"Great," I groaned. "She could be anywhere."
Charley put a cigarette in his mouth. And in between the calls I made
to different places on the list he told me the seats reserved for the
press, us, were on the _Starfish_. We were going along with some crates
of blankets and two mine experts, Sam Vechi and his assistant, Raeburn.
"But no pictures of the mines," Charley said. "Or the mining equipment.
This order is backed up with RA zap guns. Dipple, over there, was very
emphatic. If he didn't know much about anything else, he knew that. I'm
surprised he managed to figure out how we were going to get to Ul."
Kibby was at the water cooler, his head pressed lovingly against the
cold metal cylinders. "Why are they letting Vechi go along? He's no
humanitarian. His interest on Mars is diranium and they're giving him a
chance to run through it barefoot."
"Pure conjecture," I said, cautiously but not convincingly. I had
given up trying to locate Deborah. "It's a mine area and Vechi is an
engineer. With all that education he should be some help."
Vechi was a hard guy to figure and pretty much on his own for a member
of the small Earth Federation colony. He was more or less attached to
the United Federated States Geological Research Expedition. But he was
a free-lancer, too, and disappeared from Marsport for months at a time.
It gave rise to rumors about his being an agent on the side for some
big mine development syndicate on Earth. His comings and goings were
mysterious but you couldn't pin a thing on him. Vechi was slippery,
smooth and indefinably unpleasant. But smart.
* * * * *
I had just suggested we haul our equipment out of the locker when the
door slid open. Deborah, her red hair half over her eyes as usual, came
in--a blazing little fireball of energy. She was going full blast.
I shrank within myself and wanted to crawl under a desk. If Charley
thought this was enchanting and feminine, he could have it.
Although--she had the throatiest, most electrifying voice I had ever
heard. It was a muted female foghorn with a lovely liquid cold. It
turned my spine to wax even though I got angry the minute she opened
her mouth and used it to say, witheringly, "What's the matter? How
many people have to die before you big shots get interested? You two
wouldn't dream of offering to help even if you aren't going after the
story!"
"I've been trying to get hold of you," I said coldly.
She just looked her contempt. "I've been at rescue headquarters since
6:00 a.m. You might have tried there. Two thousand people face death,
you know."
"And little Deborah has trundled out her armor and is in there pitching
like mad," I said.
"You hardboiled newsmen," she said, and she was really upset. "You
louses."
"Lice," I said. She had made me feel like a louse. I didn't want it
to show, so I got sly and mean. "Don't you think this trip is too
dangerous for you?"
She had calmed down. She didn't look like Joan of Arc, any more, just
tired and troubled. "No," she said briefly.
"O.K.," I said cheerfully. I was only a little bit sorry to be so
mean. "Then there's no bonus involved."
She buttoned a button on her sleek green workalls. "Louse, in the
singular. Keep your lousy bonus."
Charley gave me a long, disgusted look and left to get his gear.
* * * * *
From the air all of Marsport seemed enclosed in a shimmering
transparent syntho-glass bag. And it was, as were all the other Martian
cities, enclosed in some virtually indestructable sheeting that rose
to heights of 20,000 feet--contracting and expanding in the extreme
temperature changes of the planet. These breathing, nearly invisible
_skins_ sheltered the cities, and within them strange hybrid species of
flora and fauna flourished. The Martians had evolved a way of life that
was tranquil, visually beautiful and civilized--if artificial, by our
standards.
Its very artificiality became, in fact, a new kind of reality. The
reality of a dream that persists, or a fantasy which retains its
unbelievable qualities but becomes actuality. And in this atmosphere we
set up our machines and agencies and extensions of Earth--bursting with
the conceits and importance of having conquered space. And, oddly, we
did not consider it strange that the Martians displayed no interest in
returning our visit.
The spaceport lay outside Marsport, however. When we ventured beyond
the protection of the city shelter we wore the pixie-like oxygen hoods
and adjusted the thermal dials on our workalls. I never got over being
surprised that our technicians on Earth could have been so clever at
keeping us comfortable. You got used to nearly everything, as a matter
of fact, except the psychological sense that freedom existed within the
city shelter--and not in the great outdoors. You could get agoraphobia
on Mars; it was rough outside.
When we arrived at the spaceport it seemed as though every citizen
in the capital city had turned out. The slender Martian men in their
colorful, oddly skirted costumes formed the bulk of the crowd. They had
need of extra oxygen, too, and the tall, transparent cones within which
they breathed glittered like a thousand needles in the early morning
air. Martian women were missing from the crowd, as usual, and as usual
you had a strangely wistful feeling about these withdrawn people--who
were always friendly but never intimate. Who would not trust you any
more than you would mischievous children with the treasures of their
ancient and beautiful civilization.
We rode past the crowds in our vehicle, with an R.A. sergeant directing
us to the _Starfish_.
It can be said for the Rocket Auxiliary that they worked like beavers
loading the U.F.S. Rocket Fleet. The array of ships was impressive.
The sleek, silver hulls mirrored the pastel, candy colors of a clear
Martian morning. They lay quiescent like glittering feathers on the
broad, red-earth field. Far in the distance, low, brown hills rolled
out to meet the horizon. Small yellow clouds swirled over a section of
the hills--a dust storm into which we would be heading presently.
Our sergeant hopped off the vehicle when we reached the _Starfish_.
She was a real old dowager, the _Starfish_, with the broadest beam
in the fleet: even slower, but more uncomfortable, than a ride on a
three-legged Martian _ileh_, the only beast of burden on the planet.
When we had piled out of the vehicle the first thing I noticed was
Deborah's gear, all neat and ready to be stowed. Then Sam Vechi,
sitting on a fibreboard crate with his legs crossed at precise right
angles. His face in the transparent visor was thin, darkly tanned and
healthier looking than any of ours. And his workalls fitted as though
they had had him in mind when they tailored the original design. When
he got up at our approach I was surprised again by his height. You
remembered him, somehow, as being a small man, which he wasn't.
The audio cup in my oxygen helmet buzzed a little when he began to
talk, so I adjusted it and picked up the tail end of what he was
saying: "... terrible, this Ul thing, isn't it?" I nodded.
Deborah kept fiddling with her audio adjuster, as though she couldn't
hear, so she wouldn't have to acknowledge Vechi's greeting. She wasn't
good with people she didn't like and she didn't like Vechi.
Charley, who had a bright word for any slob, offered an apology for our
offhandedness. "They have a hate on," he lied blithely. "They turned
off audio so they couldn't hear my arguments for a reconciliation."
Deborah, who wouldn't let even phony opportunity go by, said nastily,
"I wouldn't give him two minutes or two words more than my contract
calls for."
"And it's a good thing it isn't up for renewal," I said.
Vechi smiled and there was something agreeable about all those white
teeth in that brown face.
I guess it made Deborah uncomfortable to have Vechi agreeable. "Excuse
me," she said. "I want some shots of the mob scene." She looked at me.
"Are you going to wave in a story to Kibby before takeoff? Lots of
color around."
It was a damnfool question. "I do news. You do pictures." I said it
patiently.
"I was only thinking of correlating the two, you crab!" she snapped and
stamped away.
"Real friendly type," Charley growled at me. "Quit riding her. She
knows her job and she does it."
"She knows her job but not her place," I growled back. "She has to run
every show."
"Boy, I bet your ancestors beat the spit out of their women when they
went out after the vote."
"That was the turning point in history," I said. "We have been paying
for it ever since."