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 Can you determine if someone paid for or commissioned it?
If so, how can you tell that it was paid for or commissioned?

Who might have been the intended audience or user?

Where might it have originally been displayed or used?

What message or messages is it trying to convey?

How might it be interpreted differently depending on who

viewed or used it?

What can the visual or material source tell us about the

individual who produced it and the society from which he
or she came?

In what ways does the larger historical context help you

evaluate individual sources?

Comparing Multiple Primary Sources

In what ways are the sources similar in purpose and
content? In what ways are they different?

How much weight should one give to who wrote or

produced the source?

Were the sources written or produced at the same time or

at different times? If they were produced at different times,
does this account for any of the differences between or
among the sources?

What difference does it make that some sources (such as

diaries and letters) were intended to be private and some
sources (such as political cartoons and court opinions) were

8
 meant to be public?

How do you account for different perspectives and

conclusions? How might these be affected by the author’s
relative socioeconomic position or political power in the
larger society?

Is it possible to separate fact from personal opinion in the

sources?

Can the information in the sources under review be

corroborated by other evidence? What other sources would
you want to consult to confirm your conclusions?

Cautionary Advice for Interpreting Primary

Sources
A single source does not tell the whole story, and even
multiple sources may not provide a complete account.
Historians realize that not all evidence is recoverable.

Sources have biases, whether they appear in personal or

official accounts. Think of biases as particular points of
view, and try to figure out how they influence the historical
event and the accounts of that event.

Sources reflect the period in which they were written or

produced and must be evaluated within the historical time
frame from which they came. Explain how people
understood the world in which they lived, and be careful to
avoid imposing contemporary standards on the past.
Nevertheless, remember that even in a particular time

9
 period people disagreed over significant principles and
practices such as slavery, imperialism, and immigration.

Sources often conflict or contradict each other. Take into

account all sides. Do not dismiss an account that does not
fit into your interpretation; rather, explain why you are
giving it less weight or how you are modifying your
interpretation to conform to all the evidence.

Analyzing Secondary Sources

Secondary sources are written or produced by people who
did not participate in or experience first-hand the events
that they are analyzing. Secondary sources in history
usually appear as scholarly books and articles. Secondary
sources underscore that history is an ever-changing
enterprise.

Identify the author’s main interpretations.

Describe the evidence the author uses to make that

interpretation.

Evaluate how well the evidence supports the author’s

interpretation.

Describe whether the author considers alternative

explanations and points of view.

Compare the author’s account with any other sources you

have read.

Assess whether the author has the credentials for making

10
 reliable historical judgments.

Evaluate whether there is anything in the author’s

background or experience that might have influenced the
author’s point of view and interpretation.

Identify the main audience that the author is addressing.

Comparing Secondary Sources

Explain how two sources differ in interpretation. To what
extent, if any, do they agree?

Historians are products of their own times. Identify the

date of publication for each of the sources and explain how
the particular time periods might have shaped the authors’
arguments.

Compare the approaches each author takes to reach an

interpretation. Describe whether they are looking at the
events mainly from a political, social, cultural, or economic
perspective.

Compare the secondary sources with other secondary

sources on the same subject, such as the historical
narrative in this textbook.

Taking these considerations into account, explain which

secondary source you find more convincing or how the two
interpretations might be combined.

Cautionary Advice for Analyzing Secondary

11
Sources
The secondary sources in this book are excerpts from
longer books or articles. The selections are meant to
provide a representative view of the authors’ main
interpretations and perspectives on the subject.
Nevertheless, these excerpts do not show the broad sweep
of evidence from which the authors draw their conclusions.

No excerpt can provide a full appreciation of how

historians gather evidence and present and defend their
interpretations in a reliable manner. Only a more extensive
reading of the secondary source can provide sufficient
evidence for judging whether the author has presented a
convincing account.

As with primary sources, secondary sources have biases.

Think of biases as particular points of view, and try to
figure out how they influence the historical interpretation
and the accounts of an event or development.

Secondary sources often conflict with or contradict each

other. Do not dismiss an account that does not fit with your
perspective; rather, explain why you are giving it more or
less weight or how you are modifying your interpretation to
conform to all the arguments made by the authors of the
secondary sources.

Secondary sources reflect the period in which they are

written or produced and must be evaluated within the
historical time frame from which they originate. This
doesn’t mean that a newer book or article is more accurate

12
than an older one. Interpretations may differ because new
facts have been uncovered, but they are just as likely to
change according to the contemporary concerns and
perspectives of the authors. Moreover, even in the same
time period historians often disagree over controversial
subjects due to different viewpoints on politics, religion,
race, ethnicity, region, class, and gender.

13
14
15
 Volume 1 To 1877

Exploring American Histories

A SURVEY WITH SOURCES

THIRD EDITION

Nancy A. Hewitt
Rutgers University

Steven F. Lawson
Rutgers University

16
To Mary and Charles Takacs, Florence and Hiram Hewitt,
Sarah and Abraham Parker, Lena and Ben Lawson, who made
our American Histories possible.

17
For Bedford/St. Martin’s
Vice President, Editorial, Macmillan Learning Humanities:
Edwin Hill
Publisher for History: Michael Rosenberg
Senior Executive Editor for History: William J. Lombardo
Executive Development Managers: Laura Arcari, Maura Shea
Senior Content Project Manager: Kerri A. Cardone
Editorial Assistant: Stephanie Sosa
Media Editor: Tess Fletcher
Senior Workflow Content Manager: Lisa McDowell
Senior Production Supervisor: Robert Cherry
Marketing Manager: Melissa Rodriguez
Copy Editor: Harold Johnson
Cartography: Mapping Specialists, Ltd.
Photo Researchers: Naomi Kornhauser, Christine Buese
Permissions Editor: Kalina Ingham
Art Director: Diana Blume
Text Design: Jerilyn Bockorick, Cenveo Publisher Services
Cover Design: William Boardman
Cover Art/Cover Photo: Kitchen Ball at White Sulphur Springs in
Virginia, by Christian Mayr, 1838 / De Agostini Picture Library /
Bridgeman Images
Composition: Lumina Datamatics, Inc.

Copyright © 2019, 2017, 2013 by Bedford/St. Martin’s.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

18
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,
or otherwise, except as may be expressly permitted by the
applicable copyright statutes or in writing by the Publisher.

1 2 3 4 5 6 23 22 21 20 19 18

For information, write: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 75 Arlington

Street, Boston, MA 02116 (617-399-4000)

ISBN: 978-1-319-23914-5(mobi)

Acknowledgments

Text acknowledgments and copyrights appear at the back of the

book on page C-1, which constitute an extension of the
copyright page. Art acknowledgments and copyrights appear on
the same page as the art selections they cover.

19
PREFACE
Why This Book This Way?
We are delighted to publish the third edition of Exploring
American Histories. Users of the first two editions have told us
our book gives them and their students opportunities to actively
engage with both the narrative of American history and primary
sources from that history in a way previously not possible. Our
book offers a new kind of U.S. history survey text, one that
makes a broad and diverse American history accessible to a new
generation of students and instructors interested in a more
engaged learning and teaching style. To accomplish this, we
carefully weave an unprecedented number of written and visual
primary sources, representing a rich assortment of American
perspectives, into each chapter.

