The Mind Creative
Tonight Ry, the leader (as nearly as the Martian word can be
translated), and Khee, his administrative assistant and closest
friend, sat and meditated together until the time was near. Then
they drank a toast to the future — in a beverage based on menthol,
which had the same effect on Martians as alcohol on Earthmen —
and climbed to the roof of the building in which they had been
sitting. They watched toward the north, where the rocket should
land. The stars shone brilliantly and unwinkingly through the
atmosphere.
In Observatory No. 1 on Earth’s moon, Rog Everett, his eye at the
eyepiece of the spotter scope, said triumphantly, “Thar she blew,
Willie. And now, as soon as the films are developed, we’ll know the
score on that old planet Mars.” He straightened up — there’d be
no more to see now — and he and Willie Sanger shook hands
solemnly. It was an historical occasion.
“Hope it didn’t kill anybody. Any Martians, that is. Rog, did it hit
dead center in Syrtis Major?”
“Near as matters. I’d say it was maybe a thousand miles off, to
the south. And that’s damn close on a fifty-million-mile shot. Willie,
do you really think there are any Martians?”
Willie thought a second and then said, “No.”
He was right.
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