I admit that I did not. “Yes, but-see here, Captain, if Mr. Bonforte’s political enemies have kidnapped him, why keep it secret? I should expect you to shout it from the housetops.”
“On Earth we would. At New Batavia we would. On Venus we would. But here we are dealing with Mars. Do you know the legend of Kkkahgral the Younger?”
“Eh? I’m afraid I don’t.”
“You must study it; it will give you insight into what makes a Martian tick. Briefly, this boy Kkkah was to appear at a certain time and place, thousands of years ago, for a very high honor-like being knighted. Through no fault of his own (the way we would look at it) he failed to make it on time. Obviously the only thing to do was to kill him-by Martian standards. But because of his youth and his distinguished record some of the radicals present argued that he should be allowed to go back and start over. But Kkkahgral would have none of it. He insisted on his right to prosecute the case himself, won it, and was executed. Which makes him the very embodiment, the patron saint, of propriety on Mars.”
“That’s crazy!”
“Is it? We aren’t Martians. They are a very old race and they have worked out a system of debts and obligations to cover every possible situation-the greatest formalists conceivable. Compared with them, the ancient Japanese, with their girl and gimu, were outright anarchists. Martians don’t have ‘right’ and ‘wrong’-instead they have propriety and impropriety, squared, cubed, and loaded with gee juice. But where it bears on this problem is that the Chief was about to be adopted into the nest of Kkkahgral the Younger himself. Do you scan me now?”
I still did not. To my mind this Kkkah character was one of the more loathsome items from Le Grand Guignol. Broadbent went on, “It’s simple enough. The Chief is probably the greatest practical student of Martian customs and psychology. He has been working up to this for years. Comes local noon on Wednesday at Lacus Soli, the ceremony of adoption takes place. If the Chief is there and goes through his paces properly, everything is sweet. If he is not there-and it makes no difference at all why he is not there-his name is mud on Mars, in every nest from pole to pole- and the greatest interplanetary and interracial political coup ever attempted falls flat on its face. Worse than that, it will backfire. My guess is that the very least that will happen is for Mars to withdraw even from its present loose association with the Empire. Much more likely there will be reprisals and human beings will be killed-maybe every human on Mars. Then the extremists in the Humanity Party would have theft way and Mars would be brought into the Empire by force-but only after every Martian was dead. And all set off just by Bonforte failing to show up for the adoption ceremony. . . Martians take these things very seriously.”
Dak left as suddenly as he had appeared and Penelope Russell turned on the picture projector again. It occurred to me fretfully that I should have asked him what was to keep our enemies from simply killing me, if all that was needed to upset the political applecart was to keep Bonforte (in his proper person, or through his double) from attending some barbaric Martian ceremony. But I had forgotten to ask-perhaps I was subconsciously afraid of being answered.
But shortly I was again studying Bonforte, watching his movements and gestures, feeling his expressions, subvocalizing the tones of his voice, while floating in that detached, warm reverie of artistic effort. Already I was “wearing his head.”
I was panicked out of it when the images shifted to one in which Bonforte was surrounded by Martians, touched by their pseudo limbs. I had been so deep inside the picture that I could actually feel them myself-and the stink was unbearable. I made a strangled noise and clawed at it. “Shut it oft!”
The lights came up and the picture disappeared. Miss Russell was looking at me. “What in the world is the matter with you?”