Another Girl, Another Planet Page 6

  Or as Senator Harry Truman said, “We have a saying in Missouri—keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

  It sure worked. Ten years later we started building on the Moon; I wasn’t even born yet. Thirty years later, I’m staring at Heinlein’s cannon sitting on a platform outside my new office at the Mars Colony.

  I pointed to it. “Does that thing work?” I asked Sherry.

  “Pull the cord and find out.”

  “Not me, not today; not on my first day,” I said, grandly chickening out.

  Everyone was there that day to meet me. Bill Bauer was a dark-haired man from North Dakota who retained a trace of a German accent, but otherwise seemed like an All-American. His thick hair was swept back and he wore a neatly pressed shirt with a bolo tie.

  Melanie was friendly, round, and red-headed. She looked like a corn-fed Middle American. Thompson was short with sandy blond hair and a large mustache. He was impeccably dressed. Ledbetter was tall and heavy-set, with dark hair and a ready smile. Jim Ellis was black, with graying hair and a serious expression.

  Dr. Boozer had graying hair that went all over the place, and a smudged white lab coat. Her lipstick was smudged, too.

  After shaking hands all around, I had a feeling I needed to say something. I cleared my throat and held one hand with the other.

  “I know how busy a small staff like this must be in normal times, and that you’re probably worried about keeping up, especially with two administrative vacancies,” I said as we all stood in the reception area. “I have come here to work and work hard. I don’t know any other way. I assume there is a backlog of administrative tasks that needs to be dealt with, and together we can do it. Yes, I am a political appointee, but no, I am not going to sit at my desk and make daisy chains with paper clips. Senator Greenman gave me a chance with this job by submitting my name, and I am not going to let him down—or you. With your help, I will do the best job I can. I’m glad to join the team.”

  That seemed to please everyone except Thompson, who, as a lawyer, seemed to remain professionally non-committal. After some more small talk, Sherry took me on the proverbial “nickel tour.”

  She walked me around and pointed out who went in which office. All the walls were made of sheet metal with a thick painted surface to muffle sound. Most offices were in the interior, but Sherry, Thompson, and I all had offices with windows that looked out over the colony’s other domes, and I noticed as the morning “sun” shone in—much weaker than back on Earth—how my office lightened because of a painting trick the designers employed. Almost all walls that received direct sunlight were painted a pale peach color, so when the sun rose and reflected off the sand, they matched in color, and the walls seemed almost white. It made the rooms look more light and spacious than they really were.

  The governor’s office was exactly as he left it, cluttered and disorganized. The lieutenant governor’s office had been vacant and empty for so long there actually seemed to be a thin layer of dust everywhere.

  Sherry showed me my new office, which was somewhere between the two in terms of looks and contents—obviously unoccupied, but still having the requisite set-up. A bulging Rolodex with five-inch cards was accompanied by a smaller business card index. The rotary phone had five lines with five buttons. A dry erase board hung in a frame that looked like it originally held a chalk board. A cassette tape recorder, ten-key adding machine, and pen and pencil holder completed the desk top. The drawers were full of organizational files.

  She looked up at me as we stood in the doorway.

  “You gave a great talk out there,” she said. “You’re a great communicator.”

  “Well, with the Governor reaching room temperature in the morgue, and the lieutenant governor long gone, we really don’t need to panic,” I said. “I don’t know much, but I know that.”

  I walked over and sat down behind the desk, and rolled the chair back with a squeaking of wheels as I looked at her. “Is there some simple stuff I can get out of the way immediately?”

  Sherry had a manila folder. “There are a few simple orders you can sign today,” she said, as she placed it in front of me.

  The items were very mundane: requisition forms, signing off on inspection reports, and one request for an expedited trip home to attend a wedding.

  After a while, Sherry came back in. She rubbed the back of her neck. “You know, normally we would have a reception for the public to welcome you, but with the Governor’s death …”

  I smiled to put her at ease.

  “I understand. Are preparations underway for some kind of memorial service?”

  “Yes, I’ve a meeting with the appropriate people in 30 minutes,” she said. “Of course, you will have to make a few comments.”

  “Of course. I assume he will be cremated.”

  “Standard procedure. No burials allowed on Mars, and transporting a corpse is considered a waste of fuel.”

  “Let me know if I can help with the planning for the service,” I said as she left.

