A Trip to Mars (Timeless satire)

A satire by Pauline Swerdlow Silver Minneapolis, MN, 1941

In this sharp satire, a young woman finds herself on Mars—a world of rigid rules, inflated egos, and absurdities that feel all too familiar. With wit as her compass, she navigates a place where silence is safe and truth is trouble.

My grandmother, Pauline Swerdlow Silver (1896-1978), was a gifted writer and a natural storyteller. She used to tell me bedtime stories like this one—full of wonder, wit, and just enough rebellion to keep a child curious.

This unpublished story is as timely now as it was then, and it served as the inspiration for my recent fable, The Giant and the Thread.

I share her story not only as a tribute, but as a reminder: the sharpest insights often arrive wrapped in whimsy.

— — —

I really do not know how I came to be on Mars, but there I was. It happened so quickly. One moment I was comfortably at home, and then the next—on a strange new world. The transition must have been instantaneous, for I felt no physical discomfort. My first feelings were of shock and incredulity. I found myself in the midst of long, eel-creatures, with luminous, hypnotic eyes. Naturally, I was a bit frightened, but they seemed not at all disturbed.

There were a number of things I found confusing. Their way of speaking was through thought transmission. It could not have been difficult, for I quickly mastered it. They also seemed to have solved the problem of gravity, for they traveled easily through space.

Another matter that puzzled me was the varying sizes of individuals. Inquiring about it, I was told they had strict laws governing the attainment of size. Thus, an ordinary creature was only allowed to become a one-puff size. A petty officer was allowed two puffs. One inflates oneself in proportion to the importance one has in the community. I was greatly awed by the importance of some of the individuals I saw.

My informant was a one-puff type. I grew quite fond of him in an impersonal sort of way. He was easygoing, good-natured, and happy in his one-puff existence. He confided that his ancestry had been of the five- and ten-puff aristocracy. He intimated that certain forces were trying to deprive his class of even the one-puff privilege.

“What,” I asked him, “would happen if you puffed as much as you liked?”

He turned a dull greenish-blue and hurriedly left me.

Walking aimlessly about, I was attracted by a large crowd. A huge individual in their midst was evidently addressing them. I stopped to listen.

“Take away their rights,” he transmitted. “If we allow them one puff, they’ll want two or more. Remember their history. Are we going to…”

I turned away. It all seemed so stupid.

However, I could not get away from this vital issue of whether to puff or not to puff. Everywhere I encountered excited crowds, heatedly arguing the matter.

“Please tell me,” I asked, “what is all this agitation about? Surely, there is enough air for everybody? Why…?”

“You’re a very ignorant creature,” he flashed back, “or you’d know that the air is continually being used up. Besides…”—he eyed me suspiciously—“who are you?”

“All of this seems so silly to me. With plenty of air, why should only a few be allowed to—”

He did not allow me to finish. His eyes flashed. “A troublemaker!” His fury was almost audible. “A radical!”

I did not hear the rest. I was spellbound by the gorgeous colors anger had produced in him. Purple and blue, with flashes of red, then blue again fading to gray—graying fading into dawn.

And then, thank heaven, I was home again.