Welcome, Martians! — Edition Insights

Who was flying where?

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The only sound was the swish of the jets against the sand as the big ship came down. Slowly, nose pointed skyward, a yellow tail streaming out behind the tubes, it settled to the ground like a cat nuzzling its haunches against a velvet pillow.

Dave Langley peered through the viewport.

"I feel kind of funny," he said.

A tremor of excitement flooded through Cal Manners' thin frame. "Mars," he whispered. "We made it."

Gently, the fins probed the sand, poking into it. Cal cut the power and the big ship shuddered and relaxed, a huge metal spider with a conical head.

Cal peered through the viewport, his eyes scanning the planet. Behind him, Dave shrugged into a space suit, gathered up his instruments.

"I'll make the tests," Dave said. "Keep the starboard guns trained on me."

Cal nodded. He walked Dave to the airlock and lifted the toggles on the inner hatch. Dave stepped into the small chamber, and Cal snapped the hatch shut.

He walked quickly to the starboard guns, wiggled into the plastic seat behind them and pitched his shoulders against the braces. Outside, like a grotesque balloon, Dave stumbled around on weighted feet, taking his readings.

_What's out there?_ Cal wondered. _Just exactly what?_

He tightened his grip on the big blasters, and trained the guns around to where Dave puttered in the sand. Dave suddenly stood erect, waved at Cal, and started lumbering back toward the ship. Cal left the guns and went to the airlock. He stepped into the chamber closed the toggles on the hatch behind him, and twirled the wheel on the outer hatch. He was ready to move back into the ship again when Dave stepped through the outer hatch, his helmet under his arm.

"It's okay, Cal. Breathable atmosphere. And the pressure is all right, too."

Cal let out a sigh of relief. "Come on," he said. "Get out of that monkey suit. Then we'll claim the planet for Earth."

They went back into the ship, and Dave took off the suit, hanging it carefully in its locker. Both men strapped on holsters and drew stun guns from the munitions locker. They checked the charges in their weapons, holstered them, and stepped out into the Martian night.

It was cold, but their clothing was warm and the air was invigorating. Cal looked up at the sky.

"Phobos," he said, pointing.

"And Deimos," Dave added.

"How do you feel, Dave?" Cal asked suddenly.

"Mars. I mean, we're the first men to land on Mars. The first, Dave!"

They were walking aimlessly, in no particular hurry.

"It's funny," Dave said. "I told you before. I feel kind of--"

The music started abruptly, almost exploded into being, tore through the silence of the planet like the strident scream of a wounded animal. Trumpets blasted raucously, trombones moaned and slid, bass drums pounded a steady tattoo. Tubas, heavy and solemn like old men belching. Clarinets, shrill and squealing. Cymbals clashing.

A military band blaring its march into the night.

Dave's mouth hung open. He stared into the distance.

There were lights, and the brass gleamed dully. A group of men were marching toward them, blowing on their horns, waving brilliant banners in the air.

"And music. Like ours. _Music just like ours._"

The procession spilled across the sand like an unravelling spool of brightly colored silk. Children danced on the outskirts of the group, hopping up and down, screaming in glee. Women waved banners, sang along with the band. And the music shouted out across the sand, a triumphal march with a lively beat.

A fat man led the procession. He was beaming, his smile a great enamelled gash across his face. The music became louder, closer, ear-shattering now.

"Welcome," the shouts rang out. "Welcome."

"English!" The word escaped Dave's lips in a sudden hiss. "For God's sake, Cal, they're speaking English."

"Something's wrong," Cal said tightly. "This isn't Mars. We've made a mistake, Dave."

The fat man was closer now, still grinning, his stomach protruding, a gold watch hanging across his vest beneath his jacket. He wore a white carnation in his buttonhole. A homburg, black, was perched solidly atop his head.

"They're human," Dave whispered.

The fat man stopped before them, raised his hands. The music ceased as abruptly as it had begun. He stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Welcome home," he said.

Welcome _home_! The words seared across Cal's mind with sudden understanding.

"There's some mistake ..." he started.