Mars Life (23 page)

“You’re really going through with this?” He wanted to sound firm, accusatory. It sounded almost pleading.

She put down her spoon and looked at him squarely-. “I’ve got to go, Carter.”

“But why? I still don’t understand why.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Leaning closer to her, he whispered, “Is it because I haven’t said I love you? All right, I love you. Does that make you feel better?”

“Not really.” She turned her attention to her fruit salad again.

Carleton grasped her wrist hard enough to make her drop the spoon. “What the hell do you want from me?” he snarled.

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

“I need you, goddammit!”

Doreen took a breath. Then, “Carter, you don’t need me. You just want some compliant woman to go to bed with you.”

“No, it’s more than that.”

She dropped her eyes for a moment, then looked at him again. “Carter, I accessed the files of your hearing at the university.”

“Those files were sealed!”

“You know better than that. It didn’t take much to hack into them.”

“That’s private information,” he growled.

“And you don’t think enough of me to share it,” said Doreen, almost sadly.

“It’s. . . painful.”

“They said you abused that girl. There are pictures of her bruised and battered.”

“I didn’t do it. You’ve got to believe that.”

“I’d like to.”

“So that’s why you’re leaving? You’re afraid I’ll batter you?”

Strangely, she smiled. “No, Carter. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then what?”

“Carter, you don’t 
care 
about me. You don’t care about my ideas, my work. You don’t care about anything but yourself!”

“That’s not true,” he muttered.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” she said. “Don’t you understand? Can’t you see it?”

He felt totally confused and more than a little angry. “You’ll have to explain it to me,” he said.

Doreen’s eyes seemed to be searching him, seeking something that wasn’t there.

At last she said, “Our relationship has been all one way, Carter. I give and you take. I know you’re trying to protect yourself, that you’ve been terribly hurt and you’re frightened of exposing yourself to more pain — “

“What do you think you’re doing to me now?”

She reached across the table and put her slender hand on his. “I know it hurts. It hurts me, too. Did you ever think of that?”

He pulled away and got to his feet. “Come on,” he said coldly. “I’ll walk you to the airlock.”

The L/AV landed with a thump that almost chipped Monsignor DiNardo’s clenched teeth.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” came the pilot’s voice over the intercom speaker. “Damn retros hiccupped.”

Somewhat shakily DiNardo unstrapped and got to his feet. The four other passengers also got out of their seats, grinning expectantly, chattering to one another. The other astronaut clambered down the ladder and strode past him, toward the hatch, muttering, “Any landing you can walk away from . . .” His grin looked slightly forced.

It took a few minutes for the access tube to connect to the L/AV’s airlock. When the astronaut finally pushed the hatch open, he gestured DiNardo through. Age before beauty, the priest thought, with a glance at the four younger arrivals.

Jamie Waterman was standing in the tube, smiling warmly at DiNardo.

“Welcome to Mars,” he said, extending his hand.

DiNardo felt his own face beaming back at Waterman. He took the proffered hand and squeezed it firmly. “I am happy to be here, at last.”

There was a crowd at the other end of the access tube, just inside the dome’s main airlock. For a moment DiNardo thought they were there to welcome him, then he quickly realized—with a flush of embarrassment—that they were the men and women who were departing, taking the L/AV back up to orbital rendezvous with the torch ship that would carry them back to Earth.

Jamie introduced DiNardo to Dr. Chang, who bowed stiffly and offered formal words of welcome to Tithonium Base to the new arrivals. They were silent now, a little awed as they looked around al the big dome that would be their home for the next year or more.

A pair of experienced hands took the newcomers in tow and led them toward their assigned quarters. But Chang pulled DiNardo away from them.

“I look forward to working with such a distinguished geologist,” the mission director said, unsmiling, dead serious. “I assume you have a program of research in mind.”

DiNardo glanced at Jamie, then made an Italian shrug. “I haven’t had time to organize my plans, Dr. Chang. This has all happened so quickly. I would be glad to follow your direction and help in whatever way I can.”

