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 concertor band selection. But there was a time when its playing was punishableby death—and its defiant strains challenged the harried police intavern 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 behindit all reminders of war. The psychosociologists said uniforms ofpolicemen, of postmen, of airline pilots, of lodge brethren, oftheater ushers, were militaristic, and they were abolished. Thepsychosociologists said the march rhythm in music was nationalisticand instigated combative feelings, and it was banned. The scenes, thesounds, the sights of antagonisms between men were forbidden.
The Polonaise, the Marseillaise, the March of the Toys, allsuffered the same fate. Sousa's marches and Tschaikovsky's 1812Overture went the same way. Dixie and the Hawaiian War Chantwere treated alike. All were relegated to tape in dusty archives, andtheir sale or public performance forbidden on pain of fine and prisonsentence.
Whatever unlawful violence there might be on faraway Mars, Earth wasthrough with all forms of war and its trappings.
Into these circumstances, Cornel Lorensse intruded on the night ofDecember 6, 2010. He pressed his thin face against the steam-mistedwindow of The Avatar in Nuyork and saw a piano standing idle inside.
The Avatar was one of those small restaurants sunk a few feet belowsidewalk level, which catered with exotic dishes to the tastes of aselect group. It was well-populated at this hour, and Cornel licked hislips hungrily at the epicurean delights unveiled at each table.
He felt in the pocket of his worn coveralls. A single coin answered theexploration of his fingers. He was down to his last resource, and hewas no nearer to finding the Friends than he had been when he landed.
He looked again at the piano, hesitated, then went down the three stepsto the restaurant's door, pushed it open and went in. It was his goodfortune that Wan Ti, owner of The Avatar was receiving his guests inperson at the moment.
"I'll play you a concert for a meal," said Cornel, gesturing toward thepiano.
Wan Ti's dark eyes swept over him, taking in the battered coveralls,the earnest face, the untrimmed blond hair, the slender hands. Wan Ti'syellow countenance remained bland.
"I have a piano player," said Wan Ti.
Cornel laughed, with a note of desperation in his tone.
"Let me play one selection," he urged. "If you want to stop me then,you can kick me out."
What Wan Ti thought could not be gauged from his expression, but he hadnot built his clientele against fierce competition by turning his faceaway from the unusual. He inclined his head slightly, and waved Cornelto the piano.
Cornel sat down at the keyboard, brushed his hair back from his eyes,and flexed his long fingers. Thrusting the tantalizing aroma of food tothe back of his mind, he pl