Part 1

When the Spoilers Came

_A Startling Novelet by_ ROBERT MOORE WILLIAMS

_So they came to the Holy City of Sudal, primed for loot and murder! Larkin, the old Terran trader, warned them. But there was no convincing these space-scarred Pizarros that the simple, dream-bound Martians were not quite as defenseless as they seemed._

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

To stay alive five years on Mars, you have to have a nose for trouble. You have to be able to smell it before it happens, to catch the oderiferous tang of it in the dry wind blowing across the red deserts, to sense it in the shifting shadows of the sunset. Otherwise you may not stay alive on Mars for five months let alone five years. Or for five days, if you happen to be in the wrong place.

Boyd Larkin had lived seven years on Mars, in the wrongest of all wrong places on the red planet, the city of Sudal. No other earth trader ever even ventured here. In view of the peculiarity of the Martian customs, few traders found it wise to attempt to operate on Mars at all.

The City of Sudal was noted for several reasons. In a way, it was the holy city of Mars. Here also were to be found a few lingering relics of the vast scientific achievement this race had once known and had forgotten in the hard struggle for life across the centuries. Here also was a ruler by the name of Malovar, who, within the framework of Martian law and custom, was an utter despot. The reputation of Malovar alone was sufficient to keep most traders away from Sudal.

This, in itself, was enough to bring Boyd Larkin here.

He stood in the door of this store--it had once been the wing of a temple--just before the hour of sunset. A vague uneasiness was in him, a presentiment of trouble. His eyes went over the city, searching for the stimulus that had aroused the feeling in him. The peaked roofs of the buildings of the city glinted peacefully in the rays of the setting sun. Peaked roofs here on this world of no-rain always struck him as odd but he knew these roofs were relics of the far-gone centuries when rain had fallen plentifully on Mars.

Beyond the city lay the desert with its fretwork of canals and its pathetic patches of green growth, pathetic because where once grain had grown as far as the eye could reach now only a few patches were under cultivation. It was not the failure of the soil or of the water that made the desert bare. This soil would still grow lush vegetation. But the grains, though lush, would be worthless, incapable of supporting life. The minerals had been virtually exhausted from the top-soil of Mars.

Without minerals, the grain did not support life.

The breeze that came in from the red deserts was soft and peaceful, with no trace of danger in it, no howl of a devil dog from the desert's brim, no chirrrr of a winged horde of locusts coming to devour the crops.

Where, then, was the source of his feeling of danger?

Had Malovar begun to doubt him? Was the Martian ruler considering what action he might take at the next time of the testing? At the thought, a slight shudder passed over the tall trader as if the desert wind had suddenly become tinged with a trace of bitter chill. No, that could hardly be the source of the trouble he sensed. He was no telepath, he could not read Martian minds, nor they his.

What then was the source of the trouble that he sensed?

* * * * *

From inside the store a soft voice called out, "_Send motan_."

Larkin went inside. The Martian had entered by the side door. He was tall and slender, with a big chest and a skin the color of old copper. His features were finely moulded, the face of a dreaming esthetic. In one hand he held a jewel, one of the Martian opals, uncut. At a glance Larkin knew that this opal was worth approximately seventy dollars delivered on Earth.

In the other hand the Martian held a list which he was turning in nervous, uncertain fingers.

"Yes, Seekin?" Larkin said.

The Martian smiled. A little uncertainly he pushed the list across the counter.

"I do not need all of these for me and mine, but the ground is prepared and ready, and if I have these minerals I will be able to grow more than I need. Then there will be something over for someone else to use in the time of scarcity." His voice was as soft as a breeze, there was no hint of a demand in it. But there was a pleading in the eyes that looked at the human.

Larkin took the list. Rapidly translating the Martian script, he saw that Seekin wanted approximately five grams of powdered cobalt, copper, boron, manganese, with traces of iron, zinc, and calcium. Phosphorus also was included and a smattering of trace elements.

