It was maddeningly true, as investigation soon proved. The front and back exits were covered by gunmen—Beecher's police, supposedly—who were able to blast anyone emerging from the building without themselves being under fire. The air-lock nature of the doors made a rush suicidal.

The school was at a distance from the settlement's dwellings; it was not connected by tunnel. Nor had it any windows. The colony listed hundreds of licensed gun wearers—and yet a handful of gun fighters outside could keep them holed up.

Under the influence of Doc MacRae's bellowing voice the assembly got back to work. ‘Before I go ahead,’ Marlowe announced, ‘does anyone else want to surrender? I'm fairly sure that the Pottles were shot because they blundered out without notice. If you shout and wave something white, I think your surrender will be accepted.’

He waited. Presently a man got up with his wife, and then another. A few more trickled out. They left in dead silence.

When they were gone Captain Marlowe went on with organizing. Mrs Palmer he confirmed as head of commissary, Doc he designated as executive officer, Kelly he appointed officer of the watch, responsible for interior guard. Sutton and Toland were given the job of devising some sort of portable screen to block the enfilading fire that had dropped Mr and Mrs Pottle. Jim followed all this with excited interest until, after the appointment of platoon leaders, it became evident that his father did not intend to use boys as combatants. The students from the school were organized into two platoons, designated as reserve, and dismissed.

Jim hung around, trying to get a word with his father. At last he managed to catch his eye. ‘Dad —’

'Don't bother us now, Jim.’

'But, Dad, you told me to see you about getting the Martians to help us get to Copais.’

'The Martians? Oh —’ Mr Marlowe thought about it, then said, ‘Forget it, Jim. Until we can break out of here, neither that scheme, nor any other, will work. Go see how your mother is doing.’

Thus brushed off, Jim turned disconsolately away. As he was leaving Frank fell in step with him. ‘Do you know, Jim, sometimes you aren't as full of guff as you are other times.’

Jim eyed him suspiciously. ‘If that's a compliment—thanks.’

'Not a compliment, Jim, merely justice. Seldom as I approve of your weary notions, this time I admit that you had a bright idea.’

'Quit making a speech and get to the point.’

'Very well. Point: when you suggested getting the Martians to help us you were firing on all jets.’

'Huh? Well, thanks, but I don't see it myself. As Dad pointed out, there's nothing we can do about it until we find some way to break out of here. Then I suppose we won't need their help.’

'You're supposing too fast. Let's, as Doc would say, analyse the situation. In the first place, your father got us boxed in here —’

'You lay off my father!’

'I wasn't picking on your father. Your father is a swell guy. But by behaving like a gentleman he got us cornered and we can't get out. I'm not blaming him, but that's the situation. So what are they going to do about it? Your old man tells my old man and that drip Toland to work out a shield, some sort of armour, that will let us get out the door and into the open where we can fight. Do you think they'll have any luck?’

'Well, I hadn't thought about it.’

'I have. They are going to get exactly no place. Dad is a good engineer. You give him equipment and materials and he'll build you anything. But what's he got to work with? He's got the school workshop and you know what a sad mess that is. The Company never spent any money on equipping it; it's about right for making bookends. Materials? What are they going to make a shield out of? Dining room table tops? A heater would cut through a table top like soft cheese.’

'Oh, there must be something around they can use.’

'You name it.’

'Well, what do you want us to do?’ Jim said in exasperation. ‘Surrender?’

'Certainly not. The old folks are stuck in a rut. Here's where we show finesse—using your idea.’

'Quit calling it my idea. I haven't got any idea.’

'Okay, I'll take all the credit. We get word to Gekko that we need help. He's our water friend; he'll see to it.’

'How can Gekko help us? Martians don't fight.’

'That's right, but, as it says in geometry, what's the corollary? Human beings never fight Martians, never. Beecher can't risk offending the Martians. Everybody knows what a terrible time the Company had persuading the Martians that it was all right to let us settle here in the first place. Now suppose that about twenty or thirty Martians—or even one—came stomping up to the front door of this place: what do Beecher's cops do?’

'Huh?’

'They cease fire, that's what—and we come swarming out. That's what Gekko can do for us. He can fix it so that Beecher is forced to call off his gun toters. He'll have to.’

Jim thought about it. There was certainly merit in it. Every human who set foot on Mars had it thoroughly drummed into him that the natives must not be interfered with, provoked, nor their customs violated—nor, above all things, hurt. The strange and distressing history of the first generation of contact with the Martians had resulted in this being the first law of the settlements on Mars. Jim could not imagine Beecher violating this rule—nor could he imagine the Company police doing so. In normal times the principal duty of the police was the enforcement of this rule, particularly with respect to tourists from Earth, who were never allowed to come in contact with natives.

