Free Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 by Devil's Planet (v1.1) Page A

He remembered, too, how he
had seen in the television a desert where dammed and covered reservoirs were
guarded by armed Martian troops as the most precious treasure-vaults of the
planet.
                 He
brought back to mind the pitiful folk of other Martian communities, who must
deny themselves everything to pay the rates for only a tiny supervised trickle
of the fluid which was life to them. All this he could obviate if he finished
the ray mechanism—if he ever had a chance to finish it.
                 “I
may die from something worse than water shortage if I don’t look sharp,” he
told himself.
                 In
his role of tourist, he achieved an appearance of attention as a lens- window
in the roof was set so that the gaping tourists might look their fill upon the
magnified disk of crystal rock that was the hurtling moon Phobos. He did his
best to seem casual as they approached the sixth or seventh public building for
a supervised inspection.
                 “Architecture
bureau,” announced the guide, impressively as though it were something he
himself had planned and created. “Pulambar belongs as you know, to one great
group of interests. Every building, small and great, rich and simple, must be
maintained by that company. Pulambar being Pulambar, everything must stay at
its best and most beautiful. No repairs are skimped or delayed anywhere. Look
about you!”
                LEAVING
the gondola, they entered a lofty room fitted as a main office. Around the
sides were desks at which workers mostly Martians, toiled at reports or
instruments. Tourist parties being frequent here, no attention was paid to the
intruders. The guide marshaled his charges around an alterlike stand in the
center of the floor, on which glowed something that at first glance seemed a
luminous birthday cake with myriad candles. A second look revealed an
exquisitely made miniature of a group of buildings. “A model of Pulambar,”
breathed someone, but the guide laughed in lofty negation.
                 ‘‘It’s
a three-dimensional reflection, an image. Here, focused by an intricate system
of televiso rays, is an actual miniature image of the city. Observe the detail
of buildings and towers. Look closely and you will see actual movement of
gondolas on the little canals, and flying specks in the upper levels, denoting
aircraft.”
                 It
was so. The sightseers stared raptly. Even Stover, his mind filled with other
things, was impressed.
                 “If
we could see microscopically,” went on the guide, “we’d even make out ourselves
standing inside this building. And yet this is only an image, a concentration
of light rays.” To demonstrate, he passed his hand through the gleaming
structure. “This miniature keeps before the attention of the Bureau the city’s state
of affairs, showing if anything is wrong in building or service. For instance—”
                 His
forefinger hovered above one of the tiny towers, a jewel-delicate upward
thrust. Malbrook’s tower!
                 “See
that bright point of light? Something is wrong. And,” the guide’s voice shifted
to a dramatic bass, “it happens to be something of grim tragedy. That, my
friends, is the spot where the awful explosion-slaying of Mace Malbrook took
place recently. The speck of brilliance shows that repairs are needed there.
This is to be done right away—now that the police relinquish the place.”
                 The
tourists hung on his words. Stover glanced to a bulletin screen, where
work-details were posted. It was as he hoped. Halfway down were three words:
                 MALBROOK TOWER —GIRRA
                 Malbrook’s
tower was to be serviced by a worker named Girra. The time was posted, too:
tomorrow morning, very early. The rest of Stover’s problem solved itself very
easily.