The Alternate Martians by A. Bertram Chandler

Author:A. Bertram Chandler [Chandler, A. Bertram]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-5311-0
Publisher: F+W Media
Published: 2012-05-20T16:00:00+00:00

XV

HIS IMMERSION in the freezing water had been painful; the thawing out was more painful still. He sat before the roaring fire, wrapped in the skin of some fur-bearing animal. It had not been very well tanned, and it stank — but it was warm. A man wrapped in a fur cloak brought him something in a crude mug. It smelled and tasted vile, but it was alcoholic. After the first violent spasm of coughing he downed the rest gratefully.

And then, as the agony of returning circulation faded, he began to take some interest in his hosts. There were rough-looking fur-clad men, all heavily bearded. There were tough-looking fur-clad women. And there were other beings, towering head and shoulder above the humans. They, too, were muffled in heavy clothing, but he could see that they had four arms instead of two, that up-jutting tusks growing from their lower jaws gave their faces a ferocious aspect, and that their skins were green. In Wilkinson’s universe no such creatures existed in the solar system — except in the books which had initiated this crazy experiment. He listened to his rescuers as they talked among themselves. Yes, that dialect was Cockney — the dropping and misplacing of aspirates, the distorted vowels that had always betrayed the man or woman born within sound of Bow Bells, that would persist as long as there was a London. But it didn’t make sense. These people were at least forty million miles from that ancient city.

“ ’E’s comin’ rahnd,” remarked the man who had given him the drink. Then, to Wilkinson, “ ’Oo are yer, myte? Where did yer spring from?”

Wilkinson, his wits addled by his experiences, by the heat of the fire, by the strong liquor, replied foolishly, “I am Captain Christopher Wilkinson, of the spaceship Discovery.”

‘Ere, come orf it!” exclaimed the other angrily. “Yer knows bleedin’ well that they never lets even tame ‘oomans near their bleedin’ spaceships!”

“Mebbe they is tame ‘oomans, Bill,” contributed a scrawny woman. “They talks like ‘em.” She squatted down beside Vanessa and rubbed the material of the girl’s shirt sleeve between filthy fingers. “They dresses funny…. An’ they come’ere in one o’ the Masters’ barges….” One of the green-skinned beings was kneeling beside her, had picked up Wilkinson’s shirt and trousers and was examining them intently. “‘Ere’s ol’ Tars Tarkas. ‘E’s bin offen enough ter their cities.” She nudged the giant sharply. “Woddyer s’y, Tusky?”

“Cor lumme, Delia Doris, this ain’t ‘arf a rum go!” replied the Green Martian. “They does talk summat like the tame ‘oomans, but not so plummy, like. An’ these duds o’ theirn — there ain’t noffin’ like ‘em on all Barsoom. The Masters could ‘ardly care less wot their slaves wears — if anyfing — an’ they’d never go ter all the trouble o’ settin’ up a factory ter turn out rags like these….” He asked sharply, “Could they have come from your world?”

“It ain’t our world,” the man called Bill said bitterly. “An’ yer knows it.

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