Chang’s impassive face thawed a little. He dipped his chin slightly, then said, “We must discuss our ongoing operations, then. I will be most interested in your comments and suggestions.”

“Thank you,” said DiNardo, unconsciously bowing back to the mission director.

Jamie said, “Let’s get you unpacked and settled in your quarters first.”

“Of course,” said Chang. “I will be in my office. Feel free to call me there when you are ready.”

“Thank you,” DiNardo said again.

DiNardo hefted his travel bag and let Jamie lead him across the emptying dome. “That’s Carter Carleton over there,” Jamie said. “You ought to meet him.”

“Yes, certainly.”

Jamie called to Carleton, but the anthropologist took no notice. He looked grim, absorbed in his own inner thoughts.

“Dr. Carleton,” Jamie called again, louder. “Carter.”

Carleton turned toward them, his face grim, scowling. “What?” he snapped.

Approaching him, Jamie said, “I’d like you to meet Monsignor DiNardo. He just arrived and—”

“Oh, yes, Dr. DiNardo.” Carleton’s expression softened a little. “Good to meet you.” His hands remained at his sides.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said DiNardo. “I congratulate you on your discovery.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Carleton turned and walked away, head bent forward.

DiNardo watched his retreating back. “There is a man with much on his mind.”

“He and one of the women here have just broken up,” Jamie said. “She’s going back to Selene.”

DiNardo nodded as they resumed walking toward his living quarters. “I wonder if it would be possible for me to say mass. There must be some Catholics here, and non-Catholics will of course be welcome.”

Jamie seemed to think it over for a few paces before he said, “I don’t see why not. Will you need anything special?”

Smiling, DiNardo replied, “Only some goodwill.”

That evening Jamie and Vijay invited DiNardo to have dinner with them.

“The food’s not bad,” Vijay joked as they went through the cafeteria line. “Best on Mars, actually.”

DiNardo smiled. The hot dishes were unidentifiable soy derivatives of one sort or another. The vegetables looked fresh, though, and there was a variety of fruit juices available. There was a tang of something spicy in the air; DiNardo reasoned that the cooks used spices liberally to disguise the lack of variety in the basic menu.

Once they were seated and had unloaded their trays onto the table, Vijay asked, “Is it proper to call you Monsignor DiNardo?”

Absently touching the purple on his clerical collar, DiNardo said, “Proper, but a bit pompous, I think. Why don’t you simply call me Fulvio.”

“I’m not sure I could do that,” Vijay said.

“Please.”

“Okay, I’ll try. And I’m Vijay.”

“And I’m Jamie.”

“Very good,” said DiNardo. He raised his glass of grape juice, “Here’s to teamwork on Mars.”                                                       -

“On Mars,” Jamie and Vijay echoed.

Once they started eating, Vijay asked, “If you don’t mind me snooping, why’d you decide to come to Mars? I mean now, after all these years.”

“I want to help,” DiNardo answered.

“With the geology research?”

The priest shook his head. “Not merely that. I want to help show that science and religion are not enemies. I want to help you to continue the exploration of Mars.”

Jamie sighed. “We can use all the help we can get, Fulvio.”

Dex Trumball shouldered his way through the crowd booming through the enormous terminal. Looking overhead he saw the magnificent mosaic set into the ceiling: the mythological beasts and gods and heroes of the starry constellations—all backwards, reversed left for right. Whoever did the tile work got it the wrong way round. But nobody noticed, nobody gave a damn. Dex saw that none of the scurrying commuters or gawking tourists even glanced up at the ceiling so far above them.

What caught their eyes were the huge animated advertisement screens mounted on the walls, hawking everything from cameras to salvation through Jesus. Wonder if we could put up scenes from Mars, Dex asked himself. Maybe clips from DiNardo’s documentary. Probably too expensive; not cost effective.

