The Empress of Mars (11 page)

“Of course I won’t,” said Mona.

“Uncle Brick?”

The Brick looked up from his Friday Dinner Special. Mona stood by his seat, biting her lip. He reached out and tousled her hair. “Hi di ho, sweetheart. What’s doing?”

“I have this friend, see?” Mona plumped down beside him. “And he has a problem? Actually it’s not really a problem, on account of he’s had some really amazing good luck, only . . . well, he’s had good luck but he sort of can’t use it, if you know what I mean?”

“Can’t say I do, m’dear,” said the Brick, reaching for his mug. He drained half a pint in one gulp and wiped his mustache. “What kind of good luck?”

“Well, see, he’s this prospector . . .” Mona twisted a lock of her hair around her fingers. The Brick grunted. He raised his eyes and saw at least a dozen shabby prospectors, seated here and there, who had been hunched over their Friday Dinner Specials shoveling hot food down but now had lifted their heads to listen surreptitiously.

“A prospector, huh?”

“Yes. He didn’t want me to tell anybody, but I thought—well, you know a lot and I thought maybe you’d know what he ought to do—see, he’s found this claim where there are all these diamonds? I saw ’em myself. But, the thing is . . . it’s that nice Mr. Crosley. And he isn’t well.”

“He isn’t, is he?” The Brick resumed eating, glancing up now and then to watch the spectators to the conversation.

“No, you know how thin and pale he looks. And the claim is in a tough place to mine. And he doesn’t have the equipment for it anyhow. And he wants to go back to Luna, only he hasn’t got the money for his ticket.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So he was thinking, maybe he could sell the claim to somebody who would offer him what it’s worth, and I’m sure it’s worth a lot because, well, you should have seen the diamonds that were there! I dug one out myself.”

“Got it with you?”

“Oh, no. It was his. I gave it back to him and he left it there. Anyhow, he’s still trying to make up his mind what to do, and he asked me not to tell anybody, so I haven’t except for you. but I thought maybe you might know somebody honest among the Haulers who maybe was strong enough to mine the diamonds and could buy out Mr. Crosley’s claim.”

“Yeah. Well, Mona, sweetheart, I’ll be honest: the Haulers may be a teensy bit unstable, but I don’t think there’s any of ’em mad enough to take up diamond prospecting.” The Brick raised shrewd red eyes and surveyed the room, where all present were wolfing down their food at an even faster speed than previously.

“Oh.” Mona pouted. “Poor Mr. Crosley. What’s he going to do?”

The Brick patted her hand genially. “Don’t you worry about your Mr. Crosley. Old Uncle Brick has a feeling he’ll do just fine by himself. You wait and see.”

“Okay. You want your pudding now?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Mona rose and went to the kitchen for a dish of treacle pudding. The Brick sat and stroked his beard, watching as a dozen miners threw down their spoons and headed for the airlock, nearly falling over one another in their haste to make an inconspicuous exit.

Two days later Mr. Crosley walked into the Empress, seeming even more feeble than he had the last time he’d been in. He took a seat at a table against the far wall, his back to it, and propped himself up in his chair as though it was an effort to stay upright; but he managed a smile for Mona, when she hurried to his table.

“Hi, Mr. Crosley! Are you all right?”

“Well enough, Miss Mona. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for the special I saw chalked up on the board, there? The Chicken Fried Proteus Steak and Chips with Gravy? And perhaps a shot of your best whiskey?”

“Don’t you want some soup or something?”

“Why, to be frank, Miss Mona, I’ve had a little distressing news from the good medico at the British Arean Company’s clinic, and I believe I’m going to need to build my strength up.”

“Oh! Okay,” said Mona, and hurried off to place his order. She brought his whiskey and hovered over him.

“What did the clinic guy have to say?”

“Thank you.” Mr. Crosley pulled the shot close and knocked it back. “Mm. I’ve already burdened you with enough of my troubles, Miss Mona, but since you ask—it appears my health is now too fragile for the rigors of spaceflight. It looks as though I shall have to make the best of things here on Mars, after all.”

“Oh, no! Are you dying?”

“Not for a while yet, let us hope,” said Mr. Crosley, looking at his empty glass. “My goodness, that is smooth whiskey. Your mother is truly a goddess of hospitality, Miss Mona.”

“I’ll get you another.” Mona took the glass. “Well, look on the bright side: now you can find a way to mine those diamonds!”

