Sleepers Of Mars

Goin, the lecturer in phonetics, wandered into the study of his friend Dagul, the anthropologist in the University of Takon. Dagul, who was getting on in years, as the grizzling of his silver fur testified, looked up with a frown of irritation at the interruption. But it faded at the sight of Goin, and he welcomed him cordially.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I think I’m a bit overworked. This Dur business gives such masses of material that I can’t leave it alone.’

‘If you’re too busy-?’

‘No, no; come along in. Glad to throw it off for a time.’

They crossed to a low divan where they squatted, folding their four legs beneath them. Dagul offered refreshment.

‘Well, did you get this Earth creature’s story?’ he asked. Goin produced a packet of thin tablets from a satchel.

‘Yes, we’ve got it—in the end. I’ve had all my assistants and brightest students working on it, but it’s not been easy, even so. They seem to have been farther advanced in physical science than we are, and that made parts of it only roughly translatable, but I think you’ll be able to follow it. A pretty sort of villain this Gratz makes himself out to be—and not much ashamed of it.’

‘You can’t be a good villain if you’re ashamed,’ Dagul observed.

‘I suppose not; but it’s made me think. Earth seems to have been a rotten planet.’

‘Worse than Venus?’ asked Dagul bitterly. Goin hesitated.

‘Yes, I think so, according to his account—but probably that’s only because it was further developed. We’re going the same way: graft, vested interests, private traders without morals, politicians without consciences. I thought they only existed here; but they had them on Earth—the whole stinking circus. Maybe they had them on Mars, too, if we only knew.’

‘I wonder?’ Dagul sat for some moments in contemplation. ‘You mean that on Earth there was just an exaggerated form of the mess we’re in?’

‘Exactly. Makes you wonder if life isn’t a disease after all—a kind of corruption which attacks dying planets, growing more and more vicious in the higher forms. And as for intelligence….’

‘Intelligence,’ said Dagul, ‘is a complete snare and delusion —I came to that conclusion long ago. Without it, you are wiped out: with it, you wipe out one another, and eventually yourself.’

Goin grinned. Dagul’s hobby-horses were much-ridden steeds.

‘The instinct of self-protection——’ he began.

‘—is another delusion, as far as the race is concerned,’ Dagul finished for him. ‘Individuals may protect themselves, but it is characteristic of an intelligent race that it tries continually, by bigger and better methods, to wipe itself out. Speaking dispassionately, I should say that it’s a very good thing, too. Of all

the wasteful, destructive, pointless ..

Goin let him have his say. Experience told him that it was useless to attempt to stem the flood. At length there came a pause, and he thrust forward his packet of tablets.

‘Here’s the story. I’m afraid it’ll encourage your pessimism. The man, Gratz, is a self-confessed murderer for one thing.’

‘Why should he confess?’

‘It’s all there. Says he wants to warn us against Earth.’

Dagul smiled slightly. ‘Then you’ve not told him?’

‘No; not yet.’

Dagul reached for the topmost tablet, and began to read:

I Morgan Gratz, of the planet Earth, am writing this as a warning to the inhabitants of Venus. Have nothing to do with Earth if you can help it; but if you must, be careful. Above all, I warn you to have no dealings with the two greatest companies of Earth. If you do, you will come to hate Earth and her people as I do—you will come to think of her, as I do, as the plague-spot of the Universe.

Sooner or later, emissaries will come. Representatives of either Metallic Industries or International Chemicals will attempt to open negotiations. Do not listen to them. However honeyed their words or smooth the phrases, distrust them, for they will be liars and the servants of liars. If you do trust them, you will live to regret it, and your children will regret it and curse you. Read this, and see how they treated me, Morgan Gratz….

My story is best started from the moment when I was shown into the Directors’ Room in the huge building which houses the executive of Metallic Industries. The secretary closed the tall double doors behind me, and announced my name:

‘Gratz, sir.’

Nine men seated about a glass-topped table turned their eyes upon me simultaneously, but I kept my gaze on the chairman who topped the long table.

‘Good morning, Mr. Drakin,’ I said.

‘ ’Morning, Gratz. You have not met our other directors, I think?’

I looked along the row of faces. Several I recognised from photographs in the illustrated papers; others I was able to identify, for I had heard them described, and knew that they would be present. There is no mystery about the directors of Metallic Industries Incorporated. Among them are several of the world’s richest men, and to be mounted upon such pinnacles of wealth means continual exposure to the floodlights of publicity. Not only was I familiar with their appearances, but in common with most, I was fairly conversant with their histories. I made no comment, and the chairman continued: