The Empress of Mars (10 page)

Chiring went down there with his handcam and did a feature on the immigrants’ living conditions for the
Kathmandu Post
, indignant, invoking Steinbeck and Gorky as he panned across the grubby settlement. Blank masks stared back at him from the line of prospectors lined up to use the toilet.

Someone rolled a boulder into place by the main track that led to the camp, and on it painted, in straggling letters:
THE MARTIAN MOTEL
.

The boy walked into the Empress around lunchtime one day. He had the weary defeated look of a Lunatic, fighting unaccustomed heavy gravity. Mary nearly asked to see some identification, when he pushed up his mask and ordered an ale, so young he looked; but his voice was mature, soft and rather cultured-sounding. He spoke with an American accent.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said, when she slid the mug across the counter to him. “To your good health.”

“And yours, I’m sure,” said Mary in English. “New arrival, are you?”

“Set foot on the red planet for the first time this morning,” the boy replied. “Stanford Crosley at your service, ma’am. Would you know, ma’am, to whom I would speak about property rights?”

“Beg pardon? You want to file a claim, is it?”

The boy gave a wry smile. “Not exactly.” He reached into the quilted jacket he wore over his psuit and withdrew a veltex pouch. Opening it, he drew out another pouch—no, an
envelope
of thick paper, looking fabulously old and brittle. From this he drew a sheaf of printed hard copy, likewise old and brittle. He held it up for Mary’s inspection.

“Behold. My great-great and several times great grandfather, Sherman Crosley, purchased this deed to acreage on Mars in, oh, why it must have been around 1997. Surveyed, mapped, sealed and duly paid for, at the then-princely sum of ninety-five dollars and ninety-five cents. The deluxe package, you will note. Our family having fallen on hard times in recent years, I scraped together the last of the old fortune and staked it on emigration to our property up here.”

Mary peered at the old documents. “Oh, dear, Mr. Crosley, I don’t believe those are valid now. I remember one or two people showing up with them back in the earlies, but they weren’t honored—something in the small print—”

“They were only valid if the Martian Settlement Club organizers were the first ones to land on Mars,” said the Brick, who was seated two stools down. “Which they weren’t, in the event. Let’s see the papers, mate.”

Mr. Crosley handed them over. The Brick riffled through them.

“Yeah. Here’s where it says it: if the NASA—” He gave a short laugh. “—Or any other space agency was the first to land and claim Mars, this contract was hereby null and void. And besides, this land’s all the way out in Harmakhis Valles. Other side of the world, mate. Nobody lives out there.”

The boy drooped visibly. “Oh dear indeed,” he said. He looked so wan and hapless that Mary felt a tug at her heartstrings.

“Which isn’t to say you can’t stake a claim to any land you please now, over on this side of the planet,” she hastened to say. “Just so long as it hasn’t already been claimed by someone else, see? The British Arean Company owns everything below here, but there are lots of diamond prospectors staking claims out to the east and west. You just file with the Tri-Worlds Settlement Bureau. Doesn’t cost much for an acre claim, so long as you do something with the land.”

“Diamond prospectors, you say?” Mr. Crosley widened his sleepy-looking eyes. “Well, there’s a thought. Not that I have much choice now. I have staked my future on the dice, and must stand the hazard of the cast.” He drank down his ale and pulled out a wallet. “What do I owe you, ma’am? And I do hope you’ll accept Lunar money; I haven’t had time to get to the exchange office yet.”

“Bless you, dear, that’s all right,” said Mary. “That one’s on the house, as you’ve had such a disappointment. You’ve a place to stay, I hope?”

“Thank you, I have a secondhand but quite serviceable Exterra in which I am planning to camp,” said Mr. Crosley, sliding from the stool and fastening up his jacket. The Brick slid the old documents back down the counter to him, but he gave a brave smile and shook his head. “No thank you, sir. They’re no more than quaint curiosities now. You may keep them if you like, ma’am. I must build my future with these two hands, or not at all. Good afternoon, ma’am. Thank you for your kind hospitality.”

He slid his mask down and walked out, back very straight. “Oh, the poor boy!” said Mary, when the lock had hissed shut after him. The Brick shrugged and lifted his mug of ale.

“I expect he’ll do all right for himself,” he said.

