Now they were above the desert, moving at good speed toward the intersect which the UN announcer had given. Bleekmen niggers, Arnie thought. We have to drop everything we’re doing to bail them out, the damn fools–can’t they trot across their own desert? Haven’t they been doing it without our help for five thousand years?
As Jack Bohlen started to lower his Yee Company repairship toward McAuliff’s dairy ranch below, he heard the UN announcer come on with the emergency notification, the like of which Bohlen had heard many times before and which never failed to chill him.
“. . . Party of Bleekmen out on the open desert,” the matter-of-fact voice declared. “. . . Dying from exposure and lack of water. Ships north of Lewistown–”
I’ve got it, Jack Bohlen said to himself. He cut his mike on and said, “Yee Company repairship close by gyrocompass point 4.65003, ready to respond at once. Should reach them in two or three minutes.” He swung his ‘copter south, away from McAuliff ‘s ranch, getting a golden-moment sort of satisfaction at the thought of McAuliff’s indignation right now as he saw the ‘copter swing away and guessed the reason. No one had less use for the Bleekmen than did the big ranchers; the poverty-stricken, nomadic natives were constantly showing up at the ranches for food, water, medical help, and sometimes just a plain old-fashioned handout, and nothing seemed to madden the prosperous dairymen more than to be used by the creatures whose land they had appropriated.
Another ‘copter was responding, now. The pilot was saying, “I am just outside Lewistown at gyrocompass point 4.78995 and will respond as soon as possible. I have rations aboard including fifty gallons of water.” He gave his identification and then rang off.
The dairy ranch with its cows fell away to the north, and Jack Bohlen was gazing intently down at the open desert once more, seeking to catch sight of the party of Bleekmen. Sure enough, there they were. Five of them, in the shade cast by a small hill of stone. They were not moving. Possibly they were already dead. The UN satellite, in its swing across the sky, had discovered them, and yet it could not help them. Their mentors were powerless. And we who can help them– what do we care? Jack thought. The Bleekmen were dying out anyhow, the remnants getting more tattered and despairing every year. They were wards of the UN, protected by them. Some protection, Jack thought.
But what could be done for a waning race? Time had run out for the natives of Mars long before the first Soviet ship had appeared in the sky with its television cameras grinding away, back in the ’60s. No human group had conspired to exterminate them; it had not been necessary. And anyhow they had been a vast curiosity, at first. Here was a discovery worth the billions spent in the task of reaching Mars. Here was an extraterrestrial race.
He landed the ‘copter on the flat sand close by the party of Bleekmen, switched off the blades, opened the door, and stepped out.
The hot morning sun beat down on him as he walked across the sand toward the unmoving Bleekmen. They were alive; they had their eyes open and were watching him.
“Rains are falling from me onto your valuable persons,” he called to them, the proper Bleekman greeting in the Bleeky dialect.
Close to them now he saw that the party consisted of one wrinkled old couple, a young male and female, no doubt husband and wife, and their infant. A family, obviously, which had set out across the desert alone on foot, probably seeking water or food; perhaps the oasis at which they had been subsisting had dried up. It was typical of the plight of the Bleekmen, this conclusion to their trek. Here they lay, unable to go on any farther; they had withered away to something resembling heaps of dried vegetable matter and they would have died soon had not the UN satellite spotted them.
Rising to his feet slowly, the young Bleekman male genuflected and said in a wavering, frail voice, “The rains falling from your wonderful presence envigor and restore us, Mister.”
Jack Bohlen tossed his canteen to the young Bleekman, who at once knelt down, unscrewed the cap, and gave it to the supine elderly couple. The old lady seized it and drank from it.
The change in her came at once. She seemed to swell back into life, to change from the muddy gray color of death before his eyes.
“May we fill our eggshells?” the young Bleekman male asked Jack. Lying upright on the sand were several paka eggs, pale hollow shells which Jack saw were completely empty. The Bleekmen transported water in these shells; their technical ability was so slight that they did not even possess clay pots. And yet, he reflected, their ancestors had constructed the great canal system.
“Sure,” he said. “There’s another ship coming with plenty of water.” He went back to his ‘copter and got his lunch pail; returning with it, he handed it to the Bleekman male. “Food,” he explained. As if they didn’t know. Already the elederly couple were on their feet, tottering up with their hands stretched out.
Behind Jack, the roar of a second ‘copter grew louder. It was landing, a big two-person ‘copter that now coasted up and halted, its blades slowly spinning.
The pilot called down, “Do you need me? If not, I’ll go on.”
“I don’t have much water for them,” Jack said.
“O.K.,” the pilot said, and switched off his blades. He hopped out, lugging a five-gallon can. “They can have this.”
Together, Jack and the pilot stood watching the Bleekman filling their eggshells from the can of water. Their possessions were not many–a quiver of poisoned arrows, an animal hide for each of them; the two women had their pounding blocks, their sole possessions of value: without the blocks they were not fit women, for on them they prepared either meat or grain, whatever food their hunt might bring. And they had a few cigarettes.
“My passenger,” the young pilot said in a low voice in Jack’s ear, “isn’t too keen about the UN being able to compel us to stop like this. But what he doesn’t realize is they’ve got that satellite up there and they can see if you fail to stop. And it’s a hell of a big fine.”
Jack turned and looked up into the parked ‘copter. He saw seated inside it a heavy-set man with a bald head, a well-fed, self-satisifed-looking man who gazed out sourly, paying no attention to the five Bleekmen.
“You have to comply with the law,” the pilot said in a defensive voice. “It’d be me who they’d sock with the fine.”
Walking over to the ship, Jack called up to the big baldheaded man seated within, “Doesn’t it make you feel good to know you saved the lives of five people?”
The bald-headed man looked down at him and said, “Five niggers, you mean. I don’t call that saving five people. Do you?”
“Yeah, I do,” Jack said. “And I intend to continue doing so.”
“Go ahead, call it that,” the bald-headed man said. Flushing, he glanced over at Jack’s ‘copter, read the markings on it. “See where it gets you.”
Coming over beside Jack, the young pilot said hurriedly, “That’s Arnie you’re talking to. Arnie Kott.” He called up, “We can leave now, Arnie.” Climbing up, the pilot disappeared inside the ‘copter, and once more the blades began to turn.
The ‘copter rose into the air, leaving Jack standing alone by the five Bleekmen. They had now finished drinking and were eating from the lunch pail which he had given them. The empty water can lay off to one side. The paka eggshells had been filled and were now stoppered. The Bleekmen did not glance up as the ‘copter left. They paid no attention to Jack, either; they murmured among themselves in their dialect.
“What’s your desination?” Jack asked them.
The young Bleekman named an oasis very far to the south.
“You think you can make it?” Jack asked. He pointed to the old couple. “Can they?”
“Yes, Mister,” the young Bleekman answered. “We can make it now, with the food and water yourself and the other Mister gave us.”
I wonder if they can, Jack said to himself. Naturally they’d say it, even if they knew it wasn’t possible. Racial pride, I guess.
“Mister,” the young Bleekman said, “we have a present for you because you stopped.” He held out something to Jack.
Their possessions were so meager that he could not believe they had anything to spare. He held his hand out, however, and the young Bleekman put something small and cold into it, a dark, wrinkled, dried bit of substance that looked to Jack like a section of tree root.
“It is a water witch,” the Bleekman said. “Mister, it will bring you water, the source of life, any time you need.”