"Oh, you three make the ship go, huh?"
"Just about. This is Hugh Konnel, the third pilot; the gent with the
dignified air is Ron Meadows, the steward. I'm Jim Howlet, and I look
after the fuel system."
I admitted that the ship could hardly do without them. Howlet's
expression suggested that he was searching his memory.
"Lewis ..." he murmured. "I've heard of Tony Lewis somewhere. You a
spacer?"
"Used to be," I told him. "Did some piloting in the Belt."
Young Konnel stopped fingering his eye.
"Oh, I've heard of you," he said. "Even had to read some of your
reports."
* * * * *
After that, one thing led to another, with the result that I offered
to find somewhere else to relax. We walked south from the airlock,
past a careless assortment of buildings. In those days, there was not
much detailed planning of the domes. What was necessary for safety and
for keeping the air thicker and warmer than outside was done right;
the remaining space was grabbed by the first comers.
Streets tended to be narrow. As long as an emergency truck could
squeeze through at moderate speed, that was enough. The buildings grew
higher toward the center of the dome, but I stopped while they were
still two stories.
The outside of Jorgensen's looked like any other flimsy construction
under the dome. We had just passed a row of small warehouses, and the
only difference seemed to be the lighted sign at the front.
"We can stop at the bar inside while we order dinner," I said.
"Sounds good," said Howlet. "I could go for a decent meal. Rations on
an exploring ship run more to calories than taste."
The pilot muttered something behind us. Howlet turned his head.
"Don't worry about it, Hughie," he retorted. "It'll be all over the
dome by tomorrow anyway."
"But they said not to--"
"Mr. Lewis won't say anything, and he's not the only spacer who'll
guess it."
* * * * *
It was easy to figure out. Ships did little exploring in the Belt
now--plenty of untouched rocks there but nothing really unknown.
"Exploring" could only mean that a hop to Jupiter was in the works at
last. There had already been rumors about a few wide swings outside
the Belt.
Well, it was just about time.
I would have liked to go too, and it was more than just a spacer's
curiosity. To my mind, man _had_ to move out in space. Being only
halfway in control of his own planetary system was no state to be
found in by the first interstellar visitors.
That is a meeting bound to happen sooner or later. It would be better
for the human race to be able to do the visiting, I thought.
The inside of Jorgensen's always surprised new visitors to Asaph Dome.
It was different from anything on Earth, and yet not too much like the
real Mars either. That way, Jorgensen hoped to catch both the
sandeaters and the tourists. The latter came to rough it in local
color, the former to dream of a better world.
"Hey! Look at the stars over the bar!" exclaimed Howlet.
To begin with, the bar was of pinkish sandstone, smoothed and covered
by a coating of plastic. Behind it, instead of less imaginative
mirrors or bottle displays, Jorgensen had had some drifter paint a
night desert: all dull pink and bronze crags smothering in sand under
a black sky. The stars twinkled like glass beads, which they were.
Lights were dim enough to hide the Martian austerity of the metal
furnishings.
"The Earth tourists spend a lot of time here," I told the trio. "Seems
they'd rather look at that sky than the real one outside the dome."
The dining room was for the souls of the locals, who could admire the
desert more conveniently than find a good meal. It was mostly green
and white, with a good deal of the white being crystal. In the
corners stood fake pine trees which Jorgensen had repainted every
month; but what drew the sandeaters was the little fountain in the
middle of the room.
Real water!
Of course, it was the same gallon or two pumped around and around, but
clear, flowing water is a sight on Mars. When the muddy trickles in
the canals began to make you feel like diving in for a swim, you
stopped in at Jorgensen's to watch the fountain while his quiet, husky
waiters served your dinner most efficiently.
* * * * *
"Say, this is a cut or two above ship chow," admitted Konnel when the
food arrived. "What's that? Music too?"
"They have a trio that plays now and then," I told him. "Sometimes a
singer too, when not much is going on in the back room."
"Back room?" Howlet caught up the words.
"Never mind. What would you do right now with a million? Assuming you
could beat the wheel or the other games in the first place."
"Do they use ... er ... real money?" asked Meadows, cocking an
eyebrow.
"Real as you like," I assured him. "It collects in these places. I
guess lots of sandeaters think they might pick up a first-class fare
back to Earth."
"Do they?" inquired Konnel, chewing on his steak.
The string trio, which had been tuning up, eased into a quiet song as
he spoke. We listened as the question hung in the air, and I decided
that the funny feeling under my belt was homesickness, all the
stranger because I owned three homes not too far from the Martian
equator.
"As far as I know," I answered, "the luck seems to run to those who
can't go back anyway, for one reason or another. The ones just waiting
for a lucky night to go home rich ... are still waiting."
The door to the back room opened, letting through a blend of talk and
small mechanical noises. It also emitted a strikingly mismatched
couple.
The girl was dark-haired and graceful, though not very tall. She wore
a lavender gown that showed a good deal of trim back as she turned to
walk toward the musicians, and what the gown overlooked the walk
demonstrated. The man was fat enough to make him seem short until he
approached. His face and baldish dome were desert-reddened, and his
eyebrows were faded to invisibility. Jorgensen.
