Part 13

At that, I felt my ears pricking. I already knew that Henry, Olinski and McGinity, had something new about Mars up their sleeves, which was to be disclosed at the banquet at the Exploration Club. What it was, I had no idea. And I found out nothing that night. The conversation between the Bishop and Henry was cut short by the return of Mr. Zzyx and Niki, who had taken our Martian visitor to the lavatory immediately after dinner, to tidy him up a bit before we left for the opera.

A few moments later, we joined Mrs. Van Dyk, and her house guest, Lady Gwynne of London, in the drawing room. The other dinner guests had gone. Both were ready for the opera, Mrs. Van Dyk in a stunning ermine wrap, and Lady Gwynne in sables.

We had no sooner entered the room, when, to my horror, Mr. Zzyx went straight up to our hostess, and began to chatter, and stroke her ermine coat. Then he walked over to Lady Gwynne, and repeated the action on the sable wrap. I could see that they were both terribly frightened.

Henry took the matter in hand at once, and drew Mr. Zzyx aside, tenderly, as a father would treat a child of doubtful sanity. After quieting him with a cigarette, he left him in Niki's care, and approached Mrs. Van Dyk.

"A bad break, I'm afraid," he said to her, "and I apologize for this breach of propriety. After all, Mr. Zzyx is part animal, and I'm afraid the high instinctive animalism in him was beguiled by the sight and smell of ermine and sable."

"A gesture of Martian jungle courtship," Lady Gwynne suggested.

Henry shook his head. "No; I don't think so," he said. "Mr. Olinski, my associate, and I, have definitely proved that he is not influenced in any way by what we mortals call sex appeal. Otherwise, he would be very objectionable to have about. Pretty clothes, sparkling gems and furs attract him just as toys intrigue small children. While instinctively curious, and perhaps a little bold, he means no harm."

"Let's hope he'll keep up this high standard of behavior," the Bishop remarked. "Undoubtedly a tremendous brute force lies sleeping under his apparent docility. A pretty go, if this brute force is ever aroused in him."

"I hope to God that'll never happen," said Henry, gravely.

And then Mrs. Van Dyk spoke. "We can't expect him to measure up to Park Avenue social standards," she said. "A little clowning now and then is relished by the best of men. Indeed, I've known men in my own set to go much further than the mere stroking of a lady's fur coat."

"Exquisite!" laughed the Bishop.

"How droll!" Lady Gwynne commented.

"As a creature from another planet," Mrs. Van Dyk continued, "I feel very honored in having Mr. Zzyx as a guest in my house."

Henry sighed gustily, and said: "Very friendly of you, Mrs. Van Dyk."

And then the Bishop said: "Well, let's push on to the opera."

The Metropolitan-Civic Opera House was packed that night with one of the largest crowds in its history. I was convinced upon our arrival that the throng was there, not to hear Verdi's opera "Otello," but to see Mr. Zzyx. The evening newspapers had heralded our coming, and we encountered a large crowd outside the opera house, and were met by a barrage of cameramen's flashlights as we entered. Once inside, the crush about us was so great, we had considerable difficulty in reaching Mrs. Van Dyk's box, in the parterre. Although grand opera now was democratized, the "diamond horseshoe" still remained. Opera, I'm afraid, will always remain the pet hobby of the fashionably rich, just as racing will ever be regarded as the sport of kings.

Two uniformed city policemen stood on guard, in the corridor, outside the box. Mrs. Van Dyk, regal in black velvet and sparkling with jewels, occupied the corner nearest the stage. Mr. Zzyx sat in the other corner, with Henry sitting between. Behind them, Bishop Buckingham was sandwiched between Lady Gwynne and Jane, while I hovered, standing, in the rear, too nervous to sit down. Niki was at my elbow.

We had missed the first act. Five minutes after we had settled ourselves in the box, the curtain rose on the second act. Fashionable women, like Mrs. Van Dyk, seem to make it a point to be late at the opera. I doubt if our hostess had ever heard the first act of any opera in the entire Metropolitan-Civic repertoire, during her long ownership and occupancy of the box.

