Red Planet (2 page)

'What does
ipse dixit
mean, Doc?’ asked Francis.

'It means, He sure said a mouthful.’

'Doc,’ suggested Jim, ‘why don't you have dinner with us tonight. I'll call mother. You, too, Frank.’

'Not me,’ Frank said. ‘I'd better not. My mother says I eat too many meals with you folks.’

'My mother, if she were here, would undoubtedly say the same thing,’ admitted the doctor. ‘Call your mother, Jim.’

Jim went to the phone, turned out two colonial housewives gossiping about babies, and finally reached his home on an alternate frequency. When his mother's face appeared on the screen he explained his wish. ‘Delighted to have the doctor with us,’ she said. ‘Tell him to hurry along, Jimmy.’

'Right away, Mom!’ Jim switched off and reached for his outdoor suit.

'Don't put it on,’ advised MacRae. ‘It's too chilly out. We'll go through the tunnels.’

'It's twice as far,’ objected Jim.

'We'll leave it up to Willis. Willis, how do you vote?’

'Warm,’ said Willis smugly.

* Areography: equivalent to ‘geography’ for Earth. From ‘Ares,’ Greek for Mars.

South colony was arranged like a wheel. The administration building was the hub; tunnels ran out in all directions and buildings were placed over them. A rim tunnel had been started to join the spokes at the edge of the wheel; thus far a forty-five degree arc had been completed.

Save for three Moon huts erected when the colony was founded and since abandoned, all the buildings were shaped alike. Each was a hemispherical bubble of silicone plastic, processed from the soil of Mars and blown on the spot. Each was a double bubble, in fact; first one large bubble would be blown, say thirty or forty feet across; when it had hardened, the new building would be entered through the tunnel and an inner bubble, slightly smaller than the first, would be blown. The outer bubble ‘polymerized’—that is to say, cured and hardened, under the rays of the sun; a battery of ultra-violet and heat lamps cured the inner. The walls were separated by a foot of dead air space, which provided insulation against the bitter subzero nights of Mars.

When a new building had hardened, a door would be cut to the outside and a pressure lock installed; the colonials maintained about two-thirds Earth-normal pressure indoors for comfort and the pressure on Mars is never as much as half of that. A visitor from Earth, not conditioned to the planet, will die without a respirator. Among the colonists only Tibetans and Bolivian Indians will venture outdoors without respirators and even they will wear the snug elastic Mars suits to avoid skin hemorrhages.

Buildings had not even view windows, any more than a modern building in New York has. The surrounding desert, while beautiful, is monotonous. South Colony was in an area granted by the Martians, just north of the ancient city of Charax—there is no need to give the Martian name since an Earthman can't pronounce it—and between the legs of the double canal Strymon. Again we follow colonial custom in using the name assigned by the immortal Dr Percival Lowell.

Francis accompanied Jim and Doctor MacRae as far as the junction of the tunnels under city hall, then turned down his own tunnel. A few minutes later the doctor and Jim—and Willis—ascended into the Marlowe home. Jim's mother met them; Doctor MacRae bowed. ‘Madame, I am again imposing on your good nature.’

'Fiddlesticks, Doctor. You are always welcome at our table.’

'I would that I had the character to wish that you were not so superlative a cook, that you might know the certain truth: it is yourself, my dear, that brings me here.’

Jim's mother blushed. She changed the subject. ‘Jim, hang up your pistol. Don't leave it on the sofa where Oliver can get it.’

Jim's baby brother, hearing his name, immediately made a dash for the pistol. Jim and his sister Phyllis both saw this, both yelled, ‘Ollie!’—and were immediately mimicked by Willis, who performed the difficult trick, possible only to an atonal diaphragm, of duplicating both voices simultaneously.

Phyllis was nearer; she grabbed the gun and slapped the child's hands. Oliver began to cry, reinforced by Willis. ‘Children!’ said Mrs Marlowe, just as Mr Marlowe appeared in the door.

'What's all the ruckus?’ he inquired mildly.

Doctor MacRae picked up Oliver, turned him upside down, and sat him on his shoulders. Oliver forgot that he was crying. Mrs Marlowe turned to her husband. ‘Nothing, darling. I'm glad you're home. Children, go wash for dinner, all of you.’

The second generation trooped out. ‘What was the trouble?’ Mr Marlowe repeated.

