Mars Life (15 page)
DEPEW, FLORIDA: LONGSTREET MIDDLE SCHOOL
Hey, geek boy!”
Bucky Winters looked up. He’d been sitting on the bench by the batting cage, tying up the laces of the cleated baseball shoes he’d borrowed, hoping to get a tryout for the school’s team. But Lon Sanchez and a couple of the other older boys had descended on him.
“Whatcha doin’?” Sanchez asked, grinning. His two pals were just as big as he was, twice Bucky’s size.
“Trying out for the team,” said Bucky. He’d taken a double dose of allergy pills so he could get through this tryout with clear sinuses and dry eyes.
“No you ain’t.”
“Yes I am,” said Bucky, getting to his feet.
Sanchez bent down slightly so that his red, angry face was hardly an inch in front of Bucky’s. His two cohorts came up on either side; Bucky was surrounded.
“We don’t want any geek boys screwin’ up our team.”
“I know how to play!” Bucky insisted. “I’m better at shortstop than Ricky is.”
“The hell you are.”
“Give me a chance at a tryout and I’ll prove it.”
“No way, geek. Take off your cleats and go home.”
“Go back to Mars,” said the oaf on his left.
“Yeah, we don’t want any Mars boys on our team.”
“We heard about your big project.”
“Yeah. It’s a shame somebody mashed it flat,” Sanchez said, smirking.
Bucky’s temper flared. “You’re the one who busted up my model!”
Sanchez grabbed Bucky by the front of his shirt. “That’s right, Mars boy. And if you don’t get the fuck outta here we’re gonna bust you up, too.”
Bucky kicked Sanchez in the shins as hard as he could, making him yowl with pain, then punched him squarely in the nose. Blood spurted. The other two were stunned with surprise for a moment, but before Bucky could get away, they grabbed him and helped Sanchez beat him into unconsciousness.
When all four of them were brought before the school’s principal, Sanchez pointed to his bandaged nose and claimed that Bucky started the fight. Bucky’s head was bandaged, his ribs were encased in a plastic cast, his face was lumpy with bruises.
“You struck the first blow?” the principal demanded of Bucky.
Through swollen lips Bucky admitted, “Yes, ma’am.”
The principal shook her gray head. “First this Mars business and now you’ve started a brawl. You’d better be very careful, young man. You’re in a downward spiral.”
BOSTON: TRUMBALL TRUST HEADQUARTERS
Dex Trumball tried to hide the mistrust he felt. Why has this priest flown here all the way from Rome? he wondered silently. What does he want?
Monsignor DiNardo was smiling patiently at him as he sat in the bottle green leather armchair before Dex’s wide, curved desk of Danish teak and brushed aluminum. The priest wore a plain black business suit, with his clerical collar and its touch of purple. DiNardo looked burly, with bulging shoulders and a barrel chest, his scalp shaved but the dark shadow of a beard stubbling his jaw, yet he still seemed somewhat dwarfed in the capacious armchair. Dex resisted the urge to get up and see if the priest’s feet reached the carpeted floor.
“It was good of you to see me on such short notice,” DiNardo said in English, a hint of soft Italian vowels at the ends of his words.
Dex made a hospitable smile. “Not at all, Fa . .. uh, Monsignor. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Something stronger?”
DiNardo shook his head. “Thank you, no. The rocket flight brought me here in half an hour, but my insides are still on Vatican time.”
“I see.”
An uneasy hush fell over them. DiNardo seemed to be fishing for the words he wanted while Dex fiddled impatiently with his fingers, waiting for the priest to start talking. Does he know about my negotiations with Kinnear? Dex wondered nervously. No, he can’t. Rollie can keep his mouth shut. I haven’t even mentioned it to the Navaho president yet.
At last Dex broke the silence. “I saw the video show you did with Orlando Ventura.”
“That abomination!” DiNardo spat.
“You held up your end pretty well,” said Dex.
