll have to give details or you'll lose impact."
"I'll be ruining some reputations."
"Can't be helped. We've got to have women on Mars, and right now. Rufe and Timmy are building up to a real spitting fight. Rufe thinks he caused Lew's death by leaving him. Timmy keeps taunting him with it."
"'All right," said Shute. He stood up. He had been sitting erect throughout the discussion, as if sitting at attention. "Are the buggies still in radio range?"
"They can't hear us, but we can hear them. Timmy's working the radio."
"Good. I'll keep him on it until they go out of range. Shall we get di
Phobos rose where the sun had set, a scattering of moving dots of light, like a crescent of dim stars. It grew brighter as it rose: a new moon becoming a half-moon in hours. Then it was too high to look at. Carter had to keep his eyes on the triangle of desert lit by his
headlights. The headlight beams were the color of earthly sunlight, but to Carter's Mars-adapted eyes they turned everything blue.
He had chosen his course well. The desert ahead was flat for more than seven hundred miles. There would be no low hills rising suddenly before him to trap him into jet-jumping in faint moonlight or waiting for Alf to come down on him. Alf's turnover point would come at high noon tomorrow, and then Carter would have won.
For Alf would turn back toward the bubble, and Carter would go on into the desert. When Alf was safely over the horizon, Carter would turn left or right, go on for an hour, and then follow a course parallel to Alf s. He would be in sight of the bubble an hour later than Alf, with three hours in which to plan.
Then would come the hardest part. Certainly there would be someone on guard. Carter would have to charge past the guardwho might be armed with a flare pistol-tear the bubble open, and somehow confiscate the supply of O-tanks. Ripping the bubble open would probably kill everyone inside, but there would be men in suits outside. He would have to load some of the O-tanks on his buggy and open the stopcocks of the rest, all before anyone reached him.
What bothered him was the idea of charging a flare pistol... But perhaps he could just aim the buggy and jump out. He would have to see.
His eyelids were getting heavy, and his hands were cramped. But he dare not slow down, and he dared not sleep.
Several times he had thought of smashing the come-hither in his suit radio. With that thing constantly beeping, Alf could find him anytime he pleased. But Alf could find him anyway. His headlights were always behind, never catching up, never dropping away. If he ever got out of Alf's sight, that come-hither would have to go. But there was no point in letting Alf know that. Not yet.
Stars dropped into the black western horizon. Phobos rose again, brighter this time, and again became too high to watch. Deimos now showed above the steady shine of Alf's headlights.
Suddenly it was day, and there were thin black shadows pointing to a yellow horizon. Stars still glowed in a red-black sky. There was a crater ahead, a glass dish set in the desert, not too big to circle around. Carter angled left. The buggy behind him also angled. If he
kept turning like this, Alf couldn't help but gain on him. Carter sucked water and nutrient solution from the nipples in his helmet, and concentrated on steering. His eyes felt gritty, and his mouth belonged to a Martian mummy.
"Morning," said Alf.
"Morning. Get plenty of sleep?"
"Not enough. I only slept about six hours, in snatches. I kept worrying you'd turn off and lose me."
For a moment Carter went hot and cold. Then he knew that Alf was needling him. He'd no more slept than Carter had.
"Look to your right," said Alf.
To their right was the crater wall. And -Carter looked again to be sure-there was a silhouette on the rim, a man-shaped shadow against the red sky. With one hand it balanced something tall and thin.
"A Martian," Carter said softly. Without thinking he turned his buggy to climb the wall. Two flares exploded in front of him, a second apart, and he frantically jammed the tiller bar hard left.:
"God damn it, Alf! That was a Martian! We've got to go after it!"
The silhouette was gone. No doubt the Martian had run for its life when it saw the flares.
Alf said nothing. Nothing at all. And Carter rode on, past the crater, with a murderous fury building in him.
It was eleven o'clock. The tips of a range of hills were pushing above the western horizon.
"I'm just curious," Alf said, "but what would you have said to that Martian?"
Carter's voice was tight and bitter. "Does it matter?"
"Yah. The best you could have done was scare him. When we get in touch with the Martians, we'll do it just the way we pla
Carter ground his teeth. Even without the accident of Lew Harness's death, there was no telling how long the translation plan would take. It involved three steps: sending pictures of the writings on the crematory wells and other artifacts to Earth, so that computers could translate the language; writing messages in that language to leave near the wells where Martians would find them; and then waiting for the Martians to make a move. But there was no reason to
believe that the script on the wells wasn't from more than one language, or from the same language as it had changed over thousands of years. There was no reason to assume the Martians would be interested in strange beings living in a glorified balloon, regardless of whether the invaders knew how to write. And could the Martians read their own ancestors' script?
An idea... "You're a linguist," said Carter.
No answer.
"Alf, we've talked about whether the town needed Lew, and we've talked about whether the town needs me. How about you? Without you we'd never get the well-script translated."
"I doubt that. The Cal Tech computers are doing most of the work, and anyhow I left notes. But so what?"
"If you keep chasing me you'll force me to kill you. Can the town afford to lose you?"