We know that students in the introductory survey course

often need help in developing the ability to think critically
about primary sources. Accordingly, in this third edition we
have done even more to ensure students can move easily and
systematically from working with single and paired sources
(Guided Analysis and Comparative Analysis) to tackling a set of
sources from varied perspectives (Primary Source Project).
Students will also have the chance to evaluate how historians
use primary sources to construct their own interpretations in
our new Secondary Source Analysis. We have also strengthened
our digital tools and instructor resources so faculty have more
options for engaging students in active learning and assessing

20
their progress, whether it be with traditional lecture classes,
smaller discussion-oriented classes, “flipped” classrooms, or
online courses.

In this edition, we add a Secondary Source Analysis that

extends the building-block approach to working with sources by
offering differing perspectives on important historical issues or
events. For example, in chapter 13 historians debate “Why
Union Soldiers Fought the Civil War” and in chapter 22 they
debate “New Deal or Raw Deal?” With a brief introduction that
frames the issue and prompts that ask students to think
critically about the source and topic in context, students are
invited into the discussion.

A Unique Format That Places Primary

Sources at the Heart of the Story
Students learn history most effectively when they read a
historical narrative in conjunction with primary sources.
Sources bring the past to life in ways that narrative alone
cannot, while the narrative offers the necessary framework,
context, and chronology that sources by themselves do not
typically provide. We believe that the most appealing entry to
the past starts with individuals and how people in their daily
lives connect to larger political, economic, cultural, and
international developments. This approach makes history
relevant and memorable.

Throughout our teaching experience, the available textbooks

21
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
moving strip, escorting her through the prophylactic entrance of the
huge vertical cross of the Centromed, giving her in charge of a
stern-faced but kindly physician in white, who put her in turn in the
hands of a giant red-headed nurse in steropants and white cap.
Lynne never did find out what they did with her. She recalled lying
down and looking up at a hypnotic ceiling, drifting quickly into
merciful unconsciousness. When she recovered her headache was
gone and she had a sense of having undergone an important
experience.
"Miss Fenlay," the doctor said, "you're undergoing a period of mental
growth and change that in your case seems to make such suffering
periodic."
"What can I do about it?" she asked in panic.
"I believe your trouble is one of environment," he replied. "During
this period of readjustment you find familiar surroundings
unsufferable. In plain English, you need a change."
"But how am I to get it?" she asked.
"That is hardly our department," he told her. "You'll have to take it
up with your Integration Chief, I'm afraid. Naturally we'll be glad to
make a recommendation for transfer on medical grounds."
"Thanks—thanks a lot," she said uncertainly. She walked out of the
building and discovered it was already late afternoon. Unsureness
chewed at her for the first time in her well-ordered life. The
headache was gone but it might return if she didn't make a change
—and she didn't want to leave the only home she'd ever known.
Rolf rose from an alloybanc on which he had been sitting and said,
"Headache gone, Lynne? You look upset."
"Headache's gone," she replied. "But it may come back."
"Not if I can help it," he told her and she took his arm in hers and
squeezed it to show her appreciation. Rolf might be a barbarian, she
thought, but he had been kind and helpful.
"Thanks for the crumb anyway," he told her and her confusion grew
almost to tears. They rode back to Mother Weedon's in silence.
Because of her fear at finding herself becoming so dependent on
Rolf she flirted outrageously with Alan Waters, the team
replacement, after dinner. When he followed her out into the garden
and told her he was madly in love with her she didn't exactly
discourage him. Just then her soul and body alike craved
appreciation.
A furious Ray Cornell interrupted their third kiss. He strode through a
gap in the hedge-wall and pulled Waters from her roughly and said,
"They told me I'd find you two out here."
"What right have you to interfere?" countered Waters.
"This!" snapped Ray, throwing a clumsy punch at his rival, who
threw one back in return.
Lynne let out a gasp of alarm and tried to move between them but
was brushed rudely to the ground. So hard did she land that for a
moment the world seemed to swim.
She shook her head to clear it, felt the alarm gongs she had come to
know preceded a return of her headache. Then she saw a third taller
male figure take Ray in one hand, Alan in the other and pull them
apart by the collars of their bolo packets as if they were a couple of
dogs squabbling over a bone.
"You men are supposed to work together," he said quietly. Then, his
voice rising a half-tone and increasing in force, "Why in farb don't
you?" With which he cracked their heads together with stunning
force, tossed them to the turf like a pair of sacks and came over to
help Lynne gently to her feet. She collapsed into his arms, for the
first time let his lips seek hers, responded to them.
Later—how much later she didn't know, for during that day and
evening she seemed destined to lose large chunks of time—she
looked up at him, reveling in his controlled strength and leanness.
"Rolf," she said, "I'm sorry—that was my fault."
"You'd have been less than a woman if you hadn't done something
like it to put me in my place," he whispered.
"But it seems so cheap now," she said. "And my head...."
"It wasn't cheap because you didn't know," he told her. "As for your
head, you need a change. You're going to get one. You're leaving
with me for Mars tonight."
"But, Rolf—" she began.
"Come on, honey," he told her. "It's all arranged. We've only got a
couple of hours to make the ship."
She walked back to Mother Weedon's with his arm around her,
stumbling a little from time to time like a blind woman. She was
going to Mars and the mere idea scared her almost to death.

