One in 300 by J. T. McIntosh Page A

appear there must have felt that belief waver and diminish as the

plane swooped and flares lit the sky and people hurried past on their way

to the park. The grim watchers must have panicked at the thought: Some

of these people must be going to Mars. And here we are watching them go!
     
     
We heard the plane actually land. That, I thought, must break the last

resistance of anyone who must now guess he had no chance of life on Mars.
     
     
We stepped boldly into the square. It was getting dark -- deceptively dark.

Even we, expecting it, didn't see the helicopter until it dropped in

the square.
     
     
There were bodies in the square. It settled among them. I saw Mortenson

lying outstretched, his hand straining for a gun he had never reached.

He might have lived fifty years more, on another world.
     
     
Then shadows moved. We rushed for the helicopter, and I saw Harry Phillips

carrying Bessie in his arms, Betty and Morgan running hand in hand.
     
     
Then Pat screamed.
     
     
Whether Mortenson had been all but dead or merely stunned didn't matter.

He wasn't dead, and he had the gun. I saw Sammy go for his to make

another try, and knew he would be just too late. Mortenson knew the

time he had, and took careful aim. He could have had any of us -- Sammy,

who had shot him; or me, without whom no one from Simsville would live,

and all would be brought down with Mortenson, who couldn't go himself.
     
     
But he chose Pat. Something in his twisted mind made him go for the girl

who had loved him.
     
     
Mortenson and Pat died together. They were both good, clean shots. There

were no last-breath speeches. Pat fell and Mortenson lay still.
     
     
I can't explain what I did. I never thought of Pat at all. I merely worked

out that Leslie wouldn't be watching the plane, but at home, and I darted

across to a phone booth. I dialed and got her at once. "The square, quick,"

I said, and slammed the phone down. That was all.
     
     
     
     
     
     
9
     
     
We didn't see much at Detroit. The organization was magńificent. The whole

area was a vast clearing house, the few people who were running things

there handling us like so many cans of beans. We had no gear; someone

else was looking after that. There was a supply organization which took

care of not only the essentials, like the problem of how we were going

to live on Mars, but also the comparative luxuries, like how much of

our literature and history and art we could afford to take along. But

that wasn't our affair.
     
     
We got to Detroit late on Thursday night, were given a meal, and swept

into cots, all in the same room. We were then cheerfully informed that

our meal had been drugged. We saw only two people. Two who would handle

. . . how many lifeships' complements? Presumably the people who were

keeping things running at Detroit would be collected later by a regular

ship.
     
     
We slept until eleven in the morning -- Friday morning. When we awoke,

the world was still the same. We all wondered -- I expect everyone did who

looked at the sun that morning -- whether the whole thing wasn't a mistake

after all and life wouldn't go on the same as ever. But the fact was, of

course, that we were approaching the last second that scientists knew was safe. Nothing would happen, if they knew what they were talking about,

for quite a while after that -- minutes, hours, even a day or two. Even

when it did happen at last, on the sun, it would still be eight minutes

before Earth knew anything about it. . . .
     
     
We had breakfast together, and then with no more than a glimpse of

the feverish activity in the hundreds of square miles about us, and

the thousands of tiny, gleaming lifeships in the State Fair grounds,

Palmer Park, and wherever else there was an open space or one could

conveniently be blasted clear, we were aboard. One after another the

ships got the signal.
     
     
At last it was our turn. I grinned at Sammy as we came