The Rolling Stones (17 page)

The twins sighed with relief.

“WELCOME TO MARS!”

R
OGER
S
TONE PROMPTLY CAUGHT

the epidemic disease and had to be nursed through it—and thereby extended the quarantine time. It gave the twins that much more time in which to exercise their talent for trouble. The truncated family went from Phobos down to Marsport by shuttle—not the sort of shuttle operating between Pikes Peak and Earth’s station, but little glider rockets hardly more powerful than the ancient German war rockets. Mars’ circular-orbit speed is only a trifle over two miles per second.

Nevertheless the fares were high…and so were freight charges. The twins had unloaded their cargo, moved it to the freight lots between the customs shed and the administration building, and arranged for it to follow them down, all before they boarded the shuttle. They had been horrified when they were presented with the bill—payable in advance. It had come to more than the amount they had paid their father for the added ship’s costs of boosting the bicycles all the way to Mars.

Castor was still computing their costs and possible profits as the five Stones were strapping down for the trip down to Marsport. “Pol,” he said fretfully, “we’d better by a darn sight get a good price for those bikes.”

“We will, Grandpa, we will. They’re good bikes.”

The shuttle swooped to a landing on the Grand Canal and was towed into a slip, rocking gently the while. The twins were glad to climb out; they had never before been in a water-borne vehicle and it seemed to them an undependable if not outright dangerous mode of travel. The little ship was unsealed with a soft sigh and they were breathing the air of Mars. It was thin but the pressure was not noticeably lower than that they had maintained in the
Rolling Stone—
a generation of the atmosphere project had made skin suits and respirators unnecessary. It was not cold; the Sun was right at the zenith.

Meade sniffed as she climbed to the dock. “What’s the funny smell, Hazel?”

“Fresh air. Odd stuff, isn’t it? Come on, Lowell.” They all went inside the Hall of Welcome, that being the only exit from the dock. Hazel looked around, spotted a desk marked “Visas” and headed for it. “Come on, kids. Let’s stick together.”

The clerk looked over their papers as if he had never seen anything of the sort before and didn’t want to now. “You had your physical examinations at Phobos port?” he said doubtfully.

“See for yourself. They’re all endorsed.”

“Well…you don’t have your property declaration filled out for immigration.”

“We’re not immigrants; we’re visitors.”

“Why didn’t you say so? You haven’t posted a bond; all terrestrial citizens have to post bonds.”

Pollux looked at Castor and shook his head. Hazel counted up to ten and replied, “We’re not terrestrials; we’re citizens of Luna Free State—and entitled to full reciprocity under the treaty of ’07. Look it up and see.”

“Oh.” The clerk looked baffled and endorsed and stamped their papers. He stuck them in the stat machine, then handed them back. “That’ll be five pounds.”

“
Five pounds?
”

“Pounds Martian, of course. If you apply for citizenship it’s returnable.”

Hazel counted it out. Pollux converted the figure into System credit in his head and swore under his breath; he was beginning to think that Mars was the Land of the Fee. The clerk recounted the money, then reached for a pile of pamphlets, handed them each one. “Welcome to Mars,” he said, smiling frigidly. “I know you’ll like it here.”

“I was beginning to wonder,” Hazel answered, accepting a pamphlet.

“Eh?”

“Never mind. Thank you.”

They turned away. Castor glanced at his pamphlet; it was titled:

WELCOME TO MARS
!!!

He skimmed the table of contents: What to See—Where to Eat—And Now to Sleep—“When in Rome—”—In Ancient Times—Souvenirs? Of course!—Business Opportunities—Facts & Figures about Marsport, Fastest Growing City in the System.

The inside, he found, contained more advertising space than copy. None of the pictures were stereo. Still, it was free; he stuck it in his pouch.

They had not gotten more than ten steps away when the clerk suddenly called out, “Hey! Madam! Just a moment, please—come back!”

Hazel turned around and advanced on him, her mouth set grimly. “What’s biting you, bub?”

He pointed to her holster. “That gun. You can’t wear that—not in the city limits.”

“I can’t, eh?” She drew it, opened the charge chamber, and offered it to him with a sudden grin. “Have a cough drop?”