The trader went quickly to the bins and filled the order, tossing the correct amount of the powdered elements into the agitator for mixing. He spun the crank of the agitator and the machine hummed softly. The powdered minerals poured from the spout. He bagged the mixture. His practiced eye told him that the cost of these minerals, delivered here on Mars, was approximately two hundred dollars.

The Martian's eyes became fixed longingly on the little bag when Larkin laid it on the counter. There was an eagerness in the eyes that was almost as strong as the eagerness for life itself. But there was uncertainty too. He fumbled with the opal.

"This is all we have," he said.

Larkin grinned. "It's odd, isn't it, how things achieve a balance? Those minerals come to just exactly the price of this jewel."

A glow lit the Martian's face. "Do you mean it?"

"Of course."

"But--"

"Take the minerals, give me the opal. It is a fair trade."

On Seekin's face appeared a glow that was like the light of the rising sun. He clutched the bag of minerals to his chest.

"Thank you, my friend. This will be remembered." Turning, he went out the door. On the verbal level his thanks had not been profuse, but the glow on his face had exhibited another kind of thanks, to Larkin a much more important kind.

Larkin felt some of the inner glow within him that had appeared on the Martian's face. The minerals he had practically given away would be spread on some little patch of irrigated land, spread with all the care and saving thought that alert minds and hands educated for centuries in extracting the last trace of food value from unwilling soil could bestow. The grain would be eaten by Seekin and his family. They would feel a new throb of life within them as mineral-hungry tissues took up and utilized the earth elements down to the last molecule. And there would be something left over for somebody else in the time of need. Larkin especially liked that.

A warm glow flooding through him, Larkin went again to the door of his store. He lit his pipe and stood there contentedly smoking, a tall, angular Earthman who had wandered from his native planet for a reason that he considered sufficient. Except for two articles for scientific journals, dealing with the problem of supplying minerals to the top-soil of Mars and the vast need for such mineral fertilizer, he had had no contact with Earth in seven years. Nor did he anticipate that he would ever again see Earth, or anyone from that planet, except possibly a rare, far-wandering trader like himself. There was peace in Boyd Larkin.

But there was trouble in the air.

His ears caught the far-off drum-fire of rockets.

He felt his pulse pick up. A ship was coming.

Instantly he knew the source of his feeling of coming trouble. He had heard the sound of those far-off rockets long before he was aware of it as sub-liminal ranges of sound penetrated to his inner being. That sound had been the stimulus for the feeling of trouble that had arisen in him.

A ship, men, humans, were coming.

Wherever humans were, there was trouble.

II

"The fools!" he thought. "What do they want here?"

He watched the ship land in a fury of splashing jets, just outside the city, but he did not go to it. He was not in a mood to see his fellowmen. They would come to him in the morning, searching out the lone human in this Martian city. He did not think he would wait for them. In the morning he would take a trip to some outlying settlement where the need of minerals was great: For a few days he would trade there.

He was sitting in his chair outside his store deciding which of the various Martian villages he would visit in the morning when he saw the three humans approaching through the twilight. Astonished, he rose to his feet. They hadn't waited for the morning. They had come to him now, before night.

Three burly spacemen, big enough and obviously willing to cut a throat or rape a woman, were coming toward him. No Martian guided them but they seemed to know where they were going. They came directly toward him. As they approached, he saw they carried _Kell_ guns, the vicious little weapons that spurted a stream of explosive bullets like water out of a hose. The sight of the guns startled him. He had forgotten that such weapons existed, or that men used them.

He heard the voices of the men as they approached. Harsh, brutal voices, the language all rough consonants. He had forgotten too, the sound of men. The language spoken by the Martians was all soft vowel sounds, gentle words breathed so easily that they seemed to brush only the surface of the aural mechanism and hardly seemed ever to reach the mind beneath.

"There he is!" The men saw him now, came straight toward him.

He rose to his feet. He would greet them politely, like a gentleman, if it killed him.

"You--Are you Larkin?"

