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REBELS OF THE RED PLANET

by

CHARLES L. FONTENAY



_Charles L. Fontenay has also written_:

TWICE UPON A TIME (D-266)



Copyright ©, 1961, by Ace Books, Inc.
All Rights Reserved

Printed in U.S.A.
ACE BOOKS, INC.
23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N.Y.




MARS FOR THE MARTIANS!


Dark Kensington had been dead for twenty-five years. It was a fact;
everyone knew it. Then suddenly he reappeared, youthful, brilliant,
ready to take over the Phoenix, the rebel group that worked to
overthrow the tyranny that gripped the settlers on Mars.

The Phoenix had been destroyed not once, not twice, but three times!
But this time the resurrected Dark had new plans, plans which
involved dangerous experiments in mutation and psionics.

And now the rebels realized they were in double jeopardy. Not only
from the government's desperate hatred of their movement, but also
from the growing possibility that the new breed of mutated monsters
would get out of hand and bring terrors never before known to man.


CHARLES L. FONTENAY writes: "I was born in Brazil of a father who
was by birth English and by parentage German and French, and of a
mother who was by birth American and by parentage American and
Scottish. This mess of internationalism caused me some trouble in
the army during World War II as the government couldn't decide
whether I was American, British, or Brazilian; and both as an
enlisted man and an officer I dealt in secret work which required
citizenship by birth. On three occasions I had to dig into the
lawbooks. Finally they gave up and admitted I was an American
citizen....

"I was raised on a West Tennessee farm and distinguished myself in
school principally by being the youngest, smallest (and consequently
the fastest-running) child in my classes ... Newspaper work has been
my career since 1936. I have worked for three newspapers, including
_The Nashville Tennessean_ for which I am now rewrite man, and
before the war for the Associated Press."

Mr. Fontenay is married, lives in Madison, Tenn., and has had one
other novel published by Ace Books.


* * * * *



1


It is a sea, though they call it sand.

They call it sand because it is still and red and dense with grains.
They call it sand because the thin wind whips it, and whirls its dusty
skim away to the tight horizons of Mars.

But only a sea could so brood with the memory of aeons. Only a sea,
lying so silent beneath the high skies, could hint the mystery of life
still behind its barren veil.

To practical, rational man, it is the Xanthe Desert. Whatever else he
might unwittingly be, S. Nuwell Eli considered himself a practical,
rational man, and it was across the bumpy sands of the Xanthe Desert
that he guided his groundcar westward with that somewhat cautious
proficiency that mistrusts its own mastery of the machine. Maya Cara
Nome, his colleague in this mission to which he had addressed himself,
was a silent companion.

Nuwell's liquid brown eyes, insistent upon their visual clarity, saw the
red sand as the blowing surface of unliving solidity. Only clarity was
admitted to Nuwell, and the only living clarity was man and beast and
vegetation, spotted in the dome cities and dome farms of the lowlands.
He and Maya scurried, transiting sparks of the only life, insecure and
hastening in the absence of the net of roads which eventually would bind
the Martian surface to human reality from the toeholds of the dome
cities.

In that opposite world which was the other side of the groundcar's seat,
Maya Cara Nome's opaque black eyes struggled against the surface. They
struggled not from any rational motivation but from long stubbornness,
from habit, as a fly kicks six-legged and constant against the surface
tension of a trapping pool.

Formally, Maya was allied to Newell's clarity and solidity, and she
could express this alliance with complete logic if called on. But behind
the casually blowing sand she sensed a depth. The shimmering atmosphere,
hostile to man, which sealed the red desert was a lens that distorted
and concealed by its intervention. The groundcar was a mechanical bug,
an alienness with which timorous man had allied himself; allied with it
against reality, she and Nuwell were hastened by it through reality,
unseeing, toward the goal of a more comfortable unreality.

The groundcar bumped and slithered, and an orange dust-cloud boiled up
from its broad tires and wafted away across the sculpted sand. The
desert stretched away, silent and empty, to the distant horizon; the
groundcar the only humming disturbance of its silence and emptiness. The
steel-blue sky shimmered above, a lens capping the red surface.

The groundcar rolled westward, slashing toward its goal from the distant
lowland of Solis Lacus. Far away, two men, machineless, plodded this
same Xanthe Desert toward the same goal; but they plodded southward,
approaching on a different radius.