A very pleasant lady at the Travelers’ Aid desk, after determining that they really did not want to rent an ancient Martian tower believed to be at least a million years old but sealed and airconditioned nevertheless, made out for them a list of housekeeping apartments for rent. Hazel had vetoed going to any of the tourist hotels even for one night, after telephoning three and getting their rates. They tramped through a large part of the city, searching. There was no public transit system; many of the inhabitants used powered roller skates, most of them walked. The city was laid out in an oblong checkerboard with the main streets parallel to the canal. Except for a few remaining pressurized domes in “Old Town” the buildings were all one-story prefabricated boxlike structures without eaves or windows, all of depressing monotony.

The first apartment turned out to be two little stalls in the back of a private home—share refresher with family. The second was large enough but was in sniffing range of a large plastics plant; one of its exhalations seemed to be butyl mercaptan though Hazel insisted it put her more in mind of a dead goat. The third—but none of them approached the standard of comfort they had enjoyed on the Moon, nor even that of the
Rolling Stone.

Hazel came out of the last one they had looked at, jumped back suddenly to keep from being run over by a delivery boy pulling a large hand truck, caught her breath and said, “What’ll it be, children? Pitch a tent, or go back up to the
Stone
?”

Pollux protested, “But we can’t do that. We’ve got to sell our bicycles.”

“Shut up, Junior,” his brother told him. “Hazel, I thought there was one more? ‘Casa’ something?”

“Casa Mañana Apartments, way out south along the canal—and likely no better than the rest. Okay, troops, mush on!”

The buildings thinned out and they saw some of the heliotropic Martian vegetation, spreading greedy hands to the Sun. Lowell began to complain at the walk. “Carry me, Grandma Hazel!”

“Nothing doing, pet,” she said emphatically, “your legs are younger than mine.”

Meade stopped. “My feet hurt, too.”

“Nonsense! This is just a shade over one-third gravity.”

“Maybe so, but it’s twice what it is back home and we’ve been in free fall for half a year and more. Is it much farther?”

“Sissy!”

The twins’ feet hurt, too, but they would not admit it. They alternated taking Buster piggy-back the rest of the way. Casa Mañana turned out to be quite new and, by their suddenly altered standards, acceptable. The walls were of compacted sand, doubled against the bitter nights; the roof was of sheet metal sandwich with glass-wool core for insulation. It was a long, low building which made Hazel think of chicken coops but she kept the thought to herself. It had no windows but there were sufficient glow tubes and passable air ducting.

The apartment which the owner and manager showed to them consisted of two tiny cubicles, a refresher, and a general room. Hazel looked them over. “Mr. d’Avril, don’t you have something a bit larger?”

“Well, yes, ma’am, I do—but I hate to rent larger ones to such a small family with the tourist season just opening up. I’ll bring in a cot for the youngster.”

She explained that two more adults would be coming. He considered this. “You don’t know how long the
War God
will be quarantined?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Then why don’t we play that hand after it’s dealt? We’ll accommodate you somehow; that’s a promise.”

Hazel decided to close the deal; her feet were killing her. “How much?”

“Four hundred and fifty a month—four and a quarter if you take a lease for the whole season.”

At first Hazel was too surprised to protest. She had not inquired rents at the other places since she had not considered renting them. “Pounds or credits?” she said feebly.

“Why, pounds, of course.”

“See here, I don’t want to buy this du—this place. I just want to use it for a while.”

Mr. d’Avril looked hurt. “You needn’t do either one, ma’am. With ships arriving every day now I’ll have my pick of tenants. My prices are considered very reasonable. The Property Owners’ Association has tried to get me to up ’em—and that’s a fact.”

Hazel dug into her memory to recall how to compare a hotel price with a monthly rental—add a zero to the daily rate; that was it. Why, the man must be telling the truth!—if the hotel rates she had gotten were any guide. She shook her head. “I’m just a country girl, Mr. d’Avril. How much did this place cost to build?”

Again he looked hurt. “You’re not looking at it properly, ma’am. Every so often we have a big load of tourists dumped on us. They stay awhile, then they go away and we have no rent coming in at all. And you’d be surprised how these cold nights nibble away at a house. We can’t build the way the Martians could.”

