The Empress of Mars (12 page)

“Eddie, mate,” said the Brick. “This nice gentleman would like to offer you a job. Whyn’t you tell him a little about yourself?”

Eddie hung his head. “I was in Hospital,” he whispered.

“Were you, sir?” said Mr. Crosley. “Lots of folks from Earth were in Hospital, as I understand. What were you in for?”

“Punching another kiddy.”

“What did you punch him for, sir?”

“He took my sand pail.”

“He was five,” said Mr. Sherpa. “Went into Hospital until he was twenty, when they shipped him up here. Then he had the hard old luck to spend his inheritance on a discontinued model of a Jinma tanker rig. Did all right until it broke. Times have been bad since then, haven’t they, Eddie?”

Eddie nodded, tears forming in his eyes.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Crosley, in the warmest, richest kindly-uncle voice imaginable, “the first thing I’m going to do, Eddie, is buy you a fine hot dinner. Would you like that?”

Eddie blinked. He bent his head and squinted down at Mr. Crosley. “Yes,” he said.

“The second thing I’m going to do is offer you a well-paying job. Are you interested, Eddie?”

“Sure,” Eddie whispered. Mr. Crosley patted the seat next to his.

“You come sit down right here, Eddie. We’re going to be best friends, you and I.”

“I’ll leave you two to talk, shall I?” The Brick rose and went back to the bar with Mr. Sherpa.

“You haven’t been in at your accustomed time, lately, Cochevelou,” Mary observed. She set the shot of whiskey next to the mug of porter. Cochevelou knocked back the whiskey and took a deep drink of the foaming porter.

“Aah! I’ve been working until these two hands are raw. Special order at the forge.”

“And what would that be, my dear?”

Cochevelou turned to survey the room. ‘It’s that poorly fellow from Luna. Crosley. The one plays the cards? Did you know he was a gambler?”

“No such thing,” said Mary. “There’s poker goes on, but he assured me no money’s changing hands. And I’m not such a fool as I wouldn’t watch to see, but it’s only those little tokens they’re playing for. I reckon if he’d won somebody’s month wage, there’d have been fighting in here before now.”

“Ah!” Cochevelou was not often able to score a conversational point, so he savored the moment now. “Well, and I know why he’s keeping his nose clean in here.”

“What’s that? Why?”

“He comes to the forge with Eddie the Yeti, see? Biggest Hauler after
the Brick, and apparently they’re partners now. And he says to me, ‘Mr. Cochevelou, sir, will you ever have a look at Mr. Peebles’s Jinma Excelsior?’ And I says to him, ‘No point in that, to be sure; Eddie knows I can’t even make replacement parts for the ice processor. They had to be special ordered direct from China even when Jinma was still making the damned things.’

“And the little man says, ‘Oh, he doesn’t want the ice processor repaired. Wants it removed. We want the tank converted to living space, see? Life support inside, a rear entry hatch, a couple of built-ins perhaps. And more exterior lights.’

“Well, you know, that’s a lot of work. So I quote the little man a fair price, and he doesn’t even blink, just smiles and says he’ll pay half up front and half on completion. And just then, in comes two men, prospectors seemingly, and they’ve murder in their eyes when they see him, and start up roaring about how the little man’s cheated them.

“I grab up an iron bar and Eddie, he does the same. They back off a bit, but the little man puts up his hands and speaks ’em soft like. They say there’s no diamonds on his claim and he says he always had his doubts there were, and didn’t he tell ’em so out straight and honest when he signed over the claim? Which they admit he did, only they say he was counting on them thinking he was lying.

“And then he says, ‘Why, gentlemen, what is this world coming to when an honest man can’t speak the truth and be believed?’ And then what he does is, he tells ’em he’ll gladly buy back the claim, for more than they paid him. Says he’s heard there’s honest money to be made mining iron ore.

“Well, that catches ’em flatfooted. They look at each other suspicious-like, and meanwhile Eddie’s swinging the crowbar in his hand, just a little warningly, you know, and sort of making a growling noise. And the two of ’em mutter together a moment and then say they’ll have to take it up with the other members of the Consortium. And the little man smiles and says, ‘Just as you like, gentlemen’ and they leave.

“Then he turns to me and says, he says, ‘Mr. Cochevelou, sir, I do
believe I can offer you a bonus if you can complete the conversion within the next seven days.’

