Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net 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 concert or band selection. But there was a time when its playing was punishable by death--and its defiant strains challenged the harried police in tavern 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 behind it all reminders of war. The psychosociologists said uniforms of policemen, of postmen, of airline pilots, of lodge brethren, of theater ushers, were militaristic, and they were abolished. The psychosociologists said the march rhythm in music was nationalistic and instigated combative feelings, and it was banned. The scenes, the sounds, the sights of antagonisms between men were forbidden. The _Polonaise_, the _Marseillaise_, the _March of the Toys_, all suffered the same fate. Sousa's marches and Tschaikovsky's _1812 Overture_ went the same way. _Dixie_ and the _Hawaiian War Chant_ were treated alike. All were relegated to tape in dusty archives, and their sale or public performance forbidden on pain of fine and prison sentence. Whatever unlawful violence there might be on faraway Mars, Earth was through with all forms of war and its trappings. Into these circumstances, Cornel Lorensse intruded on the night of December 6, 2010. He pressed his thin face against the steam-misted window of _The Avatar_ in Nuyork and saw a piano standing idle inside. _The Avatar_ was one of those small restaurants sunk a few feet below sidewalk level, which catered with exotic dishes to the tastes of a select group. It was well-populated at this hour, and Cornel licked his lips hungrily at the epicurean delights unveiled at each table. He felt in the pocket of his worn coveralls. A single coin answered the exploration of his fingers. He was down to his last resource, and he was 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 steps to the restaurant's door, pushed it open and went in. It was his good fortune that Wan Ti, owner of _The Avatar_ was receiving his guests in person at the moment. "I'll play you a concert for a meal," said Cornel, gesturing toward the piano.