“Beg pardon? Oh, that.” Mr. Crosley waved a dismissive hand. “As it happens, some fellows at the motel pooled their money and bought my claim. Formed a consortium of some kind, I believe. I was quite amazed. Told them I wasn’t at all sure there were any diamonds there. All that glitters is not gold, as they say. But at least I now have the funds to live out my remaining days here in comfort.”

“That’s something anyway,” said Mona. She hurried off to the bar, where Mr. Cochevelou was just receiving a pint of porter from Mr. Morton.

“Another shot please. Hi, Mr. Cochevelou.”

“Mm.” Cochevelou nodded at her. He leaned forward over the bar and spoke
sotto voce
to Mr. Morton, or tried to in any case; his voice still
carried like a bull’s bellow. “So what’s this I hear about trouble with your Mr. De Wit?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Morton, pouring the shot of whiskey, turned to stare.

“Our Sylvia heard it from our Emilio, who heard it from one of the lads down at the motel. Like he’s been dishonest, or something? Not trustworthy after all?”

Mr. Morton pointed a mute finger at Mr. De Wit, who was seated two barstools down having a quiet glass of beer. Cochevelou gaped at him and blushed red.

“What?” Mary stood up from under the counter, where she’d been tapping in a fresh keg. “Who’s been spreading nasty rumors about my lawyer?”

“I was only saying there’s been talk,” protested Cochevelou.

“What kind of talk?” Mary slammed a wrench down on the counter.

“I don’t know, some nonsense about him being likely to cheat folk,” said Cochevelou, taking a prudent step back from the bar. “I’m sure it’s all vile lies.”

“You’re damned right it’s vile lies,” said Mary hotly. Mr. De Wit shrugged.

“I’m a lawyer. Slander’s a job hazard,” he said, and popped a handful of salted peanuts in his mouth. Mona collected Mr. Crosley’s shot of whiskey and took it back to his table, where he sat looking on with a benign expression.

He dined with apparent good appetite and effusive compliments to Mona on the quality of the cuisine. When the dishes had been cleared away afterward, Mr. Crosley remained at his table. He drew a small case from within his jacket and, opening it, began to lay out a number of slips of pasteboard.

Mona, finding occasion to wander by his table, stopped and peered down. “Hey! Those are, like, the little pictures from Super Solitaire! The, uh, hearts and diamonds and the pointy things.”

“Spades,” said Mr. Crosley. “It’s an old-fashioned deck of playing cards, Miss Mona. The honest kind. Never seen one of these, I expect?”

“Never,” said Mona, watching as his slender fingers flipped the cards down, one after another after another. “I’ve just played the games on my buke.”

“Ah. That’s all most people have done, nowadays,” said Mr. Crosley, with a shake of his head. Having laid out all the cards, he tucked the little case away in his breast pocket and scooped up the deck. He began to shuffle it, in an absent-minded sort of way. The cards bent their backs for him, they jumped and danced across his fingertips, they spread themselves into rosettes and fans with effortless grace. Mona found herself mesmerized.

“An art form, Miss Mona, that’s what they are,” said Mr. Crosley in a soft voice. “And just the ideal thing for friendly games of chance, you know. Sometimes the old ways are indeed the best. You see those casinos in the spaceports on Luna and it’s just so easy for a man to walk in there and lose every penny of his money. Why, those games are all rigged. To begin with, those dreadful electronic machines flashing bright lights and loud noises, what do you think they do to the human ability to concentrate? Just mess it up, that’s what.

“And you know those Luna City croupiers and dealers have all kinds of ways to cheat. Concealed magnets. Or they’ll wear rings with circuitry in them, or nanoprocessor remotes.” He held up one smooth bare hand, innocent of jewelry. “Or they can just program those games to display whatever they want. Why, an honest player hasn’t got a chance. Watching those games, I have often said to myself, ‘Great Goddess Above, don’t those poor souls losing fortunes realize they’re being tricked?’

“But with
these
, Miss Mona, there’s no way to cheat. No electronic flimflam’s possible, is it, when all you’re playing with is these simple little pieces of pasteboard? Why, you hold them in your own two hands. They can’t lie to you. Honest cards, for a genuine old-fashioned honest game.”

“How do you play with those?”

Mona, startled, looked up to see that a crowd had gathered at the table: a couple of Incan contract laborers, a Hauler and two men from the motel, to judge from their lean and air-starved look.

