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{\LARGE\strut{WE'RE CIVILIZED!}}
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This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the \hyperlink{project-gutenberg-license}{Project Gutenberg License}
included with this eBook or online at
{https://www.gutenberg.org/license}.
\par

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Title: We're Civilized!
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\noindent
Author: Mark Clifton and Alex Apostolides
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Release Date: December 13, 2011 {[}EBook \#38287{]}
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Language: English
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Character set encoding: UTF-8
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WE'RE CIVILIZED! ***
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Produced by Frank van Drogen, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at {http://www.pgdp.net}.
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{\vl By MARK CLIFTON and ALEX APOSTOLIDES\par}
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{\itshape{Naturally, the superior race
should win ... but superior by
which standards ... and whose?}}\par

Illustrated by BALBALIS\par}

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The females and children
worked among the lichen
growth, picking off the fattest,
ripest leaves for their food
and moisture, completing their
arc of the circle of symbiosis.\par

The males worked at the surface
of the canals, or in open
excavations. Their wide, mutated
hands chipped into the rock-hard
clay, opening a channel which
was to be filled with sand and
then sealed off with clay on all
sides and surface. That water
might seep through the sand
without evaporation, without
loss, from the poles to the equator
of Mars—seep unimpeded, so
that moisture might reach the
lichen plants of everyone, so that
none might thirst or hunger.\par

The seepage must flow. Not
even buried in the dim racial
memory had there ever been one
who took more than his share,
for this would be like the fingers
of one hand stealing blood from
the fingers of the other.\par

Among the Mars race there
were many words for contentment,
kinship of each to all.
There were words to express the
ecstasy of watching the eternal
stars, by night and by day,
through the thin blackish atmosphere.
There were words to express
the joy of opening slitted
nostrils to breathe deeply in those
protected places where the blowing
sands did not swirl, of opening
folds of rubbery skin to catch
the weak rays of the distant Sun.\par

But there were no words for
"mine" as separate from "yours."
And there was no urge to cry
out, "Why am I here? What is
the purpose of it all?"\par

Each had his purpose, serene,
unquestioning. Each repaired or
extended the seepage canals so
that others, unborn, might know
the same joys and ecstasies as
they. The work was in itself a
part of the total joy, and they
resisted it no more than healthy
lungs resist clear, cool air.\par

So far back that even the concept
of beginnings had been forgotten,
the interwoven fabric of
their symbiotic interdependence
seeped through their lives as naturally
as the precious water
seeped through the canal sands.
As far back as that, they had
achieved civilization.\par

Their kind of civilization.\par

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Captain Griswold maintained
an impassive face. (Let that,
too, be a part of the legend.)
Without expression, he looked
through the screen at the red land
flashing below the ship. But unconsciously
he squared his shoulders,
breathed deeply, enjoying
the virile pull of his uniform over
his expanding chest. Resolutely
he pushed aside the vision of
countless generations of school
children, yet to come, repeating
the lesson dutifully to their
teachers.\par

"Captain Thomas H. Griswold
took possession of Mars, June
14, 2018."\par

No, he must not allow any
mood of vanity to spoil his own
memories of this moment. It was
beside the point that his name
would rank with the great names
of all times. Still, the history of
the moment could not be denied.\par

Lieutenant Atkinson's voice
broke through his preoccupation,
and saved him the immodest
thought of wondering if perhaps
his cap visor might not be worn
a little more rakishly to one side.
He must father a custom, something
distinctive of those who
had been to Mars—\par

"Another canal, sir."\par

Below them, a straight line of
gray-green stretched to the horizon,
contrasting sharply with the
red ferrous oxide of the landscape.
An entire planet of ferrous
oxide—iron—steel for the already
starving technology of the Western
Alliance. The captain felt a momentary
irritation that even this
narrow swath displaced the precious
iron ore.\par

Obviously these canals served
no purpose. His ship had circled
the planet at its equator, and
again from pole to pole. Canals
everywhere, but nothing else.
Enough time and fuel had been
wasted. They must land. Obviously
there was no intelligent life.
But the history of the moment
must not be marred by any
haste. There must be no question
within the books yet to be written.
There must be no accredited
voice of criticism raised.\par

"My compliments to Mr. Berkeley,"
he said harshly to Lt. Atkinson,
"and would he kindly
step to the control room?" He
paused and added dryly, "At his
convenience."\par