"Yes." He advanced with hand outstretched. "Gentlemen, it is certainly a privilege to see you. Won't you come in?" He gestured toward the temple wing that served as his store.

"Naw!" There was no effort at answering politeness in the harsh voice. "We come to get you. Come on with us."

"Come to get me?"

"Yeah. The boss wants you. Mr. Docker."

"I don't believe I know a Mr. Docker. What does he want?"

"To see you. Come along."

Larkin found himself marching ahead of the three men toward the ship that lay at the edge of the city. No Martian made a move to interfere. No Martians were on the streets, none were visible. He did not doubt that they watched him from the windows of the houses along the streets, but they made no effort to inquire what was happening.

What could they do, even if they had wanted to help him? To the best of his knowledge, the only weapons they had were knives.

What were knives against _Kell_ guns? Why should the Martians help him, an alien among them?

Docker was a big man with a red face that perpetually showed the red coloration of hidden anger. He had full, thick lips, the avid lips of a greedy man. Whatever these lips tasted or drank, they wanted more of it, all of it. His eyes confirmed his lips. Here was a man who wanted the world with an iron fence around it. Or better still, the solar system, with a big sign saying--KEEP OUT. THIS IS ALL MINE. He looked up as Larkin entered the cabin, glanced up at the men with him.

"He's clean," one of the men said.

"Okay, you can leave. Set down, Larkin." Docker's eyes went back to the papers on his desk.

Larkin sat down. There seemed nothing else to do. He was very much aware that his situation here was ticklish. Docker finished with the papers. He looked up. His eyes were bold, confident, and arrogant.

"Larkin, we're taking over the distribution of all minerals used for soil enrichment on Mars."

* * * * *

Larkin felt shock rise in him. He held it under control. His hands clenched into fists. "By whose authority?" His voice had acid in it.

"Whose authority?" For an instant, Docker looked astonished. "Why, Roy said--" He caught himself. The astonishment turned into swift anger which showed as a tide of red creeping over his face. "By our own authority!" His fist pounded on the desk, emphasizing the words.

"You do not have the sanction of the Martian government?"

"What government is there on Mars?" Docker demanded. "The whole cursed planet is split into a hundred different tribes that do not even know the meaning of the word government."

"Yes, I know," Larkin said.

Docker spoke the truth, or part of it. There was no central government on the red planet. Yet there was a central authority, of a sort. It centered here in this city of Sudal, in the person of a despot named Malovar. Larkin did not pretend to understand the system but he knew that far-ranging desert tribes followed Malovar's orders, at least to a degree. Malovar's orders and Martian law and custom.

"What about Earth Government?" Larkin questioned.

"Earth Government can go to hell!" Docker answered. "They have no control over Mars. Why do you bring up such questions? I told you we were taking over distribution of mineral fertilizers on this planet. That's enough authority for you or for anybody else." Again the fist banged on the desk.

Larkin looked at the fist and was silent. The fist impressed him not at all but the situation did impress him. There was a question he wanted to ask but he was afraid he knew the answer without asking. He started to ask it, then hastily changed his mind.

"How do you know the Martians will buy from you?"

"They buy from you, don't they? They've been buying from you for seven years. They'll buy from us." He sounded very sure of himself, like a man who has a plan all made, a plan which he knows will work.

"Ah!" Larkin sighed and was silent. True, the Martians had bought from him, but there was a price which he had to pay for doing business here, a price which Docker and his men might not relish paying. Larkin tried to imagine the consequences of their refusal to pay that price. His imagination failed him. These Martians had forgotten a great many things that humans had not yet learned. Larkin thought again of the question he wanted to ask, and again put off asking it.

"What prices do you intend to charge for your minerals?"

A grin that had relish in it showed on Docker's face. "Our prices will be fair. Of course, we expect to show a profit."

"Suppose the Martians can't pay your prices?"

