* * * * *
From inside the dome, the night sky is a beautiful thing, even though
Deimos and Phobos are nothing to brag about. If you walk outside,
maybe as far as the rocket field, you notice a difference.
Past the narrow developed strip around the dome, the desert land lies
as chilled and brittle as it did for eons before Earthmen reached
Mars. The sky is suddenly raw and cruel. You pull your furs around
your nose and check your oxygen mask, and wish you were _inside_
something, even a thin wall of clear plastic.
I like to stand here, though, and look out at it, just thinking about
how far those ships grope out into the dark nowadays, and about the
men who have gone out there on a few jets and a lot of guts. I knew a
bunch of them ... some still out there, I guess.
[Illustration]
There was a time when nearly everything had to be rocketed out from
Earth, before they organized all those chemical tricks that change the
Martian crops to real food. Domes weren't fancy then. Adequate, of
course; no sense in taking chances with lives that cost so much fuel
to bring here. Still, the colonies kept growing. Where people go,
others follow to live off them, one way or another. It began to look
like time for the next step outward.
Oh, the Asteroids ... sure. Not them. I did a bit of hopping there in
my own time. In fact--on account of conditions beyond my choice and
control--I spent too much time on the wrong side of the hull shields.
One fine day, the medics told me I'd have to be a Martian for the rest
of my life. Even the one-way hop back to Earth was "not recommended."
So I used to watch the ships go out. I still remember one that almost
missed leaving. _The Martian Merchant._ What joker thought that would
be a good name for an exploring ship I can't imagine, but it always
happens that way.
I was starting my cross-country tractor line then, and had just made
the run from Schiaparelli to Asaph Dome, which was not as nice as it
is now but still pretty civilized for the time. They had eight or ten
bars, taverns, and other amusements, and were already getting to be
quite a city.
One of the taverns near the western airlock was named the _Stardust_,
and I was approaching, measuring the sand in my throat, when these
spacers came out. The first one in sight was a blocky, dark-haired
fellow. He came rolling through the door with a man under each arm.
Just as I got there, he made it to his feet somehow and cracked their
heads together exactly hard enough to bring peace. He acted like a man
used to handling things with precision. He glanced quickly at me out
of a square, serious face, then plunged back through the splintered
door toward the breakup inside.
* * * * *
In a moment, he came out again, with two friends who looked the worse
for wear. The tall, lean youngster wore a junior pilot's bands on the
sleeves of his blue uniform. His untidy hair was rumpled, as if
someone had been hanging onto it while in the process of giving him
the shiner.
The other one was shorter and a good deal neater. Even with his tunic
ripped down the front, he gave the impression of making it his life
business to be neat. He was turning gray at the temples and growing a
little bulge under his belt, which lent a dignity worthy of his trim
mustache and expression of deferential politeness. He paused briefly
to hurl an empty bottle at someone's head.
"Better take the alley there," I told the blocky one, on impulse.
"It'll bring you out at the tractor lot and I'll give you a lift to
your ship."
He wasted no time on questions, just grabbed his friends and
disappeared before the crowd came out. I walked around a couple of
corners and back to my tractor bus. This lot was only a clear space
inside the Number Four Airlock. At that time, two or three tractors
came in every day from the mines or other domes. Most of the traffic
was to and from the spaceport.
"Who's that?" asked a low voice from the shadows.
"Tony Lewis," I answered.
The three of them moved into the dim light from the airlock guardpost.
"Thanks for the steer," said the blocky one, "but we can stay till
morning."
He seemed as fresh as if he had just landed. His friends were a trifle
worn around the edges.
"Keep playing that rough," I said, "and you may not make it to
morning."