The Best of Stanley G. Weinbaum Part 5

'Not by a d.a.m.ned sight!' retorted Jarvis. 'Plenty of unanswered questions are left.'

'Ja!' snapped Putz. 'Der evaporation - dot iss shtopped how?'

'In the ca.n.a.ls? I wondered about that, too; in those thousands of miles, and against this low air pressure, you'd think they'd lose a lot. But the answer's simple; they float a skin of oil on the water.'

Putz nodded, but Harrison cut in. 'Here's a puzzler. With only coal and oil - just combustion or electric power - where'd they get the energy to build a planet-wide ca.n.a.l system, thousands and thousands of miles of 'em? Think of the job we had cutting the Panama Ca.n.a.l to sea level, and then answer that!'

'Easy!' grinned Jarvis. 'Martian gravity and Martian air - that's the answer. Figure it out: First, the dirt they dug only weighed a third its earth-weight. Second, a steam engine here expands against ten pounds per square inch less air pressure than on earth. Third, they could build the engine three times as large here with no greater internal weight. And fourth, the whole planet's nearly level. Right, Putz?'

The engineer nodded. 'Ja! Der shteam-engine - it iss siebenund-zwanzig - twenty-seven times so effective here.'

'Well, there, does go the last mystery then,' mused Harrison.

'Yeah?' queried Jarvis sardonically. 'You answer these, then. What was the nature of that vast empty city? Why do the Martians need ca.n.a.ls, since we never saw them eat or drink? Did they really visit the earth before the dawn of history, and, if not atomic energy, what powered their s.h.i.+p? Since Tweel's race seems to need little or no water, are they merely operating the ca.n.a.ls for some higher creature that does?

Are there other intelligences on Mars? If not, what was the demon-faced imp we saw with the book?

There are a few mysteries for you!'

'I know one or two more!' growled Harrison, glaring suddenly at little Leroy. 'You and your visions!

'Yvonne!' eh? Your wife's name is Marie, isn't it?'

The little biologist turned crimson. 'Oui,' he admitted unhappily. He turned pleading eyes on the captain. 'Please,' he said. 'In Paris tout le monde - everybody he think differently of those things - no?'

He twisted uncomfortably. 'Please you will not tell Marie, n'est-ce pas?'

Harrison chuckled. 'None of my business,' he said. 'One more question, Jarvis. What was the one other thing you did before returning here?'

Jarvis looked diffident. 'Oh - that.' He hesitated. 'Well I sort of felt we owed Tweel a lot, so after some trouble, we coaxed him into the rocket and sailed him out to the wreck of the first one, over on Thyle II. Then,' he finished apologetically, 'I showed him the atomic blast, got it working - and gave it to him!'

'You what?' roared the Captain. 'You turned something as powerful as that over to an alien race - maybe some day an enemy race?'

'Yes, I did,' said Jarvis. 'Look here,' he argued defensively. 'This lousy, dried-up pill of a desert called Mars'll never support much human population. The Sahara desert is just as good a field for imperialism, and a lot closer to home. So we'll never find Tweel's race enemies. The only value we'll find here is commercial trade with the Martians. Then why shouldn't I give Tweel a chance for survival? With atomic energy, they can run their ca.n.a.l system a hundred per cent instead of only one out of five, as Putz's observations showed. They can repopulate those ghostly cities; they can resume their arts and industries; they can trade with the nations of the earth - and I'll bet they can teach us a few things,' he paused, 'if they can figure out the atomic blast, and I'll lay odds they can. They're no fools, Tweel and his ostrich-faced Martians!'

***Proofed to Here***

The Adaptive Ultimate.

DR. DANIEL SCOTT, his dark and brilliant eyes alight with the fire of enthusiasm, paused at last and stared out over the city, or that portion of it visible from the office windows of Herman Bach the Dr.

Herman Bach of Grand Mercy Hospital. There was a moment of silence; the old man smiled a little indulgently, a little wistfully, at the face of the youth-ful biochemist.

"Go on, Dan," he said. "So it occurred to you that getting well of a disease or injury is merely a form of adaptation then what?"

"Then," flashed the other, "I began to look for the most adaptive of living organisms. And what are they? Insects! Insects, of course, Cut off a wing, and it grows back. Cut off a head, stick it to the headless body of another of the same species, and that grows back on. And what's the secret of their great adaptability?"

Dr. Bach shrugged. "What is?"

Scott was suddenly gloomy. "I'm not sure," he muttered. "It's glandular, of course-a matter of hormones." He brightened again. "But I'm off the track. So then I look around for the most adaptive insect. And which is that?"

"Ants?" suggested Dr. Bach. "Bees? Termites?"