"To hell with that!" Docker snorted. "We're not transporting minerals all the way to Mars just to give them away. They'll pay all right. They'll pay or they won't eat." He smacked his lips with obvious relish. A situation in which people paid his prices or did not eat pleased him.

Larkin was silent. There was still the question he did not want to ask. "You seem to have everything worked out to the last detail," he said.

"We have," Docker nodded agreement. "Roy's a genius along those lines." Again he caught himself as if the name had slipped out unintentionally.

Roy? A thought came into Larkin's mind. He put it out. What he was thinking was impossible. He writhed inwardly. He was going to have to ask the question he had tried to avoid.

"Why have you come to me?"

A smile appeared on Docker's face. "Because you are the only trader who has been able to win the complete confidence of the Martians."

"I see," Larkin said.

"So we have a use for you," Docker continued. "You tell us how you have won the confidence of these Martians and we'll cut you in on the deal. We'll see that you are adequately paid. Any price within reason."

"Ah." Larkin was again silent. "But I thought you indicated that the Martians will have no choice except to deal with you. Under those circumstances why do you need me?"

Docker's smile lost none of its easy sureness. "We prefer to do things the easy way, so nobody gets hurt. Since you are here and know the ground, it'd make sense for you to throw in with us."

"So I am the easy way?" Larkin said.

"Well--"

"You go to hell!" Larkin said. He got to his feet, turned toward the door. Surprisingly, no effort was made to stop him.

"We'll see you in the morning," Docker said.

"It won't do you any good."

Larkin walked out of the ship. No effort was made to stop him. He moved slowly across the desert toward the city.

There was nothing about this situation that he liked. Least of all he liked the fact that Docker seemed to know a lot about him. How could that be? No one on Earth remembered him or knew about him. At the thought, sadness came up in him, replacing the smouldering anger. It would be nice to have someone to stand beside him now, someone fighting shoulder to shoulder with him. The word Roy came into his mind again. He quickly put it aside. Let dead dreams lie. But Docker had used the word twice. What did Docker mean? Larkin shrugged off this line of thinking.

There was almost no question in his mind as to what he was going to do. If he took Docker's offer, and tried to trim the Martians, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt what old Malovar would do. The temper of the Martian ruler--chieftain, high priest--he had all these titles and more--was certain. Malovar brooked no cheating of his people.

But, of course, Malovar did not know about this offer of Docker's. Larkin was glad of that. He did not want Malovar even to guess what was in the minds of the men in the ship.

Entering his store, Larkin started in surprise. Seated in a soft chair at the back was Malovar.

* * * * *

The Martian ruler was old, how old only Malovar and the gods of Mars knew. His skin was wrinkled, his face was a bleak mask that looked as if it had never formed a smile. Except for the curious metal staff that he held across his lap, the Martian ruler wore no insignia of his office. His clothing was a simple tunic like the togas of the ancient Romans. He was smoking a thin reed pipe, the only luxury he ever permitted himself, and the rich flavor of Martian tobacco was heavy in the room. With him was one attendant, an elder of the tribe.

Larkin bowed. "I am honored, sire." It was not too unusual for Malovar to pay him a visit. The ruler went from the greatest mansion to the humblest hut at will.

"Come sit, my friend." The Martian's voice was as gentle as the passing of a soft breeze but Larkin knew that this breeze would turn into a tornado in an instant. He sat down. Silently, Malovar extended his tobacco pouch. Silently Larkin took it.

"A ship landed this afternoon, my friend," Malovar said.

"Yes," Larkin agreed.

"You have been to talk to your countrymen."

It was a simple statement. Larkin writhed inwardly but attempted no denial. "How did you know?"

"I have ways of knowing. Tell me, are they scientists, or explorers, or traders? Or some other breed of that curious creature--the human being?"

"They--" Larkin hesitated. How much did he dare reveal? This Martian had most penetrating and discerning eyes. "They hope to trade."

"Ah." Malovar was quiet for a long time. "My friend, you have been here and I have known you for seven years. During this time I have been pleased to call you friend."