“They had no interest in the importance of the Martian fossil. They belittled the greatest find since Lucy.”
“They’re not interested in science, that’s for sure.”
“No, they want to deny it all.”
Dex nodded agreement. Then, “We’re working to put together a documentary about the fossil. A
real
documentary, not a circus.”
real
documentary, not a circus.”
“I would be glad to participate in it, if you feel I could be of help.”
“Certainly. Will the Vatican . . . ?”
DiNardo caught Dex’s implication. “The Holy See will have no objection. Not everyone who believes in God is blindly antiscience.”
“I’m glad to hear that. We’re up to our eyeballs in fundamentalists.”
“There are factions within the Vatican, to be sure,” DiNardo admitted easily. “But they have not affected the Pontifical Academy of Sciences, I assure you.”
Not yet, Dex thought. Aloud, he mused, “You could be a very important voice in our documentary. You could show that there’s no real conflict between science and religion.”
DiNardo hesitated, then said merely, “I will be glad to do what I can.
“Great. I’ll tell the people producing the show to count you in.”
“Buono,”
said DiNardo. Then he went on, “Now, I must ask a favor of you.”
said DiNardo. Then he went on, “Now, I must ask a favor of you.”
Here it comes, Dex said to himself. “A favor?”
“I wish to go to Mars.”
Dex blinked at the priest. “Go to Mars? You?”
With a self-deprecating little smile, DiNardo said, “I am a I rained geologist. I was selected to be the lead geologist on the First Expedition, if you remember.”
“I know. But that was more than twenty years ago.”
“I am not quite an invalid. In fact, I am in very good health.”
“But you’re . . . what, fifty-five, sixty?”
“Fifty-seven. Jamie Waterman is almost fifty. Carter Carleton is sixty-three. I won’t be the oldest fossil on Mars.”
Dex acknowledged the priest’s little joke with a forced smile.
“I will undergo the most rigorous physical examinations your program can subject me to,” DiNardo said before Dex could think of anything to say. “Of course, with the fusion torch ships the trip to Mars is much easier than it was twenty-some years ago.”
“Yes, but why . . . ?”
DiNardo lifted his round chin and let out a sigh. “I want to help. I believe that having a priest go to Mars might help to counter the voices speaking against the program.”
“You know that we might have to shut down the whole shebang and bring everybody home.”
“I am aware of that. I believe that my going to Mars could help you gain more donors to keep the program funded.”
Dex couldn’t help grinning. “You want to be the Mars poster boy?”
Perfectly serious, DiNardo replied, “If it will help.”
TITHONIUM BASE: JAMIE’S OFFICE
Jamie’s little cubicle was crowded with both Carleton and Chang in it. Jamie could feel the tension crackling between the two men. Not good, he told himself. These two have to work together if we’re going to get anywhere.
Dr. Chang sat in the stiff plastic chair in front of Jamie’s fold-up desk. Carleton had dragged in a rolling chair made of bungee cords from the adjoining cubicle. It filled the entrance to Jamie’s office; there was no room to get it farther into the cramped workspace.
“I have considered your request of staying past my regular term of service,” Chang was saying, his stubby arms crossed on his chest, his back to Carleton.
Jamie waited for the other shoe.
“I will remain here as long as necessary, as mission director.”
Carleton said, “I thought you had family that you wanted to get back to.”
“I have a wife and son in Beijing,” Chang replied, without turning to look at the anthropologist. “However, my duty is plainly here.”
“I’m glad you’ve decided,” Jamie said, with a slow smile. “I know Dr. Carleton intends to remain, too.”
“Damned right,” said Carleton.
“I will remain mission director,” Chang repeated. It was a demand, not a question.
“Yes, certainly,” answered Jamie. “Your experience will be very valuable to all of us.”
Carleton said nothing.
“I’ve talked with almost everyone here,” Jamie said. “Most of them are willing to extend their stays.”
“Several wish to leave,” Chang said.
