Edgar Burroughs - Synthetic Men of Mars

She looked at me very closely. “What will it mean to you, Tor-dur-bar, if Vor Daj’s body is never recovered?”

“I shall have lost a friend,” I said.

“And you will come to Helium to live?”

“I do not know that I shall care to live,” I said.

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because there is no place in the world for such a hideous monster as I.”

“Do not say that, Tor-dur-bar,” she said, kindly. “You are not hideous, because you have a good heart. At first, before I knew you, I thought that you were hideous; but now, my friend, I see only the beauty and nobility of your character.”

That was very sweet of her, and I told her so; but it didn’t alter the fact that I was so hideous that I knew I should constantly be frightening women and children should I consent to go to Helium.

“Well, I think your appearance will make little difference in Helium,” she said, “for I am convinced that you will have many friends; but what is to become of me if Vor Daj is not rescued?”

“You need have no fear. John Carter will see to that.”

“But John Carter is under no obligation to me,” she insisted.

“Nevertheless, he will take care of you.”

“And you will come to see me, Tor-dur-bar?” she asked.

“If you wish me to,” I said; but I knew that Tor-dur-bar would never live to go to Helium.

She looked at me in silence and steadily for a moment, and then she said, “I know what is in your mind, Tor-dur-bar!” You will never come to Helium as you are; but now that Ras Thavas has returned, why can he not give your brain a new body, as he did for so many other less worthy hormads?”

“Perhaps,” I replied; “but where shall I find a body?”

“There is Vor Daj’s,” she said, in a whisper.

“You mean,” I said, “that you would like my brain in the body of Vor Daj?”

“Why not?” she asked. “It is your brain that has been my best and most loyal friend. Sytor told me that Vor Daj’s brain had been destroyed. Perhaps it has. If that is true, I know that he lied when he said that you caused it to be destroyed; for I know you better now and know that you would not have so wronged a friend; but if by chance it has been destroyed, what could be better for me than that the brain of my friend animate the body of one whom I so admired?”

“But wouldn’t you always say to yourself, ‘this body has the brain of a hormad? It is not Vor Daj; it is just a thing that grew in a vat.’”

“No,” she replied. “I do not think that it would make any difference. I do not think that it would be difficult for me to convince myself that the brain and the body belonged together, just as, on the contrary, it has been difficult to conceive that the brain which animates the body of Tor-dur-bar originated in a vat of slimy, animal tissue.”

“If Ras Thavas should find me a handsome body,” I said, jokingly, “then Vor Daj would have a rival, I can assure you.”

She shot me a quizzical look. “I do not think so,” she said.

I wondered just what she meant by that and why she looked at me so peculiarly.

It was not likely that she had guessed the truth, since it was inconceivable that any man would have permitted his brain to be transferred to the body of a hormad. Could she have meant that Vor Daj could have no successful rival?

It was night when we approached the Great Toonolian Marshes. The great fleet sailed majestically over the City of Phundahl; the lighted city gleamed through the darkness below us, but no patrol boat ventured aloft to question us. Our ships were all lighted and must have been visible for a long time before we passed over the city; but Phundahl, weak in ships, would challenge no strange fleet the size of ours. I could well imagine that the Jed of Phundahl breathed more easily as we vanished into the eastern night.

The desolate wastes of the Great Toonolian Marshes over which we passed that night took on a strange, weird beauty and added mystery in the darkness. Their waters reflected the myriad stars which the thin air of Mars reveals; and the passing moons were reflected back from the still lagoons or touched the rocky islets with a soft radiance that transformed them into isles of enchantment.

Occasionally, we saw the campfires of savages, and faintly to our ears rose the chanting of barbaric songs and the booming of drums muffled by distance; all punctuated by the scream or bellow of some savage thing.

“The last of the great oceans,” said John Carter, who had joined me at the rail.

“Its eventual passing will doubtless mark the passing of a world, and Mars will hurtle on through all eternity peopled by not even a memory of its past grandeur.”

“It saddens me to think of it,” I said.

“And me, too,” he replied.

“But you could return to Earth,” I reminded him.

He smiled. “I do not think that either of us need worry about the end of Mars; at least, not for another million years, perhaps.”

I laughed. “Somehow, when you spoke of it, it seemed as though the end were very near,” I said.

“Comparatively speaking, it is,” he replied. “Here we have only a shallow marshland to remind us of the mighty oceans which once rolled across the major portion of Barsoom. On Earth, the waters cover three quarters of the globe, reaching a depth of over five miles; yet, eventually the same fate will overtake that planet. The mountains will wash down into the seas; the seas will evaporate; and some day all that will be left to mark their great oceans will be another Toonolian Marsh in some barren waste where the great Pacific Ocean rolls today.”

“You make me sad,” I said.

“Well, let’s not worry about it, then,” he laughed. “We have much more important matters to consider than the end of the two worlds. The fate of a friend transcends that of a planet. What shall you do if your body cannot be recovered?”

“I shall never return to Helium with this body,” I replied.

“I cannot blame you. We shall have to find you another body.”

“No,” I said. “I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and I have come to a final decision. If my own body has been destroyed, I shall destroy this body, too, and the brain with it. There are far more desirable bodies than mine, of course; and yet I am so attached to it that I should not care to live in the body of another.”

“Do not decide too hastily, Vor Daj.”

“Tor-dur-bar, my prince,” I corrected.

“Why carry on the masquerade longer?” he demanded.

“Because she does not know,” I said.

He nodded. “You think it might make a difference with her?” he asked.

“I am afraid that she could never forget this inhuman face and body, and that she might always wonder if the brain, too, were not the brain of a hormad, even though it reposed in the skull of Vor Daj. No one knows but you and Ras Thavas and I, my prince. I beg of you that you will never divulge the truth to Janai.”

“As you wish,” he said; “though I am quite sure that you are making a mistake. If she cares for you, it will make no difference to her; if she does not care for you, it will make no difference to you.”

“No,” I said. “I want to forget Tor-dur-bar, myself, and I certainly want her to forget him.”

“That she will never do,” he said, “for, from what she has told me, she entertains a very strong affection for Tor-dur-bar! He is Vor Daj’s most dangerous rival.”

“Don’t,” I begged. “The very idea is repulsive.”

“It is the character that makes the man,” said John Carter, “not the clay which is its abode.”

“No, my friend,” I replied, “no amount of philosophizing could make Tor-dur-bar a suitable mate for any red woman; least of all, Janai.”