During that five minutes, every eye in the house appeared to be turned on Mr. Zzyx, who, fortunately, was now in a state of lassitude, which always overtook him after a heavy dinner. Apparently undisturbed by the sensation he was causing, he devoted himself, first, to a curious scrutiny of the packed masses in the balconies, then he looked down at the arena below, and, finally, rested his gaze on the two rows of boxes, filled with superbly gowned and bejeweled women.

I was curious to see what effect grand opera music would have upon him. What little music he had heard at the castle had come from our radio, and in this he had displayed only a mild interest. His attitude toward such music as he had heard rather dispelled the theory that had been advanced, that if direct radio communication was ever established between the earth and Mars, the interchange of ideas would necessarily have to be through the medium of music, on account of the lack of a common language.

Here, at last, was a chance to try music at its best on an inhabitant of Mars. I wondered what the reaction would be. Mr. Zzyx watched the musicians curiously as they trickled into the pit, and the noise of the tuning up seemed to interest him immensely. Finally, when the house went dark, he appeared quite excited. Then the baton of the conductor rose, and the first crash of the orchestra came like a thunder-clap.

Mr. Zzyx leapt to his feet, and started to climb over the edge of the box. For a frenzied moment, I thought he was going to dive head first into the midst of the spectators below. But Henry quickly grabbed him by his swallow-tails, and pulled him back into his chair. The incident did not attract the general attention it might have done if the auditorium had not been darkened.

While Henry patted Mr. Zzyx on the shoulder to quiet him, Mrs. Van Dyk leaned over, and said: "I don't wonder at him trying to jump out of the box. To many, grand opera is a perfect hullabaloo, and devastating. That's why so many people go out between acts for a cocktail."

Presently Mr. Zzyx fell to listening, with his mouth open. At first, I thought he was wholly lost in the delight of the orchestral movement--drums and horns were silent now--and the beautiful singing on the stage. Then, like a flash, it occurred to me that it was the dark-skinned Otello who was claiming his attention, not the music or singing.

I watched him, studied him attentively, as the opera swept on to its violent climax--the smothering to death of Desdemona--by the enraged Otello. After the final curtain, while the audience was recalling and applauding the singers, I noticed he looked a little wild about the eyes; a sort of inward brooding.

Was it possible that he had grasped the significance of the story, as it had been unfolded before him on the stage? Could the climax of the opera put ideas into his head beyond his purely natural instincts? The force of ideas even stronger than his own inherent brute force, which might quicken him to the fury of some deed of incredible violence?

But I had no time for surmises. Yet, as we passed out of the opera house, in an atmosphere of acclaim and some disorder, almost mechanically, I jotted down the details in my memory of what I had observed in him. From the look in his eyes, I felt some terrific instinct had been aroused. It gave me a strange and eerie feeling, but I made no mention of it to Henry.

Within ten days I was glad to have paid attention to such details. Little did I suspect then that a black, threatening cloud was gathering over our heads, or that more mystery, intrigue--even death--was closing in about us.

XX

Life at the castle followed its usual routine during the interval between Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyk's dinner and opera party, and the banquet at the Exploration Club, in Mr. Zzyx's honor, with one exception, which I shall mention further on.

I was delighted to see that McGinity shared the place of honor allotted to our family group at the banquet, and justly so, because he had put Henry's discoveries and theories over in the biggest possible way. Later in the evening, I found he had other honors accruing to him.

It was not until I was seated with the family party at the head of the long U-shaped table, that I noticed the motion picture screen at the far end of the dining room. Then the full significance of those secret visits to a large film studio in Long Island City, on the part of Henry, Olinski and McGinity, began to dawn upon me.

Gradually worming the secret out of McGinity, who sat on my left (Jane was on my right) I was in possession of the complete facts of the Martian revelations, shortly to be disclosed to this most highly honored body of explorers and scientists, by the time the soup course was over.