IV

Lynne, who had been largely brought up on stories of pioneer space-

flights in which the passengers had to endure tremendous initial
acceleration, was pleasantly surprised by the takeoff. She probably
would have known better had her conditioning and training not
geared her to such complete uninterest in anything beyond the
atmosphere that she seldom thought of the stars except as pretty
lights in the sky.
She did have to strap herself to her bunk before the immense silver
teardrop rose slowly upward toward space—but as the stewardess
explained in routine tones the strap was a mere precaution against a
possible lurch caused by brief failure of one of the launching jets.
And within five minutes after takeoff a tiny sign lit up over the cabin
door that read UNFASTEN BELTS—SMOKING PERMITTED.
She sat up and loosened the strap and swung her feet to the deck,
noted her roommate was doing likewise. In the turmoil of catching
the Mars-ship Lynne had had little time to notice her. She managed
to recall that her name was Joanna-something and that she was an
expert in animal husbandry. She was a handsome immense South
African girl whose dark complexion wore traces of both Caucasian
and Oriental, as well as Hamitic ancestry. She offered Lynne one of
the new skinless cigarettes.
"You on Integration business?" she asked.
Lynne, who knew nothing of affairs on Mars, probed quickly and
discovered what the girl had in mind was a coordination trip by an
Earth Government executive. She shook her head, said, "No, I'm
going for good. I understand there's a job there for me."
The African girl regarded her curiously, then said, "I don't want to
sound rude but aren't you a bit old to be going home?"
"I guess maybe I am." Looking more closely at her cellmate Lynne
saw that for all her evident maturity she was still a girl in her late-
middle teens. "They came after me."
As the girl nodded uncomprehendingly Lynne wondered if what she
had uttered as a polite brush-off lie might not be the truth. There
was a definite pattern of continuity to events following her first
headache and her non-variant answers at the brain-station.
"Let's go to the saloon and see the stars," Joanna suggested.
It seemed like a good idea—besides, Lynne wanted to talk to Rolf, to
discover if there actually was considered motive behind her
apparently aimless emigration to the red planet.
She said, "How long does this trip take anyway?"
Joanna's jaw dropped and her black-satin hair gleamed with liquid
highlights as she shook her head. "Crehut, you are green!" she
exclaimed. Then, assuming sociability with an effort, "You're mighty
pretty though. The trip takes a little more than one Earth-day."
"Thanks—I see," replied Lynne. She felt she was beginning to see a
lot of things. Along with her archaic ideas about the rigors of a
space-ship takeoff, she had apparently retained some mighty
obsolete theories about the speed of space-travel, at least on the
Earth-Mars run. In her mind it was a matter of weeks if not months,
depending upon the relative positions of the two planets.
A little over one Earth-day—if her growing feeling that she was the
victim or core of some vast unseen conspiracy were correct, then
there would have been plenty of time for Rolf to be summoned from
Mars after her non-variant answers had given the brain-station
bosses the clue to her newly-developed telepathic powers.
But why all the secrecy? It didn't take her long to find an answer.
Had she been asked immediately to come to Mars she would have
refused point-blank to make the trip. Her conditioning, her whole life
would have forced her to reply in the negative.
So Rolf Marcein had been sent for with orders to make her want to
leave Earth with him, by fair means or foul. And he had not
hesitated to employ the foul. She felt her whole body blush as she
recalled some of the brazen suggestions he had made, some of her
responses, especially to his embraces earlier that evening.
It was going to be a very interesting session, she decided, as she
followed the girl into the single small but beautifully compact central
lounge or saloon that space requirements permitted on the Mars-
ship. She looked around but failed to see his tall figure and saturnine
face—treacherous face, she thought—among the half-dozen
passengers already reclining in plastolounges, watching the amazing
panorama projected on the ceiling from the viewplate recorders in
the prow and stern of the huge space-vessel.
She followed Joanna to a chair, tried to share the girl's tremulous
excitement. After all, she thought, she had felt much the same on
emerging from the seminary to take her first position as a data-
recording supplement for the biggest of all cybernetics machines,
the "brain" that occupied six thousand acres of the Sahara Desert.
"Look!" the girl whispered enthusiastically. "There's X-Three, the last
of the derelict space-stations."
Lynne watched the oddly complex structure, that resembled a pair of
unrooted pyramids fastened point to point, as it revolved slowly
across and out of the plane of vision.
"What do they use it for now, Joanna?" she murmured.
"Nothing," the girl said with a trace of scorn.
Lynne knew she should have known about that. She recalled now a
vidar newscast in which the abandonment of the last of the space-
stations had been mentioned. In the years before A-engines were
finally perfected space-stations were vitally necessary as change-
over stops for interplanetary rocket flights. But once fuel ceased to
be a problem they had been used merely as meteor-warning points
and weather stations.
In the first function they had proved useless—in fact one of them
had been destroyed by a large space-missile—and weather
forecasting and control were practised far more efficiently by
electronic mastery of the Heaviside Layer. Lynne shouldn't have
forgotten—but when she heard it the matter of space-stations had
been utterly unimportant in her life.
A steward in space-black bolo and clout offered them vari-flavored
colafizzes from a rack strapped about his waist. Lynne wondered at
this mode of serving the drinks while she sipped hers but decided
not to ask Joanna. She didn't want to appear a total numbskull to a
girl whose whole life had consisted of conditioning for Mars.
She found out soon enough when Rolf Marcein walked into the
saloon before she had finished sipping her drink. She rose to greet
him, to haul him off somewhere so they could talk alone—and as
she did so she automatically dropped her colafizz in the receptacle
ready to receive it in one arm of her plastolounge.
Joanna made a grab for it as it bounced off and rose lazily in the air
and turned slowly over. The African girl caught it before it released
any of the liquid remaining in it, pushed it firmly down into the
hollow space reserved for it, where it was magnetically held.
But Lynne was not paying much attention. She was having enough
trouble holding herself upright as her feet displayed an astonishing
reluctance to keep on the floor while the rest of her wanted to
describe a lazy parabola across the saloon. She did an off-to-Buffalo
and wound up against Rolf's chest with his arms about her.
Embarrassed she whispered fiercely, "Put me down, you marlet!"
He grinned at her infuriatingly, replied, "I'm no marlet—that's a very
nasty word on Mars and most of these people understand it. Don't
you know you're in space?"
He set her gently back on her feet, holding her steady with one hand
gripping an upper arm. She knew she looked like an idiot, felt certain
everyone in the saloon was laughing at her. "I thought they had
artificial gravity on these ships," she said.
"They do," he told her. "But it's nothing like Earth-gravity. It would
use up all power if it were. You'll learn to navigate. Come on, I'll
show you how." He led her unprotesting into one of the corridors
outside the saloon.
She pulled herself free, promptly smacked her head none too gently
against the corridor wall. "I don't want a lesson now," she told him
angrily. "Besides, why aren't I sick?"
"You would be," he informed her with what she interpreted as a
smug expression, "if you hadn't been given your full quota of shots
in the Centromed this afternoon. You don't think they'd have allowed
you aboard otherwise, do you?"
"You had it all figured out, didn't you?" she snapped at him angrily.
"I'll give odds you even said something to Alan and Ray tonight that
got them involved in that horrible brawl!"