Mister Berkeley, indeed. What
was it they called the civilian—an
ethnologist? A fellow who was
supposed to be an authority on
races, civilizations, mores and
customs of groups. Well, the man
was excess baggage. There would
be no races to contact here. A
good thing, too. These civilian
experts with their theories—show
them a tooth and they'll dream
up a monster. Show them a
fingernail paring and they'll deduce
a civilization from it. Nonsense!\par

"You wanted to see me, Captain?"
The voice was young,
quiet, controlled.\par

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Without haste, Captain
Griswold turned and faced
Berkeley. Not only a theorist, but
a young theorist. These super-bright
young men with their
sharp blue eyes. A lot of learning
and no knowledge. A lot of wisdom
and no common sense. He
carefully controlled his voice,
concealing his lack of respect for
the civilian.\par

"Well, Mr. Berkeley, we have
quartered the globe. We have seen
no evidence of civilization."\par

"You discount the canals, Captain?"
Berkeley asked, as if more
from curiosity than refutation.\par

"I must discount them," the
captain  answered  decisively.
"Over all the planet we have seen
no buildings, not even ruins, no
evidence at all that intelligence
exists here."\par

"I consider straight lines, running
half the length of a world,
to be evidence of something, sir."
It was a flat statement, given
without emphasis.\par

Arguments! Arguments! Little
men who have to inflate themselves
into a stature of importance—destroy
the sacred history
of the moment. But quietly now.
There must be no memory of
petty conflict.\par

"Where are their buildings, Mr.
Berkeley?" he asked with patient
tolerance. "Where are their factories?
The smoke from their factories?
The highways? The
transportation facilities? Where
are the airplanes? Even this thin
air would support a fast jet. I
do not require they have spaceships,
Mr. Berkeley, to concede
them intelligence. I do not require
they be the equal of Man.
I also have some scientific training.
And my training tells me I
cannot recognize the existence of
something where there is no evidence
at all."\par

"The canals," Berkeley answered.
His voice also was controlled,
for he, too, knew the
history of this moment. But his
concern was not for his own name
in the history books. He knew
only too well what its writers did
to individuals for the sake of
expediency. His concern was that
this moment never be one of deep
shame for Man. "Perhaps they
have no buildings, no factory
smoke, because they don't need
them. Perhaps they don't have
highways because they don't
want to go anywhere. Perhaps
their concept of living is completely
unlike ours."\par

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Griswold shrugged his
shoulders. "We speak an entirely
different language, Mr.
Berkeley."\par

"I'm afraid you're right, Captain,"
Berkeley sighed. "And it
might be a tragic thing that we
do. Remember, European man
spoke a different language from
that of the American Indian, the
Mayan, Polynesian, African, Indonesian—"
He broke off as if
the list were endless. "I ask only
that we don't hasten into the
same errors all over again."\par

"We can't hover here above the
surface forever," Griswold said
irritably. "We have quartered the
globe. The other experts are
anxious to land, so they can get
to their work. We have made a
search for your civilization and
we have not found it."\par

"I withdraw all objections to
landing, Captain. You are entirely
correct. We must land."\par

The intercom on the wall
squawked into life.\par

"Observation to Control. Observation
to Control. Network of
canals forming a junction ahead."\par

"Prepare for landing, Lieutenant
Atkinson," Griswold commanded
sharply. "At the junction."
He turned and watched the
screen. "There, Mr. Berkeley,
dead ahead. A dozen—at least a
dozen of your canals joining at
one spot. Surely, if there were a
civilization at all, you would find
it at such a spot." Slowly and
carefully, he constructed the
pages of history. "I do not wish
the implication ever to arise that
this ship's commander, or any
of its personnel, failed to cooperate
in every way with the
scientific authorities aboard."\par

"I know that, Captain," Berkeley
answered. "And I agree. The
junction, then."\par

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The sigh of servo-mechanism,
the flare of intolerably hot
blue flame, and the ship stood
motionless above the junction of
canals. Ponderously, slowly, she
settled; held aloft by the pillars
of flame beneath her, directly
above the junction, fusing the
sand in the canals to glass, exploding
their walls with steam.
Within their warm and protected
burrows beside the canals, slitted
nostrils closed, iris of eyes contracted,
fluted layers of skin
opened and pulled tight, and
opened again convulsively in the
reflexes of death.\par

There was a slight jar only as
the ship settled to the ground,
bathed in the mushrooming
flame.\par

"A good landing, Lieutenant,"
Captain Griswold complimented.
"A good landing, indeed."\par

His head came up and he
watched the screen to see the
landscape reappear through the
dust and steam.\par

