Olympus Mons (13 page)

Jesperson's culminating jab scraped across every one of Doc Franklin's nerve endings. “Really, Mr. Director!” was his exasperated protest. “I'm forced to take exception to that illogical statement.” He swung to face the director. “The reason for Mr. Jesperson's refusal to face reality is self-evident. Once a minor celebrity due to his adventures as an alpinist, he insists upon obstinately splitting rhetorical hairs in a forlorn hope to further the ambitious mountaineering adventure he advocates.”

Being who he is, Jesperson knew better that to reply.

Franklin leaned forward aggressively, peering down his generous nose at my stone-faced partner. “Why, if I may ask, sir, does your committee persist in suggesting a totally unrealistic solution to the enclave's dilemma?”

“Because, sir,” replied Jesperson in that dead-level monotone that makes me nervous, and tends to scare everyone else away, “my ‘totally unrealistic solution,' as you call it, is the enclave's sole hope of survival.”

Angry mutterings, hoots and catcalls again ricocheted around the area, bouncing off the partitions that isolate it from the rest of Burroughs.

This exchange brought a scary expression to the glassblower dark countenance, not because he was upset by an encore of the noisy goings-on, but due to being too disgusted by what he'd been hearing to bother rising and scowling at his neighbors and coworkers. Most of attendees also seemed more disgusted than angrified by Jesperson's refusal to back down, a reaction no doubt due to the way Franklin arrogantly coupled his “totally unrealistic” put-down with a snide dig at my partner's once upon a time mountain climber fame.

Having listened to enough “illogic” for one day, the areographer rolled his eyes with an air of “let's all please maintain a sane and proper attitude here,” and turned to address the Chair. “Mr. Director, I move that a plea for assistance be dispatched immediately. It's essential to make the United Nations Organization aware of Burroughs being in exceptionally severe straits. I'm certain everyone present will agree that if we are to survive this extreme emergency our sole recourse will be to insist upon the timeliest possible aid. Failing to dispatch such a plea for assistance would be an egregious, if not perhaps a fatal error.”

“Second the motion,” was the unanimous response from a dozen throats.

Scheiermann rapped his gavel. “The motion has been moved and seconded. The Chair will hear discussion?” None was forthcoming, so he asked, “All in favor?” and the chorus of ayes was deafening. “Any nays?” There were none. “The motion carries.”

After a spotty exchange of approving comments, the director sat taller in his chair, craning to pick out Vic in the crowd. “Mr Aguilar . . ? Ah, there you are! The council intends to draft a plea for immediate aid and assistance. Please make yourself available in the communications cubicle early tomorrow morning.”

“I'll be standing by,” assured Vic, seated two rows behind me.

“The council thanks you in advance, Mr. Aguilar. Now then, a great deal of work needs to be done. Does the Chair hear a motion to adjourn?”

Jesperson slumped into in the folding chair beside me. We stayed put, waiting in silence for the meeting area to empty out. Lorna loosed a parting barrage of zingers our way before she ankled away in a huff. As the Marsrats filed out, a few subjected Jesperson to dirty looks.

We sat there, not saying a word, until Aguilar slipped into the chair directly behind us. Leaning forward, he said softly,
“Compañeros,
it will be a useless waste of time and energy to bother yelling fire! The self-satisfied
cabrones
who officiate in Geneva and New York do not know the meaning of
socorro.”

“Well, neither do I!” Never hesitating to fall into Vic's trap as if by accident, I take advantage of the opportunity to urge him to talk American.

Jesperson grinned. “You might cut Vic a little slack, Barney. Sounds to me like he could become our first convert.”

“Fine ‘n dandy. I'll be first to welcome him to the Jesperson madhouse, but
only
if he talks American.”

Several E-years ago Vic acquired the habit of paying close inattention to anything I might have to say. “Did either of you,” he asked, ignoring my advice on speech, “get around to reading this month's newsletter? No . . ? Well, first chance you get bring up the latest
Blue Planet
file and have a peek. After that ‘call home for help'
caca de vaca
we just heard from the director you two might find a pair of news items worth reading.”

“For instance?” I said.