“Try our new dinner special, half price with this coupon!” said Mona brightly, holding out a half-sheet from the Empress’s printer. Behind her, Manco rested his hand on the hilt of his machete and stared levelly
at the inhabitants of the Martian Motel. A surly and unkempt lot, the males among them were regarding Mona with expressions that clearly indicated they hoped she was included in the dinner special. All, save one who masked up and emerged from the cab of a battered Exterra; he smiled and, with a slight bow, accepted the coupon Mona held out.

“Thank you. Were I not masked and gauntleted, and you likewise, I would kiss your hand.”

“Really?” Mona looked incredulous. “Wow, that’s like—like—what’s the word I’m thinking of, Manco? Like the knights in days of old, in books?”

“Chivalry,” said Manco.

“Yeah, that,” said Mona. “Anyway. Everybody, we hope you’ll come up and sample our delicious new expanded menu—now featuring Proteus Beef Flavor, chopped mixed greens, barley soup, and fabulous treacle pudding! Which is made with golden syrup actually. You’ll love it!”

One by one, the others masked up and emerged from the vehicles or shelters and shuffled forward, to take Mona’s coupons. When all had been handed out, the youth from the Exterra stepped close—one eye on Manco—and lowered the volume on his mask’s speaker. He said, “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to deliver a message to the good lady who runs that fine establishment, miss—but I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Mona.”

“Well then, Miss Mona, do please let the lady know that Stanford Crosley sends his regards and very much appreciates the excellent advice she gave him.”

“Okay,” said Mona. “She’s my mum, you know. What was the advice?”

He leaned closer still and winked. “Why, to lay claim to a few acres of Martian soil for the purposes of diamond prospecting. I’ll say no more. And mind you don’t tell anyone but your mother, if you please.”

“What would he want it kept a secret for?” Mary set down the sack of malted barley she had been hefting and stared at Mona.

“He didn’t say.” Mona paused in her climb up Two Tank and almost shrieked aloud. “Oh, Mum! You don’t think he found diamonds on his land?”

“Who?” Mr. De Wit, who was eating his breakfast at a near table, looked up.

“This American boy from down the motel,” Mary explained. “Stanford Crosley, that was his name.”

“Oh.” Mr. De Wit shook his head. “No, I can guarantee he didn’t.”

“Well, perhaps he’s doing something else with it,” said Mona. “What do Americans do with land? Build . . . er . . . log cabins and drill for oil?”

“No,” said Mary and Mr. De Wit together.

“Well, I think he’s just fascinating,” said Mona, with a toss of her head. “He talks like a real gentleman.”

Two days later Mr. Crosley walked into the Empress, grubby, his psuit liberally smeared with purple clay, his shoulders bowed with weariness; but he smiled at Mona when she hurried to his table.

“Hi, Mr. Crosley! I gave Mum your message,” said Mona. “What’ll you have?”

“Some broth and toast,” said Mr. Crosley. “If you have any, Miss Mona? I’m feeling a little unwell, and I’d think that would just do me a world of good.”

“We have soup and crackers,” said Mona.

“That’ll do, thank you.”

She brought him his order when it was ready, and lingered. “I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well. What’s wrong?”

He smiled at her again, pulling a cloth handkerchief from his jacket to mop his brow. “It appears I may have overestimated my body’s ability to adapt to the gravity out here,” he said. “I was born on Luna, you know. We’re a little bit flimsier than most sturdy pioneers, it would seem.”

“I thought you were an American.”

“Oh, my family were Americans, Miss Mona. But we emigrated to the American sector on Luna and we’re a scholarly race, we Crosleys. I spent most of my formative years reading about high adventure in space. Perhaps I ought to have spent more time weight training! I’d have been better suited for the labor of prospecting on Mars, that is for sure and certain. What bitter irony!” He lifted the soup mug in both hands and sipped cautiously.

Mona tore through the dresser drawers of her memory, flinging out unwanted nouns, trying to recall what the English word
irony
meant. “Why’s it irony?”

“Why, indeed?” said Mr. Crosley. He drank a little more of his soup and then, as though struck by an idea, set the mug aside and leaned forward. In a low voice he said, “Miss Mona, are you permitted to walk out alone with a gentleman? On the understanding that nothing improper whatsoever will take place?”

“Of course I am, silly,” said Mona, after a quick glance around the room to assure her that neither Mary, Manco, nor Mr. Morton was anywhere about at that particular moment.

