Nothing happened.
He tried again, using a different idiom; still nothing happened. "It's no good, Jim," he admitted. "Either he doesn't understand me or he doesn't want to bother to listen."
Jim shouted, "Willis! Hey, Willis! Are you all right?"
"Willis fine!"
"Jump down! I'll catch you."
"Willis fine."
The Martian wobbled his head, seemed to locate Jim for the first time. He cradled Willis in one arm; his other two arms came snaking suddenly down and enclosed Jim, one palm flap cradling him where he sat down, the other slapping him across the belly. Jim was unable to get at his gun, which was just as well.
He felt himself lifted and held and then he was staring into a large liquid Martian eye which stared back at him. The Martian "man" rocked his head back and forth and let each of his eyes have a good look.
It was the closest Jim had ever been to a Martian; he did not care for it. Worse, the little supercharger on the top of Jim's mask compressed not only the thin air, but also the body odor of the native; the stench was overpowering. Jim tried to wiggle away, but the fragile-appearing Martian was stronger than he was.
Suddenly the Martian's voice boomed out from the top of his head. Jim could not understand what was being said although he spotted the question symbol at the beginning of the phrase. But the Martian's voice had a strange effect on him.
Croaking and uncouth though it was, it was filled with such warmth and sympathy and friendliness that the native no longer frightened him. Instead he seemed like an old and trusted friend. Even the stink of his kind no longer troubled Jim.
The Martian repeated the question.
"What did he say, Frank?"
"I didn't get it. Shall I burn him?" Frank stood uneasily by, his gun drawn, but apparently unsure what to do.
"No, no! He's friendly, but I can't understand him."
The Martian spoke again; Frank listened. "He's inviting you to go with him, I think."
Jim hesitated a split second. Tell him okay."
"Jim, are you crazy?"
"It's all right. He means well. I'm sure of it."
"Well-all right." Frank croaked the phrase of assent.
The native gathered up one leg and strode rapidly away toward the city. Frank trotted after. He tried his best to keep up, but the pace was too much for him. He paused, gasping, then shouted, "Wait for me," his voice muffled by his mask.
Jim tried to phrase a demand to stop, gave up, then got an inspiration. "Say, Willis-Willis boy. Tell him to wait for Frank."
"Wait for Frank?" Willis said doubtfully.
"Yes. Wait for Frank."
"Okay." Willis hooted at his new friend; the Martian paused and dropped his third leg. Frank came puffing up.
The Martian removed one arm from Jim and scooped up Frank with it. "Hey!" Frank protested. "Cut it out."
"Take it easy," advised Jim.
"But I don't want to be carried. Judas-what a smell! Pew!"
"Smell? Don't be a sissy. He smells better than you do."
Frank's reply was disturbed by the Martian starting up again. Thus burdened, he shifted to a three-legged gait in which at least two legs were always on the ground. It was bumpy but surprisingly fast. Finally Frank managed to say, "Repeat that last crack when we get down and I'll show you who smells bad."
"Forget it," urged Jim. "Where do you suppose he is taking -is?"
"To the city I guess." Frank added, "We don't want to miss the scooter." "We've got hours yet. Quit worrying."
The Martian said nothing more but continued slogging toward Cynia. Willis was evidently as happy as a bee in a flower shop. Jim settled down to enjoying the ride. Now that he was being carried with his head a good ten feet above ground his view was much improved; he could see over the tops of the plants growing by the canal and beyond them to the iridescent towers of Cynia. The towers were not like those of Charax; no two Martian cities looked alike. It was as if each were a unique work of art, each expressing the thoughts of a different artist.
Jim wondered why the towers had been built, what they were good for, how old they were?
The canal crops spread out around them, a dark green sea in which the Martian waded waist deep. The broad leaves were spread flat to the sun's rays, reaching greedily for lifegiving radiant energy. They curled aside as the native's body brushed them, to spread again as he passed.
The towers grew much closer; suddenly the Martian stopped and set the two boys down. He continued to carry Willis. Ahead of them, almost concealed by overhanging greenery, a ramp slanted down into the ground and entered a tunnel arch. Jim looked at it and said, "Frank, what do you think?"
"Gee, I don't know." The boys had been inside the cities of Charax and Copais, but only in the abandoned parts and at ground level. They were not allowed time to fret over thendecision; their guide started down the slope at a good clip.
Jim ran after him, shouting, "Hey, Willis!"
The Martian stopped and exchanged a couple of remarks with Willis; the bouncer called out, "Jim wait."
"Tell him to put you down."
"Willis fine. Jim wait." The Martian started up again at a pace that Jim could not possibly match. Jim went disconsolately back to the start of the ramp and sat down on the ledge thereof.
"What are you going to do?" demanded Frank.
"Wait, I suppose. What else can I do? What are you going to do?"
"Oh, I'll stick. But I'm not going to miss the scooter."
"Well, neither am I. We couldn't stay here after sundown anyhow."
"You aint whistling!" The precipitous drop in temperature at sunset on Mars is almost all the weather there is, but it means death by freezing for an Earth human unless he is specially clothed and continuously exercising.
They sat and waited and watched spin bugs skitter past. One stopped by Jim's knee, a little tripod of a creature, less than an inch high; it appeared to study him. He touched it; it flung out its limbs and whirled away. The boys were not even alert, since a water-seeker will not come close to a Martian settlement; they simply waited.
Perhaps a half hour later the Martian-or, at least, a Martian of the same size-came back. He did not have Willis with him. Jim's face fell. But the Martian said, "Come with me," in his own tongue, prefacing the remark with the question symbol.
"Do we or don't we?" asked Frank.
"We do. Tell him so." Frank complied. The three started down. The Martian laid a great hand flap on the shoulders of each boy and herded them along. Shortly he stopped and picked them up. This time they made no objection.
The tunnel seemed to remain in full daylight even after they had penetrated several hundred yards underground. The light came from everywhere but especially from the ceiling. The tunnel was large by human standards but no more than comfortably roomy for Martians. They passed several other natives; if another was moving their host always boomed a greeting, but if he was frozen in the characteristic trance-like immobility no sound was made.
Once their guide stepped over a ball about three feet in diameter. Jim could not make out what it was at first, then he did a double take and was still more puzzled. He twisted his neck and looked back at it. It couldn't be-but it was!
He was gazing 'at something few humans ever see, and no human ever wants to see: a Martian folded and rolled into a ball, his hand flaps covering everything but his curved back. Martians-modem, civilized Martians-do not hibernate, but at some time remote eons in the past their ancestors must have done so, for they are still articulated so that they can assume the proper, heat-conserving, moisture-conserving globular shape, if they wish.
They hardly ever so wish.
For a Martian to roll up is the moral equivalent of an Earthly duel to the death and is resorted to only when that Martian is offended so completely that nothing less will suffice. It means: I cast you out, I leave your world, I deny your existence.