"Prepare to disembark in approximately
six hours, Lieutenant.
The heat should have subsided
sufficiently by then. The
ship's officers, the civ—er—scientific
party, a complement of men.
I will lead the way. You, Lieutenant,
will carry the flag and
the necessary appurtenances to
the ceremony. We will hold it
without delay."\par

Berkeley was watching the
screen also. He wondered what
the effect of the landing heat
would be on the canals. He wondered
why it had been considered
necessary to land squarely on the
junction; why Man always, as if
instinctively, does the most destructive
thing he can.\par

He shrugged it away. Wherever
they landed might have been the
wrong place.\par

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Farther along the canals,
where the heat had not
reached, the Mars race began to
emerge from their protecting burrows.
They had seen the meteor
hurtling downward, and it was
part of their conditioning to seek
their burrows when any threatening
phenomenon occurred.\par

Flaming meteors had fallen before,
but never in the interlocked
racial mind was there memory of
one which had fallen directly on
a canal junction. Within the fabric
of their instinct, they sensed
the fused sand, the broken clay
walls, the water boiling through
the broken walls, wasted. They
sensed the waters on the other
side of the barrier seeping onward,
leaving sand unfilled.
Within the nerves of their own
bodies they felt the anticipated
pangs of tendril roots searching
down into the sand for water, and
not finding it.\par

The urgency came upon them,
all within the region, to remove
this meteor; restore the canals
as soon as the heat would permit.
They began to gather, circling the
meteor, circling the scorched
ground around it. The urgency of
getting at it before there was too
much water lost drove them in
upon the hot ground.\par

The unaccustomed heat held
them back. They milled uncertainly,
in increasing numbers,
around the meteor.\par

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Since Captain Griswold had
not asked him to leave the
control room during landing
operations, Berkeley still stood
and watched the screen. At the
first appearance of the Mars race
emerging from the soil, he exclaimed
in great excitement:\par

"There they are! There they
are, Captain!"\par

Griswold came over and stood
beside him, watching the screen.
His eyes widened.\par

"Horrible," he muttered in revulsion.
The gorge arose in his
throat and stopped his speech for
a moment. But history took possession
of him again. "I suppose
we will get accustomed to their
appearance in time," he conceded.\par

"They're the builders, Captain.
Wonderful!" Berkeley exulted.
"Those shovel-shaped forelimbs—they're
the builders!"\par

"Perhaps," Griswold agreed.
"But in the way a mole or gopher—still,
if they were intelligent
enough to be trained for mining
operations—but then you certainly
cannot call these things intelligent,
Mr. Berkeley."\par

"How do we know, Captain?"\par

But the Captain was looking
about vainly for buildings, for
factory smoke, for highways.\par

"Lieutenant Atkinson!" he
called.\par

"Yes, sir."\par

"Send an immediate order
throughout the ship. The Mars
things are not to be molested."
He glanced at Berkeley as he
gave the order, and then glanced
away. "Double the complement
of men on the landing party and
see that they are fully armed."
Then back to Berkeley, "A good
leader guards against every contingency.
But there will be no
indiscriminate slaughter. You
may be assured of that. I am as
anxious as you that Man—"\par

"Thank you, Captain," Berkeley
answered. "And the planting
of the flag? The taking possession?"\par

"Well, now, Mr. Berkeley,
what shall we do, now that we
have seen some—things? Go
away? Leave an entire planet of
iron ore to be claimed later by
Eastern Alliance? The enemy is
not far behind us in their technology,
Mr. Berkeley."\par

He warmed to his theme, his
head came up, his shoulders back.\par

"Suppose these things are intelligent.
Suppose they do have
feelings of one kind or another.
What would happen to them if
the Eastern Alliance laid claim
to this planet? Under us, at least,
they will have protection. We will
set aside reservations where they
may live in peace. Obviously they
live in burrows in the ground; I
see no buildings. Their total food
supply must be these miserable
plants. What a miserable existence
they have now!\par

"We will change that. We will
provide them with adequate food,
the food to fill their empty stomachs—if
they have stomachs. We
will clothe their repulsive nakedness.
If they have enough sense
to learn, we will give them the
pride of self-employment in our
mines and factories. We would
be less than human, Mr. Berkeley,
if we did not acknowledge
our duty."\par

The light of noble intention
shone in his face. He was swept
away with his own eloquence.\par

"If," he finished, "we take care
of the duty, the destiny will take
care of itself!"\par

That was very good. He hoped
they would have the grace to
quote him on that. It was a fine
summing up of his entire character.\par

