Podkayne of Mars (21 page)

“Madam,” Uncle Tom answered tightly, “I see no point in bandying words with you.”

“Nor do I. Nor shall we. But you can listen while I explain it to Poddy. Dear, your uncle is a stubborn man and he won’t accomplish his own political downfall lightly. I need a string to make him dance—and in
you
I have that string, I’m sure.”

“I’m not!”

“Want a slap? Or would you rather be gagged? I like you, dear; don’t force me to be forceful. In
you,
I said. Not your brother. Oh, no doubt your uncle goes through the solemn farce of treating his niece and his nephew just alike—Christmas presents and birthday presents and such like pretenses. But it is obvious that no one could love your brother . . . not even his own mother, I venture to say. But the Senator
does
love you—rather more than he wants anyone to suspect. So now I am hurting your brother a little—oh, just a smidgen, at worst he’ll be deaf—to let your uncle see what will happen to
you.
Unless he is a good boy and speaks his piece just the way I tell him to.”

She looked thoughtfully at Uncle. “Senator, I can’t decide which of two methods might work the better on you. You see, I want to keep you reminded—after you agree to cooperate—that you
did
agree. Sometimes a politician doesn’t stay bought. After I turn you loose, would it be better for me to send your nephew along with you, to keep you reminded? Or would it be better to keep him here and work on him just a little each day—with his sister watching? So that she would have a clear idea of what happens to her . . . if you try any tricks at Luna City. What’s your opinion, sir?”

“Madam, the question does not arise.”

“Really, Senator?”

“Because I will not be at Luna City unless both children are with me. Unhurt.”

Mrs. Grew chuckled. “Campaign promises, Senator. I’ll reason with you later. But now”—she glanced at an antique watch pinned to her gross bosom—“I think I had better put a stop to that dreadful racket, it’s giving me a headache. And I doubt if your nephew can hear it any longer, save possibly through his bones.” She got up and left, moving with surprising agility and grace for a woman her age and mass.

Suddenly the noise stopped.

It was such a surprise that I would have jumped if anything below my neck could jump. Which it couldn’t.

Uncle was looking at me. “Poddy, Poddy—” he said softly.

I said, “Uncle, don’t you give in a millimeter to that dreadful woman!”

He said, “Poddy, I
can’t
give in to her. Not at all. You understand that? Don’t you?”

“I certainly do! But look—you could fake it. Tell her anything. Get loose yourself and take Clark along, as she suggested. Then you can rescue me. I’ll hold out. You’ll see!”

He looked terribly old. “Poddy . . . Poddy darling . . . I’m very much afraid . . . that this is the end. Be brave, dear.”

“Uh, I haven’t had very much practice at that. But I’ll try to be.” I pinched myself, mentally, to see if I was scared—and I wasn’t, not really. Somehow I couldn’t be scared with Uncle there, even though he was helpless just then. “Uncle, what is it she wants? Is she some kind of a fanatic?”

He didn’t answer because we both heard Mrs. Grew’s jolly, belly-deep laugh. “ ‘Fanatic’!” she repeated, came over and tweaked my cheek. “Poddy dear, I’m not any sort of fanatic and I don’t really care any more about politics than your uncle does. But I learned many years ago when I was just a girl—and quite attractive, too, dear, much more so than you will ever be—that a girl’s best friend is cash. No, dear, I’m a paid professional and a good one.”

She went on briskly, “Senator, I think the boy is deaf but I can’t be sure; he’s passed out now. We’ll discuss it later, it’s time for my nap. Perhaps we had all better rest a little.”

And she called in Pinhead and I was carried into the room I am in now. When he picked me up, I really was truly aghast!—and found that I could move my arms and legs just a little bit—pins and needles you wouldn’t believe!—and I struggled feebly. Did me no good, I was dumped in here anyhow.

After a while the drug wore off and I felt almost normal, though shaky. Shortly thereafter I discovered that Titania is a very good watchdog indeed and I haven’t tried to reach that door since; my arm and shoulder are quite sore and getting stiff.