"It was nothing," he said with false modesty, flicking a non-existent
speck of dust from a bare forearm. "Just a bit of premeditated
Machiavelli. Anyone could have managed it."
"What are you trying to do to me?" she asked him desperately. "I'll
even bet my headaches were induced. Why pick on me? I don't want
to go to Mars—I never wanted to go there."
"Maybe because I'm in love with you," he said simply.
She ignored the intensity of his dark eyes, said, "You're not in love
with me. You didn't come to Earth until that twin of yours at the
brain-station sent you a message I was telepathic. You've only made
love to me to get me to Mars—for some selfish purpose of your own.
Try and deny it."
"In view of your current mood," he replied quietly, "I'd be seven
kinds of a sand-lurtonk to try. You seem to have things all figured
out yourself. Very well, it's your privilege to look at my actions any
way you choose. But my purpose is not selfish!"
Something in the ring of his voice, in the determined set of his lower
face, told her he was speaking the truth. She said, "All right, what
purpose gives you the right to come to Earth, to violate everything I
cherish, to make me a voluntary kidnapee, to wreck my life and drag
me off to a planet I haven't even been trained for? What's to prevent
me from reporting it and having you arrested?"
"Nothing," he replied, "except that I'd probably be released as soon
as we reached Mars. If you still feel like this when we get there
tomorrow I shan't stand in the way of your returning." There was a
new sag in his shoulders, a weariness to the lines about his mouth.
"Oh, great!" she retorted. "Smash my job, my personal life, then say
you won't try to stop me from going back to it. How can you go
around with so few ethics? What sort of person are you anyway?"
"A very serious one—a very worried one," he told her quietly and her
quick probe of his thoughts revealed him again to be speaking the
truth. He captured both her arms again, held her gently against the
wall, and so great was the hypnotic force of his personality that
despite her anger toward him she made no move to break away.
"You have a right to know—now," he told her. "I'm a Martian, a third
generation one, even though I was born and trained on Earth.
Conditions out there are only just beginning to be fit for human
infants. We're building the biggest thing Man has ever accomplished
on Mars—making a barren ruined planet live again, making it fit for
men and women and babies to inhabit.
"Right now we're up against the greatest danger we've faced since
the first few desperate years—maybe an even greater threat. We
can't see it, we don't even know what it is. But men and women on
Mars are going mad. Only a few of us can reach them—and thanks
to a condition of the planet we're all too overloaded to do the
psychiatric work we should do. We need telepaths."
A flash of something she had heard or read somewhere about the
red planet occurred to her. She said, "But doesn't the atmosphere or
something of Mars encourage telepaths? You're one. Why come to
Earth for them? Why pick on me?"
"Because," he told her with the patience of exasperation, "we need
at least to maintain those telepaths we have—which aren't nearly
enough. You don't seem to realise that a genuine two-way telepath,
even among fourth generation Martians, occurs only about once in
eleven thousand six hundred births. And we need more than the few
we have for communications alone."
"Communications!" Lynne was honestly shocked. "Do you mean to
tell me that Mars has no—"
"No form of lateral electronic communications functions reliably on
Mars," he told her bluntly as if admitting a fact he hated to mention
about the planet he loved. "Don't ask me why—it's just so, that's all.
Crehut, do you think our best scientific brains haven't tried? They
believe the thinness of the atmosphere and the resulting weakness
of the Martian Heaviside Layer has something to do with it. We get
messages from Earth and the other planet-stations clearly and, with
the ato-reduced time lag, in a matter of seconds."
"And you have to use telepaths to transmit and receive?" She was
almost incredulous but her mind informed her he was telling the
truth without reserve.
"Whatever we can't heliograph or send over wire cables," he said
unhappily. "And the climate of Mars is rough on cables. Above the
ground the winds snap 'em. Underground they rot or the czanworms
eat through them. Now do you begin to understand?"
"A—little," she replied hesitantly, unable to maintain her entirely
justified anger against his sincere appeal. "But what about this
threat—this madness? What is it?"
"We don't know." His face was shadowed. "There may still be life-
forms on Mars of which we know nothing—or perhaps
manifestations of those we thought safe that are dangerous. But
something apart from atmosphere or weather or diet or drink is
creating insanity. And it seems to be affecting our telepaths rather
than others. Maybe our telepathic minds are more open to whatever
the influence is. I don't know." His expression turned grim. "I've
never allowed them—it—to affect me."
All at once she remembered the nightmare, the being alone in the
crystal tower, the crowding in upon her of unseen things that
whispered dreadful alluring suggestions, the sense of panic. She
began to understand it with growing certainty.
Lynne said, "My brother—Revere—he's one of those who's been
affected, isn't he?"
He hesitated, evidently felt the probe of her questing brain, nodded
reluctantly. He said, "Your brother is one of them. The purt of it is
we don't dare send him back to Earth."
"I understand." She shuddered, felt a reassuring hand on her
shoulder, added, "He's mad, isn't he." It was statement, not query.
"I'm afraid so—at least part of the time," he replied. "But don't
worry. We have marvelous clinics on Mars. Once we get him to one
of them there's a good chance of a cure."
"You mean he isn't getting care now?" she asked, shocked.
Rolf shook his head, replied, his voice low, "Not yet—not until you
replace him. That's how short-handed we are. We've lost too many
the last few months. And there simply aren't any replacements.
That's why I rushed to Earth when I heard about you, why perhaps I
used unscrupulous methods to get you to come. There are less than
a million people on all of Mars."
She understood his unspoken analogy. Less than a million people—
less than a hundred telepaths, to maintain communications over the
entire planet. Then she thought of something else, said, "My
headaches—they're telepathic, aren't they? Caused when my brother
has one of his attacks?"
"That's right as nearly as we can judge," he told her. "You seem to
have an intense sympathetic affinity. It's not unusual between
identical telepaths."
"And there aren't many of those," she said idly. She looked at him.
"How about your brother, Rolf. Isn't he...?"
"Unfortunately not," he replied. "He has some tendency toward
E.S.P. but insufficiently strong to be reliable."
Lynne sensed his thoughts shifting to his brother, then to hers—and
was astounded by the depth of dislike he suddenly projected. It
came as another shock and she said, "You hate my brother, don't
you, Rolf? If you didn't you'd have managed to get him the care he
must have to survive."
"I don't hate your brother," he said wearily and she realised he
spoke the truth. What he felt for Revere Fenlay was the rather
arrogant dislike and distrust toward a weaker man that is so
frequent among the strong. Lynne resented it, resented him, bitterly.
She said, "Then why haven't you replaced him? You're a telepath—
why haven't you given him relief?"
Again he looked defeated and, with feminine illogic, her heart went
out to him. He said, "I wish I could—unfortunately I'm not permitted
to go out in the field alone."
Annoyed by her heart's betrayal she let herself think, Ah, an
armlounge admiral, a user of men who saves his own skin! She
watched anger wash defeat from his face, for a moment felt fear at
its intensity. Then, without a word, he turned and left her alone in
the corridor.
She felt a cheap victor as with difficulty she made her way back to
her cabin. Nor was her self-esteem lifted when Joanna, sitting up in
her bunk, said, "You must be real zwirch, Fenlay, if Marcein came for
you. He's Communications Integrator for the whole ruddy planet—a
real big bomb. How about introducing me before we land?"

