Steel Beach (54 page)

The Bicentennial Commemoration of the Invasion of the Earth had to qualify as the slickest public relations job of the century. Back when Walter first summoned me and Brenda to his office with his idea of a series of Invasion stories I had laughed in his face. Now, exactly one year later, every politician in Luna was trying to claim the whole thing was his idea.

But one man was responsible, and his name was Walter Editor.

Brenda and I played our small part. The articles were well-received by the public—somewhere or other I’ve got a parchment from some civic organization commending me for excellence in journalism for one of them—was it the Kiwanis or the Elks?—but the ground had been prepared for over a year by the P.R. firm Walter had hired at his own expense. By the time of Silvio’s assassination sentiment was growing for a public display. You couldn’t call it a celebration, it hadn’t been a proud day in human history. It had to include a memorial for the billions of dead, that was certain. The tone of the thing should be one of sadness and resolve, all seemed to agree. If you asked them what was being resolved—the recapture of Earth and extermination of the Invaders, is that what you had in mind?—you got an uncomfortable shrug in reply, but dammit, we ought to be
resolute
! Hell, why not? Resolution doesn’t cost anything.

But the commemoration was going to. It kept snowballing with nary a voice raised against it (Walter’s fine hand again), until by the time the Great Day arrived every pisspot enclave in Luna was holding some kind of shindig.

Even in Texas, where we avoid as much outside news as we can, they were having a barbecue as big as Alamo Day. I was sorry I was going to be missing it, but I’d promised Brenda I’d go with her, and besides…  Cricket was going to be there.

Yes, dear hearts, Hildy was in love. Please hold your applause until I can determine if the feeling is mutual.

All the Eight Worlds were commemorating the day; Pluto and Mars had actually created a permanent yearly holiday to be known as Invasion Day, and the betting was that Luna would soon follow suit. And Luna, being the most populous planet, hated to follow
any
of the seven worlds in
anything
and so, being the most populous planet and the Refuge of Humanity as well as the Front-Line Planet and the Bulwark of the Race—not to mention the First to Get Our Asses Whipped if the Invaders ever decided to continue what they started…  Luna being all that, and more, had determined to put on the biggest and bestest of all the eight festivals, and King City being the largest city in Luna made it seem a natural site for the planet-wide Main Event, and Armstrong Park being over
twenty times
the size of the vanished Walt Disney Universe, it just seemed to follow that the thing ought to be held there, and that was where I was going that fine Solar Evening when all I really wanted to do was stroll down Congress Street, Cricket on my arm, and eat cotton candy and maybe bob for apples.

And hey, sure it wasn’t a celebration, but what’s a holiday without fireworks?

That’s the only reason I’d agreed to go, Brenda’s promise that I could see the whole thing a safe distance from the madding crowds. The fireworks themselves didn’t scare me; I liked fireworks, hated crowds of strangers.

The tube trip almost killed me, though. We’d deliberately decided to start out quite early to avoid the crush on the tubes, but what one genius can think up, another can duplicate, so the trains were already jammed with people who’d had the same idea. Worse, these were people planning to rough it on the surface, away from the eight gigantic temporary domes set up for the show, so they had brought their camping gear. The aisles and overhead racks were piled high with luggage carts, beer coolers, inflatable five-room tents, and 3.4 children per family. It got so bad they started hanging small children from the overhead straps, where they dangled and giggled. Then it got worse. The train stopped taking passengers long before it arrived at Armstrong. My stop was three short of the park, and I soon saw there would be no point in fighting my way out, so I rode it to the end of the line—gaped in horror at the masses already assembled there—was disgorged by an irresistible human tide, then re-boarded and rode it back, empty, to Dionysius Station.

Where I sat down on a bench, my suit and picnic hamper beside me, and just shook for a while, and watched about a dozen human sardine cans rumble by in one direction and a like number return. Then I grabbed my gear and went up the stairs to the surface.

