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The Martian Crown Jewels

Poul Anderson

THE SIGNAL was picked up when the ship was still a quarter million miles away, and recorded

voices summoned the technicians. There was no haste, for the ZX28749, otherwise called the Jane

Brackney, was right on schedule; but landing an unmanned spaceship is always a delicate operation. Men

and machines prepared to receive her as she came down, but the control crew had the first order of

business.

Yamagata, Steinmann, and Ramanowitz were in the GCA tower, with Hollyday standing by for an

emergency. If the circuits should fail - they never had, but a thousand tons of cargo and nuclear -

powered vessel, crashing into the port, could empty Phobos of human life. So Hollyday watched over a

set of spare assemblies, ready to plug in whatever might be required.

Yamagata's thin fingers danced over the radar dials. His eyes were intent on the screen. "Got her,"

he said. Steinmann made a distance reading and Ramanowitz took the velocity off the Dopplerscope. A

brief session with a computer showed the figures to be almost as predicted.

"Might as well relax," said Yamagata, taking out a cigarette. "She won't be in control range for a

while yet."

His eyes roved over the crowded room and out its window. From the tower he had a view of the

spaceport: unimpressive, most of its shops and sheds and living quarters being underground. The smooth

concrete field was chopped off by the curvature of the tiny satellite. It always faced Mars, and the station

was on the far side, but he could remember how the planet hung enormous over the opposite

hemisphere, soft ruddy disc blurred with thin air, hazy greenish - brown mottlings of heath and farmland.

Though Phobos was clothed in vacuum, you couldn't see the hard stars of space: the sun and the

floodlamps were too bright.

There was a knock on the door. Hollyday went over, almost drifting in the ghostly gravity, and

opened it. "Nobody allowed in here during a landing," he said. Hollyday was a stocky blond man with a

pleasant, open countenance, and his tone was less peremptory than his words.

"Police." The newcomer, muscular, round - faced, and earnest, was in plain clothes, tunic and

pajama pants, which was expected; everyone in the tiny settlement knew Inspector Gregg. But he was

packing a gun, which was not usual, and looked harried.

Yamagata peered out again and saw the port's four constables down on the field in official

spacesuits, watching the ground crew. They carried weapons. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing ... I hope." Gregg came in and tried to smile. "But the Jane has a very unusual cargo this

trip."

"Hm?" Ramanowitz's eyes lit up in his broad plump visage. "Why weren't we told?"

"That was deliberate. Secrecy. The Martian crown jewels are aboard." Gregg fumbled a cigarette

from his tunic.

Hollyday and Steinmann nodded at each other. Yamagata whistled. "On a robot ship?" he asked.

"Uh - huh. A robot ship is the one form of transportation from which they could not be stolen.

There were three attempts made when they went to Earth on a regular liner, and I hate to think how

many while they were at the British Museum. One guard lost his life. Now my boys are going to remove

them before anyone else touches that ship and scoot 'em right down to Sabaeus."

"How much are they worth?" wondered Ramanowitz.

"Oh . . they could be fenced on Earth for maybe half a billion UN dollars," said Gregg. "But the

thief would do better to make the Martians pay to get them back . . no, Earth would have to, I suppose,

since it's our responsibility." He blew nervous clouds. "The jewels were secretly put on the Jane, last thing

before she left on her regular run. I wasn't even told till a special messenger on this week's liner gave me

the word. Not a chance for any thief to know they're here, till they're safely back on Mars. And that'll be

safe !"

Ramanowitz shuddered. All the planets knew what guarded the vaults at Sabaeus.

"Some people did know, all along," said Yamagata thoughtfully. "I mean the loading crew back at

Earth."

"Uh - huh, there is that." Gregg smiled. "Several of them have quit since then, the messenger said,

but of course, there's always a big turnover among spacejacks - they're a restless bunch." His gaze

drifted across Steinmann and Holly day, both of whom had last worked at Earth Station and come to

Mars a few ships back. The liners went on a hyperbolic path and arrived in a couple of weeks; the robot

ships followed the more leisurely and economical Hohmann A orbit and needed 258 days. A man who

knew what ship was carrying the jewels could leave Earth, get to Mars well ahead of the cargo, and snap

up a job here - Phobos was always shorthanded.

"Don't look at me!" said Steinmann, laughing. "Chuck and I knew about this - of course - but we

were under security restrictions. Haven't told a soul."

"Yeah. I'd have known it if you had," nodded Gregg. "Gossip travels fast here. Don't resent this,

please, but I'm here to see that none of you boys leaves this tower till the jewels are aboard our own

boat."

"Oh, well. It'll mean overtime pay."

"If I want to get rich fast, I'll stick to prospecting," added Hollyday.