“So I’ve been racing to finish, see, because the clan’s in need just now—they’re like baby birds. You stuff something in one’s gob to shut it up, but there’s four others screaming for food. Or fancy electronics or new tools or clothes or I don’t know what all.”

“Living space, you say?’ Mary knitted her brows. “Like the sleep units behind the Hauler cabs? I thought the Jinma rigs had those.”

“So they do, and so this one already had,” said Cochevelou. “Two bunks and a little toilet and all. You should see it now! I took out the ice processor and cut a hatch through. Then he wanted a sheet of iron put in so as to make a level floor inside, see. Then some benches welded in along the sides, and a couple of fold-up tables. And the cab’s life support extended through, see, and the air supply amped up. And a sort of little booth at one end, with a counter and shelves.”

“So it’s a recreational vehicle, then?” Mary collected empty mugs from along the counter.

“It is not. I’ve never seen the like. I haven’t told you the strangest part, and that’s that he’s wanting lights put all over the outside of the dear thing. All the red and amber and white lights I had in the shop, mind you, and he’s paying a premium to order some purple and blue ones up from Earth as well! When we’ve got it all up and running it’ll look like Times Square gleaming out through the night.”

Mary shook her head. The residents down at the motel had taken to decorating and painting their rigs and shelters, giving the place a grubby carnival sort of gaiety, with scrawled mottoes and lanterns, but this went beyond anything she had heard of. “So they’re going to live in this? Down at the motel, like?”

“They are not,” said Cochevelou. “And he’s having me overhaul the engine, too, trimming it up for speed. Those old things had eighty-five hundreds in them, you know. If he’s not laden down with a cargo of ice, he’ll need a license to fly when he gets it out on the road and opens her up.”

“Bloody hell,” said Mary. “Tables and chairs and lights and speed.”

“A rolling casino,” affirmed Cochevelou smugly. “He takes it out by the ice depot, there isn’t a lawman can touch him. And if the BAC tries to shut him down, he’ll take his game out to Amazonia.”

The airlock hissed and a throng of men entered: the members of the Martian Mining Consortium, weary and angry and smeared with purple clay. They took a booth and ordered, and before long could be heard shouting as they argued with one another.

Ottorino Vespucci lay on his back, staring up at the stars and wondering what would kill him first: a malfunction in his psuit or dehydration. Complications from his broken leg came in a distant third in the list of possibilities, since he was fairly certain he wouldn’t live long enough for gangrene to do him in, though something sneaky like a blood clot couldn’t be ruled out . . .

He was frightened and in pain, though not remarkably so considering his present circumstances. The stars shone with such unearthly brilliance! And, after all, he was lying on the surface of an alien world, with a diamond clutched in his gauntleted hand. It was a more memorable death than he had ever hoped for. He imagined it recounted to generations of little Vespucci nephews and nieces: Ottorino Vespucci, yes, that was your uncle who died on Mars. Your great-uncle who was an interplanetary diamond prospector. Your ancestor who dared to do something other than sit on a board of directors, who ventured out into the unknown and died bravely. Never forget him!

It was a shame his career as a prospector was ending so abruptly, but he really had been under the impression that Martian gravity would let him drift down as lightly as a falling leaf when he’d stepped off that cliff. Now, too, he understood why he ought to have purchased a magnesium flare gun, when he saw all the Haulers carrying them.

So here he lay, halfway down a stony incline, with his gear scattered all down the slope below him and his little Rover on the other side of the canyon. He had tried to crawl for it three times, and blacked out every time. He thought that if he tried again now, he might make it; the pain seemed to have receded. On the other hand, reaching the Rover no longer seemed quite as important.

The glorious stars glittered on, each one opening for him now in a window of memory.

There was little Ottorino at the age of five, escaping from the Importatori Vespucci company picnic. He had sat at the long trestle, looking out at all the bored faces of Papa’s employees as Papa droned on and on. Such a beautiful park all around them, with the green grass and red flowers and the blue lake. The employees in their gray picnic T-shirts with the gray Importatori Vespucci logo had looked like a gray hole in the world. Even the big cake was gray, the logo worked in gray fondant.