Instead I inspected the room. Not much in it. A bed with a mattress but no bedclothes, not that you need any in this climate. A sort of a table suspended from one wall and a chair fastened to the floor by it. Glow tubes around the upper corners of the room. I checked all these things at once after learning the hard way that Titania was not just a cutie with gauzy wings. It was quite clear that Mrs. Grew, or whoever had outfitted that room, had no intention of leaving anything in it that could be used as a weapon, against Titania or anybody. And I no longer had even my coat and purse.

I particularly regretted losing my purse, because I always carry a number of useful things in it. A nail file for example—if I had had even my nail file I might have considered taking on that bloodthirsty little fairy. But I didn’t waste time thinking about it; my purse was where I had dropped it when I was drugged.

I did find one thing very interesting: this room had been used to prison Clark before I landed in it. One of his two bags was there—and I suppose I should have missed it from his room the night before, only I got upset and left Uncle to finish the search. The bag held a very odd collection for a knight errant venturing forth to rescue a damsel in distress: some clothing—three T-shirts and two pairs of shorts, a spare pair of shoes—a slide rule, and three comic books.

If I had found a flame gun or supplies of mysterious chemicals, I would not have been surprised—more Clarkish. I suppose, when you get right down to it, for all his brilliance Clark is just a little boy.

I worried a bit then about the possibility—or probability—that he was deaf. Then I quit thinking about it. If true, I couldn’t help it—and he would miss his ears less than anything, since he hardly ever listens anyhow.

So I lay down on the bed and read his comic books. I am not a comic-book addict, but these were quite entertaining, especially as the heroes were always getting out of predicaments much worse than the one I was in.

After a while I fell asleep and had heroic dreams.

I was awakened by “breakfast” (more like dinner but quite good). Pinhead took the tray away, and light plastic dishes and a plastic spoon offered little in the way of lethal weapons. However, I was delighted to find that he had fetched my purse!

Delighted for all of ten seconds, that is—No nail file. No penknife. Not a darn thing in it more deadly than lipstick and handky. Mrs. Grew hadn’t disturbed any money or my tiny minirecorder but she had taken everything that could conceivably do any good (harm). So I gritted my teeth and ate and then brought this useless journal up to date. That’s about all I’ve done since—just sleep and eat and make friends with Ariel. It reminds me of Duncan. Oh, not alike really—but all babies are sort of alike, don’t you think?

I had dozed off from lack of anything better to do when I was awakened. “Poddy, dear—”

“Oh! Hello, Mrs. Grew.”

“Now, now, no quick moves,” she said chidingly. I wasn’t about to make any quick moves; she had a gun pointed at my belly button. I’m very fond of it, it’s the only one I have.

“Now be a good girl and turn over and cross your wrists behind you.” I did so and in a moment she had them tied, quite firmly. Then she looped the line around my neck and had me on a leash—and if I struggled, all I accomplished was choking myself. So I didn’t struggle.

Oh, I’m sure there was at least a moment when she didn’t have that gun pointed at me and my wrists were not yet tied. One of those comic-book heroes would have snatched that golden instant, rendered her helpless, tied her with her own rope.

Regrettably, none of those heroes was named “Poddy Fries.” My education has encompassed cooking, sewing, quite a lot of math and history and science, and such useful tidbits as freehand drawing and how to dip candles and make soap. But hand-to-hand combat I have learned sketchily if at all from occasional border clashes with Clark. I know that Mother feels that this is a lack (she is skilled in both karate and kill-quick, and can shoot as well as Daddy does), but Daddy has put off sending me to classes—I’ve gathered the impression that he doesn’t really want his “baby girl” to know such things.

I vote with Mother, it’s a lack. There must have been a split second when I could have lashed out with a heel, caught Mrs. Grew in her solar plexus, then broken her neck while she was still helpless—and run down the Jolly Roger and run up the Union Jack, just like in
Treasure Island.

Oppernockity tunes but once—and I wasn’t in tune with it. Instead I was led away like a puppy on a string. Titania eyed us as we went through the door but Mrs. Grew clucked at her and she settled back on her perch and cuddled Ariel to her.

She had me walk in front of her down a hallway, through that living room where I had last seen Uncle Tom and Clark, out another door and a passage and into a large room—

—and I gasped and suppressed a scream!

Mrs. Grew said cheerfully, “Take a good look, dear. He’s your new roommate.”