“I believe it would be better for you to digest the informative tidbits yourselves. Both are written in the peculiar English language, Mr. Barnes, so you will be welcome to learn firsthand what they are all about. I must run now.
Hasta luego, compadres.”

“You do,” I warned,” and you'll clean it up.”

Vic nodded affably, chucked me on the shoulder in friendly fashion and breezed away. I got up, lifted my arms high overhead and stretched. “What's tomorrow's drill, Bwana? Do we foot-foot-slog-slog our way up ‘n down your rotten damn trail, or relax and call it quits?”

His answer was slow in coming. “A few vacation days may do you good, Barney. Take it easy, get on with your life, make peace with your squeeze, play with your kid, twiddle you thumbs, do whatever the hell turns you on. I gave the warden and his deputy who helps manage this asylum an overdose of straight talk. All we can do for the time being is sit tight, wait for the in-betweens to evaporate, and make some solid plans. The council eventually has to sort matters out and come around to our way of thinking.”

“And if it doesn't, or won't?”

His shrug hit me harder than any other reply could've done. “When it comes to Scheiermann wising up,” I told him, “later sounds a lot likelier than sooner. Hate to say it, but Franklin shot down your scheme in flames.”

He turned to me, a far away look in those ice-blue eyes, the kind that goes right through you and sees what's in the far distance. “Franklin did exactly what I knew he would do,” he said so softly I had trouble hearing him. “Much as it hurts to admit it, his enumeration of the problems associated with climbing the big hill was spot on. What really sucks and tugs at my heartstrings is that his misapprehension of things as they are was clouded by his misinterpretation of things as he'd
like
them to be. He made a strong case, and his verdict will hang in there until Scheiermann gets a final, ‘We feel for you, but can't quite reach you,' transmittal from Geneva or New York. By then, of course, thirsty times will no longer be around the corner, they'll
be
here.”

After a thoughtful pause, he added, “Find time to drop by my place in early morning. We'll have a look at Vic's monthly scandal sheet. What with all our traipsing up and down the ringwall trail I never got around to reading the current issue. Yet the way he had his say made me very curious.”

“Likewise,” I said. “Vic isn't much for loose talk, even when he jabbers in Spanish and I have to act like he's pissed me off. Something's up his sleeve.”

“That was my impression also.”

 

***

A spacious gap interrupts the circlet of power windmills installed around the crest of Burroughs' ringwall. Centered in the break is the big lasercomm dish serviced and maintained by Gimpy and his grunts. Our master computer diligently keeps the dish turned toward a bright, bluish-white diamond in the hazy but starry night sky. Whenever the homeworld is above our short horizon, two-way lasercomm burst transmissions keep us in contact with the lucky billions who live where most, if not all of us yearn to be.

Once each calendar E-month, except during fairly long periods roughly six hundred and eighty-seven M-days apart, when the solar furnace gets between us and the earthside ground-pounders who, as a French-born neighbor of mine likes to say,
“Respirez l'oxygène naturellement,”
or more often than that if a significant happening happens, the homeworld fills us in on the latest doings sunward via data-compressed bursts of digitally encoded zeroes and ones that bang the big lasercomm horn and zap at what Aguilar calls “a ferocious baud rate” to the communications cubicle where he reigns as
el jefe
. Vic decompresses and regurgitates the digital bits and bytes, then briefly edits, records and disseminates his pride and joy news sheet,
The Blue Planet.

Vic says he seldom changes a line of copy, and only rarely does more than reformat whatever comes in. A monthly output of what he touts as all the earthside news that's fit to print may sound like a wonderful notion, the catch being that what may excite folk in Beijing, Boston or Beirut is usually of no more than passing interest to us disenfranchised orphans in the sky. Practically no Marsrats bother with hardcopy; we punch up the latest homeworld scam on the computer monitors built into each humble abode, skim the stories and articles, and then go back to sleep for another E-month. I say “practically no Marsrats” to highlight one of Jesperson's major and minor quirks, fetishes, idiosyncrasies and othernesses. His view of the world, the flesh and the devil isn't necessarily like that of anyone else. Things have to be, quote,
his
way, or no way, period, take it or leave it, end quote.