To her considerable surprise in view of her emotionally upset

condition, Lynne slept like the proverbial top. It took the combined
efforts of Joanna and the stewardess to get her awake and up and
dressed in time for the landing outside of New Samarkand. After a
momentary breathless hovering pause the big ship set itself down so
gently there was a hardly perceptible jar as it touched ground.
Feeling cumbrous in cold-resistant parkaed coverall and curiously
alone despite the cluster of passengers that waited with her in the
airlock foyer, Lynne looked about her for Rolf Marcein. She felt a
certain residue of guilt for her treatment of him during their last
session, despite the justification of her anger. Here, on the threshold
of an alien planet—his planet—she needed him.
He might have betrayed her and her brother, kidnapped her, all but
seduced her—yet he was the sole human being she knew here. Her
eyes sought him desperately, finally saw him working his way
through the waiting passengers toward her.
He thrust an oddly-shaped little packet toward her, said, "Here—
fasten it on. It's an oxyrespirator—you'll need it. Use it whenever
you feel faint."
His manner was gravely polite and his thoughts were carefully
masked. He hadn't, she decided, forgiven her for that armlounge
admiral insult of the night before. She sent her apologies mentally,
received only a curt acknowledgement. She began to feel miserable.
Then, abruptly, the port was opened. With his arm steadying her
Lynne stepped out onto the escaramp platform, a couple of hundred
meters above the flat blast-scarred surface of the field. A thin chill
wind cut her face, a wind from out of a sky darker than that of
Earth.
Her first reaction was of gauntness, of barrenness beyond anything
she had known on her home planet. The grounds around the Sahara
brain-center in which she had served her apprenticeship had been
lush with tropical growths—and even the desert around them had
been warm. But the vast reddish expanse of the spaceport looked
cold and uninviting—even the row of oddly-shaped metal buildings
at its edge had a shabby eroded untended appearance.
Her second reaction, as she rode the ramp down was of
breathlessness. The icy air stung the insides of her nostrils, as it did
her face, but failed to fill her lungs. Panic swept over her and she
clutched at her breast. Then Rolf's arms were around her from
behind, his long strong fingers were adjusting the oxyrespirator.
Lynne breathed deeply and felt a sudden surge of exhilaration. No
wonder, she thought irrelevantly, the Martians were more volatile
than Earthfolk. They must be constantly high on oxygen. She
suppressed an impulse to giggle as she reached the bottom of the
moving ramp.
Her third reaction, as she took her first step on Mars, was of
weightlessness. Not the unhealthy weightlessness of the space-ship
but a buoyancy comparable to that of swimming in the Great Salt
Lake or the Dead Sea. Lynne sat rigidly on an urge to discover how
high and far she could jump, even encumbered by the aluminum
coverall. She realised her hair was blowing in the wind, pulled the
parka over it.
"You'll do." Rolf looked her over disinterestedly, added, "Unless you
still want to go back to Earth."
It must have been the oxygen that made her reply, "What for? Now
that I'm here I might as well give it a run." Irresponsible or not, it
was worth it to see the softness that came into his dark eyes.
He took her arm and said gruffly, "Come on. We've got things to do.
I'm turning you over to Tony Willis. He'll brief you. He promised to
be here.... There he is, by the Administration Building."
There was no doubt about the warmth of Tony Willis' greeting—
outwardly or telepathically. He gave Rolf a bearhug, then turned
quickly to Lynne, pumped her right hand, said, "Crehut, I'm glad you
got here! But Rolf didn't warn us he was bringing a tearing beauty."
"Tearing mad most of the way," she said, unable to remain
unresponsive to Willis' warmth. He was a tubby bespectacled young
man with an irresistible grin. From him she felt no probe of her
thoughts, knew sudden overwhelming relief. Despite Rolf's assurance
that there were fewer than a hundred telepaths on Mars,
subconsciously she had been expecting to land on a planet where
her innermost thoughts were open to everyone. She was almost
pathetically grateful that it was not so.
"Old Rolf must be losing his touch," said Willis, grinning. "He's our
ace-in-the-hole when it comes to—personal management. Has a
thousand lovely ladies eating right out of his hand."
"Shut up, you czanworm!" Rolf's thoughts revealed acute distress
and Lynne felt a little glow of triumph.
She said, "Well, one way or another he got me here."
"And do we need you!" Willis led the way toward a pharmabar.
"Thank you, sir." Lynne turned on the charm, enjoying the inner
growls of resentment from Rolf. Well, he'd played a game with her,
she thought. He had no right to resent her playing a few herself.
But I wasn't playing for fun! The message was sharp and resentful. I
was playing for the safety of my planet.
You mean one little girl like me can save a great big world like this?
It must be the oxygen, she decided, that was making her behave so
giddily. Or perhaps she couldn't help tormenting him a little—a very
little.
"Hey, cut it out!" Tony Willis looked aggrieved. "It's bad enough
having one of you telepaths around—but with two of you together
anyone else is out in the cold. What do you want for breakfast?"
They apologized and kept their special talents under wraps. Lynne
felt a certain disappointment at the prosaic familiarity of the food
and drink they were served. She didn't know exactly what she had
been expecting but there was no trace of the exotic.
Nor was the aircar in which Willis drove them from the spaceport to
New Samarkand any different from similar vehicles on Earth—save
that it seemed somewhat battered and in need of a refinish. She and
Rolf rode in silence, letting Tony do the talking.
They traveled at about five hundred meters altitude toward a low
range of reddish hills, sprinkled here and there with green. The sky
was cloudless, the ground beneath them innocent of roads, of
cultivation, of homes. For the first time Lynne began to appreciate
the immensity of the task these emigrées from Earth had
undertaken, the rehabilitation of a near-dead planet.
And then, when they crested the hill, there were rectangular patches
of vegetation on its lee side. But she gave this man-made miracle
only the briefest of glances—for beyond lay the vast bank of the
canal, stretching as far as the eye could see, in a straight line from
horizon to horizon. And beyond the canal lay the city.
Here, on the far bank of the incredible dry ditch, men had built well.
Plastic half-domes and metallic towers, spare and functional, rose
from the newly-buttressed escarpment for a good two kilometres.
Beneath the buildings, on the bank itself, were broad terraces upon
which passenger and freight-craft and landing engines made a busy
and familiar pattern, kaleidoscopic with movement.
And behind the man-made city, its incredible soaring half-ruined
spires and obelisks cutting a jagged rampart across half the sky, lay
the once-vast Martian metropolis. Crystaline minarets, revealing
materials and a beauty of design unknown as yet to Earthmen,
reflected the rays of the distant sun in prismatic showers of color,
coruscating, almost blinding, yet so weird and beautiful that they
brought tears to Lynne's eyes.
I'm glad you can capture their beauty. Rolf's thought shared the
excitement of her own. So many of us see nothing but ruin.
"Quite a sight, isn't it?" said Tony Willis complacently. "We get a
farbish howl from the archeological boys whenever we have to clear
any of it away."
"It seems a shame," said Lynne with feeling.
Willis shrugged. "Can't be helped. We haven't the time or resources
to build from scratch in the sand. Besides, there's oceans of ruins
left for them to poke around in."
He brought them in with practised skill to a landing on one of the
terraces, where Rolf was quickly gobbled up by a waiting group of
men and women. Before they led him off he said to Lynne, "I'm
sorry if I've seemed unfair, Lynne. But I think you'll understand in
time. This is a frontier world and we can't always take time out to
observe the niceties."
Some inner emotion she refused to recognize caused her to ask,