They were naked. In a thin atmosphere without sufficient oxygen to
support animal life or even the higher forms of terrestrial plant life,
they wore no marsuits, no helmets, no oxygen tanks.

The man who walked in front was tall, erect, powerfully muscled. His
features and short-clipped hair were coarse, but self-assured
intelligence shone in his smoky eyes. He moved across the loose sand,
barefoot, with easy grace.

The - man? - that shambled behind him was as tall, but appeared shorter
and even more muscular because his shoulders and head were hunched
forward. His even coarser face was characterized by vacuously slack
mouth and blue eyes empty of any expression except an occasional brief
frown of puzzlement.

Toward a focal point: from the east, two people; from the north, two
people. If in the efficient self-assurance of Adam Hennessey could be
paralleled a variant harmony with the insistent surfaceness of S. Nuwell
Eli, does any coincidental parallelism exist between Brute Hennessey and
Maya Cara Nome?

Puzzlement was the climate of Brute's mind. This surface film of things
through which he ploughed his way, the swarming currents below the
surface - all were chaos. He grasped vaguely at comprehension without
achieving, the effective coalescence of electric ideas always falling
short before reaching consciousness.

The two men plodded, naked, through the loose sand. Above them in the
Mars-blue dome of day, the weak sun turned downward, warning of its
eventual departure.

A two-passengered groundcar and two men, widely apart, and yet bound for
the same destination....

The destination was a lone, sprawling building in the desert. It could
have been a huge warehouse, or a fortress, of black, almost windowless
Martian stone. The only outstanding feature of its virtually featureless
hulk was a tower which struck upward from its northern side.

As the summer afternoon progressed, Dr. G. O. T. Hennessey paced the
windy summit of the tower, peered frequently into the desert north
beneath a sunshading hand, and waggled his goat beard in annoyance under
his transparent marshelmet.

Had the helmet speaker been on or the air less thin, one might have
determined that Goat Hennessey was utilizing some choice profanity,
directed at those two absent personages whose names were, respectively,
Adam and Brute.

The airlock to the tower elevator opened and a small creature - a
child? - emerged onto the roof. Distorted, humpbacked and
barrel-chested, it scuttled on reed-thin legs to Goat's side. It wore no
marsuit.

"Father!" screeched this apparition, its thin voice curiously muffled by
the tenuous air. "Petway fell in the laundry vat!"

"For the love of space!" muttered Goat in exasperation. "Is there water
in it?"

When the newcomer gave no sign of hearing, Goat realized his helmet
speaker was off. He switched it on.

"Is there water in the vat?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir. It's full of suds and clothes."

"Well, go fish him out before he soaks up all the water. The soap will
make him sick."

The messenger turned, almost tripping over its own broad feet, and went
back through the airlock. Goat returned to his northward vigil.

Miles away, Nuwell slowed the groundcar as it approached the lip of that
precipitous slope bordering the short canal which connects Juventae Fons
with the Arorae Sinus Lowland. He consulted a rough chart, and turned
the groundcar southward. A drive of about a kilometer brought them to a
wide descending ledge down which they were able to drive into the canal.

Here, on the flat lowland surface, the canal sage grew thick, a
gray-green expanse stretching unbroken to the distant cliff that was the
other side of the canal. Occasionally above its smoothness thrust the
giant barrel of a canal cactus.

Nuwell headed the groundcar straight across the canal, for the chart
showed that the nearest upward ledge on the other side was conveniently
almost opposite. The big wheels bent and crushed the canal sage, leaving
a double trail.

The canal sage brought with it the comforting feeling of surface life
once more. This feeling, for no reason that he could have determined
consciously, released Nuwell's tongue.

"Maya," he said, in a voice that betrayed determination behind its
mildness, "I don't see any real reason for waiting. When we've cleared
up this matter at Ultra Vires and get back to Mars City, I think we
should get married."

She glanced at his handsome profile and smiled affectionately.

"I'm complimented by your impatience, Nuwell," she said. "But there is a
good reason for waiting, for me. When we're married, I want to be your
wife, completely. I want to keep your home and mother your children.
Don't you understand that?"

"That's what I want, too," he said. "That's my idea of what marriage is.
But, Maya, if you insist on finishing this government assignment, that
could be a long time off."