“Easiest thing in the world. Miss Mona, may I trouble you to bring me some crackers? The little round ones. Gentlemen, if three of you’ll have a seat, I’ll show you poker the way your forefathers played it.”

Thereafter Mr. Crosley came in every evening, and after a substantial meal would draw out his deck of cards, and sooner or later would be joined by persons eager to play. The level of boredom on Mars being what it was, poker had caught on with a vengeance. At first they played for crackers, until Mr. Crosley paid Manco to cast him some little discs stamped with different denominations.

And Mr. Crosley was so soft-spoken, and so self-effacing, that he soon made a lot of friends. Indeed, when the rumors began flying that the consortium who had bought his claim had just shipped a packet of diamonds down to Earth for appraisal (since, for some reason, they did not trust Mr. De Wit’s expertise), many people came to condole with Mr. Crosley for letting a fortune slip through his fingers. They bought him drinks. They bought him dinners. He generally gave a sad and gallant little laugh, shaking his head, and would go right on dealing the cards.

And if he won more often than he lost, few noticed and nobody minded, since they were only playing for clay chips.

The Brick never joined the card games, though he observed keenly from a distance.

One evening when Mr. Crosley was just sitting down to a dish of Proteus Pot Pie, the Brick left the crowd at the bar and came and towered over him.

“Good evening, Mr. Brick,” said Mr. Crosley pleasantly. “May I interest you in an after-dinner game of cards?”

“Don’t think so, mate,” said the Brick. He grinned at Mr. Crosley. His eyes were particularly red and twinkling that evening. He lowered his massive bulk into the chair next to Mr. Crosley’s and spoke in a lowered voice. “No. But I have a proposition in which you might be interested. You look, to me, like a man in need of protection.”

“Gracious, Mr. Brick.” Crosley did not look up as he broke open the crust of his pie with a fork. “Now, why would you think that?”

“Just a feeling. Though it might have its origin in the fact that I had a drink with one of the lads from the Martian Mining Consortium the other day. He showed me one of the stones they’ve pulled out of that gorge over on the north side. Specially nice one he was holding back for his own. I had a look at it with my spectrometer. Damned if the thing didn’t turn out to be a garnet.”

“Oh, what a shame,” remarked Mr. Crosley, taking a mouthful of pie. He chewed, swallowed and added, “You know, I always had my doubts about whether there were any diamonds on that claim. I believe I said so at the time of sale, Mr. Brick. Yes, I’m sure I can produce witnesses who remember I said those very words.”

“And I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

“How did the gentleman take the news, may I ask, Mr. Brick?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell him,” said the Brick. His grin widened. “I reckoned he needed the learning experience. And in any case he and his mates are going to learn the truth sooner or later—either when they hear back from the appraiser’s on Earth, or when they dig a little deeper into that claim and find there aren’t even any more garnets, let alone diamonds. Then they’re going to start looking for the bastard who salted that claim with a bagful of junk from a rock shop. I reckon that’ll be about the point you start wishing you’d hired yourself a bodyguard. Especially since I’ve heard that a law officer named Thigpen has a standing order for your arrest if you ever set foot on Luna again.”

“Why, Mr. Brick, are you offering your services?” Mr. Crosley looked up with wide and guileless eyes.

“No,” said the Brick. “But there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Oi! Pasang!”

“What?” A Hauler stepped away from the bar, peered through the early evening gloom at them.

“Come and meet a mate of mine. Stanford, meet Pasang Sherpa. He runs the North Pole road gang. Pasang, this is Stanford Crosley. He’s looking to employ a bodyguard. Isn’t there one of your lads down on his luck?”

“Yeah. Eddie the Yeti. In dire need. The ice processing unit’s broke on his rig and he can’t get the parts to replace it. Been living on handouts at the depot. Bodyguard, huh?” Mr. Sherpa tugged thoughtfully on his beard. “He could do that. Oi! Eddie!”

“We Haulers look after our own, you see,” said the Brick.

“A commendable display of brotherhood, Mr. Brick,” said Mr. Crosley.

Meanwhile an immense figure had risen from a distant booth, and came shuffling over. Eddie Peebles was nearly as big as the Brick. His eyes were set very close together, but beyond that nothing much could be seen of his face, covered as it was in beard and mustache. His dreadlocked hair hung down his back. His psuit was shabby, patched here and there with duct tape. He came now and stood beside Mr. Sherpa, with a shy bob of his head. “H’lo,” he murmured.