Bryce Walton

“ Ericson said.
"An alien virus. Martian. Nobody's been able to isolate it. If a case isn't too bad we cure it in the antiseptic wards, but otherwise—well, you just wither away and die in a few hours. You're all shriveled up and look like a mummy."
"That's horrible!" whispered Mrs. Ericson.
"They're diseased fakirs who say they can read the sands, predict your future, bring you paradise, for five credits. But stay away from them!"
And just at that moment, as though on cue, Madeleine thought, the old man stepped out about fifty feet in front of Don's camel, and blocked the narrow trail. ”

“ It was like waking and being exasperatingly aware of only the fleeting end of a dream. And as she slipped out a side entrance, even the wailing of exotic musical instruments seemed in a sense not real. Even the silence, the feeling of being followed, watched, even that seemed artificial—it was impossible to substantiate the suspicion.
Her palms were wet as she slipped along the wall toward the garage where the sandsleds were kept. From the amphitheatre she could hear the rituals, the intercessions, comminations, hymns, libations, incense-burning, and who knew what else. ”

“ Through the taper smoke, the glowing amphitheatre seemed like a golden porpoise lapped in dawn, and coupled with the expanse of the Haven it nestled in the night to resemble a sleeping question mark, an entity gay and sad and full of what was called life. ”

“ Suddenly, his hands held her, and his face was close above her lips. "You're still young and beautiful to me," he whispered.
She turned her face away, and gazed at the tattered and splendid veils of moonlight as Deimos and Phobos neared one another, with undying eagerness to consummate the timeless ritual. ”

“ Madeleine said, glancing at Don. "The hucksters." She stopped talking. Mars offered none of itself, but the others didn't understand. Mars was only what the hucksters wanted it to be.
She wondered how she could hang on to the end of the season—even though it was only three more days. They had committed themselves to a rigidly-planned schedule, a clockwork program that had them and the other "vacationing" tourists jumping and squeaking like automatons: Exotic Martian sports. ”

“ Artificially created to be an ever-smiling host of good-will, just like these pathetic camels have been bred for an exotic touch. No real intelligence, Don, nor originality. And everything you do or say is right out of the text book on how to make friends and influence tourists."
Don didn't look at her. His fingers trembled on the camel's reins.
"What is this fascinating-sounding 'Ritual of Love' going to be like?" giggled Mrs. Ericson.
"It's an authentic exploitation of actual rituals once held by the Martians," Don said. "It has a pagan religious significance. ”

“ Just as—ah—well—I must say that a number of tourists have a tendency to chuck their inhibitions during the rituals. But if not on Mars, then where?"
"I still say," yelled Mr. Ericson from his camel, "that you should spring a live Martian on us."
"We get plenty of calls for them," Don said. "But so far we haven't been able to scare up any."
"What did they look like?" asked Mrs. Ericson.
"Nobody knows. The only Martians around now are—ghosts," Don said, with a strange softness. "A few old prospectors, fakirs, beggars live in these hills—hermits. They claim they see Martians, know they're here. ”

“ She felt like a child who had never grown beyond the stage of the most old-fashioned fairy tales. Someone who had gone beyond the looking-glass and had never been able to get back, but who had never quite been able to forget the world from which she had come. ”

“ They believe in ghosts. The Martian sun drives them crazy."
"Like that old man we saw coming out here," said Mr. Ericson.
Don nodded. "They're dangerous. You must stay away from them, you understand. Or you'll get the contamination."
For the first time, Madeleine felt that Don was touching something real. She straightened. "Contamination?"
"Those crazy old guys are like lepers. They stay apart from everybody else. But if you go to them, you pay for it. And if you're contaminated, it'll cost. If you really get it, you can't be cured at all. You die." ”

“ The long line of exclaiming and sickeningly gullible tourists, either too young and wide-eyed to know better, or too old and desperate to admit the phoniness, ooohhhed and ahhhhed, and the rickshaws and camels, plus a few hardy adventurers on foot, turned with him as Don twisted his own beast toward Martian Haven.
Even the Ruins, she thought—they were like imported props lying in the sand, like old abandoned bits of a set for a TV production.
"Madeleine," her father said, still trying to be a big brother after years of failure. "I really don't understand this at all. ”