Olympus Mons (8 page)

“Whoa! Not the right way to look at it. All I'm saying is that having him stove-up wouldn't suit me. He's my pal.”

The unfriendly glare degenerated into a red-eyed scowl straight out of a fever dream. “That mouthy, skinny white devil's
your
pal?”

I admitted to a fondness for mouthy, skinny white devils. A quarter-hour later, bewildered but by no means coerced, the glassblower halfway agreed not to savage Jesperson. Not right away, anyhow.

Later I mentioned to my partner how I'd intervened. He nodded solemnly. “An act of true Christian charity. You've saved the life of a valuable human being.”

“Yeah, yours.”

“Uh, uh,” he contradicted, “his.”

***

Once ayed into office, Black-like-me blistered the audience with a force-three scowl that semi-hypnotized the gathering. Once the Marsrats had settled into their version of order he plopped down in row ahead of us, muttering, “Get outta line, I bust a few heads.”

At the podium, Doc Yokomizo summed up the quake damage in Burroughs, announcing it as superficial, which we already knew. His overview concluded, he invited questions from the floor, which amounted to something like handing your local firebug a book of matches.

Eager to have his say, the director let Yokie's meaningless Q&A session grind along for a spell, interrupting only once to request a more specific account of personal loss from a lady who busily recited a laundry list of broke items. Nodding wisely, he whispered something to the council's secretary, busy at the computer terminal recording minutes of the meeting.

I had taken it for granted that Jesperson would be on his feet, telling the council we should be discussing means and methods of resurrecting the aqueduct. Never happened, which surprised me. Patience personified, Jess stayed slouched in a folding chair, totally relaxed, out of it, his only reaction to the ongoing back-and-forth complaints and responses was to now and then shoot a glance my way. I figured he was waiting for the “damage to my quarters,” and “my breakage,” and “Why me, Lord!” gripes to slack off. The Marsrats were looking for sympathy from the brain trust. They got practically none.

When things quieted down a tad, Scheiermann
harr-r-rumphed!
rapped his gavel and tried to pour oil on the enclave's troubled waters, not by mentioning our very own water troubles, but by dodging and tap dancing all around the prickly topic. Ignoring the meat and potatoes of our serious dilemma, he explained how Burroughs had at last come of age, and called the inauguration ceremony “a watershed moment and major milestone.” He assured us how deeply the homeworld authorities deeply appreciated the difficulties our struggling enclave had faced and continued facing. He filled us in on how conscious the high mucky-mucks were of the ups, downs, sidesteps and backsteps leading to formal U.N. sanction as our absentee lords and masters.

Jesperson must've figured I was about to stick a foot in my mouth and say something because he shot me a cryptic look and a whisper urging me to let Scheiermann unwind so we could get to the nitty-gritty core problem: how to avoid a waterless future.

The director unwound, but his sermon went on for another seven or eight minutes. “Furthermore,” he declared, “in recent communiques the prospective establishment of an additional enclave was discussed with Vonex Chairman Armin Korasek, the astute, enlightened executive to whom Burroughs owes such an inestimable debt. Experts in Geneva and New York wholeheartedly concur on the viability of such a visionary prospect, confident that any of the three volcanoes crowning the Tharsis Ridge will be excellent sources of water.”

“Not in my lifetime,” I whispered.

Hearing the magic word, Jess perked up, snorted indignantly and whispered, “With zip to drink, your lifetime's measured in E-months.”

“So's yours,” was my snappy comeback.

The director interrupted his oratorical binge long enough to award us whisperers a stern, reproving glance. He began wearing down, but not before congratulating us Marsrats for pulling together in a united effort, for pitching in and doing our utmost to make the Vonex executives
—
read self-serving, tax-dodging bureaucrats
—
and the United Nations leadership
—
read self-serving, tax-gobbling bureaucrats
—
proud to be charged with ensuring the continuing growth and prosperity of the Martian enterprise our pioneering efforts were striving so diligently to bring to ultimate fruition.