Berkeley smiled a rueful smile.
There was no stopping it. It was
not a matter of not planting the
flag, not taking possession. The
captain was right. If not the Western
Alliance, then certainly the
Eastern Alliance. His quarrel was
not with the captain nor with
the duty, but with the destiny.
The issue was not to be decided
now. It had already been decided—decided
when the first apeman
had crept into the tree nest of
another and stolen his mate.\par

Man takes. Whether it be by
barbaric rapine, or reluctant acceptance
of duty through carefully
contrived diplomacy, Man
takes.\par

Berkeley turned and made his
way out of the control room.\par

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Outside, the soil shifted in
its contortions of cooling.
The wind whispered dryly over
the red landscape, sending up
little swirls of dust, eternally
shifting it from one place to another.
The soil was less hot, and
as it cooled, the Mars race
pressed inward. Theirs was the
urgency to get at this meteor as
quickly as possible, remove it,
start the water flowing once more.\par

"Observation reports ground
cool enough for landing!" The
magic words seemed to sing into
the control cabin.\par

"Summon all landing party,"
Captain Griswold commanded
immediately.\par

The signal bells rang throughout
the ship. The bell in the
supercargo cabin rang also. With
the other scientists, Berkeley
dressed in his protecting suit,
fitted the clear glassite oxygen
helmet over his head, fastened it.
Together with the rest, he stood
at the designated airlock to await
the captain's coming.\par

And the captain did not keep
them waiting. At precisely the
right moment, with only a flicker
of a side glance at the photographic
equipment, the captain
strode ahead of his officers to the
airlock. The sealing doors of the
corridor behind them closed,
shutting off the entire party,
making the corridor itself into a
great airlock.\par

There was a long sigh, and the
great beams of the locks moved
ponderously against their weight.
There was the rush of air from
the corridor as the heavier pressure
rushed out through the
opening locks, to equalize with
the thin air of Mars. With the
air rushed outward fungus spores,
virus, microbes; most of them to
perish under the alien conditions,
but some to survive—and thrive.\par

The red light above the lock
was blinking on-off-on-off. The
officers, the scientists, the armed
men, watched the light intently.
It blinked off for the last time.
The locks were open. The great
ramp settled to the ground.\par

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In ordered, military file, the
captain at their head, the
landing party passed down the
corridor, through the locks, out
upon the ramp beneath the blue-black
sky; and down to the red
soil. Captain Griswold was the
first man to set foot on Mars,
June 14, 2018. The photographers
were second.\par

Now the Mars race was moving
closer to the ship, but the
ground was still too hot for their
unprotected feet. The pressing
need for removing the meteor
possessed them. The movement of
the men disembarking from the
ship was to them no more than
another unintelligible aspect of
this incredible meteor.\par

The sound of a bugle pierced
the thin air, picked up by the
loudspeaker from the ship, reverberating
through their helmets.
The landing party formed a
semi-circle at the foot of the
ramp.\par

Captain Griswold, his face as
rigidly set as the marble statuary
of him to follow, reached out and
took the flag from Lieutenant
Atkinson. He planted it firmly,
without false motion, in the
framework one of the men had
set upon the baked ground to
receive it.\par

He pointed to the north, the
south, the east, the west. He
brought his hands together, palms
downward, arms fully out-stretched
in front of him. He
spread his arms wide open and
down, then back together and up;
completing a circle which encompassed
all the planet. He held out
his right hand and received the
scroll from Lieutenant Atkinson.\par

With a decisive gesture, not
quite theatrical, he unfurled the
scroll. He read in a voice firm
enough to impress all posterity:\par

"By virtue of authority invested
in me from the Supreme
Council of the Western Alliance,
the only true representatives of
Earth and Man, I take possession
of all this planet in the name of
our President, the Supreme Council,
the Western Alliance, Earth,
and in the name of God."\par

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The ground was cool enough
now that their feet might bear
it. The pain was great, but it was
lost in the greater pain of feeling
the killing obstruction the great
meteor had brought to their
canals. The Mars race began to
press inward, inexorably.\par

It was in the anticlimactic
moment, following the possession
ceremony, when men milled
around in uncertainty, that Lt.
Atkinson saw the Mars race had
come closer and were still moving.\par

"The monsters!" he exclaimed
in horror. "They're attacking!"\par

Berkeley looked, and from the
little gestures of movement out
of his long training he deduced
their true motive.\par

"Not against us!" he cried.
"The ship."\par

Perhaps his words were more
unfortunate than his silence
might have been; for the ship
was of greater concern to Captain
Griswold than his own person.\par

"Halt!" Griswold shouted toward
the approaching Mars race.
"Halt or I'll fire!"\par

