Martian Time-Slip Read Online Free PDF

that haze over around the F.D.R. Range.”
    They had hardly gotten into the air when the ’copter's loudspeaker came on. “Emergency announcement. There is a small party of Bleekmen out on the open desert at gyrocompass point 4.65003 dying from exposure and lack of water. Ships north of Lewistown are instructed to direct their flights to that point with all possible speed and give assistance. United Nations law requires all commercial and private ships to respond.” The announcement was repeated in the crisp voice of the UN announcer, speaking from the UN transmitter on the artificial satellite somewhere overhead.
    Feeling the ’copter alter its course, Arnie said, “Aw, come on, my boy.”
    “I have to respond, sir,” the pilot said. “It's the law.”
    Chrissake, Arnie thought with disgust. He made a mental note to have the boy sacked or at least suspended as soon as they got back from their trip.
    Now they were above the desert, moving at good speed toward the intersect which the UN announcer had given. Bleekmen niggers, Arnie thought. We have to drop everything we're doing to bail them out, the damn fools—can't they trot across their own desert? Haven't they been doing it without our help for five thousand years?

    As Jack Bohlen started to lower his Yee Company repairship toward McAuliff's dairy ranch below, he heard the UN announcer come on with the emergency notification, the like of which Bohlen had heard many times before and which never failed to chill him.
    “…Party of Bleekmen out on the open desert,” the matter-of-fact voice declared. “…Dying from exposure and lack of water. Ships north of Lewistown—”
    I've got it, Jack Bohlen said to himself. He cut his mike on and said, “Yee Company repairship close by gyrocompass point 4.65003, ready to respond at once. Should reach them in two or three minutes.” He swung his ’copter south, away from McAuliff's ranch, getting a golden-moment sort of satisfaction at the thought of McAuliff's indignation right now as he saw the ’copter swing away and guessed the reason. No one had less use for the Bleekmen than did the big ranchers; the poverty-stricken, nomadic natives were constantly showing up at the ranches for food, water, medical help, and sometimes just a plain old-fashioned handout, and nothing seemed to madden the prosperous dairymen more than to be used by the creatures whose land they had appropriated.
    Another ’copter was responding, now. The pilot was saying, “I am just outside Lewistown at gyrocompass point 4.78995 and will respond as soon as possible. I have rations aboard including fifty gallons of water.” He gave his identification and then rang off.
    The dairy ranch with its cows fell away to the north, and Jack Bohlen was gazing intently down at the open desert once more, seeking to catch sight of the party of Bleekmen. Sure enough, there they were. Five of them, in the shade cast by a small hill of stone. They were not moving. Possibly they were already dead. The UN satellite, in its swing across the sky, had discovered them, and yet it could not help them. Their mentors were powerless. And we who can help them—what do we care? Jack thought. The Bleekmen were dying out anyhow, the remnants getting more tattered and despairing every year. They were wards of the UN, protected by them. Some protection, Jack thought.
    But what could be done for a waning race? Time had run out for the natives of Mars long before the first Soviet ship had appeared in the sky with its television cameras grinding away, back in the '60s. No human group had conspired to exterminate them; it had not been necessary. And anyhow they had been a vast curiosity, at first. Here was a discovery worth the billions spent in the task of reaching Mars. Here was an extraterrestrial race.
    He landed the 'copter on the flat sand close by the party of Bleekmen, switched off the blades, opened the door, and stepped out.
    The hot morning sun beat down on him as he