After returning from my frolics with the Alphans, I’d found my suit on the foot of my bed in my cabin. I don’t know who brought it there. But I didn’t want it anymore, so one Saturday I took it back to the shop, meaning to have them fix the faceplate and sell it on consignment. The salesman took one look at the hole and before I had a chance to explain I was being ushered into the manager’s office and he promptly fainted dead away. None of them had ever seen a broken faceplate before. So I shut up, and soon found myself in possession of their top-of-the-line model, plus five years of free air, courtesy Hamilton’s Outdoor Outfitters. I made no demands and was asked to sign no disclaimers; they simply wanted me to have it. They’re probably still chewing their knuckles, waiting for the lawsuit.

I climbed into this engineering wonder, and that special new-suit aroma went a long way toward calming me down. I’d worried it might stir entirely different associations—how about that cute point-of-view shot of a piece of the faceplate tumbling away?—but instead the low whirs and hums and the pure luxurious
feel
of the thing did wonders. Too bad they won’t let you wear suits in the tube; with this on, I could have handled anything.

Checking the pressure seals on the hamper, I walked into the lock and out onto the surface.

“You been waiting long?” I asked.

“Couple hours,” Brenda said.

She was leaning on the side of her rental rover, which she’d driven all the way from a suburb of King City, the nearest place you could rent one. I apologized for being so late, told her of the nightmare in the train, how I wished I’d come with her instead of “saving time” by tubing out.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I like it out here.”

I could already tell that, mostly by looking at her suit.

It was a good one, had no rental logo on it, and though in perfect shape, showed signs of use it couldn’t have acquired unless she regularly spent time in it. Also by the easy way she stood and moved in it, something most Lunarians never get enough suit time to achieve.

The rover was a good one, too. It was a pickup model, two seats side by side, a flatbed in back where I tossed my hamper along with her much bigger pile of things. They have a wide wheelbase to compensate for being so top-heavy with the big solar panel above, which swings to constantly present itself to the sun. The sun being almost at the horizon just then, the vehicle was at its most awkward, with the panel hanging out to the right side, perpendicular to the ground. I had to crawl over Brenda’s seat to get to mine because the panel blocked the door.

“I forget,” I said, as I settled myself in the open seat. “Will we be going into the sun to get there?”

“Nope. South for a while, then we’ll have the sun at our backs.”

“Good.” I hated riding behind the panel. It’s not that I didn’t trust the autopilot; I just liked to see where I was going.

She told the rover to giddyup, and it did, right along the broad, smooth highway. Which is why we’d chosen Dionysius Station in the first place, because it’s right on one of the scarce surface roads on Luna, which is not a place where the wheeled vehicle was ever a primary mode of transport. People move on elevators, escalators, beltways, maglev/tube trains, the occasional hoverbus. Goods go by the same ways, plus pneumomail tubes, linac free-trajectory, and rocket. Recently there’d been something of a fad in wheeled surface rovers, two-and four-wheeled, but they were all-terrain and quite rugged, no roads needed.

The road we were on was a relic from a mining operation abandoned before I was born. From time to time we passed the derelict hulks of ore carriers at the side of the road, mammoth things, not looking much different from the day they’d been stripped and left there. Some economic vagary of the time had made it a better idea to actually smooth out a road surface for them. Then the road had been used for another half century as the conduit between King City and its primary dumping ground. It was still glass-smooth, and quite a novel way to travel.

“This sucker moves right along, doesn’t it?” I said.

“It’ll reach three hundred kay on the straightaways,” Brenda said. “But it’s gotta slow way down for the curves, especially ones to the left.” That was because the rover’s center of gravity was at its worst at sunrise and sunset, with the big panel canted on its side, she explained. Also, the banking of the road was not great, and since we were going to be staying out after dark, she’d had to carry ten batteries, which added a lot to our inertia and could easily make us skid off the road, since the tire traction wasn’t as much as she’d prefer. She told me all this with the air of someone who’d done this many times before, someone who knew her machine. I wondered if she could drive it.

I got my answer when we turned off the road, and she asked if I minded. Actually, I did—we’re not used to putting our lives in other people’s hands, only into the hands of machines—but I said I didn’t. And I needn’t have worried. She drove with a sure hand, never did anything stupid, never overcontrolled. We took off across the plains toward the rising rim of Delambre, just becoming visible over the horizon.