  The sound of paper and manila folders scudding across a desk top was a reassuring old bureaucratic sound, and as I read the paperwork I would sometimes tap a Bic pen as a little nervous habit.

  I began to relax and maybe loosen my posture. So far, so good, I thought. Let’s hope this is a good sign.

  At quitting time, I pulled out the documentation Sherry had given me about my housing. “It says my apartment is D1-37,” I said to Sherry. “What does that mean?”

  “Dome One, Apartment thirty-seven,” she said. “Not a bad ranking, really. You don’t have to commute. All administrators live in apartments in this dome.”

  She took the fax copy from my hand. “Civilians live in Dome Seven. It’s one of our perks, living in Dome One.” She squinted at the fax. “That’s funny.”

  “What?”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re getting Mark Davis-Seale’s old apartment. Usually, as soon as someone leaves, they assign it right out. It’s a pretty random system, but it’s fair. It looks like they kept Mark’s place vacant until your arrival.”

  She handed me back the fax, and I tucked it in a pocket. “Well, might as well be on my way,” I said. “It’s not far, is it?”

  “No, you can walk along the transport tube right-of-way,” she said.

  “Then I’ll be off.”

  I stood up, the chair rolling up against the credenza behind me.

  She looked at me. “How did you enjoy you first day?”

  “I think I can handle it, and it’s great to be back on solid ground,” I said with a hint of a grin. “I know things will get tougher, but I will try to ease into things.”

  Sherry looked me hard in the eyes.

  “Keep that positive attitude, even if you are only trying to convince yourself,” she said seriously.

  Then she smiled. “Now go home and get settled in!”

  The new shoes I bought at the E.T. Wright store in mid-town Manhattan before I left New York City squeaked on the tile floor as I walked into the public area of the dome. I realized I had done more walking in one day than in over two months while aboard the Orion ship. My arches ached—a strange feeling for me.

  The automated people-mover system operated only within the domes. More conventional trains connected the domes themselves. The MarsTran had rubber wheels and ran in a concrete guideway. Its movements were always accompanied by the gentle squeaking of the wheels, and it smelled like lubricating oil.

  Officially named the Mars Base Transportation System, it was called MarsTran for public consumption and on the signage. As I later learned, it was nicknamed The Jogger’s Nemesis among the “natives,” and people said when they were going to catch the transport, they were “going for a jog.”

  That was because in the colony’s early days, some bureaucrat with a health fixation, worried that he wasn’t going to be able to go for his morning runs while planet side, mistook the concrete guide way for a jogging path the first m
orning he was there, and got run over when the transport caught up with him from behind.

  He wasn’t killed, but the road rash must have been pretty grim. Since then, I suppose, the cars have begun to squeak with age.

  When I got in I saw what passed for a rush hour in the administrative sector. It was a lot quieter than the IRT, and a lot better smelling. Most people in the colony seemed to subconsciously forgo cologne and perfume—a nod, I suspect, to being aware that we all lived on scrubbed and recirculated air.

  Even in a city like Atlanta or Houston, whose business districts are air conditioned to cope with the sweltering summers, people have to go outside sometime. Here, there really wasn’t any “out” to be outdoors in, unless you were an engineer—and since the dome was climate controlled and air conditioned, people didn’t sweat.

  The transport had a public address system on at all times to give instructions and directions. In between announcements, it played music. As I hopped in and joined what rush hour crowd there was, it was playing a song I hadn’t heard before. It was by Jefferson Starship, “We Built This City.”

  “Must have just been released,” I thought. Unlike a lot of rock songs, I thought the lyrics were very clear, and it made me think of how the Mars colony had been raised up in only ten years.

  Near me, a young lady leaned on a pole. She was singing along.

  “We built this city, we built this city on robots, all!”

  I caught a whiff and realized she had visited somebody’s happy hour before boarding the transport.

  She caught my look and smiled, and then winked, making a little tsk tsk sound, and then laughed at my expression as she exited with a kick of her heels.

  I rubbed the back of my neck.

  I’m glad she’s so happy, I thought. Robots, eh?

  Because robots were only allowed in service and manufacturing, I hadn’t seen any on my first day. That would change very quickly.

  The apartments for administrative staff members were below the offices level. Unlike subways or trams that are either inbound or outbound, or uptown and downtown, the MarsTran system was simply up and down. It ran in a spiral inside the lower walls and partially up the dome. Looking out the window was like being in a slowly sinking sideways elevator. After a few minutes, we went down to my stop and I got off. It was a short walk to my apartment.