Nodding, Jamie replied, “That’s all right. We need some interchange of personnel. We can’t expect to freeze everyone in their places.”
“We need geologists,” Chang said. “We should send an excursion team to the south pole—”
“We won’t be able to do that,” Jamie interrupted. “We just don’t have the resources.”
Undeterred, Chang went on, “The south pole is a conundrum. It is shrinking. Millions of tons of frozen carbon dioxide go into gaseous state each year. Gaseous carbon dioxide produces a greenhouse effect in atmosphere.”
Carleton grunted. “Some greenhouse. Temperatures are still below freezing.”
“But getting warmer,” Chang countered. “Yet humidity in the atmosphere is decreasing. Warmer atmosphere should support higher humidity level, not lower. A conundrum.”
“I agree it’s an important problem,” Jamie said. “But we just don’t have the resources to send a team to the south pole.”
“Then there is an ancient riverbed in the valley here,” Chang said. “Mapping the course of the riverbed is important.”
“The satellites are doing that with deep radar,” said Carleton. “What we really need are more grunts to help excavate the village.”
Chang insisted, “There must be other villages along the course of the riverbed.”
Carleton smiled easily and rolled his chair slightly to Chang’s right, so he could see the mission director’s face.
“Isn’t there an old Chinese proverb to the effect that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?”
Chang inched away from him.
Carleton went on, “We have a village to excavate. As I understand it, the Foundation people in Boston are putting together a video documentary about it, which they hope to use to raise more funds for us. I think all our efforts should be put into digging out this village.”
Chang tried to hide his scowl, failed. “There is more to be done than your one village.”
Before Carleton could reply, Jamie jumped in. “You’re both right. There’s an enormous number of things that we’ve got to do. But the village
is
very important. The question we have to settle is how much of our resources we should put into the village, and how much elsewhere.”
is
very important. The question we have to settle is how much of our resources we should put into the village, and how much elsewhere.”
“Tracing the riverbed course,” said Chang. “Studying water geysers and underground heat flow. Melting at the south pole—”
“My village will bring new money into our program,” Carleton insisted. “You’ll never get to the south pole without an influx of new funding.”
“The village is important,” Chang conceded. “But it is not the only thing we must consider.”
“Right,” Jamie agreed. “Personally, I’d like to see more effort put into decoding the writing up in the cliff dwellings.”
“They weren’t dwellings,” Carleton said. “A religious center, more likely.”
“I’d still like to know what those symbols mean.”
With a shake of his head, Carleton argued, “Forget about it.”
“Forget it?”
“It’s a forlorn hope, Jamie. The best philologists in the world have cracked their skulls on those symbols. It’s useless.”
“But-”
“I know, I know. People have deciphered ancient languages: Sumerian, Cretan linear B, Sanskrit.”
“Proto-Chinese,” Chang added.
“Yes, but in every case they found a Rosetta Stone of one kind or another, a relic where the unknown language was written down side by side with a known one, so the philologists could translate from the known language to the unknown.”
Chang nodded reluctantly.
“There’s no Rosetta Stone on Mars. The Martian writings are completely alien. There’s no known language that we can translate from. We’ll never understand their writing.”
“Never is a long time,” Jamie muttered.
“Don’t waste time or effort on it,” Carleton insisted. “Don’t waste the limited resources we have on bringing more philologists here. They can study the imagery back in their offices on Earth.”
“I suppose so,” said Jamie.
“We’ll never understand their writing, I’m afraid. It’s just not possible.”
A sly smile crept slowly across Chang’s fleshy face. “August Comte,” he murmured.
“Ohgoost what?” Jamie asked.
“Comte,” said Chang. “Nineteenth-century French philosopher. Founder of positivism.”
“What’s he got to do with Martian writing?” Carleton wondered.
“Comte said it would forever be impossible to learn the chemical composition of stars. Yet within a few years astronomers started to use spectroscopy to do precisely that.”