"When are you going to quit running around with that Geiger in your free time?" asked Yamagata.

"Phobos is nothing but iron and granite."

"I have my own ideas about that," said Hollyday stoutly.

"Hell, everybody needs a hobby on this God - forsaken clod," declared Ramanowitz. "I might try

for those sparklers myself, just for the excitement-" He stopped abruptly, aware of Gregg's eyes.

"All right," snapped Yamagata "Here we go. Inspector, please stand back out of the way, and for

your life's sake don't interrupt us."

The Jane was drifting in, her velocity on the carefully pre - calculated orbit almost identical with that

of Phobos. Almost, but not quite - there had been the inevitable small disturbing factors, which the

remote - controlled jets had to compensate, and then there was the business of landing her. The team got

a fix and were frantically busy.

In free fall, the Jane approached within a thousand miles of Phobos - a spheroid 500 feet in radius,

big and massive, but lost against the incredible bulk of the satellite. And yet Phobos is an insignificant

airless pill, negligible even beside its seventh - rate planet. Astronomical magnitudes are simply and

literally incomprehensible.

When the ship was close enough, the radio directed her gyros to rotate her, very, very gently, until

her pickup antenna was pointing directly at the field. Then her jets were cut in, a mere whisper of thrust.

She was nearly above the spaceport, her path tangential to the moon's curvature. After a moment

Yamagata slapped the keys hard, and the rockets blasted furiously, a visible red streak up in the sky. He

cut them again, checked his data, and gave a milder blast.

"Okay," he grunted. "Let's bring her in."

Her velocity relative to Phobos's orbit and rotation was now zero, and she was falling. Yamagata

slewed her around till the jets were pointing vertically down. Then he sat back and mopped his face while

Ramanowitz took over; the job was too nerve - stretching for one man to perform in its entirety.

Ramanowitz sweated the awkward mass to within a few yards of the cradle. Steinmann finished the task,

easing her into the berth like an egg into a cup. He cut the jets and there was silence.

"Whew! Chuck, how about a drink?" Yamagata held out unsteady fingers and regarded them with

an impersonal stare.

Hollyday smiled and fetched a bottle. It went happily around. Gregg declined. His eyes were

locked to the field, where a technician was checking for radioactivity. The verdict was clean, and he saw

his constables come soaring over the concrete, to surround the great ship with guns. One of them went

up, opened the manhatch, and slipped inside.

It seemed a very long while before he emerged. Then he came running. Gregg cursed and thumbed

the tower's radio board. "Hey, there! Ybarra! What's the matter?"

The helmet set shuddered a reply: "Señor . . Señor Inspector . . . the crown jewels are gone."

Sabaeus is, of course, a purely human name for the old city nestled in the Martian tropics, at the

juncture of the "canals" Phison and Euphrates. Terrestrial mouths simply cannot form the syllables of High

Chlannach, though rough approximations are possible. Nor did humans ever build a town exclusively of

towers broader at the top than the base, or inhabit one for twenty thousand years. If they had, though,

they would have encouraged an eager tourist influx; but Martians prefer more dignified ways of making a

dollar, even if their parsimonious fame has long replaced that of Scotchmen. The result is that though

interplanetary trade is brisk and Phobos a treaty port, a human is still a rare sight in Sabaeus.

Hurrying down the avenues between the stone mushrooms, Gregg felt conspicuous. He was glad

the airsuit muffled him. Not that the grave Martians stared; they varkled, which is worse.

The Street of Those Who Prepare Nourishment in Ovens is a quiet one, given over to

handicrafters, philosophers, and residential apartments. You won't see a courtship dance or a parade of

the Lesser Halberdiers on it: nothing more exciting than a continuous four - day argument on the

relativistic nature of the null class or an occasional gunfight. The latter are due to the planet's most

renowned private detective, who nests here.

Gregg always found it eerie to be on Mars, under the cold deep - blue sky and shrunken sun,

among noises muffled by the thin oxygen - deficient air. But for Syaloch he had a good deal of affection,

and when he had gone up the ladder and shaken the rattle outside the second - floor apartment and had

been admitted, it was like escaping from nightmare.

"Ah, Krech!" The investigator laid down the stringed instrument on which he had been playing and

towered gauntly over his visitor. "An unexbectet bleassure to see hyou. Come in, my tear chab, to come

in." He was proud of his English - but simple misspellings will not convey the whistling, clicking Martian

accent. Gregg had long ago fallen into the habit of translating it into a human pronunciation as he listened.