“Very good, then.” Mr. Crosley drank the rest of his soup and swept the crackers into his pocket. He got to his feet and offered her his arm. “If you’ll do me the honor of taking a brief stroll with me, Miss Mona, I believe I can show you the cause of my present quandary.”

They masked up and he took her down the tube to the first lock, outside of which his Exterra was parked. “We shall go for a Sunday drive,” said Mr. Crosley, “assuming Sundays exist up here. I’ve rather lost track of the dates, I am afraid, Miss Mona. I’ll show you my claim.”

“Is it far?” Mona inquired, realizing she had forgotten to charge him for his soup and crackers but deciding she may as well not, what with Mr. Crosley being so ill and all and having an exciting secret to impart besides.

“A fair distance,” said Mr. Crosley, switching on the Exterra’s drive. Mona held on as he maneuvered it out onto the mountainside and headed downhill. Rather than going down to Settlement Base, however, the big rig drove due north around the side of the mountain, across a broad open slope seldom frequented. They came at last to a gully, deep-cut by ancient summer rains, where they pulled up and stopped.

“My claim,” said Mr. Crosley, with a wave of his hand. “Kindly mask up, Miss Mona; you may find this interesting.”

He took her arm once more as they walked from the Exterra to the edge of the gully. Mona was a little wary, but not much; she felt she could probably break Mr. Crosley in two with one hand, should the need arise, so thin and poorly he seemed. Besides, Mona had seen a couple of holonovels set on Old Earth, stories by somebody named Austen, and she knew the arm-holding business was some kind of antiquated courtly custom. So she went with him now down shovel-cut steps into the gully, where one set of bootprints were tracked along its narrow floor. He was gasping for breath by the time they got to the bottom.

“There we are,” said Mr. Crosley, pointing up at the plum-colored walls that loomed over them. “Look closely, Miss Mona. What do you see?”

Mona looked. Here and there were a few desultory pick marks in the clay walls, and here and there a bit of rock sticking out of the clay. Or
was
it rock?

“Oh wow!” Mona dug frantically with her fingertips. She pulled out a chunk of something crystalline, currant-jelly red. “Oh
wow
!” She could see now that there were red stones protruding from the clay wall as far as her gaze might run.

“Mr. Crosley, you’ve got a diamond mine here!”

“It would appear that way, Miss Mona,” said Mr. Crosley sadly, taking the stone she had found and rubbing it between his gloved fingers.

“Well then, what’s the problem?”

“Why, you see how steep the walls of this gorge are. There may indeed be a fortune in diamonds here—if, in fact, they are diamonds, and I am by no means convinced they are, Miss Mona—but with my health in its present precarious state, I am surely not up to the task of mining them. And I may as well admit I know next to nothing about how I might go about getting mining equipment, or getting them appraised up here, or finding buyers for them.” Mr. Crosley tossed the red stone over his shoulder with a tired gesture.

“That’s hard,” Mona agreed, remembering all the long hours Mr. De Wit was putting in, trying to find a buyer for Mary’s diamond.

“In short, I guess I bit off more than I could chew,” said Mr. Crosley, with a rueful chuckle. “And I don’t mind telling you, some of those fellows at the motel seem to be rather desperate characters. I wouldn’t say I’m in fear of my life, Miss Mona, but oh, how I wish I had the money to book myself a flight home to Luna.”

“You could sell your Exterra,” Mona pointed out.

“I guess I could. I’m reluctant to do that, though; it was my father’s, and in any case I’d need it to get about on Luna,” said Mr. Crosley. “Better far would be some able-bodied and honest person willing to pay me what the claim’s worth, and then
they
could mine the diamonds. But where would I find someone like that, up here? I’d like to thank you for lending such a sympathetic ear, however. Shall we go? I wouldn’t want your mother to grow concerned for you, Miss Mona.”

They climbed back up, though Mr. Crosley was having to lean on Mona by the time they got to the top, and he had to spend a few moments catching his breath before he felt strong enough to drive.

“You know who you should talk to about this? Uncle Brick,” Mona suggested. “He’s been up here longer than just about anybody, and he has lots of good ideas.”

“Is he an honest man, Miss Mona, as far as you know?”

“Oh, of course he is!”

“Well, since you recommend him, I will certainly take him into consideration as a confidant,” said Mr. Crosley, wheezing. “But for the time
being, Miss Mona, I hope you won’t tell a living soul what I have revealed to you today.”