wrong (no free robots on Mars) or he would die before freeing me. Either way I would end my days grubbing away on the ugliest planet, among people who talked like those on the video we now watched.
FIRST MARTIAN: Grok, brudda
(Hello, fellow Martian.)
SECOND MARTIAN: Grokola, Marty-brud. My parsnip is fraughter nor a dead skate's greep, ow you?
(Hello. I could use a drink, how about you?)
FIRST MARTIAN: Too wry, nuncle. Not schlepped the old barf-bag since the old snap jived earthside, curd shore use a spew and a pinter pipi.
(Right. I haven't dined out since my girl left me, so I could sure use a meal and a beer.)
SECOND MARTIAN: Bow-wow. There is no ankle-grine without some wallop a frigstore ending. Me got brakes, let's scop the joot so snaffle a coupla pinters.
(Fine. Every stone must have its well. I've got a car, let's ?? the road and grab two beers.)
While we were still puzzling over scop , an alarm siren went off somewhere in the ship. The Doodlebug always had some kind of alarm going off—being a big ship and old—but this time the captain spoke to us over the PA system:
"Attention all passengers and crew, this is the captain speaking. We are um being um spacejacked—is that the word?" There was the sound of machinegun fire. "Hijacked, okay, we're being hijacked. By the um Vilo Jord and Family Liberation Front." There was a long pause, and then he said, "That is all. Thank you."
From time to time we heard gunfire from distant parts of the ship.
The Deacon's eyes were shining. "Real Martys! This Jord family are real Martys! This is our chance to try out the lingo. Let's go."
"Go, boss?" I began to feel uneasy.
"We won't find them sitting here. Come on, grab some pamphlets and follow me."
"But isn't it dangerous?"
"God laughs at danger," he said, quoting one of the pamphlets he was now stuffing into his pockets. "Get the lead out."
I was more worried about keeping it out, but there was nothing to do but obey. I collected an assortment of Crusade pamphlets:
Christ had short hair!
Is Heaven enough? (The answer was No; after getting to Heaven it was necessary to get a house in a good neighborhood.)
The Reverend Flint Orifice Story
Double Tithing—the best investment!
Zither fish fools scientists—God laughs!
Caesarian birth: myth or reality?
We heard more gunfire as we stepped out into the companionway. "Deacon, are you sure this is the smart thing to do? Maybe they're killing people. Those can't all be warning shots."
"Don't worry," he said. " We speak the lingo!"
As he spoke, we turned a corner and found our first body. The ship's carpenter lay face-up at the foot of a ladder. His chest was full of bullet-holes and his face was curiously mutilated.
On the upper deck we found two more bodies of crewmen, again with facial mutilations. Deacon bent over one, checking the cigar in its hand. "Still warm. We're getting close."
We hurried down greasy iron steps into the hold, an enormous barrel of a room with a ceiling forty metres above us in the greasy gloom. Along the curved walls, cattle hung in hammocks. There were a dozen of these Bossies, each in its own floral print hammock or sling, with a separate smaller hammock for its udder. The horns were protected by transparent globes of hardened glass. Since these cattle were all Holsteins, the room was filled at all times with accordion music. As we came in, the creatures were swaying gently to the Minneapolis Polka .
On the floor were the cylindrical glass tanks of cattle embryos. Each glowing tank held ten gallons, or enough little cows to populate the Milky Way, I understood. There were 28 in all, each throbbing with a different color of light, for identification: red for Jersey, orange for Guernsey, etc.
As we made our way silently down the ladder to floor level, we could see a group of armed people by the vats. Their savage faces and gleaming weapons reflected the glow from a red-blue (Jersey-Angus) tank, as they tapped it into plastic
FIRST MARTIAN: Grok, brudda
(Hello, fellow Martian.)
SECOND MARTIAN: Grokola, Marty-brud. My parsnip is fraughter nor a dead skate's greep, ow you?
(Hello. I could use a drink, how about you?)
FIRST MARTIAN: Too wry, nuncle. Not schlepped the old barf-bag since the old snap jived earthside, curd shore use a spew and a pinter pipi.
(Right. I haven't dined out since my girl left me, so I could sure use a meal and a beer.)
SECOND MARTIAN: Bow-wow. There is no ankle-grine without some wallop a frigstore ending. Me got brakes, let's scop the joot so snaffle a coupla pinters.
(Fine. Every stone must have its well. I've got a car, let's ?? the road and grab two beers.)
While we were still puzzling over scop , an alarm siren went off somewhere in the ship. The Doodlebug always had some kind of alarm going off—being a big ship and old—but this time the captain spoke to us over the PA system:
"Attention all passengers and crew, this is the captain speaking. We are um being um spacejacked—is that the word?" There was the sound of machinegun fire. "Hijacked, okay, we're being hijacked. By the um Vilo Jord and Family Liberation Front." There was a long pause, and then he said, "That is all. Thank you."
From time to time we heard gunfire from distant parts of the ship.
The Deacon's eyes were shining. "Real Martys! This Jord family are real Martys! This is our chance to try out the lingo. Let's go."
"Go, boss?" I began to feel uneasy.
"We won't find them sitting here. Come on, grab some pamphlets and follow me."
"But isn't it dangerous?"
"God laughs at danger," he said, quoting one of the pamphlets he was now stuffing into his pockets. "Get the lead out."
I was more worried about keeping it out, but there was nothing to do but obey. I collected an assortment of Crusade pamphlets:
Christ had short hair!
Is Heaven enough? (The answer was No; after getting to Heaven it was necessary to get a house in a good neighborhood.)
The Reverend Flint Orifice Story
Double Tithing—the best investment!
Zither fish fools scientists—God laughs!
Caesarian birth: myth or reality?
We heard more gunfire as we stepped out into the companionway. "Deacon, are you sure this is the smart thing to do? Maybe they're killing people. Those can't all be warning shots."
"Don't worry," he said. " We speak the lingo!"
As he spoke, we turned a corner and found our first body. The ship's carpenter lay face-up at the foot of a ladder. His chest was full of bullet-holes and his face was curiously mutilated.
On the upper deck we found two more bodies of crewmen, again with facial mutilations. Deacon bent over one, checking the cigar in its hand. "Still warm. We're getting close."
We hurried down greasy iron steps into the hold, an enormous barrel of a room with a ceiling forty metres above us in the greasy gloom. Along the curved walls, cattle hung in hammocks. There were a dozen of these Bossies, each in its own floral print hammock or sling, with a separate smaller hammock for its udder. The horns were protected by transparent globes of hardened glass. Since these cattle were all Holsteins, the room was filled at all times with accordion music. As we came in, the creatures were swaying gently to the Minneapolis Polka .
On the floor were the cylindrical glass tanks of cattle embryos. Each glowing tank held ten gallons, or enough little cows to populate the Milky Way, I understood. There were 28 in all, each throbbing with a different color of light, for identification: red for Jersey, orange for Guernsey, etc.
As we made our way silently down the ladder to floor level, we could see a group of armed people by the vats. Their savage faces and gleaming weapons reflected the glow from a red-blue (Jersey-Angus) tank, as they tapped it into plastic
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