The Inspector felt a cautious way into the high, narrow room. The glowsnakes which illuminated it

after dark were coiled asleep on the stone floor, in a litter of papers, specimens, and weapons; rusty sand

covered the sills of the Gothic windows. Syaloch was not neat except in his own person. In one corner

was a small chemical laboratory. The rest of the walls were taken up with shelves, the criminological

literature of three planets - Martian books. Terrestrial micros, Venusian talking stones. At one place,

patriotically, the glyphs representing the reigning Nest - mother had been punched out with bullets. An

Earthling could not sit on the trapezelike native furniture, but Syaloch had courteously provided chairs

and tubs as well; his clientele was also triplanetary. Gregg found a scarred Duncan Phyfe and lowered

himself, breathing heavily into his oxygen tubes.

"I take it you are here on official but confidential business." Syaloch got out a big - bowled pipe.

Martians have happily adopted tobacco, though in their atmosphere it must include potassium

permanganate. Gregg was thankful he didn't have to breathe the blue fog.

He started. "How the hell do you know that?"

"Elementary, my dear fellow. Your manner is most agitated, and I know nothing but a crisis in your

profession would cause that in a good stolid bachelor. Yet you come to me rather than the Homeostatic

Corps . . so it must be a delicate affair."

Gregg laughed wryly. He himself could not read any Martian's expression - what corresponds to a

smile or a snarl on a totally non - human face? But this overgrown stork -

No. To compare the species of different planets is merely to betray the limitations of language.

Syaloch was a seven - foot biped of vaguely storklike appearance. But the lean, crested, red - beaked

head at the end of the sinuous neck was too large, the yellow eyes too deep; the white feathers were

more like a penguin's than a flying bird's, save at the blue - plumed tail; instead of wings there were

skinny red arms ending in four - fingered hands. And the overall posture was too erect for a bird.

Gregg jerked back to awareness. God in Heaven! The city lay gray and quiet; the sun was slipping

westward over the farmlands of Sinus Sabaeus and the desert of the Aeria; he could just make out the

rumble of a treadmill cart passing beneath the windows - and he sat here with a story which could blow

the Solar System apart!

His hands, gloved against the chill, twisted together. "Yes, it's confidential, all right. If you can solve

this case, you can just about name your own fee." The gleam in Syaloch's eyes made him regret that, but

he stumbled on: "One thing, though. Just how do you feel about us Earthlings?"

"I have no prejudices. It is the brain that counts, not whether it is covered by feathers or hair or

bony plates."

"No, I realize that. But some Martians resent us. We do disrupt an old way of life - we can't help

it, if we're to trade with you -"

" K'teh . The trade is on the whole beneficial. Your fuel and machinery - and tobacco, yesss - for

our kantz and snull. Also, we were getting too . . stale. And of course space travel has added a whole

new dimension to criminology. Yes, I favor Earth."

"Then you'll help us? And keep quiet about something which could provoke your planetary

federation into kicking us off Phobos?"

The third eyelids closed, making the long - beaked face a mask. "I give no promises yet, Gregg."

"Well . . damn it, all right, I'll have to take the chance." The policeman swallowed hard. "You know

about your crown jewels, of course."

"They were lent to Earth for exhibit and scientific study."

"After years of negotiation. There's no more priceless relic on all Mars - and you were an old

civilization when we were hunting mammoths. All right. They've been stolen."

Syaloch opened his eyes, but his only other movement was to nod.

"They were put on a robot ship at Earth Station. They were gone when that ship reached Phobos.

We've damn near ripped the boat apart trying to find them - we did take the other cargo to pieces, bit by

bit - and they aren't there!"

Syaloch rekindled his pipe, an elaborate flint - and - steel process on a world where matches won't

burn. Only when it was drawing well did he suggest: "Is it possible the ship was boarded en route?"

"No. It isn't possible. Every spacecraft in the System is registered, and its whereabouts are known

at any time. Furthermore, imagine trying to find a speck in hundreds of millions of cubic miles, and match

velocities with it .. no vessel ever built could carry that much fuel. And mind you, it was never announced

that the jewels were going back this way. Only the UN police and the Earth Station crew could know till

the ship had actually left - by which time it'd be too late to catch her."

"Most interesting." Syaloch puffed hard.

"If word of this gets out," said Gregg miserably, "you can guess the results. I suppose we'd still

have a few friends left in your Parliament -"

"In the House of Actives, yesss .. a few. Not in the House of Philosophers, which is of course the

upper chamber."

"It could mean a twenty - year hiatus in Earth - Mars traffic - maybe a permanent breaking off of

relations. Damn it, Syaloch, you've got to find those stones!"

"Hm-m-m. I pray your pardon. This requires thought." The Martian picked up his crooked

instrument and plucked a few tentative chords. Gregg sighed and attempted to relax. He knew the

Chlannach temperament; he'd have to listen to an hour of minor-key caterwauling.

The colorless sunset was past, night had fallen with the unnerving Martian swiftness, and the

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