Chapter 2

Adam and Brute followed Goat Hennessey down the corridor, towering over him like Saint Bernards on the heels of a terrier. They turned into the dining room, a big square room centered with a rude table and chairs, one wall pierced by a fireplace in which a big cauldron steamed over smouldering coals.

The dining room swarmed with a dozen small creatures, human in their pink flesh, more or less human in their twisted bodies. As soon as Goat entered with Adam and Brute in tow, the assemblage set up a high-pitched howling and twittering of anticipation and began beating utensils on the dishes, table and walls.

“Quiet!” squawked Goat over the tremendous clatter, and the noise subsided. They stood where they were, bright eyes fixed on him.

These were “the children.” Some of them were humpbacked, like Evan, the one who had carried the message to the tower. Some, like Evan, were grotesquely barrel-chested, with or without the hump. Some were as thin as skeletons, with huge heads; some were hulking miniatures of Brute. One steatopygean girl was so bulky in legs and hindquarters that she could waddle only a few inches with each step, yet her head and upper torso were skinny and fragile.

Goat sat down at the head of the table, and immediately there was a tumbling rush for places. Most of the children sat, chattering, while two of the larger girls moved around the table, taking bowls to the cauldron, filling them with a brownish stew and returning them.

They ate in silence. When supper was ended, the children scattered, some to play, others to chores. Goat beckoned to Adam and Brute to follow him. He led them down the corridor and into his study.

Goat turned on the light, revealing a book-lined, paper-stacked room focused on a huge desk. He removed his marsuit to stand in baggy trousers and loose tunic. Adam and Brute stood near the door, shifting uncomfortably, for the study was normally forbidden ground.

Goat stood by a thick double window, looking out over the desert to the west. The small sun disappeared beneath the horizon even as he looked, leaving the fast-darkening sky a dull, faint red. Almost as though released by the sunset, pale Phobos popped above the horizon and began to climb its eastward way. The desert already was dark, but a stirring above it bespoke a distant sandstorm.

Goat turned from the window and faced the pair.

“Well,” he snapped harshly, “what happened?”

Adam smiled confidently.

“We did as you said, father,” he answered. “We walked to the edge of the canal, and we walked back. We had no water and we had no air. We did not feel tired. We did not feel sick.”

“Fine! Fine!” murmured Goat.

“Father...” said Brute.

Goat turned his eyes to Brute, and savage irritation swept over him. With that word, at that moment, Brute gave him a feeling of guilty foreboding.

“Don’t call me ‘father!’” snapped Goat angrily.

“But you say call you father,” protested Brute, the puzzled frown wrinkling his brow. “What I call you if I not call you father?”

“Don’t call me anything. Say ‘sir.’ What did you want to say?”

“Father, sir,” began Brute again, “Adam forget. Adam fall.”

With a muted roar, Adam swept his powerful arm in a backhanded arc that caught Brute full on the side of his head. The blow would have felled an ox, but Brute was not shaken. Apparently unhurt, he stood patiently, his blue eyes on Goat with something of pleading in them.

“Adam, let him alone!” commanded Goat sharply. “Brute, what do you mean, Adam fell?”

“We come back. We not far from canal. Adam fall. Adam sick. Adam turn blue.”

“It is lies, father!” exclaimed Adam, glaring at Brute. “It is not true.”

“Let him finish,” instructed Goat. “I’ll decide whether it’s true. What did you do, Brute?”

“I find cactus, father,” answered Brute. “I make hole in cactus. I put Adam inside. I put hole back. Adam stay in cactus. Then Adam break cactus and come out again. We come back.”

Goat cogitated. If Adam had shown, symptoms of oxygen starvation ... The big canal cacti were hollow, and in their interiors they maintained reserves of oxygen for their own use. More than once, such a cactus had saved a Martian traveler’s life when his oxygen supply ran short.

He turned to Adam.

“Well, Adam?” he asked.

“I tell you, father, it is lies! I do not fall. Brute does not put me in the cactus.”

“And why should he lie?” asked Goat blandly.

This stumped Adam for a minute. Then he brightened.

“Brute wants to be bigger and stronger than Adam,” he said. “Brute knows Adam is bigger and stronger than Brute, Brute does not like this. He tells you lies so you will think Brute is bigger and stronger than Adam.”

“I know you are bigger brother, Adam,” objected Brute, almost plaintively. “I not try to be bigger. Why you say you do not fall?”

“I do not fall!” howled Adam. “I do not fall, you stupid Brute!”

Goat held up a stern hand, enforcing silence.

“I can’t certainly settle this disagreement, but I’d be inclined to accept what Brute says,” said Goat thoughtfully. “You’re smart enough to lie, Adam. Brute isn’t. The only thing I can do is to run the experiment over. You shall go out again tomorrow, and this time I’ll go with you.”

“You’ll see, father,” said Adam confidently. “Adam will not fall.”

“Perhaps not. But I must be sure. As much as I prefer your more human characteristics, Adam, it’s entirely possible that Brute has some survival qualities that you lack.”

“Is true, father,” said Brute eagerly. “Some things kill Adam, they not kill Brute.”

“You lie!” cried Adam again, turning on him. “Why do you lie, Brute?”

“No lie,” insisted Brute. “You know, is true.”

“Lie! Lie!” shouted Adam. “Adam is bigger and stronger! What do you say can kill Adam that does not kill Brute?”

“This,” replied Brute calmly.