Machine of KLAMUGRA

By Allen K. Lang

Captain Barnaby and Lieutenant Teajun stood at the brink of that vast stone amphitheater, staring wonderingly down at half-an-acre of gadget. This glittering mass of million-year clockwork was the Machine ... and soon it was to judge them for their crime against Mars!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Klaggchallak, his fur nose-flaps pulled tight against his nostrils, stumbled up to the gleaming pinnacle of steel that seemed to offer shelter against the night. He felt a dust-storm gathering in the west, and knew that not even the tough skin of a Martian priest could withstand the angry whippings of sand lashed up by the wind-warlocks of the desert.

The old priest drew a tiny, folded mal-skin tent from his back-pack. Without haste, for he knew that the elder gods of Mars were watching his safety, Klaggchallak pitched the tent against the west stabilizer of the rocket, drawing the tough hide down to form a floor-flap and fastening it to the steel of the stabilizer with tough mal-hoof glue, which would hold fast in the fiercest winds of Mars. He looked for the sun and found it low in the evening sky, then crawled leisurely into the yurt, pulling the door-flap down after him and gluing it to the floor. He had for himself a secure cocoon into which the sand-devils could not force their probing fingers. Before he slept, the old priest fingered his beads, reciting his evening invocation to various benevolent and protective gods.

The falling sun threw a dancing star against the hull of the ship standing tall in its tail-chocks. A bewildering wail, the banshee-call of "Danger; ship jetting off!" sounded; but Klaggchallak slept on, hearing through his dreams only the howling of the wind.

Sixty seconds later, as prescribed in the General Regulations of the Extraterrestrial Service, a second sound began, that most fearful of noises, the sirening of the rocket exhaust. The Martian in his skin tent wakened and felt fear gnaw at his bones; fear induced by subsonic tremors from the rocket blast. Klaggchallak reached for his beads as the heat soaked into his thick, wrinkled skin.

In a moment the floor sagged beneath him. With the mal-skin pouch dangling ridiculously from its tail assembly, the EXTS rocket Vulcan rose with great gentleness from its tail-chocks, pushed up on its spraying jets.

Four seconds later the ship was a ruby flame above the low hills. Eight seconds later a charred bipod, a bifurcated cinder, tumbled down from space to strike near the jetoff field, where the Vulcan's tail-chocks glowed dull red and the blackened ground smoldered. A moment later a bracelet of blast-welded beads tumbled down from the sky, falling near the carbon hulk that a few seconds before had been Klaggchallak, a Martian priest great in wisdom and in honor among his people.

Captain Jan Barnaby and Lieutenant Kim Teajun of the Extraterrestrial Service stood before the Board of Inquiry at Denver, D. F. The President of the Board, a Chief Commander's star-on-silver gleaming at his right collar point, opened the proceedings:

"The military rocket Vulcan, EXTS light cruiser, is accused by the Martian authorities of causing the death of one Klaggchallak, a priest. They further claim that the death of Klaggchallak was caused by criminal negligence on the part of the pilot and co-pilot of the rocket, Captain Jan Barnaby and Lieutenant Kim Teajun, respectively. Such neglect being within the definition of murder in the Martian legal code, the Judging Authority of Mars demands that we deliver these two men to them for trial and eventual punishment."

The Commander stroked his grey hair thoughtfully as he looked up from his report to the two unhappy officers before him. "At ease, gentlemen." Barnaby and Teajun slumped. "While I'm inclined to agree with you two that Klaggchallak's frying was his own fool fault, I must say that you picked a damned poor time to become the instruments of his immolation. We had hoped to establish an extra-territoriality agreement with Mars, but the death of old Klaggchallak puts that out of the question. To further Martian tranquility, you men will have to return to Mars and face the Judging Authority there. If my feelings were all that is at stake, gentlemen, I'd tell the Marties to go trippingly to hell, and keep you here on Earth. But to do this would mean we'd be forced to abandon our bases and mines and surveys on all Mars. We'd be giving our European competitors a clear field." The Commander folded the report neatly, once and again. "Captain Barnaby and Lieutenant Kim, you'll be on the next Mars-ward ship. We can't help you if you're convicted by our fuzzy friends. You'll have to stay there and take whatever punishment they demand."

Kim was remembering a scene he and Barnaby had witnessed at Klamugra, the seat of the Martian Judging Authority. A Martian, convicted of murder, was being executed atop a high metal platform. A large portion of the city's population was gathered before the platform, watching the edifying spectacle of a fellow-Martian dying with horrifying slowness as the chocks of a vise pressed into his skull. They were bearcats for gladiatorial amusement.