But from his place at table Ottorino had seen the orchard on the other side of the old wall, seen the emerald leaves and gold and scarlet peaches clustered on the branches. Nobody had noticed when he’d slid down in his seat between his older brothers; not Papa, not Mamma, who was dandling the baby, not even his brothers who were half asleep. Nobody had noticed when he’d slid all the way down under the table and gone crawling on his hands and knees through the long grass, to escape at last from under the long tablecloth. Then he’d run for the old wall and scrambled over it, ignoring the bellow of wrath from Papa.

And though he’d been terrified, something had pushed him to jump down and run, run through the orchard, pulling off his gray shirt as he ran to rid himself of the grayness. Somehow it had followed that it would be a good idea to pull off all his other clothes, too. So pleasant was the sensation of being naked in the warm air that he’d forgotten he was being pursued, and wandered among the peach trees, eating windfall fruit. He was absentmindedly drawing patterns on his face in peach juice when Papa descended on him, all outrage and retribution.

Why had he brought such punishment on himself? On the other
hand, why had Giulio and Giuseppe just sat there looking miserable, watching flies settle on their lunch as Papa orated?

And there was Ottorino at eighteen, supremely happy in his first relationship. Elena was a holosculptor twice his age; he had modeled for her, in fewer and fewer clothes with each succeeding piece: Hercules. David the Shepherd. The Young Mussolini. They had lived together in her garret on ramen and love, and she had taught him a great deal about the latter before his further education was terminated by the abrupt appearance of sour-faced Giulio and Giuseppe, who had tracked him down on Papa’s orders.

After he had been dragged back to Milan, he had sent her many tearful clips promising to return to her. After two months Elena had sent him an apologetic clip back explaining that Papa had paid her a great deal to relocate, and that moreover she had been obliged to employ a new model whose physique, while not as magnificent as Ottorino’s, was still enabling her to experiment with exciting new subjects. She was certain he would wish her well.

Crestfallen, nevertheless he had wished her well. At the next possible opportunity he had moved to Paris, bought a saxophone and gotten a job as a jazz musician, which had seemed an appropriate response to a broken heart. By the time Papa’s long arm snatched him back again, he had even learned to play a few pieces.

Had he enjoyed hearing the thunderbolts hurtling through the air at his head? He must have. His rebellions had never been fueled by anger. He had genuinely loved Papa and Mamma. But he had so dreaded being bored . . .

And there was Ottorino at twenty-five, proud inhabitant of Euro-West, a painstaking recreation of the American Frontier for re-enactors. He had auditioned for the Clint Eastwood parts and been told he was too big and burly, but his handlebar mustache was the envy of his fellow actors. Mamma told her friends he was a scholar of history. Papa ignored him, as long as he flew into Milan once a month to attend board meetings, and wore a gray suit rather than blue jeans and cowboy boots.

So many happy years he had spent in Deadwood Gulch! How many red sunsets had he watched, over its weathered roofs? How many saloon girls had he romanced? How many poker games had he sat in on? He had never tasted real whiskey, but the nonalcoholic stuff the actors drank lingered on the palate, and carried for him its own bouquet of wild nights. The tinkling of a cheap piano backed up his fondest memories. Oh, the bar brawls, the shootouts and deaths and stagecoach robberies!

He had always enjoyed a good dramatic death, sprawling in the dust and clutching at his heart while stage blood spurted between his fingers. There was a moment of bliss in that final moment when he rolled up his eyes to the hot blue sky of Almeria, standing in for Durango or Tombstone. Was that what had brought him here to Mars?

Ottorino at thirty, standing numb with shock at Mamma’s and Papa’s funeral, lined up with the other sons and daughters to receive the condolences of Papa’s employees. Overwhelming grief, when the reality had finally penetrated: the pillars of the world were gone now, and he would never know unconditional love or hear those thunderbolts striking again. Then he had raged, wanting to sue the Suborbital Transit Company for wrongful death. He hadn’t been able to talk Giulio or Giuseppe into it, and had settled for painting MURDERERS in red letters on the front of Suborbital’s Munich headquarters.

Shortly thereafter there had been a private board meeting, wherein his brothers had explained to him just how much they had had to spend settling with Suborbital Transit in order to prevent his arrest on charges of vandalism. His sister Elvira had pointed out that, while the first four years of his annuity should cover the amount nicely, he would be without funds with which to live during that time. She personally was willing to advance him a generous sum to keep body and soul together; on the condition, of course, that Ottorino take himself off to some quiet corner of the world and stay there, away from paparazzi or anyone else in front of whom he might further embarrass Importatori Vespucci.