She had, moreover, worked out a plan that would enable her to live in modest comfort for the rest of her days, and would, at the same time, give her husband the treatment he deserved. The next time he materialized, he would find the estate teeming with gawkers. Beatrice was going to charge them five dollars a head to come in through the Alice-in-Wonderland door.
This was no pipe dream. She had discussed it with two supposed representatives of the mortgage-holders on the estate – and they were enthusiastic.
They were with her now, watching the preparations for the firing of The Rumfoord on television. The television set was in the same room with the huge painting of Beatrice as an immaculate little girl in white, with a white pony all her own. Beatrice smiled up at the painting. The little girl had yet to get the least bit soiled.
The television, announcer now began the last minute’s countdown for the firing of The Rumfoord.
During the countdown, Beatrice’s mood was birdlike. She could not sit still and she could not keep quiet. Her restlessness was a result of happiness, not of suspense. It was a matter of indifference to her whether The Rumfoord was a fizzle or not.
Her two visitors, on the other hand, seemed to take the firing very seriously – seemed to be praying for the success of the shot. They were a man and a woman, a Mr. George M. Helmholtz and his secretary, a Miss Roberta Wiley. Miss Wiley was a funny-looking little old thing, but very alert and witty.
The rocket went up with a roar.
It was a flawless shot.
Helmholtz sat back and heaved a manly sigh of relief. Then he smiled and beat his thick thighs exuberantly. “By glory – ” he said, “I’m proud to be an American – and proud to be living in the time I do.”
“Would you like something to drink?” said Beatrice.’
“Thank you very much – ” said Helmholtz, “but I daren’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Isn’t the business all over?” said Beatrice. “Haven’t we discussed everything?”
“Well – Miss Wiley and I had hoped to take an inventory of the larger buildings on the grounds,” said Helmholtz, “but I’m afraid it’s gotten quite dark. Are there floodlights?”
Beatrice shook her head. “Sorry,” she said.
“Perhaps you have a powerful flashlight?” said Helmholtz.
“I can probably get you a flashlight,” said Beatrice, “but I don’t think it’s really necessary for you to go out there. I can tell you what all the buildings are.” She rang for the butler, told him to bring a flashlight. “There’s the tennis house, the greenhouse, the gardener’s cottage, what used to be the gate house, the carriage house, the guest house, the tool shed, the bath house, the kennel, and the old water tower.”
“Which one is the new one?” said Helmholtz.
“The new one?” said Beatrice.
The butler returned with a flashlight, which Beatrice gave to Helmholtz.
“The metal one,” said Miss Wiley.
“Metal?” said Beatrice puzzled. “There aren’t any metal buildings. Maybe some of the weathered shingles have kind of a silvery look.” She frowned. “Did somebody tell you there was a metal building here?”
“We saw it when we came in,” said Helmholtz. “Right by the path – in the undergrowth near the fountain,” said Miss Wiley.
“I can’t imagine,” said Beatrice.
“Could we go out and have a look?” said Helmholtz.
“Yes – of course,” said Beatrice, rising.
The party of three crossed the zodiac on the foyer floor, moved into the balmy dark.
The flashlight beam danced before them. “Really – ” said Beatrice, “I’m as curious to find out what it is as you are.”
“It looks like kind of a prefabricated thing made out of aluminum,” said Miss Wiley.
“It looks like a mushroom-shaped water tank or something,” said Helmholtz, “only it is squatting right on the ground.”
“Really?” said Beatrice.
“You know what I said it was, don’t you?” said Miss Wiley.
“No – ” said Beatrice, “what did you say it was?”
“I have to whisper,” said Miss Wiley playfully, “or somebody will want to lock me up in the crazy house.” She put her hand to her mouth, directing her loud whisper to Beatrice. “Flying saucer,” she said.
CHAPTER FOUR
TENT RENTALS
Rented a tent, a tent, a tent;
Rented a tent, a tent, a tent.
Rented a tent!
Rented a tent!
Rented a, rented a tent.
– SNARE DRUM ON MARS
The men had marched to the parade ground to the sound of a snare drum. The snare drum had this to say to them:
Rented a tent, a tent, a tent;
Rented a tent, a tent, a tent.
Rented a tent!
Rented a tent!
Rented a, rented a tent.
They were an infantry division of ten thousand men, formed in a hollow square on a natural parade ground of solid iron one mile thick. The soldiers stood at attention on orange rust. They shivered rigidly, being as much like iron as they could be – both officers anti men. Their uniforms were a rough-textured, frosty green – the color of lichens.
The army had come to attention in utter silence. No audible or visible signal had been given. They had come to attention as a man, as though through a stupendous coincidence.
The third man in the second squad of the first platoon of the second company of the third battalion of the second regiment of the First Martian Assault Infantry Division was a private who had been broken from lieutenant-colonel three years before. He had been on Mars for eight years.
When a man in a modern army is broken from field grade to private, it is likely that he will be old for a private, and that his comrades in arms, once they get used to the fact that he isn’t an officer any more, will, out of respect for his failing legs, eyes, and wind, call him something like Pops, or Gramps, or Unk.
The third man in the second squad of the first platoon of the second company in the third battalion of the second regiment of the First Martian Assault Infantry Division was called Unk. Unk was forty years old. Unk was a well-made man – a light heavyweight, dark-skinned, with poet’s lips, with soft brown eyes in the shaded caves of a Cro-Magnon brow ridge. Incipient baldness had isolated a dramatic scalplock.
An illustrative anecdote about Unk:
One time, when Unk’s platoon was taking a shower, Henry Brackman, Unk’s platoon sergeant, asked a sergeant from another regiment to pick out the best soldier in the platoon. The visiting sergeant, without any hesitation, picked Unk, because Unk was a compact, nicely muscled, intelligent man among boys.
Brackman rolled his eyes. “Jesus – you’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he said. “That’s the platoon f – kup.”
“You kidding me?” said the visiting sergeant.
“Hell no, I ain’t kidding you,” said Brackman. “Look at him – been standing there for ten minutes, and hasn’t touched a piece of soap yet. Unk! Wake up, Unk!”
Unk shuddered, stopped dreaming under the tepid drizzle of the shower head. He looked questioningly at Brackman, bleakly co-operative.
“Use some soap, Unk!” said Brackman. “For Chrissakes, use some soap!”
Now, on the iron parade ground, Unk stood at attention in the hollow square like all the rest.
In the middle of the hollow square was a stone post with iron rings fixed to it. Chains had been drawn rattling through the rings – had been drawn tight around a red-haired soldier standing against a post. The soldier was a clean soldier – but he was not a neat soldier, for all the badges and decorations had been stripped off his uniform, and he had no belt, no necktie, no snow-white puttees.
Everybody else, including Unk, was all spiffed up. Everybody else looked very nice indeed.
Something painful was going to happen to the man at the stake – something from which the man would want to escape very much, something from which he was not going to escape, because of the chains.
And all the soldiers were going to watch.
The event was being given great importance.
Even the man at the stake was standing at attention, being the best soldier he knew how to be, under the circumstances.
Again – no audible or visible order was given, but the ten thousand soldiers executed the movement of parade rest as a man.
So did the man at the stake.
Then the soldiers relaxed in ranks, as though given the order at ease. Their obligations under this order were to relax, but to keep their feet in place, and to keep silent. The soldiers were free to think a little now, and to look around and to send messages with their eyes, if they had messages and could find receivers.
The man at the stake tugged against his chains, craned his neck to judge the height of the stake to which he was chained. It was as though he thought he might escape by use of the scientific method, if only he could find out how high the stake was and what it was made of.