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Machine of KLAMUGRA

Captain Barnaby and Lieutenant Teajun stood at the brink of that vast stone amphitheater, staring wonderingly down at half-an-acre of gadget. This glittering mass of million-year clockwork was the Machine ... and soon it was to judge them for their crime against Mars!

Klaggchallak, his fur nose-flaps pulled tight against his nostrils, stumbled up to the gleaming pinnacle of steel that seemed to offer shelter against the night. He felt a dust-storm gathering in the west, and knew that not even the tough skin of a Martian priest could withstand the angry whippings of sand lashed up by the wind-warlocks of the desert.

The falling sun threw a dancing star against the hull of the ship standing tall in its tail-chocks. A bewildering wail, the banshee-call of "Danger; ship jetting off!" sounded; but Klaggchallak slept on, hearing through his dreams only the howling of the wind.

Sixty seconds later, as prescribed in the General Regulations of the Extraterrestrial Service, a second sound began, that most fearful of noises, the sirening of the rocket exhaust. The Martian in his skin tent wakened and felt fear gnaw at his bones; fear induced by subsonic tremors from the rocket blast. Klaggchallak reached for his beads as the heat soaked into his thick, wrinkled skin.

Captain Jan Barnaby and Lieutenant Kim Teajun of the Extraterrestrial Service stood before the Board of Inquiry at Denver, D. F. The President of the Board, a Chief Commander's star-on-silver gleaming at his right collar point, opened the proceedings:

The Commander stroked his grey hair thoughtfully as he looked up from his report to the two unhappy officers before him. "At ease, gentlemen." Barnaby and Teajun slumped. "While I'm inclined to agree with you two that Klaggchallak's frying was his own fool fault, I must say that you picked a damned poor time to become the instruments of his immolation. We had hoped to establish an extra-territoriality agreement with Mars, but the death of old Klaggchallak puts that out of the question. To further Martian tranquility, you men will have to return to Mars and face the Judging Authority there. If my feelings were all that is at stake, gentlemen, I'd tell the Marties to go trippingly to hell, and keep you here on Earth. But to do this would mean we'd be forced to abandon our bases and mines and surveys on all Mars. We'd be giving our European competitors a clear field." The Commander folded the report neatly, once and again. "Captain Barnaby and Lieutenant Kim, you'll be on the next Mars-ward ship. We can't help you if you're convicted by our fuzzy friends. You'll have to stay there and take whatever punishment they demand."

Kim was remembering a scene he and Barnaby had witnessed at Klamugra, the seat of the Martian Judging Authority. A Martian, convicted of murder, was being executed atop a high metal platform. A large portion of the city's population was gathered before the platform, watching the edifying spectacle of a fellow-Martian dying with horrifying slowness as the chocks of a vise pressed into his skull. They were bearcats for gladiatorial amusement.

"Do you gentlemen have any questions?"

Lieutenant Kim glanced at Captain Barnaby, then spoke. "Yes, sir. I'd like to know how long we're going to let the Marties push us around this way. Thirteen Martian priests are on our payroll, just because they demand it. We've got to stay five kilometers away from their cities, or pay a five-hundred credit fine. We can't spit without special permission from the Grand Council of Mars. We don't think like they do; why should we submit to being judged by their million-year-old laws? In all respect, sir, why does our Service act so weak?"

The Commander made a pyramid of thumbs and forefingers, and considered it. "Lieutenant Kim, I've been asking myself that question for the last ten years. We've had to pay tribute to gain the Marties' permission to stay on their god-forsaken planet. That tribute represents half the operating expense of the Martian Department of the Service, credits that should be spent on new ships and more men. We've behaved like a bunch of patsies ever since von Munger and Ley landed on Mars.

"Still, we're all soldiers, and we must follow regulations. We mustn't disturb the indigenous population on Mars; that's Regulation 'A-1.' If our policies grow distasteful to the Marties, they may call in the Europeans to take our place. We wouldn't like that. It's bad form to admit it, gentlemen, but I'm ashamed to give you this order. You're to jet off for Mars tomorrow morning; and on arrival at Klamugra, to deliver yourselves over to the Martian Judging Authority." The Commander rapped his gavel and stood; the two officers before the Board snapped to attention. "Board of Inquiry dismissed."