"When will I see you again, Rolf? You aren't leaving me...."
"Tony can take care of you as well as I," he informed her. "I'd like to
get you started myself but I'm way behind in my work. I'll be paying
you a visit at the post—perhaps sooner than you expect."
"I see." She felt frozen. Now that he had her here he was discarding
her like an old clout. She recalled what Tony Willis had said at the
spaceport about his having a thousand women eating out of his
hand, how eagerly Joanna had expressed a desire to meet him the
night before. She was glad there had been no opportunity to
perform that introduction. Why make it a thousand-and-two?
As he walked slowly away, with the reception committee dancing
attendance about him, she received a faintly mocking thought
projection from him, became aware that he was enjoying her
jealousy. She felt her face flame again, said, "Ferkab!"—all but
stamped her foot.
"What was that?" Tony Willis asked politely.
"Nothing—my clout slipped," she replied, embarrassed.
Lynne was taken to a gaunt office whose chief piece of furniture was
an immense Martian globe, upon which all the chief Martian cities,
all the human settlements, all the communications posts were
marked. She began to understand, from looking at it, how very
different conditions upon the red planet were from the Earth norm.
The home planet, heavily over-populated, was skilfully disguised to
appear roomy. Virtually every inch of its land surface was devoted to
giving crowded humanity the illusion of privacy. Aloneness was one
of its most prized cultural assets.
On Mars, with its scant million humans and solitude ever-present, all
cultural efforts were bent the other way—to create the illusion of a
large number of people that did not exist. Instead of seeking privacy
the inhabitants gratefully crowded close together in their small
communities, seeking strength through numbers.
"We're making progress—tremendous progress," Tony told her
seriously, tapping a point on the globe. "The more ground we get
under cultivation the more atmosphere we reclaim through the
plant-breathing process. What we actually need is a few hundred
million more people—but the planet will barely support those we
have. It's a slow and laborious process."
"Operation bootstrap," said Lynne, wondering how she could even
briefly have found this dedicated young man ridiculous.
"Exactly," he told her. "I take it Rolf has briefed you a little about
your job here."
"A little," she said. "I'm to relieve my brother—right?"
"Right." He nodded. "We can short-cut your training because you are
his twin. Ordinarily we take a couple of weeks fitting each
communications worker to his or her post—finding in just which their
telepathic sensitivity will work the best. But since, in a way, we know
about you through Revere, we can save time."
"Revere," she said, "what about him? Is he very sick?"
Tony Willis shrugged. "It's periodic," he told her. "This whole
business is so new and so sudden it hit most of them without
warning. Since you know the score you ought to be able to fight it."
"But mightn't I have my brother's weaknesses?" Lynne asked.
"We're hoping not," was the reply. "In most cases women resist
better than men. The suggestions these creatures make are so
swackably lewd they clash with the feminine propriety-barrier."
"While men, being Casanovas, give in," she said, thinking again of
Rolf and his thousand-and-two women.
"Something like that," he replied, went on to tell her how telepathic
messages were keyed and directed and addressed to reach the
proper destinations. "You'll be here"—tapping a spot on the globe, a
third of a world away from New Samarkand—"at Barkutburg, within
mentarange of Zuleika, New Walla Walla and Cathayville. So here
will be the code-keys for you to remember...."
The final briefing took sixteen hours. If Lynne, through her years of
coaching for and year of work on the integration-team, had not been
trained to complete concentration over long periods, she would
never have been able to absorb all the new knowledge Tony Willis
and other communications experts pumped into her.
At the end of that time he looked at her with red-rimmed but
admiring eyes, shook his head and said, "My hat is off to you, Lynne.
You're the quickest study I've ever met."
"Thanks—most of it's a matter of training," she replied modestly. She
was glad he was not telepathic or he would have read the bright
glow of far-from-modest pride that ran through her. Wait till Rolf
hears about it, she thought. Maybe he won't think I'm such a marlet
after all. With this went added pride in that she was obviously less
exhausted than her mentor.
When it was over she was fed real meat for the fourth or fifth time
in her life—ham from lean Martian-bred hog, basted in some curious
alien sauce. With it went real potatoes and non-processed
vegetables, raised on the red planet. Rugged or not, Lynne decided
as she was bundled into a planetcar, life on Mars had its
compensations.
When the ship landed at Barkutburg a tearose-pale Martian dawn
was lighting the dark eastern sky. Lynne felt a tingle of anticipation,
mixed with dread, a stir of déja vu—the I've-been-here-before
feeling—as she alighted with her strangely light bag in hand and
paused to sip sparingly of her oxyrespirator.
For here was her nightmare city, though seen from the ground. Here
were the widely-spaced transparent towers, similar to yet oddly
unlike those of New Samarkand. Here were the scant human
dwellings, clustered like alien mushroom growths amid the towering
demi-ruins.
Two aluminum-coveralled figures were awaiting her at the rim of the
airport. One was tiny, feminine, despite the bulk of her costume, her
exotically delicate Eurasian features roughened by wind and
sunburn. She was Lao Mei-O'Connell, qualified and elected leader of
the pioneer settlement. The other was—Revere Fenlay.
It was add to see oneself mirrored in the features of another human
for the first time in one's life, Lynne decided. She noted her brother
looked unexpectedly healthy, that his handclasp was firm, his eyes
probably clearer than her own sleep-puffed ones.
His thought was warningly clear. Don't be fooled by externals, Lynne.
These creatures can move in on me every time I open up my mind
to receive a message. They're murder! Aloud he said, "Lord, I had
no idea my counterpart was a beauty."
Quite naturally she linked arms with Revere as they walked toward
the cluster of Earth-dwellings. It was, she thought, a rare event for
twins, separated by the gulf between planets, ever to meet after
incubation—except of course on such rarified levels as those trod by
Rolf Marcein and his brother. She sensed a discomfort, a reserve,
behind the routine welcome of Lao Mei-O'Connell, decided swiftly
there was some sort of guilt feeling there.
As swiftly her twin replied telepathically, Of course she has feelings
of guilt. Thanks to her I was given the coldwrap treatments—even
when I was not under Their control. There was no need for them
and they made me feel my head would burst. Thank farb you're
here!
When did you receive these treatments? she thought sharply. And
the answering thought confirmed her sudden suspicion. Revere had
been placed in coldwrap restraint each time a headache had assailed
her on Earth. He had been deliberately tortured as part of the
campaign to get her to come to Mars and replace him.
That Rolf—that marlet! Fury assailed her, fury and frustration. But
Revere's grip tightened on her forearm.
I don't mind—now, he informed her. We need you here.
It was pathetic but she managed to still the thought aborning. With
Revere, as never before in her life, she felt as if she belonged to
someone, as if someone belonged to her. But she had not been with
him an hour when he said good-bye. He was returning to New
Samarkand on the planet-ship for treatment, perhaps ultimately to
Earth to replace her.
"Don't worry," he told her. "You'll do great, Lynne. Wring their farbish
invisible necks."
She checked the thrill of panic that caused her, managed a Look up
Ray Cornell when you hit Earth. And ruin Janet just for me.
Don't be too rough on Rolf was his farewell thought. You'll
understand him better—later on.
She watched the takeoff, walked back with Lao Mei-O'Connell in
silence. And, twenty minutes later, she stepped off the uplift
platform and found herself alone in the patched tower-room of her
nightmare.