Overcome a while back by a fit of curiosity, I asked my partner why he was addicted to old-fashioned hardcopy, especially with a super-acute, neverending paper shortage here in our fair crater
—
one more sign of our outcast status. His retort was larded with customary, put-Barnes-in-his-place surliness. Seems he'd conned some poor, susceptible ground-pounder into shipping a quarter-ream of tissue-thin mylar sheets to Mars, several of which he uses to print hardcopy, then bleaches them clean for reuse, an action made necessary because the council got wind of his precious hoard and “requisitioned” most of it for official use. Anyhow, it was his habit to reread items of particular interest in each printout, and then often as not highlight key phrases and paragraphs that happened to catch his interest, and be re-read later.

An hour or so after sunup I barged into Jesperson's quarters without knocking, stopped dead in my tracks and clapped my hands over both ears, but not to avoid hearing sentimental words of welcome. His supersonic sound system was blaring Sibelius, Beethoven, Mozart or some other long-dead music maker's opus at about fifty-thousand decibels. His two-room domicile looked homey, lived-in; one corner of the parlor was littered with recharging batteries. A soiled tan jumpsuit wadded on the divan stood guard over a mismatched pair of wilted sweat socks. His separated vacuum gear sprawled on the floor, looking like a disjointed white carcass; I'm sure it hadn't been cleaned in donkey's years, ‘cause dusty overboots were jammed on the pressure-suit's soft boots. A dubious stain marred the oval glass-cloth rug under his littered coffee table.

“Page two,” he shouted, not lifting his eyes from whatever he was doing.

I couldn't hear him over the rhythmic din, but experience had taught me to read lips. I unearthed the current
Blue Planet
printout from under the bric-à-brac and whatnots littering the chipped-glass coffee table, and flipped through it. Highlighted in yellow marker, the leftmost column on the backside of page one discussed the sixteen new Marsrats who'd been enduring the months-long trajectory from the Earth-Moon System.

Before I could finish reading the short piece, the musical avalanche got to me so bad I might as well have been trying to read Chinese. Reaching past my host, I snapped off his audio system, an action that earned me a soul-scorching glare.

“So sixteen hunks of fresh meat are bound for our fair planet so as to live here in purgatory. So what? Scheiermann already told us they were in transit.”

“Sixteen, Barney! Sweet sixteen. How many newcomers usually show up?”

“Couple of dozen, except it says here this cattle car carries
—
”

“Four squared,” he supplied, cutting me short. “What does the low tote tell you?”

I scratched my head. “Tells me the earthside honchos may've tried extra-hard, but they could only find sixteen suckers willing to forsake a normal existence and climb aboard a whirligig ship heading for this dustbin of a
—
”

“No, no! Use your head, Barnes! A whirligig ship's complement was cast in concrete decades ago: six crewmen or women, and twenty-four passengers. There's never been a variation until now, assuming the tote is listed correctly.”

A Jespersonian lecture once filled me in on the whys, wherefores, virtues and vices of long-haul ships built, not by coincidence, at Vonex Aerospace, once a prominent subsidiary of our former sponsoring cartel. Nowadays professionals of one stripe or another can apply for a free ride to our rust-colored hellhole, whereas voluntaries have to spend an emperor's ransom, sometimes all they have, undergo the Bevvinase Process and be handed a one-way ticket. After departure from the Earth-Luna System, and midcourse corrections that insert the bird in an on-the-money trajectory, what Jesperson called “balanced masses,” namely the ship's power module and life support module, are unreeled a kilometer or so apart on a stout tether. Thrusters start the modules whirling about their common “center of mass,” hence the “whirligig” tag, imparting artificial gee force to both modules, allowing the crew and Mars-rationalized passengers alike to suffer less from bone calcium loss, muscle atrophy, prolonged freefall heeby-jeebies, so on and so forth.

Per instructions, I concentrated on doing some heavy-duty thinking and came up empty. “Okay, I give up, Bwana. You've goosed me into playing the usual no-win guessing game, so spill it. What does the ship's sixteen passenger-count have to do with the price of oranges?”