Hazel gave up. “Is that season discount you mentioned good from now to Venus departure?”

“Sorry, ma’am. It has to be the whole season.” The next favorable time to shape an orbit for Venus was ninety-six Earth-standard days away—ninety-four Mars days—whereas the “whole season” ran for the next fifteen months, more than half a Martian year before Earth and Mars would again be in a position to permit a minimum-fuel orbit.

“We’ll take it by the month. May I borrow your stylus? I don’t have that much cash on me.”

Hazel felt better after dinner. The Sun was down and the night would soon be too bitter for any human not in a heated suit, but inside Casa Mañana it was cozy, even though cramped. Mr. d’Avril, for an extra charge only mildly extortionate, had consented to plug in television for them and Hazel was enjoying for the first time in months one of her own shows. She noted that they had rewritten it in New York, as usual, and, again as usual, she found the changes no improvement. But she could recognize some of the dialogue and most of the story line.

That Galactic Overlord—he was a baddy, he was! Maybe she should kill him off again.

They could try to find a cheaper place tomorrow. At least as long as the show kept up its audience rating the family wouldn’t starve, but she hated to think of Roger’s face when he heard what rent he was paying. Mars! All right to visit, maybe, but no place to live. She frowned.

The twins were whispering in their own cubicle about some involved financial dealing; Meade was knitting quietly and watching the screen. She caught Hazel’s expression. “What were you thinking about, Grandmother?”

“
I
know what she’s thinking about!” announced Lowell.

“If you do, keep it to yourself. Nothing much, Meade—that pipsqueak clerk. Imagine the nerve of him, saying I couldn’t pack a gun!”

FREE ENTERPRISE

T
HE TWINS STARTED OUT

to storm the marts of trade next morning after breakfast. Hazel cautioned them, “Be back in time for dinner. And try not to commit any capital crimes.”

“What are they here?”

“Um, let me see. Abandonment without shelter…pollution of the water supply…violation of treaty regulations with the natives—I think that’s about all.”

“Murder?”

“Killing is largely a civil matter here—but they stick you for the prospective earnings of your victim for whatever his life expectancy was. Expensive. Very expensive, if the prices we’ve run into are any guide. Probably leave you indentured the rest of your life.”

“Hmm—We’ll be careful. Take note of that, Pol. Don’t kill anybody.”

“
You
take note of it. You’re the one with the bad temper.”

“Back sharp at six, boys. Have you adjusted your watches?”

“Pol slowed his down; I’m leaving mine on Greenwich rate.”

“Sensible.”

“Pol!” put in Lowell. “Cas! Take me along!”

“Can’t do it, sprout. Business.”

“Take me! I want to see a Martian. Grandma Hazel,
when
am I going to see a Martian?”

She hesitated. Ever since an unfortunate but instructive incident forty years earlier a prime purpose of the planetary government had been to keep humans as far away from the true Martians as possible—tourists most especially. Lowell had less chance of getting his wish than a European child visiting Manhattan would have of seeing an American Indian. “Well, Lowell, it’s like this—”

The twins left hastily, not wishing to be drawn into what was sure to be a fruitless debate.

They soon found the street catering to the needs of prospectors. They picked a medium-sized shop displaying the sign of Angelo & Sons, Ltd., General Outfitters, which promised “Bedrolls, Geiger Counters, Sand Cycles, Assaying Service, Black-Light Lamps, Firearms, Hardware-Ironmongery—Ask for It; We’ve Got It or Can Get It.”

Inside they found a single shopkeeper leaning against a counter while picking his teeth and playing with something that moved on the counter top. Pollux glanced curiously at it; aside from the fact that it was covered with fur and seemed to be roughly circular, he could not make out what it was. Some sort of Martian dingus probably. He would investigate later—business first.

The shopkeeper straightened up and remarked with professional cheer, “Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to Mars.”

“How did you know?” asked Castor.

“Know what?”

“That we had just gotten here.”

“Eh? That’s hard to say. You’ve still got some free fall in your walk and—oh, I don’t know. Little things that add up automatically. You get to know.”