A Martian Ricorso Read online

  I killed one. It was in the Martian equivalent of pain. Pain/Cain. I hit it over the head with a rock pick. It died just like we do.

  Linker died innocent.

  I think I'm going to be sick.

  Here it comes. RATOs on.

  I'm in the first jet-stream. Second wing mode--fore and aft foils have been jettisoned. I'm riding directly into the black wind. I can see stars, can see Mars red and brown and gray below.

  Third wing mode. All wings jettisoned. Falling, my stomach says. Main engines on capsule are firing and I'm through the glider framework. I can see the glare and feel the punch and the wings are far down to port, twirling like a child's toy.

  In low, uncertain orbit.

  Willy's coming.

  Last orbit before going home. Willy looked awfully good. I climbed inside of him through the transfer tunnel and requested a long drink of miserable orbiter water. "Hey, Willy Ley," I said, "you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Of course, all he did was take care of me. No accusations.

  He's the only friend I have now.

  I spoke to mission control. That was not easy. An hour ago. I'm sitting by the telescope, having pushed Willy's sensors out of the way, doing my own surveying and surmising.

  So far, the Winter Troops--I assume they're responsible--have zoned and partially built up Mare Tyrennhum, Hesperia, and Mare Cimmerium. They've done something I can't decipher or really describe in Aethiopis. By now I'm sure they've got to the old expedition landers in Syrtis Major and Minor. I don't know what they'll do with them. Maybe add them to the road-building material.

  Maybe understand them.

  I have no idea what they're like, no idea at all. I can't. We can't. They move too fast, grow along instinctive lines, perhaps. Instinct for culture and technology. They may not be intelligent in the way we define intelligence, not as individuals, anyway. But they do move.

  Perhaps they're just resurrecting what their ancestors left them fifty, a hundred thousand years ago, before the long, warm, wet Spring of Mars drove them underground and brought up the sprouts of aqueduct-bridges.

  At any rate, I've been in orbit for a week and a half. They've gone from cradle to sky in that time.

  I've seen their balloons.

  And I've seen the distant fires of their rockets, icy blue and sharp like hydroxy torches. They seem to be testing. In a few days, they'll have it.

  Beware, Control. These brave lads will go far.

  The End