THE PATRIOT

BY CHARLES L. FONTENAY

Earth was through with war. And while it is right that man have peace, it is also right that he have freedom. But Mars was in slavery, and to Mars Cornel Lorensse dedicated his life and his talent....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The Martianne is heard occasionally these days as a stirring concert or band selection. But there was a time when its playing was punishable by death—and its defiant strains challenged the harried police in tavern and drawing room all over the Earth.

In the days just before one marche militaire changed two worlds, Earth was weary of war, afraid of war, and desired to put behind it all reminders of war. The psychosociologists said uniforms of policemen, of postmen, of airline pilots, of lodge brethren, of theater ushers, were militaristic, and they were abolished. The psychosociologists said the march rhythm in music was nationalistic and instigated combative feelings, and it was banned. The scenes, the sounds, the sights of antagonisms between men were forbidden.

The Polonaise, the Marseillaise, the March of the Toys, all suffered the same fate. Sousa's marches and Tschaikovsky's 1812 Overture went the same way. Dixie and the Hawaiian War Chant were treated alike. All were relegated to tape in dusty archives, and their sale or public performance forbidden on pain of fine and prison sentence.

Whatever unlawful violence there might be on faraway Mars, Earth was through with all forms of war and its trappings.

Into these circumstances, Cornel Lorensse intruded on the night of December 6, 2010. He pressed his thin face against the steam-misted window of The Avatar in Nuyork and saw a piano standing idle inside.

The Avatar was one of those small restaurants sunk a few feet below sidewalk level, which catered with exotic dishes to the tastes of a select group. It was well-populated at this hour, and Cornel licked his lips hungrily at the epicurean delights unveiled at each table.

He felt in the pocket of his worn coveralls. A single coin answered the exploration of his fingers. He was down to his last resource, and he was no nearer to finding the Friends than 

  P 1/12 next