With an inward shrug he pushed his way through the crowd and started up the short flight of marble steps toward the hotel that connected underground with the terminal. You could spend your whole life underground in Manhattan, Dex thought. Like living on the Moon. He himself hadn’t been up at street level since he’d stepped aboard the maglev train at Boston’s South Station.

The hotel lobby was quieter, less crowded. Dex glanced at his wristwatch and saw that he was running several minutes late. He looked around the lobby, peaceful and nearly empty at this time of the morning. There was Andersen standing in front of the men’s shop window, looking at a display of Italian silk jackets.

Dex shook his head. Quentin Andersen didn’t look like the sharpest publicist in New York. He was grossly overweight, his face florid and sheened with perspiration, his multiple chins lapping down over the wilted collar of his tailor-made shirt, his unbuttoned coat sagging around him like the flag of a defeated battalion. An Italian silk jacket won’t do him any good, Dex thought. Rumor had it that Andersen was dying of cancer, but that rumor was at least ten years old and the man was still at the peak of his profession.

Walking up next to him, Dex muttered an apology for being late: “Train was held up coming out of Boston.”

Andersen smirked. “Jesse James rides again?”

“No. A demonstration that blocked the tracks. Something about—”

“Protest against the church-and-state separation,” said Andersen. “I heard about it.”

He’s got his ear to the ground, Dex said to himself. The lean, handsome mannequin wearing the silk jacket suddenly stirred to life, raising one hand and asking, “Would you like to try something on, sir?”

Dex was startled, but Andersen chuckled as he pointed. “Sensor set into the window alongside the speaker. You stop for more than thirty seconds and the program activates.”

“We have an excellent selection of. . .”

Andersen turned and started walking away from the window. Dex followed him.

“Uses technology your people developed for Mars, I betcha,” Andersen said, still laughing quietly at Dex’s surprise. “Hasn’t that gotten to Boston yet?”

“Don’t know,” said Dex. “I shop electronically. I haven’t been inside a store in ages.”

As they walked slowly across the hotel lobby Dex asked, “Speaking of Mars, what about our documentary? Will you manage the publicity campaign for it?”

“ ‘Fraid not.” Andersen lowered himself slowly into one of the lobby’s plush armchairs. To Dex it looked like a massive load of cargo being carefully deposited by an invisible crane.

Taking the chair next to him, Dex pressed, “You want more money?”

“Money’s not an issue, Mr. Trumball.”

Dex could feel his brows knitting. “Look, we need somebody who can stir up a buzz about our documentary. It’s on the Internet but we’re hardly getting any hits on it.”

Andersen said nothing.

“We’ve got a priest from the Vatican talking about Mars, for chrissake! The controversy alone ought to be newsworthy but the goddamned networks won’t touch it.”                           

“Can’t say I blame them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Andersen turned his fleshy face toward Dex. “Mr. Trumball, the word is out. Every mother-loving church in the country, just about, has told its congregation not to look at your documentary.”

“That ought to make people run to see it,” Dex said. “The kids, especially.”

“You wish. The faithful go home from church and block your documentary so that their precious little darlings can’t access it.”

“But that’s illegal! It’s against the First Amendment.”

Andersen pulled out a huge white handkerchief and ran it under his collar as he explained, “The First Amendment prohibits the 
government 
from restricting freedom of expression. It doesn’t say diddley-squat about faithful God-fearing citizens doing it on their own volition.”

“Their own volition,” Dex snapped. “They’re a bunch of brainless automatons. That mannequin in the store window has more intelligence than they do.”

“The mannequin’s not watching your show, either.”

Feeling desperate, Dex urged, “That’s why we need you! We need to create some buzz about the documentary, make noise about it, get people curious enough to look at it.”

But Andersen shook his head, a slow ponderous back-and-forth wobbling of all that flesh. “You’re flogging a dead horse, Mr. Trumball. The churches are against you. Even the Catholic parishes have told their people not to watch it. I’m not going to go against that kind of tide. It’d be suicide. I’d just be taking your money under false pretenses.”

“You’re just going to let the New Morality push our documentary into oblivion?”