When we reached the bottom of the slope a Black Maria landed in front of us, blue lights flashing. A cop got out and came over to us. He must have been bored, since he could have used his radio, or simply interrogated our computer.

“You’re entering a restricted area, ma’am,” he said. Brenda showed him the pass Liz had given her and he examined it, then her.

“Didn’t I see you on the tube?” he asked, and she said he might have, and he said sure, you were on the such-and-such show, now how about that? He said he’d loved it and she said aw, shucks, and by the time he finally let us go he’d been flirting so outrageously I’m convinced we hadn’t needed the pass at all. He actually asked for her autograph, and she actually gave it.

“I thought he was going to ask for your phone code,” I said, when he’d finally lifted off.

“I thought I was going to give it to him,” she said, and grinned at me. “I keep thinking I ought to give guys a try.”

“You could do better than that.”

“Not since you Changed.” She jammed in the throttle and we sprayed dust behind us as we charged up the rounded rim of the crater.

Delambre isn’t a huge crater like Clavius or Pythagoras or any number of celestial bullet holes on the farside, but it’s big enough. When you’re standing on the rim you can’t see the other side. That’s plenty big for me.

Still, it would look just like a hundred others except for one thing: the junkyard.

We recycle a lot of things on Luna. We have to; our own natural resources are fairly meager. But we’re still a civilization driven by a market economy. Sometimes cheap and plentiful power and the low cost of boosting bulk raw materials in slow orbits combine to make it just too damn much trouble and not cost-effective to sort through and re-process a lot of things. Fortunes have been lost when a bulk carrier arrives with X million tonnes of Whoosisite from the mines on Io, having been in secret transit for thirty years disguised and listed as an Oort comet. Suddenly the bottom falls out of the market for Whoosisite, and before you know it you can’t give the stuff away and it’s being carted out to Delambre by the hundred-tonne bucketload. To that add the twenty-thousand-year half-life radioactives in drums guaranteed to last five centuries. Don’t forget to throw in obsolete machines, some cannibalized for this or that, others still in working order but hopelessly slow and not worth taking apart. Abandon all that stuff out there, and salt in that ceramic horror you brought home to Mom from school when you were eight, that stack of holos you kept for seventy years and can’t even remember who’s in them, plus similar treasures from millions of other people. Top it with all the things you can’t find a use for from every sewage outflow in Luna, mixed with just enough water so it’ll flow through a pipe. Bake on high for fourteen days, freeze for fourteen more; continue doing that for two hundred years, adding more ingredients to taste, and you’ve created the vista that met us from the lip of Delambre.

The crater’s not actually full, it just looks that way from the west rim.

“Over there,” Brenda said. “That’s where I said I’d meet Liz.”

I saw a speck on the horizon, also sitting on the rim.

“How about letting me drive?” I asked.

“You can drive?” It wasn’t an unreasonable question; most Lunarians can’t.

“In my wild youth, I drove the Equatorial Race. Eleven thousand klicks, very little of it level.” No point in adding I’d blown the transmission a quarter of the way through.

“And I was lecturing you on how to handle a rover. Why don’t you ever shut me up, Hildy?”

“Then I’d lose half of my amusing stories.”

I switched the controls over to the British side of the car and took off. It had been many years since I’d driven. It was lots of fun. The rover had a good suspension; I only left the ground two or three times, and the gyros kept us from turning over. When I saw her gripping the dash I throttled back.

“You’d never make a race driver. This is
smooth
.”

“I never
wanted
to be a race driver. Or a corpse.”

“I feel like a Girl Scout,” I told Brenda as I helped her spread out the tent.

“What’s wrong with that? I earned all the surface pioneering merit badges.”

“Nothing wrong. I was one, too, but that was ninety years ago.”

She wasn’t nearly that far removed from scouting, and she still took it seriously. Where I’d have just pulled the rip cord and let it go at that, she was a fanatic about saving energy, and ran a line from the rover’s solar panel to the tent’s power supply, as if the reactor wouldn’t last a fortnight on its own. When the tent was arranged to her satisfaction she pulled the cord and it shuddered and flopped as it filled with air, and in ten seconds we had a five-meter transparent hemisphere…  which promptly frosted up inside.