"I have been honored." Larkin spoke. "They have been most enjoyable years." Why was this feeling of sweat suddenly appearing on his body? The room was cool almost to the point of being chilly now that the night had come.

"You have helped many of us. Seekin was in here this afternoon--"

"It was nothing," Larkin said, embarrassed.

"Many times you have done this deed which you call _nothing_," Malovar continued. "I just wanted you to know that I was aware of some of these instances."

"It is good of you to mention them," Larkin said. He did not like this sparring, this talk that seemed to go nowhere.

"I wanted you to know that at the next time of the testing these deeds which you call _nothing_ will be taken into consideration," Malovar said.

Sweat broke out all over Boyd Larkin.

"They will be given due weight, but they will _not_ sway the scales in your favor against other possible deeds."

Only a strong effort of will kept Larkin from shaking. "Sire--"

Malovar rose. He lingered in the doorway. "I have come to regard you as a friend, the only human I have ever known whom I was willing to call by that name. I should regret very much losing my human friend."

"Sire--"

"But my regret will not stay my hand at the time of the testing!"

His lone elder following him, Malovar was gone into the Martian night.

III

Malovar left behind him an exceedingly perturbed human. Larkin knew the ruler well enough to know that Malovar meant what he said. His hand would not be stayed at the time of the testing. And that time might be any time when the temple bells sounded a summons to the vast, almost-ruined amphitheater which was used for the tests. Again a chill passed through Larkin. He had been through the testing before, many times, but there had never been any doubt in his mind that he would win through it. Now there was doubt.

He had seen what happened to those who failed. In him the chill grew to a shudder. These Martians had the damnedest customs.

Faced with this choice, there could be only one answer.

Docker and his cut-throat crew could really go to hell. Better defy Docker than Malovar. There was no way in which the humans could enforce their demands on him.

Or was there? So far as he knew there were no weapons in this city strong enough to resist the power of the single ship that lay outside. The Martians obeyed Malovar because of custom, and not because the ruler had any way to enforce his orders. Larkin could see no way by which Malovar could force Docker to go through the testing. A single trader could be forced. But a ship full of men armed with _Kell_ guns--No!

Larkin spent most of the night going over what he would say to Docker's men when they arrived in the morning.

They came early. Three were the same. Standing in the door of his store, Larkin stared at the fourth man with growing horror in his heart. The sight of that fourth man hit him harder than Malovar's grim warning about the time of the testing.

The fourth man moved ahead of the others, came toward him. In this minute it seemed to Boyd Larkin that he had aged years. Something that he had left back on Earth, left there because he could neither control it nor face it, had come unbidden to him here on Mars. In this moment, he wildly regretted that he had not fled to some outlying village during the hours of darkness.

It was too late to flee now. He had to face the consequences.

He forced himself to move forward, to hold out his hand. Inside of him, operating on an unconscious level, a kind of wild gladness came up. He forced it back down. This was no time for errant emotions.

"Roy!"

This man was his son.

Roy Larkin took his father's hand indifferently. "Hi," he said, and dropped the hand.

With horribly mixed memories flooding through him, Boyd Larkin stared at this man who was his son. He remembered this man in his play-pen, a curly headed tot fiercely demanding his toys. He remembered him in high school, the kid who was going to be the best athlete in school, or else. The hard driving, I-don't-give-a-damn-what-happens-to-you, I'll-get-mine attitude had been obvious in him even then.

It was an attitude which the best specialists in the functioning of the emotions had been unable to control. Roy Larkin seemed to have been born with the grim intention of grabbing everything that was handy, and to hell with everybody else. When his father, knowing the inevitable outcome of such an attitude, had been driven finally to interfere, the explosion had been catastrophic.

Larkin's ears still burned with the memory of what he had been called. "A stupid fool. An incompetent jackass. An idiot without enough sense to come in out of the rain!" There had been other words too. At the end of the argument, the youth had slugged his father. This had happened when he was twenty.