Nodding casually to various diners, he noticed the new faces at our
table. He ambled over lightly for one of his bulk, and it became
apparent that he was far from being blubbery. His belly stuck out, but
he could probably knock the wind out of you with it.
"Hello, Tony!" he said in a wheezy tenor. "Introducing some friends to
the best hamburger joint on Mars?"
Then he leaned on the back of Konnel's chair and told a couple of his
old prospecting yarns to make sure everybody was happy, while the girl
began to sing with the trio. She had hardly enough voice to be heard
over Jorgensen's stories. I noticed Konnel straining to listen.
Finally, Jorgensen saw it too. Leaving Howlet and Meadows grinning at
a highly improbable adventure, he slapped the boy on the shoulder.
"I see you noticed Lilac Malone, boy. Like to buy her coffee?"
"C-coffee?" stuttered Konnel.
"Made with water," I reminded him. "Awful waste here. Like champagne."
"I'll tell her she's invited," said Jorgensen, waggling a finger at
her.
"The fellows are going out in the morning," I tried to head him off.
"They don't have much time--"
"All the more reason to meet Lilac while they can!"
We watched her finish her song. She had rhythm, and the lavender dress
swirled cutely around her in the Martian gravity; but, of course,
Lilac would never have made a singer on Earth. Her voice was more
good-natured than musical.
She arrived with the coffee, said "hello" to me, waved good-bye to
Jorgensen's back, and set out to get acquainted with the others.
Catching Howlet's wink, and suspecting that he was used to getting
Konnel back to space-ships, I relaxed and offered to show Meadows the
back room.
He muttered something about his gray hairs, but came along after an
amused glance at Lilac and Konnel.
* * * * *
Jorgensen's gambling room was different from the bar and dining room
as they were from each other. Decorations were simple. Drapes of
velvety synthetic, dyed the deep green that Martian colonists like,
covered the walls. Indirect lighting gave a pretty gleam to the metal
gadgets on the tables. Because they used a heavier ball, roulette
looked about the same as on Earth, and the same went for the dice
games.
"Interesting," Meadows murmured, feeling in his pocket.
He pointed a thumb at the _planets_ table. It was round, with a small,
rectangular projection for the operator's controls and calculator. In
the nine differently colored circular tracks, rolled little globes
representing the planets. These orbits were connected by spirals of
corresponding colors, symbolic of ship orbits swooping inward or
outward to other planets.
"You pick yourself two planets," I explained. "For better odds, pick a
start and a destination. The man throws his switch and each little
ball is kicked around its groove by a random number of electrical
impulses."
"And how do I win?"
"Say you pick Venus-to-Saturn. See that silver spiral going out from
Venus and around the table to the orbit of Saturn? Well, if Venus
stops within that six-inch zone where the spiral starts _and_ if
Saturn is near where it ends, you scoop in the stardust."
Meadows fingered his mustache as he examined the table.
"I ... ah ... suppose the closer you come, the more you win, eh?"
"That's the theory. Most people are glad to get anything back. It's
honest enough, but the odds are terrific."
A couple of spacers made room for us, and I watched Meadows play for a
few minutes. The operator grinned when he saw me watching. He had a
lean, pale face and had been an astrogator until his heart left him in
need of Martian gravity.
"No coaching, Tony!" he kidded me.
"Stop making me look like a partner in the place!" I answered.
"Thought one night you were going to be.... No winners, gentlemen.
Next bets!"
* * * * *
The spheres had come to rest with Pluto near one end of a lavender
spiral and Mercury touching the inner end, but no one had had the
insanity to bet that way. Meadows began to play inner planet
combinations that occasionally paid, though at short odds. He made a
bit on some near misses, and I decided to have a drink while he lost
it.
I found Howlet, Konnel, and Lilac Malone in the bar admiring the
red-bronze landscape. When he heard about Meadows, Howlet smiled.
"If it isn't fixed, they better prepare to abandon," he laughed.
"People look at that face and won't believe he always collects half
the ship's pay."
Lilac saw a chance to do her duty, and suggested that we all go in to
support Meadows. I stayed with my drink until Jorgensen drifted in to
have a couple with me and talk of the old days.
After a while, one of his helpers came up and murmured something into
his big red ear. He shrugged and waved his hand.
The next time it happened, about twenty minutes later, I was on the
point of matching him with a story about a petrified ancient Martian
that the domers at Schiaparelli dug out of a dry canal. Jorgensen
lowered his faded eyebrows and strode off like a bear on egg-shells,
leaving me there with the unspoken punch line about what they were
supposed to have dug up with the Martian.
_Well, that build-up was wasted_, I thought.
* * * * *
Quite a number of sandeaters, as time passed, seemed to drift in and
out of the back room. Finally, Howlet showed up again.
"How'd you make out?" I asked when he had a drink in his hand.
"I left my usual deposit," he grinned, "but you ought to see Meadows!
Is he ever plugging their pipes! He ran Mercury to Pluto, and it paid
off big."
"It ought to; no one ever makes it."
"He did it _twice_! Plus other combinations. With him making out our
daily menus, I'll never know why I'm not lucky too. Know what he's
doing?"