After Olinski had deciphered the Martian written message contained in the mysterious scroll, found in the rocket, McGinity had put the information contained therein into scenario form. A screen production, backed by Henry's money, had been staged by one of the largest and most progressive film corporations, at its Long Island City studio, with Henry and Olinski acting in an advisory capacity.

I am telling this circumstantially, because the part McGinity played in writing the scenario made the first real contribution to the solving of the strange mysteries that enveloped us, and because it explains how I myself in a small way became involved in the untangling of the web.

As we sat placidly at the banquet table, my last thought was that within twenty-four hours we would be plunged into a series of events, which savored of the sort of thing associated with sensational fiction, or exciting melodrama on the screen.

At odd moments, I cast my eye across the table at Mr. Zzyx. His prolonged sojourn under our roof had become a "beastly vulgar business," quoting Jane's own words. Daily, we were growing more resentful of his impenetrable stupidity, and utterly bored with his gross and ugly presence. Often I felt myself in the mood to wring his neck.

It was also perfectly clear to me that Henry was beginning to tire of shouldering the responsibility of this big, lumbering creature, but so far he had kept it to himself. I felt angrier with him that I had ever been in my life, yet I was angry rather for him than with him. It was so utterly unlike him to allow the family's unpleasant associations with Mr. Zzyx to continue, when a word from him would have ended it.

The exception to our usual routine at the castle, during the week, related to our guest from Mars. He was beginning to act very queerly. I was of the opinion that a sort of madness was creeping on him, brought on by the unnatural state in which he was living, the strange food he ate so ravenously, and the constant excitement to which he was subjected. One of the spookiest things he did was to move about the castle during the night. Niki might be on guard, and Mr. Zzyx's own bedroom door locked and bolted, but with uncanny skill both were circumvented.

His first real outburst had come on the Friday night, preceding the banquet. He began throwing things at Niki, and did considerable damage to the furniture, pictures and walls in the State Apartment. When I questioned Niki, he had dismissed the affair lightly, with the excuse that Mr. Zzyx had been suffering from insomnia, and was not himself.

Certainly he was not himself at the Exploration Club banquet. During the dessert course, I saw that he had not touched his charlotte russe, and was making holes in the table-cloth with his fork. His pet hobby, while dining, was to roll his bread into little balls, toss them up in the air, and then catch them in his mouth as they fell, something I considered inexpressibly vulgar and disgusting.

I was astonished that Henry, or Bishop Buckingham, who was a member of our party, did not rebuke him for making holes in the cloth; but both seemed preoccupied. In a state of anxiety, I glanced around at Pat, who was sitting on McGinity's left. It was not strange to find that they both were practically oblivious to their surroundings.

The speech-making was now going on, having begun shortly before coffee was served. The speakers were long-winded and tiresome. I am neither a student, nor a philosopher, but I would like some exponent of the doctrine of psychology to explain why men talk so much and at such great length at banquets. I've often wished that some bright person would organize a society for the suppression of after-dinner speakers.

For fully half an hour, now, a little, rabbit sort of man, with big ears and completely bald, and wearing tortoise-shell spectacles, had been telling of his pursuit of prey, biped and quadruped, in distant places, with minute detail of how he had killed one of every species of beast and bird and fish in the world. The guests were showing signs of impatience. Mr. Zzyx began making horrible grimaces, when Henry tapped him warningly on the arm. Then he started to amuse himself making those little bread balls. I became uneasy myself for fear he might throw one of them at the speaker, something I wanted to do myself but did not dare.

Then, suddenly, to my stunned astonishment, Mr. Zzyx picked up the untasted charlotte russe, which is custard in a form made of sponge cake, and hurled it at the speaker, who was directly opposite him. His aim was true, and the little rabbit man got the charlotte russe full in the face.