Fully aware that tomorrow's jetoff would multiply by eight the hangovers they were breeding, Captain Barnaby and Lieutenant Kim sat that evening in the Denver Dive, alternating drinks of European vodka with rounds of California moon-dew. As Kim said: "Drink as much as you like, Barnaby; we're not driving in the morning."

"Tell me," Barnaby demanded of his co-pilot, "what you're thinking of, you Martie-roasting fiend of a Korean."

"I was considering the memory of the 'shlunk!' that Martian murderer's skull made when it finally gave in, that day at Klamugra. Do you remember, hard-headed Yankee?" Kim's eyes followed the blonde ecdysiast across the stage more from habit than present interest.

"Why did you have to remember that? 'Shlunk!'--ugh!"

"You orientals have noble souls, Kim."

The blonde stripper, having uncovered as much of herself as she could without resorting to dissection, jumped down from the stage and walked over to the two EXTS officers. "Would you gentlemen like to buy me a drink?" she asked.

Kim's eyes roved abroad in a brief anatomy lesson, but Barnaby said, "I'll buy you one a couple of weeks from now, if I'm not laid up somewhere with a splitting headache." He stood unsteadily and tossed a ten-credit certificate on the table. "If you're really thirsty, get a drink out of that."

Kim reluctantly followed his superior officer from the bar. At the door he turned and called back to the blonde, "Don't catch cold, child. I'll be back."

The dawn jetoff was miserable, as jetoffs always are. Four days brought the ship within falling-distance of Mars; soon the jets thundered as it backed into a pocket of hills outside Klamugra. The air-pumps hammered to bring the air pressure inside the hull gradually down to that of the outside, so that instruments and equipment wouldn't be subjected to a sudden lowering of pressure. The men inside the ship slipped plastic helmets over their heads, checked the tiny air-pumps on their shoulders, and drew on heavy gloves and boots.

When the port swung open Kim and Barnaby climbed down the ladder to the blast-blackened sand. The sergeant of EXTS Provost Marshall who had accompanied them walked with the officers to a hill overlooking the ancient Martian city of Klamugra, which stood on a terrace about five kilometers to the north. The red adobe walls of the city, testimony of the ancient days when Mars had enough water to allow its use for brick-making, blended with the distance to seem a part of the red desert sand.

A cloud of steam and dust appeared between the hill where they stood and the city. Captain Barnaby un-leathered his binoculars and pressed them to the eyepieces of his helmet, and made out a hopping jeep, its top enclosed in plastic and a trio of supercharger coils poking through the sides of the hood. Clouds of steam followed the jeep as its exhaust streamed out into the chilly air.

In a moment the jeep spun up the hill and ground to a halt. There was a pause as the men inside the jeep fitted their helmets on their shoulders, checked their air-pumps, and drew on their gauntlets. Then the plastic bubble lifted back, a sergeant jumped out from under the steering wheel and saluted, and a Colonel, EXTS Intelligence, walked up to Captain Barnaby and Lieutenant Kim. "Gentlemen," he said, "I'm Colonel Lee Montgomery, Commanding Officer, Third Sector. It is my unpleasant duty to turn you over to the Chief Technician of the Martian Judging Authority, who is Rhinklav'n, here."

At these words a tall Martian unfolded himself from the back seat of the jeep. He climbed out and bowed before Captain Barnaby. "I am Rhinklav'n, Captain." The thick fur nose-flaps, looking like ear-muffs pulled across his muzzle, muffled Rhinklav'n's high-pitched voice so that it gave the effect of coming from the bottom of a rain barrel. "You are to accompany me to Klamugra to be judged by the Machine, of which I am the Honored First Technician."

Barnaby and Kim bowed slightly to acknowledge Rhinklav'n, then crawled into the back seat of the jeep, next to Colonel Montgomery.

