They chanted the same things, out of unison, so that their voices created a nerve-tingling atmosphere of unrest. They shouted defiantly, yet not looking anywhere but at the neck of the man directly ahead in the revolving picket line. "Reds Picket Landing Day Fete," Scott said to himself, thinking in headline terms.
There was tension now among the celebrants in this part of the square. This was not a time for problems, or for thinking about them, and those who had gathered to have fun were being robbed of their spree.
Abruptly a Martian stepped up and in a quick motion wrested a sign from one of the pickets. He ripped it up and danced on the pieces. The picket whose sign had been snatched made no protest, aside from a look of surprise and a frown. He stayed in ranks, and the circle continued to go round.
Cheers went up and other revelers pressed forward. The marchers tightened their ranks and took firmer grips on their signs. The Martian who had snatched the first was now conferring with others. He motioned to a group of silently-standing musicians, and they took up a tune. The music was rousing and patriotic, and some costumed Martians went into a wild snake dance. With apparent good humor, but with telling effect, they drove into the circle of pickets and split them into two groups. In the scramble, several more signs were trampled underfoot. More revelers joined the attack and the pickets were split again, until they were widely separated and all their signs were gone. Their unity lost, they disappeared in the crowd.
The musicians switched to a gayer tune and there were cheers and laughter. The Martian who had grabbed down the first sign was hoisted into the air, where he bowed his over sized head, grinning.
The interruption of the fun was ended, and without violence. Scott and Ylia moved on.
But Scott knew the picketing had been only one manifestation of a smoldering problem. There was truth in those signs, and the people knew it. They just hadn't wanted to be reminded of it now. And, besides, most of them didn't want their thinking done for them by the left-wingers, who proclaimed the right of the people but too often in history had aborted the very rights they spoke of so feelingly.
The limited democracy the people now enjoyed had been hard-won. It was not perfect, they knew, and they suspected that there was corruption here and there, either in their own government or in W.G. But the Martian people had had a bellyful of violence. The force used by the Rockheads, just lately overthrown in a peaceful election, was fresh in their minds, and they were willing to go along for a while with President Murain—at least to give him a chance.
They trusted Murain. He was one of them. But Scott was aware that Murain himself was too trusting. The Martian president was a grateful man, and his gratitude had made him less suspicious than a politician should be.