Another Girl, Another Planet Page 10

  I know big city papers change stories as they print different editions during the day—but a small newspaper like the Mars edition of The Trib? On an inside story?

  My mind raced. That was an evening edition I picked up after I left the office. Why change it only a few hours later? Why not run the story about the proclamation the next day? Then again, why was it the first time I open a paper on Mars, I see a story about Desiree?

  I grew light-headed and dizzy as I laid my head on the pillow; I lay on my side because my chest was tight.

  It took me a long while to relax and fall asleep that night. It was more likely I passed out from the stress.

  Chapter Seven

  I understand the expression “getting your feet wet,” because after those first couple of days, I jumped into the job headfirst. Mars was a Greek god, and the job seemed like an Olympic-sized pool.

  There was an astounding backlog of paperwork that kept me constantly busy in the office. It was clear from a review of what had been done during the past year that Davis-Seale’s pace slowed as time passed, which made sense in light of the fact he had been sick.

  Sherry said he developed respiratory problems. People who would otherwise be fine on Earth sometimes developed a sensitivity on Mars because of the fineness of the dust. Fine particles, which on Earth would be absorbed as clay in the presence of water and become part of the soil, on Mars remained suspended in the thin atmosphere. The colony’s environmental system constantly filtered out this powder, but it was difficult, and some still got through.

  The lieutenant governor’s job had been vacant so long it didn’t impact the office’s daily operations anymore. Most of what bore Wilder’s signature had been at least reviewed, if not prepared, by either Sherry or Thompson. I looked as close as I could, but I didn’t see anything overt that indicated Thompson was doing anything underhanded. But I wanted to be certain.

  I called Sherry inside my office one day and closed the door behind her. She looked a bit concerned.

  “Is Thompson involved in any kind of illicit deal making?” I asked. “He has a shady reputation.”

  She let out a deep breath and seemed a bit relieved.

  “No, he’s just an average lawyer. They’re all shady to some degree, aren’t they? He only engages in the normal influence peddling,” she said. “Sometimes people might ask his help to expedite things, but despite Wilder’s reputation for shirking work, neither of them would ever sign off on anything dishonest.”

  She smiled thinly. “Wilder knew that while people indulged his boozing and whoring, he was still smart enough to realize that if anything seriously corrupt happened on his watch all that good will would evaporate.”

  “Still, why does Thompson have the reputation he does?”

  Sherry chuckled a little. “Well, to a certain extent, he cultivates it. You know the saying, ‘It’s better to be feared than loved.’ I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “He seems to play his cards close to his chest,” I said. “He hardly ever talks to me.”

  She looked bemused. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?”

  “He’s intimidated by your education. You’re an Ivy League grad. He graduated from East Texas State University, and got his law degree in a night program at SMU.”

  “I had no idea! The space program had no problem assigning him here.”

  “This is hardly a choice venue for a lawyer, working for a government bureaucracy in the farthest colonial outpost. One perk is that he’s allowed to consult on the side, to pick up a few extra dollars. If people think he has a little pull in this office, so much the better,” she said. “But he really doesn’t.”

  She turned to leave. “He’s just a cynic who pursues the law rather than justice,” she said.

  “In other words, a normal lawyer.”

  She winked. “You got it.”

  Now, to tell the truth, I had detected some wariness from Thompson when he was around me, but after Sherry’s explanation I recognized it for what it was—some lingering insecurity.

  It went without saying, from what I knew of Sherry and her no-nonsense ways, that no one would get anything dubious past her and out of the office.

  She was the keystone and bedrock of the office. I wished I could help her more, but our duties were so different. I realized the best way I could help her was to do my job well, and I tried the best I could.

  I had my work cut out for me those first days, and it kept me pretty much chained to my desk. The first time I stepped out of its immediate area for anything out of the ordinary was when we held the memorial service for Governor Wilder before his ashes were shipped back home. It was also a de facto welcoming reception for me. I met all the various governmental and organizational representatives on that occasion, what there were on such a small colony.

  This was the first time I got to eyeball and glad-hand any Soviets or Eastern Bloc types, at least since I passed through customs on the way in. The Soviets were beginning to pay more attention to the NATO people on the colony, since we were now halfway through the American rotation and they would be taking the reins in 1995. They had recently appointed a promising Russian KGB lieutenant colonel to head their directorate on Mars.

  Vlad Putin had been previously stationed in Dresden, and so worked equally well with the East Germans. He was only 32, just five years older than me, but he looked like he was going places. I met him for the first time at the memorial service.

  He shook my hand firmly—for a pale guy he seemed pretty strong—and looked me over with a cold gaze that intimidated you both emotionally and intellectually.

  “I know we are both newcomers, Mister Shuster,” he said. “We have that in common.”

  He smelled of shaving cream and blood from small shaving cuts. His suit smelled of mothballs. His eyes were like a porcelain doll’s—flat and bright blue.

  “Then we will get to know the colony together,” I said. “Perhaps in ten years, you will be the Soviet Governor.”

  Russians aren’t that forward, and cutting right to the chase of his possible ambition threw him visibly off-guard—a hard thing to do to an average Soviet. He stammered a bit.