Rhinklav'n and the sergeant sat up front. The sergeant pushed a button on the instrument panel, and the plastic top of the jeep dropped down to cover them. As the engine started, the jeep's air-pump drew in air until the atmosphere was thick enough for human lungs. The Martian squirmed uncomfortably in the heavy air while his human companions threw off their helmets. Lieutenant Kim gratefully drew a deep breath of air, and regretted it immediately. What with the million-year water shortage the Martians had lost even the word for bath. Besides, the most popular article of Martian cuisine is a bulb strikingly similar to the terrestrial garlic plant. Captain Barnaby turned to Kim. "Mars has a distinguished atmosphere, hasn't it?" He spoke in English, rather than in the Esperanto lingua-franca of space.

"Indeed it has," Kim agreed. "What was old fuzz-face up there talking about when he spoke of 'the Machine,' Colonel?"

"The law of Mars is the most rigidly systematized in the solar system," Colonel Montgomery replied. "Several millions of years ago, a bright Martie got the idea that it was unwise to trust mortal judges with a problem so important as the sentencing of criminals. So he called in a lot of mechanics--ancient Mars had some pretty fair engineers, though they never discovered electricity--and had them build a judging-machine. Since the climate is right and the machine was built of a stainless steel, it's still here and still being used. It's an enormous thing; spreads over half-an-acre in a big amphitheatre in the center of town. It's an analogue computer, rather clumsy by terrestrial standards, but nevertheless well-built. You know the principles of analogue calculators. Instead of working with coded, position-valued impulses, like the electronic astrogator on our rockets, the mechanical machines solve problems by making use of the physical analogies between cogs and gears and differentials."

"Do you mean that we're going to be punished or set free by a bunch of clockwork, colonel?" Kim asked.

"In a way, yes. The Machine is a most impersonal judge. That fact won't help you, though. Martian legal code is strict about killing, there being some thirty-odd degrees of murder, ranging in seriousness from a 'simple homicide to secure a mate,' the punishment for which is death by dehydration, most often; to 'killing to secure for oneself material benefits,' for which there exist more subtle forms of death by torture."

"Like getting a small-head-size in a vise?" Captain Barnaby grunted.

"A defect from which we humans are fortunately free," Kim grinned.

"That's no out," Colonel Montgomery countered. "They have witnesses who saw Klaggchallak fry. Besides, we prefer to have the mass of Marties ignorant of the average earthling's penchant for prevarication. It saves the Service a lot of money not to have to prove anything it tells our hairy hosts out here."

The jeep hit the first of the series of low terraces which set the city of Klamugra up from the surrounding desert plains, and the little car bounced high off the sand. Colonel Montgomery looked startled, as though he'd just remembered something. "You know, in my ethnological fervor I didn't realize what you two men are in for. Cosmos! I'm practically delivering you up as human sacrifices!"

"We came to that conclusion five days ago, colonel," Lieutenant Kim dryly observed.

"I can see what the Fleet Commander meant when he said that he was giving me 'a most unpleasant assignment.' Hell, I don't think the Machine is able to give a judgment of 'not guilty'." Colonel Montgomery gazed toward the city they were approaching. "We've got to turn you in. We can't risk a blowup with the Martian Grand Council. There are rumors that ..." the colonel glanced again with suspicion at the back of Rhinklav'n's hairy neck, as though suspecting that the Martian might be able to puzzle out the meaning of their conversation, though it was in English. "There are rumors that the -artiansMay have an agent among the -ussiansRay. We can't risk having the borsch-eaters more popular out here than the Western Powers." The jeep bounded up the last of the terraces and through an opening in the city wall. The adobe buildings raced past, and with a final bound the jeep came to the edge of the huge, circular bowl which held the Machine.

"There's your judge," Colonel Montgomery said, speaking in Esperanto again. "I haven't much hope to offer you. For one thing, you're the first humans ever to be judged by the Machine."

The men picked up their helmets and air-pumps and adjusted them on their shoulders. Rhinklav'n drew his furry nostril-flaps down into place against the sudden change in pressure. The plastic top of the jeep flew back on its springs and the men climbed out, stretching their cramped muscles. The radiophones in the helmets buzzed, and the colonel gave Captain Barnaby a last word. "I want to impress you with the fact that the Service cannot protect you, from this moment onward. If you escape being killed it must be on your own merits. And don't start shooting Marties--won't do you a bit of good. There's a lot at stake for Earth here. Good luck, men!" Colonel Montgomery saluted, and he and his sergeant jumped back in the jeep, slammed the top down, and whirled away.