***

By this time small groups and bunches of Marsrats had either nodded off, or quietly ooched out of the partitioned meeting area. A smattering of light applause went around the meeting hall, if only a smattery, halfhearted smattering. I think the bo's and their ladies were rewarding the director for shutting up, not for whatever it was he'd had to say.

Scheiermann beamed at his flock, bestowing dollops of fatherly pride on one set of unsmiling faces after another, then in a different voice he tried to wind up the extraordinary council session on an upbeat note. “Ladies and gentlemen, before we adjourn I have an announcement of great interest to all of us. The adult population of Burroughs is about to grow by a factor of eighteen percent. Sixteen recently Mars-rationalized transportees, eleven men and five women if I correctly recall the tally, have for months been in trajectory from the Earth-Luna System. In four or five E-weeks we shall be welcoming sixteen new colleagues and companions into the enclave.”

“Hope they're not thirsty,” I whispered.

Jesperson's underlip curled. “Rotten timing, but no matter. Sixteen more mouths won't do much to shrink the months we have left.”

“You saying they won't help drink us dry?”

“Basics are basics. By the time the threat becomes imminent, we'll either have found a way to repair the aqueduct, or be getting prepared to all go together when we go. Tough tittie for us
and
them if no solution shows up. Make no mistake: the water dilemma is a real-world problem with real-world consequences. Even so, not much change will occur by adding sixteen thirsty mouths to the overall tote.”

At the time, Jess had no way of knowing one of the “immaterial” newbies would become special to him in a special, real-world way, with
very
special real-world consequences. Dr. Glorious Gloria Steinkritz was among the new arrivals now in trajectory, although neither of us had any inkling of it at the time.

Scheiermann tapped his gavel to quiet a stir of murmurings. Getting set to wrap things up, he never suspected what was lurking in the bushes when inquiring, “Now then, any other old or new business?”

Jesperson pounced, casually lifting his hand.

“Uh, yes? Mr. Jesperson, isn't it?”

“Yes, Mr. Director. I'm told the Olympus Mons aqueduct is no longer functioning. May I asked what's being done to correct the situation?”

“Done . . ?” The director's spade beard wiggle-waggled. He pursed his lips, cut a brief sidelong glance at Dr. Yokomizo,
harr-r-rumphed!
again and said, “That particular problem has only recently come to light. Frankly, the consensus of opinion is that the hiatus in our water supply may well be temporary. Should it prove otherwise, at this juncture it is nevertheless extremely difficult, if not impossible, to make a realistic assessment of what might be done in the way of, er . . . corrective measures. With only minuscule data available, making a hasty determination would be meaningless at this juncture.”

“I understand,” lied my partner. “In that case, I move that a crawler be dispatched to telescopically inspect the vertical segment of downfall pipeline attached to the escarpment, as well as the holding tanks at the base, the windmill power sources, and of course the Tharsis pipeline. Learning every aspect of a problem is the first step toward solving it.”

“Quite so, quite so. An excellent suggestion! Does the Chair hear a second?”

The motion was seconded by none other than Jesperson's chief stooge and spear carrier.

Scheiermann nodded twice to confirm his confirmation, his usual way of endorsing any suggestion and making it his own. “Mr. Jesperson, since you appear to be most concerned about this problem, perhaps you are also the likeliest candidate to undertake the inspections.”

“Ordinarily I would be eager do so, Mr. Director. However, late yesterday Mr. Barnes and I were returning from our scheduled monthly inspection tour and were severely shaken up by the quake. We are both very tired.”

Scheiermann nodded sagely. “Ah, yes. The council appreciates the candid nature of your response, Mr. Jesperson. Someone else, then.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” To me, Jess sounded so polite he was in danger of falling out of character. “If the council considers it appropriate,” he added, “I would also like to move that an action committee be appointed to research and recommend ways and means of restoring the aqueduct to usefulness.”

Before I could do my yes-man bit and second the motion, a Marsrat with a deep bass voice spoke up from the rear row of chairs. “What's the bleedin' rush? Lets take care of cleanin' up Burroughs ‘fore we start worryin' about what's not comin' outta the water pipe.”