  “If God willing, then, yes, maybe,” he said, rather coldly as he stood up especially straight. He seemed to be uncomfortable making small talk so I said, “A pleasure,” and shook his hand again before I moved off through the crowd.

  He seemed to look at me warily as I moved into the bustle of chatter and cocktail glasses.

  Sherry walked up to me and took my hand gently, leading me to an old man in a suit with lint balls and a few cigarette ashes on the lapels.

  She smiled at him, and nodded at me. “Ambassador Neave, may I introduce Dave Shuster?”

  The British Ambassador came with the first colonists in 1975, making him the most senior government official on the colony. Airey Neave seemed ancient to me then—he was almost 70—but he had a firm handshake, a genial yet serious smile, and he seemed genuinely happy to meet me. He was to preside at the memorial service.

  “Young man, if you weren’t here, I’m afraid the Yanks would have asked me to run the office on a temporary basis,” he said as he smiled broadly. “I wasn’t keen on that!”

  “Yes, it’s a bad turn of events we’ve had,” I said, “but I think I can handle it.”

  “I can’t place your accent, young man,” he said, wrinkling his forehead. “Where are you from?”

  “I grew up in a rural English province,” I said.

  His bushy eyebrows shot up in interest. “Cornwall, perhaps?”

  “No, New England,” I said slyly.

  We both laughed, but I cringed slightly, and he seemed to notice that.

  “I’ve always been self-conscious about my accent,” I explained. “My parents were immigrants and spoke Italian at home.”

  He expressed surprise, and I explained the Ellis Island origin of the Shuster name.

  He winked at me c
onspiratorially. “We’ll keep that our little secret.” He reeked of alcohol fumes, but from my short period of observation at the colony, all the Brits did.

  There were some members of various other office staffs there, and I caught sight of a pretty middle-aged woman with some European types. I nudged Sherry. “Who’s that lady?” I asked. “She looked like an official.”

  “That’s the Italian attaché,” she said. “Laura Antonaz. She’s been here five years.”

  “That’s not an Italian name,” I said.

  “She grew up in a part of Italy that’s now part of Yugoslavia,” Sherry said. “That’s why she gets along with both the NATO and WarPac sides.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. I looked over at her and she smiled back at me.

  After mingling for a while, we all filed into the interdenominational chapel where Neave told some genial anecdotes about serving with Wilder. He made some witty observations based on their mutual love of drink. It was a relatively cheerful talk about a man who was ineffective but well-liked.

  Not the worst way to be recalled after you’re dead.

  The colony’s Christian chaplain then presided over a short Methodist service. The chapel had some pretty stained glass with abstract shapes lit from behind. The walls had thick, fake wood panels that were a calming shade of brown. The room got warm quickly with all the people there, and I could see sweat begin to form on the chaplain’s forehead.

  I began to squirm a bit, and while looking around in discomfort, I caught Laura Antonaz’s eye. She smiled back in a very encouraging way.

  The whole affair took less than an hour. After the service was concluded and we all filed out, we clustered in the foyer and more conversations ensued. While people were chatting, I asked Sherry, “Is Kurland here?”

  “No, he isn’t,” she said.

  “I’d hoped to meet him.”

  “Just about everyone who’s anybody is here,” she said. “This was a good time for people to meet you.”

  “Are you implying he’s snubbing me?”

  She gave a very little laugh under her breath. “I think he’s snubbing the whole office,” she said. “But yes, especially you. He probably thinks it’s below him to mingle with us riff-raff.”

  “I looked his file up at the office,” I said. “I see he’s descended from Elbridge Gerry, the vice president. So he’s old money. I also checked out his political involvements, at least while he was in college. He was mainstream New Left.”

  “That’s why the Soviets and East Germans like him,” she said. “He’s a political sympathizer.”

  “I dealt with assholes like him at Columbia,” I said. “Country Club snobs with Khmer Rouge politics. I can deal.”

  She stared in the distance. “I see someone I need to talk to,” she said, quickly peeling away.

  If he is so left-wing, and supposedly anti-capitalist, why does he run the largest corporation on Mars? I thought.

  Laura Antonaz sidled up to me. “You look completely absent-minded.”

  I snapped out of it and looked at her. She was very pretty and smelled like Chanel No. 5.

  “So, I understand you’re an American who’s really an Italian,” she continued. She extended her hand. “I am an Italian who is really Yugoslavian.”

  I shook it and then kissed it while she giggled.

  “Between the two of us, we’re a regular United Nations!” I said.

  “You Americans are all hams,” she said, grinning. “It’s nice to meet you, Mister Shuster.”

  “Yes, Mrs. …”

  “Miss Antonaz, but you can call me Laura.”

  I could see Sherry looking at us from some distance in obvious disapproval. I half-turned and winked at her. Then I kissed Laura’s hand again. “Pleased to meet you.”

  She was a lot older than me—as I later learned, a good 16 years—but still very good looking. “Have you ever visited our office, the Italian delegation?”

  “No, and that’s a good point, I really should visit all our allies.”