The Mars race paid no heed.
Slowly they came forward, each
step on the hot ground a torture,
but a pain which could be borne.
The greater torture, the one they
could not bear, was the ache to
press against this meteor, push it
away, that they might dig the
juncture clean again. As a man
whose breath is stopped fights
frantically for air, concerned with
nothing else, so they felt the desperation
of drying sands.\par

They came on.\par

"For the last time," Griswold
shouted, "halt!" He made a motion
with his hands, as if to push
them back, as if to convey his
meaning by signs. Involuntarily,
then, his eyes sought those of
Berkeley. A look of pleading,
helplessness. Berkeley met the
glance and read the anxiety there,
the tragic unwillingness of the
man to arouse posterity's rage
or contempt.\par

It was a brief glance only from
both men and it was over. Captain
Griswold's head came up;
his shoulders straightened in the
face of the oncoming monsters.
They were close now, and coming
closer. As always, the experts
were free with their advice when
it was not needed. When the
chips were down, they could do
no more than smirk and shrug
a helpless shoulder.\par

He gave the command, and
now there was no uncertainty.\par

"Fire!"\par

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The celebration was being held
in the Great Stadium, the
largest, most costly structure that
Man had ever built. It was a fitting
structure for the more important
football games; and used
on occasion, if they could be
fitted in without upsetting the
schedule, for State affairs. Now
the stadium was filled to capacity,
its floor churned by the careless
feet of the thousands upon
thousands who had managed to
obtain an entrance.\par

From the quarter-mile-high
tiers of seats, from the floor of
the stadium, the shouts welled
up, washing over the platform at
the North end.\par

"Griswold! Griswold!"\par

It was not yet time for history
to assess the justice of the massacre.\par

The President raised his hand.
The battery of video cameras
picked up each move.\par

"Our hopes, our fears, our
hearts, our prayers rode through
every space-dark, star-flecked
mile with these glorious pioneers."
He turned then to the
captain. "For the people of Earth,
{\itshape{Admiral}} Griswold, this medal. A
new medal for a Guider of Destiny,
Maker of Empire, Son of
Man!"\par

The voice faltered, stopped.\par

The crowd on the floor of the
stadium was pressing outward
from the center, screaming in
pain and terror. At the moment
when the people should be quiet,
rapt in reverence, they were emptying
the floor of the stadium.
But not willingly. They were being
pressed back and out, as a
great weight pushes its way
through water. Those who could
move outward no farther were
crushed where they stood.\par

And then the ship appeared.\par

Hazy of outline, shimmering
with impossible angles, seen by
its glinting fire of light rather
than by its solid form, as if its
reality were in some other dimension
and this only a projection,
the ship appeared.\par

The President's hand reached
out and gripped Griswold's
shoulder as he leaned back and
back, trying to determine its vast
height. A silence then clutched
the crowd—a terrified silence.\par

A full minute passed. Even on
the platform, where all the pioneers
of Mars were assembled
with Earth's dignitaries, even
there the people cowered back
away from this unseeable, unknowable
horror.\par

But one man leaned forward
instead, frantically studying the
shimmering outline of the ship.
One man—Berkeley.\par

With the training of the ethnologist,
a man who really can
deduce an entire civilization from
mystifying data, he recognized
the tremendous import.\par

At the end of that minute,
without warning, a group of
figures hovered in the air near
the floor of the stadium.\par

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Quickly, Berkeley's eyes
assessed their form, their
color, the increasing solidity of
the humanoids. There are some
movements, some gestures, common
to all things of intelligence—the
pause, the resolution, the lift
of pride.\par

"No!" he screamed and started
forward. "Oh, no! We're civilized.
We're intelligent!" He was pulled
back, as in his terror he tried to
leap from the platform to get at
the humanoids.\par

Held there, unable to move, he
read the meaning of the actions
of the group hovering near the
ship. One flashed a shining tentacle
around, as if to point to the
stadium, the pitifully small
spaceship on display, the crowds
of people.\par

The leader manifestly ignored
him. He flowed forward a pace,
his ovoid head held high in pride
and arrogance. He pointed a tentacle
toward the south end of the
stadium, and a pillar of leaping
flame arose; fed with no fuel,
never to cease its fire, the symbol
of possession.\par

He pointed his tentacles to the
north, the south, the east, the
west. He motioned with his tentacles,
as if to encircle all of
Earth.\par

He unfurled a scroll and began
to read.\par

—MARK CLIFTON \& ALEX APOSTOLIDES\par

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{\scshape{Transcribers note}}: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.\par}
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Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works.}

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