The guests roared with delight as the mighty hunter dug his features out of the spattering custard, while Henry shook Mr. Zzyx sternly by the arm, and whispered: "You ought to know better!"

Bubbling with mirth, I leaned over to McGinity, and said: "Too bad he got it in the face." To this, the reporter replied: "The main thing is that he got it."

After the bespattered speaker had gone to the lavatory to wash his face, the toastmaster rose, and said: "Now that Mr. Zzyx, our honored guest from Mars, has enlivened our dinner, we shall proceed to the surprise event of the evening.

"No one is asked to accept these new disclosures about Mars which our friend, Mr. Olinski, decoded from the mysterious writings of the scroll, discovered in the rocket, as infallible," he continued. "Even our fellow-scientist, Mr. Royce, who is accountable for this, and other recent events of a scientific nature, which literally have rocked the world, declares an uncertainty still exists in his own mind, and that he is simply making public the information that has fallen into his hands, from strange and unknown sources. In other words, he wishes me to make clear to you all that he's not trying to put something over on us. So, now, let's see what we shall see!"

The film, in four reels, was in the nature of a travelogue, beautifully colored, and interspersed with sound and music. Henry was the pictorial lecturer. McGinity's clever hand was seen in the numerous whimsies and dramatic highlights. Many scenes were genuinely stirring.

Mr. Zzyx, closely guarded by Niki in the darkened dining room, watched the picture unfold with fascinated interest. At times, he would gesticulate, strangely, like one familiar with the subject matter, and utter primitive sounds, as though he wanted to speak, and tell us more startling things about his home planet.

This newly acquired and first-hand information of present day life on Mars, presented in picture form, supplemented by the free play of imagination on the part of the director, proved infinitely more valuable as educational entertainment than the cold facts would have been if delivered from the lecture-platform.

The picture divulged, first of all, that life on Mars had originated and evolved the same as on the earth, with the white division of the human species exercising supreme authority over the affairs of the planet.

Secondly, it showed that the strange, geometric markings on the planet, as studied by astronomers on earth, are not a canal system, or even man-made. The lines, or bands, which some of our astronomers believed to be canals, constituting a system of irrigation, are really deep wide canyons, ten to twelve miles in width at the rim, and descending 2,000-3,000 feet below the sterile plateau-surface of the planet, with cultivated vegetation in the bottom-lands.

The rims of these canyons are fortified with very high and very wide stone walls, a military defensive work, with watch-towers, designed as a protection for the white people who inhabit the canyons from attack by their ancient enemy, the ape-men, who swarm over the tropical regions in countless numbers.

These fortifications somewhat resemble the Great Wall of China, and create a distinct boundary line. Following the course of the canyons, and extending over the surface for many thousands of miles, like a network, it is easy to understand how they were mistaken for the lines of canals, or waterways, as viewed from the earth through our great telescopes. Apparently these canyons were formed by volcanic disturbances in the early ages of the planet, which shivered and rent its surface into these stupendous fissures in the rock.

As a refuge from the bitterly cold nights peculiar to Mars, and the constant cyclonic sand-storms, the canyons make an ideal place of abode. The wind, it seems, blows eternally on Mars, kicking up a fearful dust from the reddish deserts, and making the planet a veritable dustbowl.

I must give Schiaparelli credit, however, for his discovery of the canals, in 1877, for these canyons do really serve as water routes. Running through them are great aqueducts which tap the arctic and antarctic regions, into which the Martians pump water from the melting snow and ice caps. As there are no seas on the planet, and very little rainfall, this water is stored in huge reservoirs, and used largely for irrigating the bottom-land of the canyons, thus rendering them extremely fertile.

Around these reservoirs the white inhabitants cluster, not in cities, but in vast cliff-dwelling communities, the sides of the canyons being honey-combed with homes. The wind-power of the planet is converted into electrical energy in immense funneled power-houses, just as we harness water-power on the earth. The current generated by this method is used to turn the wheels of industry, propel the passenger and freight trains which rumble through the tunnels in the cliffs, connecting the various communities, operate the elevators and escalators uniting the tiers of cliff homes with the fortifications at the rim and the bottom-lands, as well as supplying light and heat for all of the inhabitants.