"Bah! They're the most highly evolved, not the most adaptable. No, there's one insect that is known to produce a higher percentage of mutants than any other, more freaks, more biological sports. The one Morgan used in his experi-ments on the effect of hard X-rays on heredity-the fruit fly, the ordinary fruit fly. Remember? They have reddish eyes, but under X-rays they produced white-eyed offspring-and that was a true mutation, because the white eyes bred true! Acquired characteristics can't be inherited, but these were. Therefore-''

"I know," interrupted Dr. Bach.

Scott caught his breath. "So I used fruit flies," he resumed. "I putrefied their bodies, injected a cow, and got a serum at last, after weeks of clarifying with alb.u.men, -evaporating in vacuo, rectifying with-But you're not interested in the technique. I got a serum. I tried it on tubercular guinea pigs, and"--he paused dramatically-"

it cured! They adapted themselves to the tubercle bacillus. I tried it on a rabid dog. He adapted. I tried it on a cat with a broken spine. That knit. And now, I'm asking you for the chance to try it on ra human being!"

Dr. Bach frowned. "You're not ready," he grunted. "You're not ready by two years. Try it on an anthropoid. Then try it on yourself. I can't risk a human life in an experiment that's as raw as this."

"Yes, but I haven't got anything that needs curing; and as for an anthropoid, you get the board to allow funds to buy an ape-if you can. I've tried."

"Take it up with the Stoneman Foundation, then."

"And have Grand Mercy lose the ? Listen, Dr. Bach, . I'm asking for just one chance- a chari ase--anything.

"Charity cases are human beings" The o d man scowled down at his hands. "See here, Dan. I shouldn't even offer this much, because it's against all medical ethics; but if I find a hopeless case-utterly hopeless, you understand-where the patient himself consents, I'll do it. And that's the final word"

Scott groaned. "And try to find a case like that. If the patient's conscious, you think there's hope, and if he isn't how can he consent? That settles it!"

But it didn't. Less than a week later Scott looked suddenly up at the annunciator in the corner of his tiny laboratory. "Dr. Scott," it rasped. "Dr. Scott. Dr. Scott. To Dr. Bach's office.

He finished his t.i.tration, noted the figures, and hurried out. The old man was pacing the floor nervously as Scott entered.

"I've got your case, Dan," he muttered. "It's against all ethics-yet I'll be d.a.m.ned if I can see how you can do this one any harm. But you'd better hurry. Come on-isolation ward."

They hurried. In the tiny cubical room Scott stared appalled. "A girl!" he muttered.

She could never have been other than drab and plain, but lying there with the pallor of death alreadyon her cheeks,she had an appearance of somber sweetness. Yet that was all the charm she could ever have possessed; her dark, cropped, oily hair was unkempt and stringy, her features flat and unattractive.

She breathed with an almost inaudible rasp, and her eyes were closed.

"Do you," asked Scott, "consider this a test? She's all but dead now?'

Dr. Bach nodded. "Tuberculosis," he said, "final stage. Her lungs are hemorrhaging-a matter of hours."

The girl coughed; flecks of blood appeared on her pallid lips. She opened dull, -.

watery blue eyes.

"So!" said Bach, "conscious, eh? This is Dr. Scott. Dan, this is-uh"-be peered at the card at the foot of the bed "Miss-uh Kyra Zelas Dr. Scott has an injection, Miss Zetas. As I warned you, it probably won't help, but I can't see how it can hurt. Are you willing?"

She spoke in faint, gurgling tones. "Sure, I'm through any-way. What's the odds?"

"All right. Got the hypo, Dan?" Bach took the tube of water-clear serum. "Any particular point of injection? No? Give me the cubital, then:'

He thrust the needle into the girl '.

s arm. Dan noted that she did not even wince at the bite of the steel point, but lay stoical and pa.s.sive as thirty c.' c. of liquid flowed into her veins. She coughed again, then closed her eyes.

"Come out of here," ordered Bach gruffly, as they moved into the hall "I'm d.a.m.ned if I like this. I feel like a dirty dog."

He seemed to feel less canine, however, the following day. "That Zelas case is still alive," he reported to Scott. "If I dared trust my eyes, I'd say she's improved a little. A very little. I'd still call it hopeless."

But the following day Scott found him seated in his office with a p77led expression in his old gray eyes. "Zeta is better," he muttered. "No question of it. But you keep your head, Dan. Such miracles have happened before, and without serums. You wait until we've had her under long observation."

By the end of the week it became evident that the obser-vation was not to be long. Kyra Zeiss flourished under their gaze lie some swift-blooming tropical weed. Queerly, she lost none of her pallor, but flesh softened the angular features, and a trace of light grew in her eyes.

"The spots on her lungs are going," muttered Bach. "She's stopped coughing, and there'

s no sign of bugs in her culture. But the queerest thing, Dan-and I can't figure it out, either-is the way she reacts to abrasions and skin punctures. Yester-day I took a blood specimen for a Wa.s.serman, and-this sounds utterly mad the puncture closed almost before I had a c. c.! Closed and healed!"