"I know, and I don't like it any better than you do, darling," said
Maya. "But it's cost the Earth government a great deal of trouble and
money to send me here, and you know how long it would take for them to
get a replacement to Mars for me. I don't feel that I can let them
down, and I don't think it would be much of a beginning to our marriage
for me to be running around ferreting out rebels during the first months
of it."

"That's another thing I don't like, Maya," said Nuwell. "It's dangerous,
and I don't want anything to happen to you."

"It's your work, too, and it's not absolutely safe for you, either. I'll
be sharing it with you when we're married, and for you it will go on for
a long time. I have a specific mission here, to locate the rebel
headquarters, and as soon as I've done that I'll be more than happy to
become just a contented housewife and leave the rest of it to you."

Nuwell shrugged, a little disconsolately, and turned his attention to
the task of negotiating the groundcar up the ascending slope.

She was a strange creature, this little Maya of his. She had been born
on Mars and, orphaned by some unknown disaster, had been cared for
during her first years by the mysterious, grotesque native Martians.
When they took her at last to one of the dome cities, she was sent to
Earth for rearing. And now she was back on Mars as an undercover agent
of the Earth government, seeking to ferret out the rebels known to be
engaging in widespread forbidden activities.

Often he did not understand her, but he wanted her, nevertheless.

Nuwell steered the groundcar slowly up the slope, over rubble and ruts,
avoiding the largest rocks. At last they reached the top, and the
groundcar arrowed out over the desert again, picking up speed.

Far to the left and ahead of them there was another dust-cloud drifting
up, one that was not of the thin wind, but nearly stationary. Nuwell
found the binoculars in the storage compartment and handed them to Maya.

"What's that over there?" he wondered. "Another groundcar? Take a look,
Maya."

Maya trained the glasses in the direction indicated, through the
groundcar's transparent dome. It was difficult to get them focused, for
the groundcar swayed and jolted, but at last she was able to make brief
identification.

"They're Martians, Nuwell," she said. "Can we drive over that way?"

"You've seen Martians before," he said.

"But I'd like to speak with them," she said. "I talk their language, you
know."

"Yes, I do know, darling, but that's utterly foolish. They're only
animals, after all, and we have to get to Ultra Vires before night, if
we can."

He kept the groundcar on its course.

Maya lapsed into disgruntled silence. Nuwell stole a sidelong glance
at her, his breath catching slightly at the curve of the petite,
perfectly feminine form beneath the loose Martian tunic and baggy
trousers. He reached over and patted her hand.

But Maya was offended. She kept her black head turned away from him,
looking out of the groundcar dome across the desert.

At their destination, Goat Hennessey peered eagerly into the distance,
searching.

This time, his watery blue eyes picked up two tiny figures on the
horizon. He watched them as they approached, finally detailing
themselves into two naked, pink creatures of manshape and only slightly
more than mansize.

"They made it," he muttered. "Both of them. Good!"

He turned and entered the airlock. As soon as its air reached
terrestrial density and composition, he removed his marshelmet.

Goat rode the elevator to the ground level, left it and hurried down a
corridor, reaching the outside airlock in time to admit the two figures.

Adam entered first, easily confident, carrying his head like a king.
Brute shambled behind him.

"Everything go all right?" asked Goat, his voice quavering in his
anxiety.

"Fine, father," said Adam, smiling to reveal savage, even teeth.

"Nothing unusual happen?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"You forget, Adam?" mouthed Brute eagerly. "You forget you fall?"

Adam spun on him ferociously, raising a heavy hand in threat. Brute did
not cringe.

"I forget nothing!" snarled Adam. "You crazy Brute, I say it is
nothing!"

"But, Adam - "

"I say it is nothing!" howled Adam and sprang for him.

"Stop it!" snapped Goat, like the crack of a whip, and they froze in the
moment of their grappling. Sheepishly, they parted and stood side by
side before him.

"I'll listen to details after supper," said Goat. "The children are
hungry, and so am I."




2


Adam and Brute followed Goat Hennessey down the corridor, towering over
him like Saint Bernards on the heels of a terrier. They turned into the
dining room, a big square room centered with a rude table and chairs,
one wall pierced by a fireplace in which a big cauldron steamed over
smouldering coals.

The dining room swarmed with a dozen small creatures, human in their
pink flesh, more or less human in their twisted bodies. As soon as Goat
entered with Adam and Brute in tow, the assemblage set up a high-pitched
howling and twittering of anticipation and began beating utensils on the
dishes, table and walls.