VI

Sitting there alone, waiting for something to happen, Lynne for the
first time since becoming aware of her telepathic powers began to
get a sense of direction along with the thoughts that came to her
from outside. Heretofore she had only been conscious of the
thoughts themselves, varying in power according to the strength of
the thinker.
Perhaps because of the altitude of the tower-room, perhaps because
her own power was increasing with practise, perhaps because
telepathy was easier in the thinner Martian atmosphere than on
Earth—perhaps through a combination of all these factors, Lynne
was aware of tremendous mental strength.
Her on-duty periods consisted of two daily shifts, each of about two
Earth-hours. In case of an emergency message reaching her during
any other time, she was to report at once to her tower-post and
remain on duty for the duration. And this was her first shift.
She wondered how long it would take the Martians that had
possessed Revere to seek her out and test her defenses. Apparently
these invisible creatures operated upon a time-scale of their own,
making themselves felt without semblance of rhythm or regular
schedule.
Shutting out the meaningless scramble of thoughts that reached her
from the Earth-village below, Lynne considered Revere and the odd
constraint that had prevailed between them during their brief single
meeting. Somewhere beyond the gaunt reddish Martian hills to the
southeast, the planet-ship was carrying him swiftly toward New
Samarkand—and, she hoped, toward rehabilitation.
Revere had had a rough deal on this outpost world. Although he
seemed not to resent it Lynne found herself trembling with
indignation at thought of the needless torture he had undergone—
merely to give Lynne the induced headaches that had undermined
her Earth-conditioning. She thought of Rolf and his thousand-and-
two women.
And from somewhere, half a planet away, came a quick mocking
thought from the Svengali who had led her to a planet she had
never had the slightest desire to visit. It said, Don't bother me now,
Lynne—can't you see I'm busier than farb?
So thrilling was the experience, so magnificent the surge of power
which swept through her, that Lynne actually forgot to be angry at
receiving such a quick brush-off. Even a half-world away, she
thought, she could key in on Rolf, learn what he was doing.
A thousand-and-one other women? She sipped sparingly at her
oxyrespirator, felt reinforced exhilaration. With her new-found ability
she was going to be able to check up on his alleged love-life. She
actually gloated as she sat there alone amid the spare Martian
landscape.
Then, feeling somewhat ashamed, she thought of her twin again.
Evidently he was keeping his mind closed for she could not reach
him. She wondered what he was really like, what—say—Lao Mei-
O'Connell felt about him. And all at once she knew, for the Eurasian
woman's mind was an open book.
The Barkutburg leader was almost physically sick at Revere's
departure. Her thoughts of love, of desolation, were so strong that
Lynne found herself sharing them, even though she had seen her
twin but a scant few minutes since attaining an age of reason.
Yet there were strength and determination and a strong sense of
duty holding Lao Mei-O'Connell to her important tasks of seeing that
her share of reclaiming a planet continued. The frail-looking Martian
woman was, Lynne realised, a person of vast character.
She thought of her having deliberately to torture the man she loved,
through drugs that opened his already sick mind to the invaders, and
wondered if she herself would be capable of such behavior no
matter how urgent the circumstance, to—say—Rolf Marcein.
It was then that her first message came through—so unused was
she to receiving telepathically impersonal thoughts that she all but
missed her code signal. The Zuleika operator had to repeat it three
times before Lynne came to with a start and keyed her own
thoughts properly—Ess-two, Barkutburg. Ess-two, Barkutburg. Come
in.
The message itself concerned a supply of chemilamps, which had
arrived at Zuleika from Cathayville and was ready for transhipment,
if they were needed at Barkutburg. Lynne repeated the message,
pressed the hand-buzzer for ground-communication, relayed the
news to Lao Mei-O'Connell in her office below. She was told to notify
Zuleika to send the chemilamps on at once, as they were sorely
needed.
Lynne got the message through, after which the Zuleika telepath
flashed, You're new on the job. How is Fenlay?
This is Fenlay here, she replied. Revere's twin, Lynne. He's been sent
to New Samarkand for treatment.
Welcome, Lynne Fenlay—and good luck, came the answer. Met any
of our unseen friends yet?
Not yet, thought Lynne, when are they apt to hit me?
There's no telling. Lynne received a definite impression of a shrug.
The Zuleika operator gave his name, which was Zachary Ramirez,
then signed off for the time being. Thanks to this brief personal
conversation Lynne no longer felt so alone. At least, when the
invaders attacked her, she'd have someone to reach for—or would
she?
There was a message from New Walla Walla direct, about an hour
later, concerning some point of bookkeeping. Lynne handled it, then
sat out the rest of her first tour of duty alone. The Martian sun was
high in the sky when at last she took the downlift to the ground.
She found herself ravenously hungry. Either through some effect of
the alien atmosphere and climate or the knowledge the food she
would get was real rather than fabricated, Lynne found herself
thinking about dining in an almost animal fashion.
Nor was the mess disappointing. All residents of Barkutburg shared a
single dining hall, since such a method represented great economy
of time, labor and food supplies. It was, to Lynne, rather like a
greatly enlarged and much more volatile Mother Weedon's. The
other residents of the settlement wore the uniform ruddiness of
unmistakable good health. To Lynne, accustomed to the more pallid
countenances of Earth, they seemed almost vulgar.
Yet the good humor, the camaraderie, were unmistakable—as were
the animal spirits. Lynne, as a pretty girl and new arrival, got more
masculine attention than ever before in her life. She was plied with
offers to see the Martian ruins, to visit the nearby mountaintops, to
take long excursions through the vast dry canal-beds.
To her relief the other girls and women, unless their thoughts lied,
showed very little resentment at her presence. In fact most of them
were as eager as the men to question her about the home planet—
though their questions were cast in more feminine mould. Yet Lynne
played her welcome cautiously, accepting no dates for the present
on the plea that mastery of her new job demanded all her time and
strength.
A few days later Lao Mei-O'Connell suggested the two of them go for
a walk. When they were well out of earshot of the others she said,
"You're handling yourself very well, Lynne. So far so good."
Lynne eyed her, carefully avoiding a probe of her mind—she had no
wish to make an enemy of this woman and the basic situation was
emotionally delicate to begin with. She said, "Then you anticipate
trouble, Miss O'Connell?"
"Lao, please," she said. "There's scant room for social formality in a
settlement like Barkutburg. You'll have some trouble, of course—
you're bound to on an alien planet. I hate to think of what I'd have
to go through to adjust to Earth."
"Fair enough," Lynne said gratefully. She wanted to ask Lao about
Revere, what sort of man he was, some of his little habits. She also
began to understand better why Earth-Mars twins were kept so
rigorously apart as a rule. The relationship was a complex and deep
one and she found herself almost as homesick for her twin as was
Lao.
"Life is hard here," Lao said, "but not unhappy. It isn't even
particularly earnest, save for necessary jobs. Work hard, play hard,
rest hard—that's the rule of Mars."
"It sounds good," said Lynne sincerely. "Tell me, Lao, just what is the
status of electricity on Mars? I was a little worried when you wanted
the chemilamps so urgently. But we have the communicator phones
and electric cooking...."
"It's a strange problem," said the other woman. "Everything works
as long as we can use a closed circuit on this planet. But the minute
we open one up—for lateral broadcasting, say—it is dissipated—like
that!" She snapped thin fingers sharply.
Then she added, "But nature seemed to have compensated in our
favor when we were able to develop telepaths." She eyed Lynne
speculatively, added, "You must have tremendous powers. No other
Earth-person has ever been able to make the grade. From what Rolf
Marcein told me you were outstanding the moment Revere reached
you."
"I don't pretend to understand it," said Lynne. "As far as my first few
sessions on duty, it seemed to be all right."
"You weren't bothered?" The question was softly urgent.
"No." Lynne shook her head. "But I'm expecting to be."
"You will be, I'm afraid. Every telepath on Mars has been at least
once. Revere had the bad luck to be the first—before the presence
of these beings was even suspected. Hence he was surprised and his
resistance was unprepared. Once they've gained possession it
becomes progressively more difficult to keep them out."
"I suppose," said Lynne, "they pick on telepaths because they can
only enter minds opened for message-reception."
"Probably," Lao informed her. "We can't be certain of anything until
we know more about them and their motives. But you can see what
a threat it has become. Thanks to the paralysis of lateral electronic
communication, the survival of humanity on Mars depends almost
entirely on telepaths. When these zombies or whatever they are take
possession no telepath is worth a damn. Nor can any of them
receive messages while the aliens are threatening them. If they
do...."
Lao's silence was eloquent. Lynne took a sip of oxygen as her
breathing became difficult. They were approaching one of the semi-
ruined structures, a vast edifice, squatter and broader than the slim
pinnacle which contained the broadcasting room, whose lower
facade was a mass of friezes in high-relief.
Lynne, as part of her cultural training on Earth, had been taken on
tours of the vast temples of India, Pakistan and Malaya—including
Ankhor Vat. Yet not even the incredible and bizarre reliefs of those
fabulous temples, with all of their grotesqueries and solemnly
religious obscenities, prepared her for what she now saw.
The pantheocratic creatures of ancient Mars were far more diverse
than their counterparts on Earth—and of course utterly exotic. Here
were creatures with two, three and four heads, with innumerable
appendages, with reproductive organs so weird as to defy comment
or moral reaction.