I have always been puzzled as to how the Martians looked and dressed. The picture interpretation of their daily life revealed tall, stalwart men, with leathery complexions, owing to the lack of moisture in the atmosphere, and graceful, really beautiful women, with classic features, enveloped in veils from head to toe as a protection against the climate. Men, women and children, all garbed and living as the ancient Grecians, with the difference that to their colorful spectacle of life is added the enjoyment of the benefits of scientific inventions.

I marveled at their magnificent temples, set in great plazas, in the bottom-land of the canyons, over thermal springs. Temples largely of glass construction, with airspace between the double walls, which are lined with a transparent substance, resembling cellophane, evidently to keep out the stinging cold of the nights. Grouped about each temple were universities, libraries, museums and coliseums, also of glass, and modeled after the highest forms of what we, on earth, call modernistic art, but which is now regarded on Mars as a relic of ancient art.

As I gazed at the swift moving scenes, I was deeply impressed by the similarity between Mars and Thibet, in Asia, in point of rarity of air, climatic severity, and the superiority and authority of priests. Since the Martians worship fire and water, and venerate as twin goddesses their two tiny moons, which revolve so closely to their planet, I could see how this excessive number of priests was really necessary for the propagation of the State religion. Furthermore, the entire intellectual and cultural life of Mars is vested in the priesthood, and naturally all education and refinement center in the temple areas, just as the industrial and agricultural activities seem to converge at the great reservoirs.

All products, watered by irrigation, are grown under glass; and stored summer sunlight, a process as yet unknown to science on the earth, is used to melt the nightly deposits of frost which accumulate the year round. Horses, cattle and sheep were shown peacefully grazing in glass-enclosed corrals, which are electrically heated at night.

I observed particularly how all the homes in the sides of the canyons had glass fronts, which made the towering steep rocks look like the façade of a modern New York skyscraper. The power of the sun is not so great on Mars as on the earth, consequently the practical utilization of glass for living purposes is quite necessary for the conservation of the sun's light and heat. The materials of which glass is made abound on Mars, the great plateaus having a natural bed of glassy volcanic rock.

If I were here sedulously to outline all of the startling revelations concerning Mars I saw in this picture, it would take many pages; much easier it will be to outline just a few more of the more important disclosures. Unfortunately, there are a few taboos as far as the moral law of our earthly civilization is concerned.

For instance, a specialized offspring is being produced on Mars to save the white race from extinction. Respiratory diseases and their frightening toll of lives, caused by the climatic extremes and the particles of sand in the air, have long been a national calamity. For the begetting and production of the young, the healthiest and most beautiful women of the planet give themselves up to the State as a patriotic duty. Their mates are carefully selected for their mental and physical fitness.

These eugenic babies are born in special establishments attached to the temples, and reared at the expense of the State. The unmarried mothers were shown as they took part in the ceremonials of the temples; some appeared as dancers, while others attended the sacred fire and water shrines, also engaging in the weaving of fine tapestries and in rich embroidery work.

As this strange phase of Martian life was unrolled to our view, I suddenly remembered Jane, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but the room was too dark to observe what effect this scene was having upon her. I must say that at no time did it seem vulgar and lewd; everything was conducted in perfect good taste and propriety.

I was surprised to find that the Martians are ruled by a dictator, a form of government of which I very much disapprove. A very despotic dictator, who has the supreme power to frame the laws and order punishment. And instead of labor unions, they have labor units--units of agriculture, engineering, science, and so on, each with a leader responsible to the dictator.

There's this to say about the Martians. Despite all the handicaps imposed by nature, they manage to enjoy themselves. Fête days in the temple areas are very frequent. In the coliseums they hold thrilling chariot races and gladiatorial combats between trained ape-men from the jungles, who use short swords.