Jamie grinned. “With spectral analysis you can determine the chemical composition of anything that glows. And a lot more.”
Chang finally turned in his chair to face the anthropologist. “There is another old Chinese proverb, Dr. Carleton: Never say never.”
LONDON: ROCK RATS MUSIC, INC.
Rafael Goodbar was not his real name, of course, but then music producers seldom used their true names anymore. The Reverend Caleb Mordecai hadn’t used his baptismal name in many years either: Willie Barcum just sounded too wimpy for a man who was rising in the eyes of the Lord.
Names aside, Rev. Mordecai had a mission to accomplish here, and Rafael Goodbar wasn’t making it easy for him.
Goodbar was obviously Jewish, thought Reverend Mordecai. He had the heavy-featured, fleshy face and hooded eyes of a Son of Israel. He was wearing a luridly flashy short-sleeved shirt that exposed his flabby, hairy forearms. Mordecai half expected to see tattoos, but none were evident.
“Let me understand you,” said Goodbar, smiling. Rev. Mordecai thought the smile looked forced, oily, devious. “You want to put me out of business.”
“Not at all,” the minister replied. “We merely request—request, mind you —that you allow our editorial board to review the lyrics of your songs before they are recorded.”
“Editorial board,” Goodbar said heavily. “You mean, censors.”
“Heavens no!” Mordecai exclaimed. “We do not censor. That would be illegal, or so the secular courts have maintained.”
“So what does your editorial board do?”
“We make suggestions. Recommendations, actually. When we find lyrics in a song that are offensive, we recommend that they be altered.”
“And if I don’t make the alterations?”
“We suggest to the Faithful that they boycott the song.”
“Just the one song?”
It was Mordecai’s turn to smile. “That would be impractical, at best. No, we recommend that our followers boycott everything that the producing company puts on the market.”
“Which would put the producer out of business.”
Mordecai glanced heavenward, then leveled his mild blue eyes at Goodbar. “If you are disseminating lyrics that harm impressionable young listeners, you are doing the devil’s work, Mr. Goodbar. You don’t deserve to remain in business.”
Goodbar countered, “But this is all a matter of opinion, isn’t it? What you think is harmful, other people enjoy listening to.”
“They enjoyed marijuana and other drugs before we put a stop to the narcotics traffic!” Mordecai snapped.
“Oh, the drug business has been stopped? I hadn’t noticed.”
The man is an unrepentant sinner, Mordecai said to himself.
Leaning his hairy forearms on his desktop, Goodbar added, “You’re trying to censor songwriters, which would never hold up in the courts and you know it. We still have a few rights remaining, Reverend.”
Icily, Mordecai replied, “And the godfearing people of this nation have the right to boycott the kinds of unmitigated trash that you and your kind spew into the ears of impressionable young people!”
Goodbar spread his hands in a gesture that Mordecai found distinctly and repulsively Semitic. “Look,” said the producer, “you know and I know that this isn’t about religion or morality. You just don’t want the kids to hear anything that challenges their authority figures. You don’t want anything that doesn’t toe your line.”
“We will not tolerate any challenges to the Word of the Lord.”
“Bloody nonsense,” Goodbar said amiably.
Mordecai flinched.
“So go ahead and boycott,” Goodbar said. “See how much good it does you. The kids’ll just want to hear the songs even more once they know the Holy Disciples is against them. It’ll be good publicity for me.”
“You think so? We’ll see.” Mordecai rose to his feet. Goodbar remained seated behind his desk.
The minister went to the office door, hesitated, then turned back toward the producer.
“You’re either on God’s side or you’re doing the work of the devil,” Mordecai warned.
“You can go to hell,” Goodbar said cheerfully.
“No,” Mordecai retorted. “Hell is where you’re heading. And soon.”
Rafael Goodbar—whose birth name was Raymond Herschfield —was shot to death at a Dog Dirt concert three months later. His killer surrendered easily to the police, smilingly explaining that he was doing God’s work.
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