"Quiet!" squawked Goat over the tremendous clatter, and the noise
subsided. They stood where they were, bright eyes fixed on him.

These were "the children." Some of them were humpbacked, like Evan,
the one who had carried the message to the tower. Some, like Evan, were
grotesquely barrel-chested, with or without the hump. Some were as thin
as skeletons, with huge heads; some were hulking miniatures of Brute.
One steatopygean girl was so bulky in legs and hindquarters that she
could waddle only a few inches with each step, yet her head and upper
torso were skinny and fragile.

Goat sat down at the head of the table, and immediately there was a
tumbling rush for places. Most of the children sat, chattering, while
two of the larger girls moved around the table, taking bowls to the
cauldron, filling them with a brownish stew and returning them.

They ate in silence. When supper was ended, the children scattered, some
to play, others to chores. Goat beckoned to Adam and Brute to follow
him. He led them down the corridor and into his study.

Goat turned on the light, revealing a book-lined, paper-stacked room
focused on a huge desk. He removed his marsuit to stand in baggy
trousers and loose tunic. Adam and Brute stood near the door, shifting
uncomfortably, for the study was normally forbidden ground.

Goat stood by a thick double window, looking out over the desert to the
west. The small sun disappeared beneath the horizon even as he looked,
leaving the fast-darkening sky a dull, faint red. Almost as though
released by the sunset, pale Phobos popped above the horizon and began
to climb its eastward way. The desert already was dark, but a stirring
above it bespoke a distant sandstorm.

Goat turned from the window and faced the pair.

"Well," he snapped harshly, "what happened?"

Adam smiled confidently.

"We did as you said, father," he answered. "We walked to the edge of the
canal, and we walked back. We had no water and we had no air. We did not
feel tired. We did not feel sick."

"Fine! Fine!" murmured Goat.

"Father ..." said Brute.

Goat turned his eyes to Brute, and savage irritation swept over him.
With that word, at that moment, Brute gave him a feeling of guilty
foreboding.

"Don't call me 'father!'" snapped Goat angrily.

"But you say call you father," protested Brute, the puzzled frown
wrinkling his brow. "What I call you if I not call you father?"

"Don't call me anything. Say 'sir.' What did you want to say?"

"Father, sir," began Brute again, "Adam forget. Adam fall."

With a muted roar, Adam swept his powerful arm in a backhanded arc that
caught Brute full on the side of his head. The blow would have felled an
ox, but Brute was not shaken. Apparently unhurt, he stood patiently, his
blue eyes on Goat with something of pleading in them.

"Adam, let him alone!" commanded Goat sharply. "Brute, what do you mean,
Adam fell?"

"We come back. We not far from canal. Adam fall. Adam sick. Adam turn
blue."

"It is lies, father!" exclaimed Adam, glaring at Brute. "It is not
true."

"Let him finish," instructed Goat. "I'll decide whether it's true. What
did you do, Brute?"

"I find cactus, father," answered Brute. "I make hole in cactus. I put
Adam inside. I put hole back. Adam stay in cactus. Then Adam break
cactus and come out again. We come back."

Goat cogitated. If Adam had shown, symptoms of oxygen starvation.... The
big canal cacti were hollow, and in their interiors they maintained
reserves of oxygen for their own use. More than once, such a cactus had
saved a Martian traveler's life when his oxygen supply ran short.

He turned to Adam.

"Well, Adam?" he asked.

"I tell you, father, it is lies! I do not fall. Brute does not put me in
the cactus."

"And why should he lie?" asked Goat blandly.

This stumped Adam for a minute. Then he brightened.

"Brute wants to be bigger and stronger than Adam," he said. "Brute knows
Adam is bigger and stronger than Brute, Brute does not like this. He
tells you lies so you will think Brute is bigger and stronger than
Adam."

"I know you are bigger brother, Adam," objected Brute, almost
plaintively. "I not try to be bigger. Why you say you do not fall?"

"I do not fall!" howled Adam. "I do not fall, you stupid Brute!"

Goat held up a stern hand, enforcing silence.

"I can't certainly settle this disagreement, but I'd be inclined to
accept what Brute says," said Goat thoughtfully. "You're smart enough to
lie, Adam. Brute isn't. The only thing I can do is to run the experiment
over. You shall go out again tomorrow, and this time I'll go with you."

"You'll see, father," said Adam confidently. "Adam will not fall."