A few moments later Mr Marlowe joined Jim in his son's room. ‘Jim?’

'Yes, Dad.’

'What's this about your leaving your gun where the baby could reach it?’

Jim flushed. ‘It wasn't charged, Dad.’

'If all the people who had been killed with unloaded guns were laid end to end it would make quite a line up. You are proud of being a licensed gun wearer, aren't you?’

'Uh, yes, sir.’

'And I'm proud to have you be one. It means you are a responsible, trusted adult. But when I sponsored you before the Council and stood up with you when you took your oath, I guaranteed that you would obey the regulations and follow the code, wholeheartedly and all the time—not just most of the time. Understand me?’

'Yes, sir. I think I do.’

'Good. Let's go in to dinner.’

Doctor MacRae dominated the dinner table talk, as he always did, with a soft rumble of salty comments and outrageous observations. Presently he turned to Mr Marlowe and said, ‘You said something earlier about another twenty years and we could throw away our respirators; tell me: is there news about the Project?’

The colony had dozens of projects, all intended to make Mars more livable for human beings, but
the
Project always meant the atmosphere, or oxygen, project. The pioneers of the Harvard-Carnegie expedition reported Mars suitable for colonization except for the all-important fact that the air was so thin that a normal man would suffocate. However they reported also that many, many billions of tons of oxygen were locked in the Martian desert sands, the red iron oxides that give Mars its ruddy color. The Project proposed to free this oxygen for humans to breathe.

'Didn't you hear the Deimos newscast this afternoon?’ Mr Marlowe answered.

'Never listen to newscasts. Saves wear and tear on the nervous system.’

'No doubt. But this was good news. The pilot plant in Libya is in operation, successful operation. The first day's run restored nearly four million tons mass of oxygen to the air—and no breakdowns.’

Mrs Marlowe looked startled. ‘Four million tons? That seems a tremendous lot.’

Her husband grinned. ‘Any idea how long it would take that one plant at that rate to do the job, that is, increase the oxygen pressure by five mass-pounds per square inch?’

'Of course I haven't. But not very long I should think.’

'Let me see —’ His lips moved soundlessly. ‘Uh, around two hundred thousand years—Mars years, of course.’

'James, you're teasing me!’

'No, I'm not. Don't let big figures frighten you, my dear; of course we won't depend on one plant; they'll be scattered every fifty miles or so through the desert, a thousand mega-horsepower each. There's no limit to the power available, thank goodness; if we don't clean up the job in our lifetimes, at least the kids will certainly see the end of it.’

Mrs Marlowe looked dreamy. ‘That would be nice, to walk outside with your bare face in the breeze. I remember when I was a little girl, we had an orchard with a stream running through it —’ She stopped.

'Sorry we came to Mars, Jane?’ her husband asked softly.

'Oh, no! This is my home.’

'Good. What are you looking sour about, Doctor?’

'Eh? Oh, nothing, nothing! I was just thinking about the end result. Mind you, this is fine work, all of it—hard work, good work, that a man can get his teeth into. But we get it done and what for? So that another two billion, three billion sheep can fiddle around with nonsense, spend their time scratching themselves and
baa
ing. We should have left Mars to the Martians. Tell me, sir, do you know what television was used for when it first came out?’

'No. How would I?’

'Well, I didn't see it myself of course, but my father told me about it. It seems —’

'Your
father?
How old was he? When was he born?’

'My grandfather then. Or it may have been my great grandfather. That's beside the point. They installed the first television sets in cocktail bars—amusement places—and used them to watch wrestling matches.’

'What's a wrestling match?’ demanded Phyllis.

'An obsolete form of folk dancing,’ explained her father. ‘Never mind. Granting your point, Doctor, I see no harm —’

'What's folk dancing?’ persisted Phyllis.

'You tell her, Jane. She's got me stumped.’

Jim looked smug. ‘It's when folks dance, silly.’

'That's near enough,’ agreed his mother.

Doctor MacRae stared. ‘These kids are missing something. I think I'll organize a square dancing club. I used to be a pretty good caller, once upon a time.’

Phyllis turned to her brother. ‘Now I suppose you'll tell me that square dancing is when a square dances.’

Mr Marlowe raised his eyebrows. ‘I think the children have all finished, my dear. Couldn't they be excused?’