One feature Lynne noted at once. Like their Asiatic counterparts on

Earth, they seemed to belong to a theocratic rather than a scientific
culture—yet the buildings themselves were utterly beyond the
creative techniques of even an interplanetary human culture.
She said, "Are the other towers of Mars like this?"
"In general," replied the Eurasian girl. "The aborigines seem to have
been mostly a philosophic sort. Perhaps they became so when their
planet began to die. All that have survived are such low life-orders
as the czanworm and sand-lurtonk. Unless, of course, the invisible
ones are natives. I for one am inclined to believe they are."
"So does Rolf Marcein," said Lynne.
"You love him, don't you?" Lao asked matter-of-factly.
"I'm beginning to be afraid so," said Lynne as frankly.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," replied the other. "I love Revere,
you know—and I don't expect to see him ever again."
"I know," said Lynne, feeling her companion's unhappiness like a
knife. She pulled the parka over her head although it was not the
cool Martian afternoon breeze that was making her cold. She said,
"It must have been very difficult for you—what you had to do to help
get me here. I don't wonder if you hate me."
"I don't hate you, Lynne," said Lao. "But if you fail on this job I shall.
I should not enjoy sacrificing Revere for nothing."
"I won't fail," Lynne told her with more assurance than she felt.
"After all, I have Revere to think of—and you—and Rolf."
"I encourage myself with similar thoughts," said Lao. "Come—let us
go on inside."
It was like entering a pagan cathedral. The tower in which Lynne's
post was bore heavy over-marks of human habitation. Probably, she
thought, it had long since been stripped by the archeologists of any
objects of historical or cultural value. Save for its crystaline flying
buttresses it might almost have been an Earth skyscraper.
But, outside of a few pieces of scaffolding, where restoration work or
study was evidently in progress, this immense building had been left
untouched by the new inhabitants of the red planet. Thanks
probably to the thinness and dryness of the atmosphere, brilliant
murals had retained their coloring intact. Yet in numerous patches
the colors seemed to fade into neutral tints at variance with the
brightness of the rest.
"Here." Lao took from a table, on which tools and other instruments
had been laid, an odd-looking stereoptical device, handed it to
Lynne, adding, "Adjust it and you'll get the full effect. A lot of their
work was done below the human color-scale, in the infra-red."
Lynne gasped when she studied the hitherto drab patches in the
murals through the double-eye-piece of the viewer. She saw strange
beings, hauntingly near-human, engaged in fantastic gambols. Multi-
faceted eyes leered out at her from the Capuchin heads of twin-
bodied smaller creatures of a boldness that almost made her flinch.
And there were endlessly varied poses of both sorts of beings....
"Rather disturbing, isn't it?" said Lao. "I didn't bring you out here
just to see the sights, Lynne. From what little your brother was able
to tell me, the odd little games those creatures are playing are very
like those his invaders hinted at."
"You mean," said Lynne with a shudder, "that the zombies or
whatever they are looked like that before they lost their bodies?"
"Or before they became invisible," said Lao quietly. "The near-
humans seem to have been the dominant species. These others—
the twin-bodied monkeylike things—seem to have been their pets."
"What disgusting games they played!" said Lynne. "They sound a lot
like...." She hesitated, realising she was about to repeat Lao's
remark.
"Exactly," said Lao.
They walked back to the settlement in silence. Both girls had a great
deal to ponder over. When they got there Lynne settled down to
listen to some musicrolls in the recreation building and Lao left to
tend to her various executive functions.
Lynne's new life on Mars passed without notable incident for another
week, Earth-time. She was beginning to adjust to days and nights
almost twice as long as those of her home planet, to the small cool
sun, to the use of her oxyrespirator whenever her lungs felt empty.
She was even beginning to enjoy the give-and-take of the neo-
pioneer society of Barkutburg. Yet loneliness continued to gnaw at
her, loneliness for the twin she had known such a short time,
loneliness for Rolf, at whose activities she could only guess. And
some of her guesses were in lurid vidarcolor.
Late one afternoon, in the recreation building, the musicroll was
playing a fine concerto for theraharp by Liston-Lutz, the most
important human composer yet to emerge on Mars. Back on Earth
his music had seemed to Lynne to be both glaringly dissonant and a
trifle decadent. Here on Mars she understood it. He was writing of
the red planet itself, of a world that had all but died and was now
having its life renewed through lusty Earth-pioneers.
"Like it?" one of the engineers enjoying an off-shift rest asked Lynne
over a colafizz globe.
"Very much. It—fits," said Lynne. She was still smiling at him when
the headache came back—with a sharpness and depth of discomfort
she had never felt on Earth. For a full minute or two she thought she
was going to be physically sick from the pain.
She managed to get up and move toward her quarters before
anyone noticed she was feeling badly. It would never do to have
them worried about her—after all, they had enough to worry about.
Besides, she knew what was the matter. Revere was in New
Samarkand and they were doing something to him, something that
might easily either kill him or drive him permanently insane.

VII

Lynne lay down on her simple cot and tried to flash a personal
message through to Revere. But all she got was an increase of
agony that almost blacked her out.
Then she tried to reach Rolf Marcein. Although she lacked the
advantage of being high in her tower-post, the emotional urgency of
the moment more than compensated for this adverse factor. She got
through to him quickly, discovered his mind was open. So intense
was his concentration that he seemed momentarily unaware of her
probing.
He was sitting in a hospital room, an operating room, and Revere lay
in front of him, stretched out on a surgical table. Sight of him made
Lynne feel another wave of nausea. An anestherator had been
attached to his nose and mouth and an alert nurse stood by the
regulator. Revere's temples had been slit by twin incisions, from
which tubes were attached to an odd and complex piece of
machinery that seemed to support a visual-grid.
Rolf Marcein was digging at her twin mentally, at the same time
seeking to receive whatever messages came from his tortured brain.
Lynne could read Rolf's thoughts clearly as he waved to her twin,
Their shape—you of all of us must have received some vision of their
appearance. Crehut, Fenlay, we've got to know how they think of
themselves!

Then came a chaotic jumble of answering thoughts from Revere's

damaged brain. And even as she suffered sympathetic anguish