'There is just one thing wrong, Frank. Supposing Gekko and his friends were willing, how are we going to let him know that we need help? We can't just call him on the phone.’

'No, we can't—but that is where you come in. You can send him a message.’

'How?’

'Willis.’

'You're crazy!’

'Am I? Suppose you go out that front door—fsst! You are done for. But suppose Willis goes out? Who's going to shoot a bouncer?’

'I don't like it. Willis might get hurt.’

'If we just sit tight and do nothing, you'll wish he was dead. Beecher will sell him to the London Zoo.’

Jim considered this, then answered, ‘Anyhow, your scheme is full of holes. Even if he gets outside safely, Willis couldn't find Gekko and couldn't be depended on to deliver a message. He'd be just as likely to sing or recite some of Doc's bum jokes. I've got a better idea.’

'Convince me.’

'I'll bet that Beecher's plug-uglies didn't think to keep watch on the garbage dump. I'll deliver the message to Gekko myself.’

Frank thought it over. ‘No good. Even if they aren't watching the dump, they can see you from where they are watching the back door. They'd nail you before you could scramble to your feet.’

'I'll wait till dark.’

'Mmmm ... could work. Only I'll do it. I'm faster on my feet than you are.’

'Look who's talking!’

'All right! We'll both do it—an hour apart.’ Frank went on, ‘But that doesn't cut Willis out of it. He'll try it, too. One of us might get through. Now wait a minute—you underrate your little pal. We'll teach him just what he's to say. Then you tell him to go over into the native city, stop the first Martian he meets and recite his piece. The Martian does the rest because we'll put it all into the message. The only question is whether or not Willis is bright enough to do as you tell him. I've got grave doubts about that.’

Jim bristled. ‘You're always trying to make out that Willis is stupid. He's not; you just don't understand him.’

'Okay, then he can find his way over to the city and deliver the message. Or can't he?’

'Well—I don't like it.’

'Which do you prefer, to take a small risk with Willis or to have your mother and your baby brother have to spend the winter at South Colony?’

Jim chewed his lip. ‘All right—we'll try it. Let's get Willis.’

'Don't get in a rush. Neither you nor I know the native language well enough to whip up just what we want to say. But Doc does. He'll help us.’

'He's the only one of the grown ups I'd trust with this anyhow. Come on.’

They found MacRae, but were not able to speak with him at once. He was in the communications booth, bellowing at the screen. They could hear his half of the conversation. ‘I want to talk to Doctor Rawlings. Well, get him—don't sit there chewing your pencil! Tell him it's Doctor MacRae.... Ah, good day, Doctor! ... No, I just got here ... How's business, Doctor? Still cremating your mistakes? ... Well, don't we all? ... Sorry, I can't; I'm locked up.... Locked up, I said ...—L ... O ... C ... K ... E ... D up, like a disorderly drunk.... No reason, none at all. It's that simian moron, Beecher.... Yes, hadn't you heard? The entire colony, penned up in the schoolhouse ... shoots us down if we so much as stick our noses out.... No, I'm not joking. You know Skinny Pottle—he and his wife were killed not two hours ago. Come see for yourself and find out what kind of a madman you have ruling you here ...’ The screen suddenly went blank. MacRae swore and fiddled with the controls.

Presently, by experiment, he realized the instrument had been cut off completely. He came out, shrugging. ‘Well, they finally caught on to me,’ he remarked to the room in general, ‘but I talked to three key men.’

'What were you doing, Doc?’ asked Jim.

'Starting some fifth column activity behind Beecher's lines. There are good people everywhere, son, but you have to spell it out for them.’

'Oh. Look, Doc, could you spare us some time?’

'What for? Your father has a number of things for me to do, Jim.’

'This is important.’ They got MacRae aside and explained to him their plans.

MacRae looked thoughtful. ‘It just might work. That notion of making use of Martian immunity is brilliant, Frank; you should go into politics. However, about the other stunt—the garbage can paratrooper act—if you ask your father, he'll veto it.’

'Can't you ask him? He'll listen to you.’

'I said If you ask your father.’

'Oh. I get you.’

'About the other matter—chase up the little beastie and meet me in classroom “C"; I'm using it as an office.’

Jim and Frank left to do so. Jim found his mother and Oliver asleep, his sister and Willis gone. He had started to leave when his mother woke up. ‘Jimmy?’

'I didn't mean to wake you, Mother. Where's Phyl? I want to find Willis.’