And in another week, ".

Dan, I can't see any reason for keeping Kyra here. She's well. Yet I want her where we can keep her under observation. There's a queer mystery about this serum of yours. And besides, I hate to turn her out to the sort of life that brought her here."

"What did she do?"

"Sewed. Piece-work in some sweatshop, when she could work at all. Drab, ugly, uneducated girl, but there's something appealing about her. She adapts quickly."

. Scott gave him a strange look. "Yes," he said, "she adapts quickly."

"So," resumed Bach, "it occurred to me that she could stay at my place. We could keep her under observation, you see, and she could help the housekeeper. I'm interested-d.a.m.n interested. I think I'll offer her the chance."

Scott was present when Dr. Bach made his suggestion. The girl Kyra smiled. "Sure," she said. Her pallid, plain face lighted up. "Thanks."

Bach gave her the address. "Mrs. Getz will let you in. Don't do anything this afternoon. In fact, it might not hurt you to simply walk in the park for a few hours."

Scott watched the girl as she walked down the hall toward the elevator. She had filled out, but she was still spare to the point of emaciation, and her worn black suit hung on her as if it were on a frame of sticks. As she disappeared, he moved thoughtfully about his duties, and a quarter-hour later des-cended to his laboratory.On the first floor, turmoil met him. Two officers were carry-ing in the body of a nondescript old man whose head was a b.l.o.o.d.y ruin. There was a babble of excited voices, and he saw a crowd on the steps outside.

"What's up?" he called. "Accident?"

"Accident!" snapped an officer. "Murder, you mean.Woman steps up to this old guy, picks a hefty stone from the park border, slugs him, and takes his wallet. Just like that!"

Scott peered out of the window. The Black Maria was back-ing toward a crowd on the park side of the street. A pair of hulking policemen, ftanked a thin figure in black, thrusting it toward the doors of the vehicle.

Scott gasped. It was Kyra Zelas!

A week later Dr: Bach stared into the dark fireplace of his living room. "It's not our business," he repeated.

"My G.o.d!" blazed Scott. "Not our business! How do we know we're not responsible? How do we know that our in-jection didn't unsettle her mind? Glands can do that; look at Mongoloid idiots and cretins. Our stuff was glandular. Maybe we drove her crazy!"

"All right," said Bach. "Listen. We'll attend the trial to-morrow, and if it looks bad for her, we'll get hold of her lawyer and let him put us on the stand. Well testify that she's just been released after a long and dangerous illness, and may not be fully responsible. That's entirely true."

Mid-morning of the next day found them hunched tensely on benches in the crowded courtroom. The prosecution was opening; three witnesses testified to the event.

"This old guy buys peanuts for the pigeons. Yeah, I sell 'em to him every day-or did. So this time he hasn't any change, and he pulls out his wallet, and I see it's stuffed with bills. And one minute later I see the dame pick up the rock and conk him. Then she grabs the dough-"

"Describe her, please."

"She'

s skinny, and dressed in black. She ain't no beauty, neither. Brownish hair, dark eyes, I don't know whether dark blue or brown.

"Your witness!" snapped the prosecutor.

A young and nervous individual-appointed by the court, the paper said rose. "You say," he squeaked, "that the as-savant had brown hair and dark eyes?"

"Yeah!'

"Will the defendant please rise?"

Her back was toward Scott and Bach as Kyra Zelas arose, but Scott stiffened. Something strangely different about her appearance; surely her worn black suit no longer hung so loosely about her. What he could see of her figure seemed-well, magnificent.

"Take off your hat, Miss Zelas," squeaked the attorney. Scott gasped. Radiant as aluminum glowed the ma.s.s of hair she revealed!

"I submit, your honor, that this defendant does not possess dark hair, nor, if you will observe, dark eyes. It is, I suppose, conceivable that she could somehow have bleached her hair while in custody, and I therefore"-he brandished a pair of scissors-"submit a lock to be tested by any chemist the court appoints. The pigmentation is entirely natural. And as for her eyes-does my esteemed opponent suggest that they too are bleached?"

He swung on the gaping witness. "Is this lady the one you claim to have seen committing the crime?"

The man goggled. "Uh-I can't-say.

"Is she?"

"N-no!"

The speaker smiled. "That's all. Will you take the stand, Miss Zelas?"

The girl moved lithe as a panther. Slowly she turned, facing the court. Scott's brain whirled, and his fingers dug into Bach's arm. Silver-eyed, aluminum-haired, alabaster-pale, the girl on the stand was beyond doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever seen!

The attorney was speaking again. "Tell the court in your own words what happened, Miss Zelas."Quite casually the girl crossed her trim ankles and began to speak. Her voice was low, resonant, and thrilling; Scott had to fight to keep his attention on the sense of her words rather than the sound.