Rhinklav'n turned to the two EXTS officers. "Gentlemen, I've assigned you quarters here, near the Machine. Will you follow me?" Kim and Barnaby followed the Martian a short distance from the edge of the amphitheater to a lone adobe building, one story high and about ten meters square. "Here are your quarters, where you'll stay tonight. Your judging is set for tomorrow morning."

The Martian paused at the door. "It's not just for you, Captain. Five other terrestrials have committed crimes of various proportions within the last few weeks. They will also be tried here, after your case is disposed of." Rhinklav'n left, considerately closing the airlock door and starting the pump on his way out.

"Kim, we're precedents."

"What do you mean, Yankee?"

"If the Marties succeed in convicting us of murder in some unheard-of degree by using that overgrown Erector Set of theirs, we'll be only the first two of a long string of EXTServicemen to be executed under Mars law. We can't let them do it." Captain Barnaby paused a moment to pour himself out a plateful of beans. "Kim, what was that process you used to rely on back in EXTS Academy in Denver? The one that gave you the right answers after you found that your first solutions to our astrogation problems were a few hundred thousand kilometers off?"

Kim stopped chewing for a moment in surprise. "You mean that you got through the Academy without using the 'finagle factor'? No wonder you made captain so soon. It's simple: I'd look up the right answer in the Service charts, find by what factor my solution was off, and introduce that factor into my next calculation, making it inconspicuous under a lot of mathematical camouflage. Don't bawl me out about it, Barny; I just couldn't see letting my extracurricular activities suffer for my schoolwork."

"Yes, you did a lot of your studying at the Denver Dive. No matter, little man. Eat hearty and get some sleep." Barnaby stirred his beans thoughtfully. "We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

Early the next morning a subordinate technician of the Machine hammered on the airlock. The two terrestrials pulled on their heavy jackets, fur boots, and gauntlets, started the little air-pumps on their shoulders, and opened the lock. "The honored First Technician of the Machine invites your presence at your trial, which is to begin very soon," the Martian said, speaking halting Esperanto. Kim and Barnaby followed him to the edge of the Machine bowl. There had been several changes made during the night. An elevated platform had been set up, identical to the one used in the bloody execution they'd witnessed. About twenty Martians were clustered around the Machine, some of them making last-minute adjustments in the mechanism; others, evidently sightseers, gazing curiously at the two principals in the trial.

Rhinklav'n was waiting, his nose-flaps drawn over his nostrils to keep the cold morning air from cutting into his lungs. "I am pleased that you come," he said. "The Machine is fully assembled for your problem." He pointed down toward the Machine, a vast cluster of separate stages connected by rods. "On the far right, in that small building, is the power source of the Machine, a mercury-turbine engine. We can't spare the water to make steam, you know. The first stage contains the Martian actuarial tables, the second has the actuarial system for determining the probable life-spans of you two Earthlings. That's without taking into consideration the probability that you two will be executed as a result of the judgement of the Machine."

Lieutenant Kim nodded. "Most ingenious. But I'm afraid that there's a factor that you've omitted."

"We've made no factual error, Lieutenant," Rhinklav'n insisted. "The value of the sage Klaggchallak is represented there--" he pointed to the fourth stage, "and your social value to the people of Mars is here represented." Rhinklav'n waved one mitten-like hand toward the fifth stage. "If you'll examine that stage, you'll observe that your value is negative: the shaft representing it revolves in a direction opposite to that of the others. Yes, you'll surely be executed."

Captain Barnaby nodded, as though the reiteration of the probability of his early demise troubled him less than the philosophical question he'd stumbled across. "Still, as my subordinate officer has said, there's a factor which you seem to have omitted. In the terminology of terrestrial psychometering, this quantity is called--what did you say it was, Lieutenant Kim?"

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