  “Well, then,” she said with a big smile. “You have an open invitation.”

  “I’ll come and drop on by some day, then,” I said.

  Someone caught her attention. “It’s a date then,” she said with a smile and a wave. “Ciao!”

  I could see Sherry give me a dirty look as Laura turned to walk away and I watched her recede in the distance.

  I chatted with a few more people, exchanged meaningless pleasantries, and then, at a look from Sherry, sidled out the door and into the corridor toward the nearest MarsTran station.

  As we walked to the transport together, Sherry turned to me. “She may be a double agent for the Eastern Bloc,” she said quietly.

  “I assumed that,” I said. “How does she know I’m not an American spy?”

  “You’re not subtle enough to be a spy,” she said.

  “Thanks.” But I figured she was right.

  Sherry seemed to be deep in thought for the rest of the ride, and we didn’t talk much for the rest of the day. I couldn’t tell if she was thinking or just irritated at me.

  * * *

  Wilder’s sudden death had the unintended consequence of allowing Washington to fast-track the naming of the governor, and get the approval of the lieutenant governor off high-center with the Soviets. The solution was bi-coastal, with two losing political standard bearers getting the nod. The loser in the last California Senate race, former Congressman Pete McCloskey, was named governor, while the loser in the last Massachusetts Governor’s race, and a former state representative, Andrew Card, would be lieutenant governor.

  Word through the grapevine was that both Admiral Heinlein and Commander Carter were irate at the choices, but their simmering quickly subsided as the Soviets rubber-stamped the appointments in less than a week.

  “Even the bureaucrats in the Kremlin realize we need these positions filled,” Sherry said with some finality.

  “Yes, Tonto, help is on the way,” I wisecracked. I once called her Tonto because I had said I was the Lone Ranger, at least for now.

  It was three days after the memorial service that I saw a small opening in my schedule. “I need a break and to maybe enjoy myself,” I said to myself.

  I called Laura at the Italian delegation. “I have a few minutes free, if you are willing to show me around,” I said.

  “Come right over. I’ll introduce you to our staff.”

  They only had four people, and two of them were on loan from Olivetti and Fiat. Laura’s assistant was a young intern named Pietro with a nose like an afghan hound. His hair looked like plastic coated with Armor All, and his clothes reeked of the trendiest fashion.

  I wondered what a guy like him was doing on Mars, but Laura later told me his father got him the internship to get him away from a girl his family thought was unsuitable. Despite his obvious appearance as a 1985-version of Casanova, Laura said he was in the “casa cane” and penitent—waiting for his father to relent, and keeping his hands off anyone else—including Laura—because if his girl back home found out he cheated, all bets were off anyway.

  “I don’t think he’s turned on the warm water in his shower since he got here,” she smirked.

  We made pleasant small talk in her office, and she offered me a shot of Galliano, which I really appreciated. I also really appreciated the view.

  We chatted in her office until 5 PM and then I got up to go.

  “Do you have any dinner plans?” she asked.

  “No, not really. I may pick up a pizza at Campagna’s and take it home.”

  “Bah!” she said in that explosive, dismissive way Italians can muster. “Campagna’s is peasant food, and pizza is not even Italian. Do you want some real Italian food?”

  “Is there such a place on this lonely little red rock?”

  “You lived in New York City. Did you ever eat at Puglia’s in Little Italy?”

  “On Hester Street? Oh, god, dozens of times. Why?”

  “I’ve nev
er been in the U.S. or Puglia’s, but there’s a small café here where the chef is a refugee from Puglia’s, and he knows how to make the best cannelloni and gnocchi I’ve ever had.”

  “You’re kidding? What’s he doing wasting his talents here?” I asked.

  “I don’t quite understand, something about the weather in New York,” she said. “He said it got ‘too hot’ for him there.”

  I had to suppress a smile, but didn’t comment on the “weather.”

  “I thought Campagna’s was the only Italian restaurant here,” I said.

  “He doesn’t work at an Italian restaurant; he works at a Greek coffee shop. He’s a short order cook,” she said. “But they have Italian dishes on the menu.”

  “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

  It was a hole-in-the-dome kind of place, but the smells that assailed you as you exited the nearby MarsTran station told you that you were on the right track. The place was unpretentious and friendly, the food superb. It smelled like heaven.

  The cook yelled through the window and glared at the staff like a combination of a Marine drill sergeant and Mussolini. His English was so fractured I cringed and looked around, whistling. Laura smiled at my discomfort.

  She leaned across the table as if to impart a great secret. “He’s a real New York Italian,” she said with a sexy wink.

  The waiter was Albanian, with a pin of Enver Hoxha in his lapel. His pencil looked like it could be used as a short stabbing spear. He never smiled, but got our order exactly right.

  Laura had manicotti, and I had the gnocchi. The dumplings were white, light, fluffy, and fragrant, and the marinara sauce was top notch. Unfortunately, I splashed some on my shirt.

  I tried to dab it away, and Laura leapt into action, too, but she soon shook her head.

  “This is just smearing it around,” she said with a frown.