'Yes, surely. You may leave, my dears. Say Excuse me, please, Ollie.’ The baby repeated it, with Willis in mirror chorus.

Jim hastily wiped his mouth, grabbed Willis, and headed for his own room. He liked to hear the doctor talk but he had to admit that the old boy could babble the most fantastic nonsense when other grown-ups were around. Nor did the discussion of the oxygen project interest Jim; he saw nothing strange nor uncomfortable about wearing his mask. He would feel undressed going outdoors without it.

From Jim's point of view Mars was all right the way it was, no need to try to make it more like Earth. Earth was no great shakes anyway. His own personal recollection of Earth was limited to vague memories from early childhood of the emigrants’ conditioning station on the high Bolivian plateau—cold, shortness of breath, and great weariness.

His sister trailed after him. He stopped just inside his door and said, ‘What do you want, shorty?’

'Well.... Lookie, Jimmy, seeing as I'm going to have to take care of Willis after you've gone away to school, maybe it would be a good idea for you to sort of explain it to him, so he would do what I tell him without any trouble.’

Jim stared. ‘Whatever gave you the notion I was going to leave him behind?’

She stared back. ‘But you are! You'll
have
to. You can't take him to school. You ask mother.’

'Mother hasn't anything to do with it. She doesn't care what I take to school.’

'Well, you oughtn't to take him, even if she doesn't object. I think you're mean.’

'You always think I'm mean if I don't cater to your every wish!’

'Not to me—to Willis. This is Willis's home; he's used to it. He'll be homesick away at school.’

'He'll have me!’

'Not most of the time, he won't. You'll be in class. Willis wouldn't have anything to do but sit and mope. You ought to leave him here with me—with us—where he'd be happy.’

Jim straightened himself up. ‘I'm going to find out about this, right away.’ He walked back into the living compartment and waited aggressively to be noticed. Shortly his father turned toward him.

'Yes? What is it, Jim? Something eating you?’

'Uh, well—look, Dad, is there any doubt about Willis going with me when I go away to school?’

His father looked surprised. ‘It had never occurred to me that you would consider taking him.’

'Huh? Why not?’

'Well, school is hardly the place for him.’

'Why?’

'Well, you wouldn't be able to take care of him properly. You'll be awfully busy.’

'Willis doesn't take much care. Just feed him every month or so and give him a drink about once a week and he doesn't ask for anything else. Why can't I take him, Dad?’

Mr Marlowe looked baffled; he turned to his wife. She started in, ‘Now, Jimmy darling, we don't want you to —’

Jim interrupted, ‘Mother, every time you want to talk me out of something you start out, Jimmy darling!’

Her mouth twitched but she kept from smiling. ‘Sorry, Jim. Perhaps I do. What I was trying to say was this: we want you to get off to a good start at school. I don't believe that having Willis on your hands will help any.’

Jim was stumped for the moment, but was not ready to give up. ‘Look, Mother. Look, Dad. You both saw the pamphlet the school sent me, telling me what to do and what to bring and when to show up and so forth. If either one of you can find anything anywhere in those instructions that says I can't take Willis with me, I'll shut up like a Martian. Is that fair?’

Mrs Marlowe looked inquiringly at her husband. He looked back at her with the same appeal for help in his expression. He was acutely aware that Doctor MacRae was watching both of them, not saying a word but wearing an expression of sardonic amusement.

Mr Marlowe shrugged. ‘Take Willis along, Jim. But he's your problem.’

Jim's face broke out in a grin. ‘Thanks, Dad!’ He left the room quickly in order not to give his parents time to change their minds.

Mr Marlowe banged his pipe on an ashtray and glowered at Doctor MacRae. ‘Well, what are you grinning at, you ancient ape? You think I'm too indulgent, don't you?’

'Oh, no, not at all! I think you did perfectly right.’

'You think that pet of Jim's won't cause him trouble at school?’

'On the contrary. I have some familiarity with Willis's peculiar social habits.’

'Then why do you say I did right?’

'Why shouldn't the boy have trouble? Trouble is the normal condition for the human race. We were raised on it. We thrive on it.’

'Sometimes, Doctor, I think that you are, as Jim would put it, crazy as a spin bug.’

'Probably. But since I am the only medical man around, I am not likely to be committed for it. Mrs Marlowe, could you favor an old man with another cup of your delicious coffee?’