"Do you gentlemen have any questions?"

Lieutenant Kim glanced at Captain Barnaby, then spoke. "Yes, sir. I'd like to know how long we're going to let the Marties push us around this way. Thirteen Martian priests are on our payroll, just because they demand it. We've got to stay five kilometers away from their cities, or pay a five-hundred credit fine. We can't spit without special permission from the Grand Council of Mars. We don't think like they do; why should we submit to being judged by their million-year-old laws? In all respect, sir, why does our Service act so weak?"

The Commander made a pyramid of thumbs and forefingers, and considered it. "Lieutenant Kim, I've been asking myself that question for the last ten years. We've had to pay tribute to gain the Marties' permission to stay on their god-forsaken planet. That tribute represents half the operating expense of the Martian Department of the Service, credits that should be spent on new ships and more men. We've behaved like a bunch of patsies ever since von Munger and Ley landed on Mars.

"Still, we're all soldiers, and we must follow regulations. We mustn't disturb the indigenous population on Mars; that's Regulation 'A-1.' If our policies grow distasteful to the Marties, they may call in the Europeans to take our place. We wouldn't like that. It's bad form to admit it, gentlemen, but I'm ashamed to give you this order. You're to jet off for Mars tomorrow morning; and on arrival at Klamugra, to deliver yourselves over to the Martian Judging Authority." The Commander rapped his gavel and stood; the two officers before the Board snapped to attention. "Board of Inquiry dismissed."

Fully aware that tomorrow's jetoff would multiply by eight the hangovers they were breeding, Captain Barnaby and Lieutenant Kim sat that evening in the Denver Dive, alternating drinks of European vodka with rounds of California moon-dew. As Kim said: "Drink as much as you like, Barnaby; we're not driving in the morning."

"Tell me," Barnaby demanded of his co-pilot, "what you're thinking of, you Martie-roasting fiend of a Korean."

"I was considering the memory of the 'shlunk!' that Martian murderer's skull made when it finally gave in, that day at Klamugra. Do you remember, hard-headed Yankee?" Kim's eyes followed the blonde ecdysiast across the stage more from habit than present interest.

"Why did you have to remember that? 'Shlunk!'—ugh!"

"We're going to have to squirm out of this, Barnaby-sunsang," Kim said. "We'll have to beat that rap at Klamugra. It's not that I wish to avoid putting my head in a vise; it's only that it hurts me to see the Extraterrestrial Service made a monkey of this way. In a way it will even be a shame if we get off. Think of all the Marties who will miss the opportunity to see your punkin head smashed."

"You orientals have noble souls, Kim."

The blonde stripper, having uncovered as much of herself as she could without resorting to dissection, jumped down from the stage and walked over to the two EXTS officers. "Would you gentlemen like to buy me a drink?" she asked.

Kim's eyes roved abroad in a brief anatomy lesson, but Barnaby said, "I'll buy you one a couple of weeks from now, if I'm not laid up somewhere with a splitting headache." He stood unsteadily and tossed a ten-credit certificate on the table. "If you're really thirsty, get a drink out of that."

Kim reluctantly followed his superior officer from the bar. At the door he turned and called back to the blonde, "Don't catch cold, child. I'll be back."

The dawn jetoff was miserable, as jetoffs always are. Four days brought the ship within falling-distance of Mars; soon the jets thundered as it backed into a pocket of hills outside Klamugra. The air-pumps hammered to bring the air pressure inside the hull gradually down to that of the outside, so that instruments and equipment wouldn't be subjected to a sudden lowering of pressure. The men inside the ship slipped plastic helmets over their heads, checked the tiny air-pumps on their shoulders, and drew on heavy gloves and boots.

When the port swung open Kim and Barnaby climbed down the ladder to the blast-blackened sand. The sergeant of EXTS Provost Marshall who had accompanied them walked with the officers to a hill overlooking the ancient Martian city of Klamugra, which stood on a terrace about five kilometers to the north. The red adobe walls of the city, testimony of the ancient days when Mars had enough water to allow its use for brick-making, blended with the distance to seem a part of the red desert sand.

A cloud of steam and dust appeared between the hill where they stood and the city. Captain Barnaby un-leathered his binoculars and pressed them to the eyepieces of his helmet, and made out a hopping jeep, its top enclosed in plastic and a trio of supercharger coils poking through the sides of the hood. Clouds of steam followed the jeep as its exhaust streamed out into the chilly air.