Chap­ter III begins with the pro­tag­o­nist regain­ing con­scious­ness under Mar­t­ian skies, greet­ed by An’s gen­tle teas­ing. Blam­ing his dizzi­ness on a lack of local wine, An urges him to rise and explore the strange new world. The two begin their jour­ney across the land­scape, which gleams with canals and is dot­ted by radi­ant gar­dens filled with care­free Mar­tians. The envi­ron­ment feels peace­ful, even too serene, like a dream in motion. Peo­ple engage in leisure rather than labor, their laugh­ter echo­ing between the tall, del­i­cate tow­ers. There’s no urgency in their steps, only an ele­gant drift from one plea­sure to the next. An’s way of teach­ing is by doing, not by lec­tur­ing.

As they walk, An offers lit­tle expla­na­tion and sim­ply urges Gul­liv­er to observe. There are no signs of hard­ship here. The peo­ple wear intri­cate clothes and seem to live with­out stress or sched­ules. An, though dressed dif­fer­ent­ly in plain yel­low, blends in qui­et­ly with oth­ers like him. Gul­liv­er notices this con­trast. Half the city appears vibrant and adorned, while others—like An—are less adorned, seem­ing­ly over­looked. His ques­tions are met with silence or laugh­ter. The Mar­tians, it seems, avoid deep con­ver­sa­tion. They sim­ply live, and expect oth­ers to do the same. But the silence hides some­thing more com­plex.

The canal sys­tem that threads through the land is more than dec­o­ra­tive; it sup­ports life, beau­ty, and trav­el. As the pair board a long, slen­der craft, the city grows clos­er with every gen­tle stroke. Crowds gath­er, not to labor or protest, but to sim­ply exist and observe. Gul­liv­er draws eyes as they pass, his unfa­mil­iar appear­ance spark­ing curios­i­ty among the Mar­tians. To them, he is a walk­ing nov­el­ty. But as they look, he real­izes these glances aren’t hostile—they’re fas­ci­nat­ed, even qui­et­ly delight­ed. His pres­ence is like a rip­ple in their still waters.

An begins to explain his own place in Mar­t­ian soci­ety, his words care­ful yet open. The yel­low robe marks him as part of a group once revered, now rel­e­gat­ed to ser­vice. These indi­vid­u­als, once spir­i­tu­al guides, had imi­tat­ed aspects of the oppo­site sex in their rit­u­als. Over time, mis­un­der­stand­ing turned rev­er­ence into dis­dain. Now they serve but are denied affec­tion, fam­i­ly, or stand­ing. Gul­liv­er lis­tens with grow­ing dis­com­fort. Mar­t­ian soci­ety, for all its grace, is marked by divi­sion and sub­tle cru­el­ty. There’s beau­ty here, but also deep inequal­i­ty.

As the canal widens, a roy­al pro­ces­sion appears—barges draped in silks, gold­en pen­nants flut­ter­ing. At the cen­ter is Hath, the ruler of Mars, car­ried in ele­gance. Gul­liv­er, enthralled, steps clos­er. But it is not Hath who draws his focus—it is Princess Heru, radi­ant and still, seat­ed like a fig­ure from myth. The boat glides past, but a sud­den jolt caus­es a tree limb to strike. Heru tum­bles into the water. With­out pause, Gul­liv­er dives in, pulling her from the depths with steady arms.

The crowd’s gasp turns to cheers. His action, spon­ta­neous and brave, has pierced through a world used to qui­et obser­va­tion. Heru, drenched and silent, clutch­es his arm with an expres­sion that says more than thanks. Mar­tians may not speak of affec­tion, but this moment speaks loud­ly. Gul­liv­er is not just a vis­i­tor now. He has act­ed. He has changed some­thing. And the peo­ple, despite their detach­ment, rec­og­nize it.

The res­cue alters the mood. Gul­liv­er is invit­ed aboard the roy­al barge, and sud­den­ly finds him­self among silk-draped seats and curi­ous nobles. The warmth from Heru’s hand still lingers. But their inter­ac­tion isn’t pro­longed. Mar­t­ian cus­toms quick­ly reassert them­selves. Hath speaks not of grat­i­tude but of fate. A lot­tery sys­tem, he explains, deter­mines all mar­i­tal unions. It’s sim­ple, effi­cient, and leaves no room for choice. Gul­liv­er recoils inward­ly at the thought. The very idea eras­es love and indi­vid­u­al­i­ty.

As the city unfolds in greater detail, Gul­liv­er sens­es a con­tra­dic­tion. The Mar­tians wor­ship ease, yet main­tain rigid cus­toms. They avoid suf­fer­ing, yet qui­et­ly inflict it through tra­di­tion. Beneath the calm, a qui­et strug­gle continues—a cul­ture too proud to admit its flaws. Gul­liv­er is caught between admi­ra­tion and dis­com­fort. He sees beau­ty but also feels the weight of absence. Their world is peace­ful, but not free.

Lat­er that day, in a qui­et gar­den, Heru walks near him again. Their con­ver­sa­tion is light but charged. She speaks care­ful­ly, as if watch­ing every word. Gul­liv­er tries to find mean­ing in her expres­sions. He begins to sense that Heru, too, may be qui­et­ly ques­tion­ing the sys­tem that gov­erns her life. Though Mar­tians speak lit­tle of rebel­lion, per­haps not all have for­got­ten the pow­er of choice.

This chap­ter does more than push the nar­ra­tive for­ward. It expos­es read­ers to the com­plex­i­ties beneath Mar­t­ian ele­gance. Gulliver’s pres­ence acts as a cat­a­lyst, nudg­ing against long-held beliefs. His instincts—to act, to ques­tion, to care—represent a con­trast that qui­et­ly stirs those around him. Mars may be still on the sur­face, but its depths are begin­ning to shift. Through one bold act, Gul­liv­er has stepped into a future no longer con­trolled by chance.