'Your sister is in the kitchen, I think, helping out. Isn't Willis here? He was here on the bed with baby and me.’

Jim looked again, but found no sign of Willis. ‘I'll go ask Phyl. Maybe she came back and got him.’

'He can't have wandered far. I'm sorry, Jim.’

'I'll find him.’

He went to the kitchen, found his sister. ‘How would I know?’ she protested. ‘He was with mother when I left. Don't go looking at me.’

Jim joined Frank. ‘Darn it, they've let him wander off. We'll just have to search.’

One hour and hundreds of inquiries later they were convinced that, if the bouncer was in the school, he had found a very special hiding place. Jim was so annoyed that he had forgotten completely the essential danger that they were all in. ‘That's what comes of trusting women,’ he said bitterly. ‘Frank, what'll I do now?’

'Search me.’

They were in the far end of the building from their former room. They started back toward it on the chance that Willis might have come back. As they were passing through the entrance hall, Jim stopped suddenly. ‘I heard him!’

They both listened. ‘Open up!’ came a replica of Jim's voice. ‘Let Willis in!’ The voice came through the door's announcing speaker.

Jim darted for the pressure lock, was stopped by the guard. ‘Hey,’ he protested, ‘open the lock. That's Willis.’

'More likely it's a trap. Stand back.’

'Let him in. That's Willis, I tell you.’ The guard ignored him, but threw the switch that caused the lock to cycle. He cleared everybody out of range, then watched the door from one side, gun drawn.

The inner door opened and Willis waddled through.

Willis was bland about the whole thing. ‘Jim go away. Everybody go away. Willis go for walk.’

'How did you get outdoors?’

'Went out.’

'But how?’ Willis apparently could see nothing difficult about that; he did not amplify.

'Maybe he went out when the Pottles did?’ suggested Frank.

'Maybe. Well, I guess it doesn't matter.’

'Go see people,’ Willis offered. He named off a string of native names, then added, ‘Fine time. Water friends. Give Willis good water, big drink.’ He made lip-smacking noises in imitation of Jim, although he had no lips himself.

'You had a drink just a week ago,’ Jim said accusingly.

'Willis good boy!’ Willis countered.

'Wait a minute,’ said Frank. ‘He was with Martians.'

'Huh? I don't care if he was with Cleopatra; he shouldn't run away.’

'But don't you see? He can get to the natives; he already has. All we've got to do is to be sure he carries a message for them to pass on to Gekko.’

The point, relayed to MacRae, increased his interest. The three composed a message in English for MacRae to translate. ‘Greetings,’ it began, ‘this is a message from Jim Marlowe, water friend of Gekko of the city of —’ Here they inserted the unspellable and most unpronounceable Martian name of Cynia. ‘Whoever you may be, friend of my friend, you are implored to send this word at once to Gekko. I am in great trouble and I need your help.’ The message went on to tell the nature of the trouble, who was responsible, and what they hoped would be done about it. Telegraphic simplicity was not attempted, since Willis's nervous system could hold a thousand words as easily as ten.

MacRae translated it, then drilled Jim in reading it, after which they attempted to impress on Willis what he was to do. Willis was willing, but his consistently slap-happy, featherbrained approach to any problem exasperated them almost to hysteria. At last it seemed likely that he might carry out his assignment; at least (a) when asked what he was to do he would answer, ‘go see friends,’ and (b) when asked what he would tell them he would (usually) answer by reciting the message.

'It might work,’ decided MacRae. ‘We know the Martians have means of rapid communication, even though we've never known what sort. If our plump friend doesn't forget what he is doing and why he is making the trip...’

Jim took him to the front door. On MacRae's authorization the guard let them through. Jim checked Willis again while the lock was cycling; the bouncer appeared to be sure of his instructions, although his answers showed his usual mental leapfrog.

Jim hung back in the doorway, out of the line of fire, while Willis rolled off the stoop. The Pottles still lay where they had fallen; Willis looked at them, then took a zig-zag course down the street and disappeared from Jim's view, cut off as he was by the door frame. Jim wished then that he had had the foresight to bring along a mirror to use as a periscope. Finally he screwed up his courage, lay down, and peeked around the edge of the door at the bottom-most part.

Willis was well down the street and nothing had happened to him. Far down the street some sort of a cover had been set up. Jim stuck his head out an inch farther, trying to see what it was, when the corner of the door frame above him gave off a puff of smoke and he felt the electric tingle of a near miss. He jerked his head back and re-entered the lock.

He had an all-gone feeling at the pit of his stomach and a conviction that he would never see Willis again.