"Perhaps not. But I must be sure. As much as I prefer your more human
characteristics, Adam, it's entirely possible that Brute has some
survival qualities that you lack."

"Is true, father," said Brute eagerly. "Some things kill Adam, they not
kill Brute."

"You lie!" cried Adam again, turning on him. "Why do you lie, Brute?"

"No lie," insisted Brute. "You know, is true."

"Lie! Lie!" shouted Adam. "Adam is bigger and stronger! What do you say
can kill Adam that does not kill Brute?"

"This," replied Brute calmly.

With an unhurried lunge, he picked up a heavy knife from Goat's desk. In
a single easy movement, he turned and slashed Adam's throat neatly.

Choking and gurgling, Adam sank to his knees, bright blood spouting from
his neck, while Goat stood frozen in horror. Adam fell prone, he kicked
and threshed convulsively like a beheaded chicken, then twitched and lay
still in a spreading pool of blood.

Brute calmly wiped the knife on his naked thigh and laid it back on the
desk.

"Adam dead," he said without emotion. "Brute not lie."

Dismayed fury erupted through Goat's veins and a red haze swept over his
eyes.

"You idiot!" he squawked. "So that won't kill you?"

Goaded beyond endurance, Goat seized the knife and swung it as hard as
he could against Brute's neck. It thunked like an ax biting into a tree
trunk, biting halfway through the flesh. Brute recoiled at the impact,
tearing the handle from Goat's feeble hands and leaving the knife blade
stuck in his throat.

Brute staggered momentarily. Then he reached up and jerked the knife
away. Blood spurted through his severed throat. Brute clapped a hand to
the wound, tightly.

For a moment, blood oozed through his fingers. Then, pale but steady,
Brute dropped his hand.

The wound had closed! Its edges already were sealed, leaving a raw, red
scar that no longer bled.

"Brute not lie," said Brute, the words forced out with some difficulty.
"It not kill Brute."

Stunned by astonishment and disbelief, Goat stared at him, his mouth
moving soundlessly.

"Go away," he whispered hoarsely at last. "Go out of here, monster!"

Obediently, Brute shambled out of the study. As he passed through the
door, Goat regained his voice and called after him:

"Tell the children to come and take away Adam's body."

* * * * *

Kilometers away, Maya Cara Nome and S. Nuwell Eli rode a groundcar that
moved swiftly across the interminable waves of the red sand. It swayed
through hollows and jounced over multiple ridges, Nuwell steering it
with some difficulty. In the steely sky, the small sun moved downward,
its brightness unimpaired by the occasional thin clouds which moved
before it.

The sun touched the western horizon, seemed to hesitate, dropped with
breathtaking suddenness, and the stars immediately began to appear in
the deepening twilight sky.

They stopped and had a compact meal, heated in the groundcar's
short-wave cooker. Then Nuwell switched on the headlights and they went
on again.

Soon afterward, a faint spot of light appeared in the desert far ahead
of them. As they approached it, it became a yellow-lighted window in a
huge black mass rearing up against the night sky. They had reached Ultra
Vires.

Nuwell announced their arrival over the groundcar radio and swung the
groundcar up beside the building's main entrance. He sealed the
groundcar's door to the building air-lock so they would not have to don
marsuits.

After a few moments, the airlock opened. They passed through it and were
greeted by a skinny, shriveled little man with watery blue eyes and a
goatee.

"I was expecting you, but not tonight," said this person, rather sourly.
"Well, come on in and I'll have the children fix you something to eat if
you haven't eaten."

"I'm S. Nuwell Eli," said Nuwell, holding out a hand which the other
ignored. "This is the terrestrial agent, Miss Maya Cara Nome. You are
Dr. Hennessey, I assume."

"That's right," said Goat. "Do you want supper?"

"No, thank you, we ate on the way," said Nuwell. "I'd like to get
started with the inspection as soon as possible."

"Inspection or investigation?" suggested Goat, sniffling. "Well, no
matter. I have nothing to hide."

He led them down a dim, dusty corridor, stretching deep into the dark
bowels of the building, and turned aside into a paper-stacked room which
evidently was his study. He went straight to a big desk, sat down,
swivelled his chair around and waved them to seats. Nuwell shuffled a
little uncomfortably, then sank into a chair, but Maya remained standing
by the door, her small traveling bag in her hand, indignation rising in


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