Jesperson leaned forward and said something to Black-like-me, who came to his feet and stalked the loudmouthed bo, telling him to either address the Chair or get out. He went about it in a most undiplomatic way.

Trusting Charlie that I am, I seconded the motion. After a few more minutes of feinting, bobbing, weaving and playing word games, Jesperson got himself appointed head of the Aqueduct Action Committee; he did me the huge favor of putting my name in nomination as the only other member. As we left the meeting area, I blessed him for his consideration, and asked why he'd declined a shot at seeing firsthand what there was to see of the pipeline's visible condition.

“It's a time-waster,” he told me. “Someone else can run the errand. The break, or blockage, has to be somewhere up on Big Oly's middling heights.”

“What makes you so cocksure?”

“I'm omniscient.”

“Don't smartmouth me, Bwana! This no-water deal is for serious, and one-liner comebacks don't fit the bill. You said so yourself.”

“A true statement, and I apologize. I'm delighted hear that you appreciate that diamond-hard fact of life. Now go home and put your place in order. Crash early this evening and get a good night's rest. We're going to have a strenuous day tomorrow.”

“We are . . ?”

“Strenuous, if not exhausting,” he promised. “Meet me outside North Tunnel at first light, and wear your heaviest overboots. We have to start getting in shape.”

“In shape for . . ?”

“Guess!” he said, the word coming out of his mouth a bit snappishly.

I'd already guessed, and my guesswork definitely spoiled any notion of getting a good night's sleep. I grabbed his arm, something I wouldn't ordinarily think of doing. “Hear me, Bwana! You've schemed, plotted and tried every which way you know how to figure out a way to climb your motherhumping pet volcano. What it's done is make you soft in the brain for, uh . . . Wait, let me take that back. Now that an excuse has come along, it's made you crazy as a goddamn waltzing mouse and you figure to drag
me
along with you. Thanks, but no thanks. Include me out!”

He grinned the snide, patented, put-down grin that'd angrify each and every Saint in the roll to the point of doing murder. “You're astute,” he said, chuckling, “and we need stutes.”

“Oh, are
you
ever the comedian!”

One of the lightning mood changes he's famous for overtook Jesperson. All of a sudden full of spit-and-polish business, right before my eyes he'd turned into a bo nobody'd want to trifle with. He jabbed my chest with a stiffened forefinger. “Which will it be?” he demanded. “Would you rather sit on your ass and snivel with the others while the reservoirs run dry, or help me save our collective butt by climbing that
really
big hill out there and repairing the aqueduct?
Which,
Barney . . ?”

I allowed as how I wasn't much of a sniveler.

“The ‘if we do it',” he said, “may have already been decided for us. The ‘when' and ‘how' have yet to be invented, though I have the ‘how' between halfway and two-thirds worked out. There are serious glitches, but I foresee none we won't be able to overcome. ‘When' will be a matter of how long it takes the brain trust to make up its alleged mind that there is
no
other way.
None!
Hear me?”

“Uh-huh, or . . . Croatoan.”

“Glad the message got through that thick, woolly skull. Didn't I say you were astute?”

“Bwana, you could be wrong, you know.”

“I thought I was wrong once,” he said, after another of his lightning mood shifts, “but found out I'd been mistaken. Dawn, North Tunnel. Don't be late.”

He turned on his heel and ankled away, leaving me with egg on my face and a sneaking suspicion he'd always be ten or twelve moves ahead of the rest of us.

 

Our pressure-suits are equipped with voice-actuated mikes and a few grams of limited-range transceiver circuitry.Exiting North Tunnel, my partner's smooth baritone voice crackled inside my suit's headpiece. “Top o' the morning, fledgling alpinist. You look rested, hot to trot.”

“Appearances can fool you.” I wasn't in the best of good spirits. Lorna had raised a world-class ruckus over me scarpering off before attacking the busy-work that needed doing around our place. “Too damn early for this drill.”

“Remember,” he said, his wise words delivered without a milligram of comfort, “the early bird gets the worm.”

“A true statement, Bwana. Except you should remember it's the poor devil early worm who gets eaten by the bird.”