greetings from the Martians.”
Earthling: “Huh?”
Baren Darl: “We Martians offer you the friendship and the good will of a people that—”
Earthling: “Martins! Are you’uns Martins?”
Baren Darl: “That is correct. We Martians come with the greetings and—”
At this point, your Omnipotence, my account must of necessity be somewhat vague, for even after we had made good our escape back to the space-cruiser, bearing our more serious casualties with us, we were unable to agree among ourselves on just what had happened.
Baren Darl, who is now under arrest and in the darkest recess of the Space-cruiser 12B44 laden down with chains, is of the opinion that the Earthling was none other than either Superman or the Lone Ranger in disguise. He contends that both of these earthling warriors are prone to adopt disguises in this manner, revealing themselves only at the last moment to their enemies.
Suffice to say, however, that we were all successful in making good our retreat to the space-cruiser although all of our equipment and supplies were destroyed in the melee. Upon regaining the spacecraft we blasted off hurriedly, to return to our own sacred planet.
I recommend, your Omnipotence, that the plans to subjugate the planet Earth be indefinitely postponed in view of the fact that our specially designed weapons proved worthless and in particular view of the abilities of Earthling warriors.
I further recommend that the unspeakable Baren Darl, who obviously frittered away his time during the decals spent on Luna supposedly studying the Earthlings, be sent to the Nairebis Salt Mines.
Maw and Paw Coy and Hank and Zeke came back into the clearing wearily. The boys had done a lot of tramping and were hungry for their vittles, and Maw was feeling bodacious about their taking off to go hunting for Martins. Paw had told her to shut up two or three times but it hadn’t been much use.
Lem was sitting on an upended mash barrel loading his old shotgun and grinning vacuously. He seemed unaware of the fact that the stock of the gun was a splintered ruin.
“Guess what, Paw,” he yelled. “I got me a Martin. I got me a whole passel of Martins, Paw, I sure did. Yup, I—”
Paw Coy grunted, and started poking around in the vittles Maw had brought up from the cabin.
The boys leaned their rifles up against the oak and each picked up a handy fruit jar of corn squeezins.
Hank said nastily, “Sure you got a whole passel of Martins, Lem. In yore sleep, you got a passel of Martins.”
Lem said belligerently, “Don’t you go a talkin’ thataway Hank, or I’ll … I’ll throw you up into the tree the way I did that time you hit me with the ax. I did so get me some Martins. I was a sittin’ here when a whole passel come outen the woods. Didn’t know they was Martins at first. Then—”
Maw Coy handed him a chunk of corn pone. “Now you be quiet, Lem, and eat your vittles. Sure you got yourself a Martin, Lem.”
A thin trickle of brown ran down from the side of Lem’s mouth. He spit on the ground before him, with an air of happy belligerence.
“I sure did, Maw. I sure got me a passel of Martins. Yup, I sure did.”
Mercy Flight
The phone rang and Ed Kerry wasn’t doing anything so he picked it up and said, “Yeah?”
He said yeah a few more times, his eyes widening infinitesimally each time, and finally wound up with, “Okay, Bunny.”
He hung up and said, “That was Bunny, up in Oneonta. She says a guy is coming in from Luna with a kid for emergency hospitalization, radiation burns or something.”
Jake was sitting back in his swivel chair, his feet on the desk and his hands clasped behind his head. He growled, “That’s the trouble with women in this game; they’ve got no story sense. She phones all the way from Oneonta on a story that’s been run a hundred times. Every time somebody gets good and sick up on Luna they bring ’em to Earth for treatment.” He shrugged. “Okay, so it’s a kid this time. Do up about a stick of it, Kerry, and we’ll put it on page three if you can work it into a tearjerker.”
Ed Kerry said, “You didn’t let me finish, Jake. Something’s wrong with this guy’s radio.”
Somebody on the rewrite desk said, “Something wrong with his radio? He’s gotta have his radio or he can’t come in.”
Jake took his feet from the desk and sat up. “What’d’ ya mean, something’s wrong with his radio?”
“Bunny said he’s calling for his landing instructions but they can’t get anything back to him. He’s just reached Brennschluss and he’s in free fall now; it’ll be four days before he gets here. That’s the way they work it—he’s supposed to get in touch with the spaceport he wants to land at, and. …”
“I know how they work it,” Jake growled. “See if there’s anything on the last newswire from Luna about him.”
Phil Mooney flicked his set on again and repeated carefully, “Calling Oneonta Spaceport. Phil Mooney Outbound Luna, Calling Oneonta Spaceport. Come in Oneonta.”
Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. Oneonta Spaceport Calling Phil Mooney. Come in Mooney.
He cast a quick glance back at the child, strapped carefully in the metal bunk. She was unconscious now, possibly as a result of the acceleration in leaving Luna. He’d had to reach a speed of approximately two miles per second to escape Earth’s satellite, and that had called for more G’s acceleration than Lillian’s sick body could bear. His lips thinned back over his teeth; it would be even worse when they came in for landing and he had to brake against Earth’s gravity.
He switched on the set again to give it another try. Instructions were to contact the spaceport at which you planned to land as soon as possible. There was plenty of time, of course, but the sooner the better.
He said, “Calling