Half the room was closed off with heavy steel bars, like a cage in a zoo. Inside was—well, it was Pinhead, that’s what it was, though it took me a long moment of fright to realize it. You may have gathered that I do not consider Pinhead handsome. Well, dear, he was Apollo Belvedere before compared with the red-eyed maniacal horror he had become.

Then I was lying on the floor and Mrs. Grew was giving me smelling salts. Yes, sir, Captain Podkayne Fries the Famous Explorer had keeled over like a silly girl. All right, go ahead and laugh; I don’t mind.
You
haven’t ever been shoved into a room with a thing like that and had it introduced to you as “your new roommate.”

Mrs. Grew was chuckling. “Feel better, dear?”

“You’re not going to put me in there with him!”

“What? Oh, no, no, that was just my little joke. I’m sure your uncle will never make it necessary actually to do it.” She looked at Pinhead thoughtfully—and he was straining one arm through the bars, trying again and again to reach us. “He’s had only five milligrams, and for a long-time happy dust addict that’s barely enough to make him tempery. If I ever do have to put you—or your brother—in with him, I’ve promised him at least fifteen. I need your advice, dear. You see, I’m about to send your uncle back to Venusberg so that he can catch his ship. Now which do you think would work best with your uncle? To put your brother in there right now, while your uncle watches? He’s watching this, you know; he saw you faint—and that couldn’t have been better if you had practiced. Or to wait and—”

“My uncle is watching us?”

“Yes, of course. Or to—”

“Oh, do keep quiet, Poddy. He can see you, but he can’t hear you and he can’t possibly help you.
Hmm
—You’re such a silly billy that I don’t think I want your advice. On your feet, now!”

She walked me back to my cell.

 

 

That was only hours ago; it merely seems like years.

But it is long enough. Long enough for Poddy to lose her nerve. Look, I don’t have to tell this, nobody knows but me. But I’ve been truthful all through these memoirs and I’ll be truthful now: I have made up my mind that as soon as I get a chance to talk with Uncle I will beg him, plead with him, to do
anything
to keep me from being locked up with a happy-dusted native.

I’m not proud of it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be proud of Poddy again. But there it is and you can rub my nose in it. I’ve come up against something that frightens me so much I’ve cracked.

I feel a little better about it to have admitted it baldly. I sort of hope that, when the time comes, I won’t whimper and I won’t plead. But I . . . just . . . don’t . . . know.

 

 

And then somebody was shoved in with me and it was Clark!

I jumped up off the bed and threw my arms around him and lifted him right off his feet and was blubbering over him. “Oh, Clarkie! Brother, brother, are you hurt? What did they do to you? Speak to me! Are you deaf?”

Right in my ear he said, “Cut out the sloppy stuff, Pod.”

So I knew he wasn’t too badly hurt, he sounded just like Clark. I repeated, more quietly, “Are you deaf?”

He barely whispered in my ear, “No, but she thinks I am, so we’ll go on letting her think so.” He untangled himself from me, took a quick look in his bag, then rapidly and very thoroughly went over every bit of the room—giving Titania just wide enough berth to keep her from diving on him.

Then he came back, shoved his face close to mine and said, “Poddy, can you read lips?”

“No. Why?”

“The hell you can’t, you just did.”

Well, it wasn’t quite true; Clark had barely whispered—and I did find that I was “hearing” him as much from watching his mouth as I was from truly hearing him. This is a very funny thing but Clark says that almost everybody reads lips more than they think they do, and he had noticed it and practiced it and can really read lips—only he never told anybody because sometimes it is most useful.

He had me talk so low that I couldn’t hear it myself and he didn’t talk much louder. He told me, “Look, Pod, I don’t know that Old Lady Grew”—he didn’t say “Lady”—“has this room wired. I can’t find any changes in it since she had me in it before. But there are at least four places and maybe more where a mike could be. So we keep quiet—because it stands to reason she put us together to hear what we have to say to each other. So talk out loud all you want to . . . but just static. How scared you are and how dreadful it is that I can’t hear anything and such-like noise.”

So we did and I moaned and groaned and wept over my poor baby brother and he complained that he couldn’t hear a word I was saying and kept asking me to find a pencil and write what I was saying—and in between we really did talk, important talk that Clark didn’t want her to hear.