  The lock was new and the mechanism loose and well-oiled—the lock had obviously been recently changed—and I flicked on the light switch by the door as I stepped inside.

  The walls were native Mars bricks covered in a local type of stucco—cheap, but very sturdy and soundproof. The off-white paint made it look overly antiseptic, I thought. The apartment was simply furnished in a style that looked like the décor had been approved for the Moon Base in the mid-50s. It reeked of the Eisenhower Era. Everything was in pristine condition. With not a scratch or speck of dust; like it had never been lived in.

  There was a cable television set, a floor lamp, and some simple furniture in one large room, with the cooking facilities in one corner. The bedroom and bathroom were the only other rooms.

  In light of the horror stories I’d heard about how cramped living accommodations were on Mars, I was pleasantly surprised. There was plenty of space for a single guy.

  I went over to the television and turned it on. The evening news was on. The lead story was about how the recent death of the aged South African Prime Minister offered the opportunity for change in the country. The commentator opined that the system of apartheid was so linked in the public mind with its creator, Dr. Verwoerd, that any successor would have to modify it to set their own stamp on the government.

  I only watched five minutes and began to yawn as I turned the set off.

  The twin bed was simple and soft, and after sitting on its edge for a moment, I quickly peeled off my clothes and fell asleep.

  Chapter Four

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I opened my eyes so wide and fast it hurt. An emergency, I thought.

  Startled, I looked at my watch. I had been asleep two hours—it was almost 8 PM. I didn’t hear any alarms or sirens.

  Then someone started ringing the doorbell.

  I got up and looked through the peep-hole. It was Sherry, standing on tip-toe, with some other people I didn’t recognize.

  I twisted the knob and yanked open the door. Sherry’s finger was still on the doorbell.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “No problem,” she said. “Some people want to meet you and take you out to dinner.”

  I could see one fellow was leaning on the door jamb; he was probably the one who had banged on the door.

  He smiled. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

  In fact, I hadn’t. As I stepped forward, Sherry got a good look at me. She held her hand to her mouth to stifle a smile. I must have looked pretty disheveled.

  “Did we wake you up?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, but that’s okay,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Like he said, dinner.”

  I smiled self-consciously. “What do you have in mind?”

  A red-headed guy leaning on the side of the door out his hand. “Hi, I’m Pete Jackson.”

  “Pete works for the customs bureau,” Sherry said. “This is Mickey Cardinale,” she said, grabbing a black-haired fellow. “He works for the press pool.”

  A young thin man with blonde hair grabbed my hand. “I’m Jon Crane, I work for Mitago Mines.”

  “If you really want to know what Mars is like, we can show you,” Pete said with a wink.

  “We promise you a free dinner and a good time,” said Mickey.

  “And on that note, I’m leaving,” Sherry said. “I’ve done the introductions.”

  “Wait a second. You won’t come with us?” I asked.

  “Not where you’re going,” she said with a smile. “Boys only.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind, guys? I don’t want to put my momma to shame on my first day planet-side.”

  Jon draped an arm around my shoulder. “Just a place to get some beer and burgers,” he said. “Do you smoke?”

  “I used to, I mean before I got here,” I said, “but only cigars.”

  “Ah, have we got the place for you!” said Mickey and they waited while I pulled on pants and s shirt, grabbed my identification and a few bucks, locked the apartment door behind me, then turned and led me away.

  “You guys aren’t going to get me in trouble so soon, are you?”

  “Trust us,” smirked Mickey as we waited for the lift.

  * * *

  We rode the MarsTran to the lowest level and then took the stairs. Wherever we were going, I could tell it was in the depths of the dome.

  It held the diners and bars for construction workers and the very first middle managers when the colony was being built. The building standards had been lax and the construction crude, but tradition allowed them to keep operating.

  From the smells and sounds, it seemed like the neighborhood hosted some night life. I could smell food and hear the music as we worked our way around. I could see the curve of the dome wall ended as the wall drop straight down, which meant we were at the basement foundation level.

  “How far out is this place?” I wisecracked. “If we were any further against the wall, we’d be outside.”

  “There’s a practical reason we’re up against the wall, as it were,” said Jon.

  My three hosts all gestured for me to enter a narrow, old-fashioned Earth door. The lighting was dim, the décor faux country. As I stepped inside, I smelled and saw tobacco smoke swirling all around.

  I walked through, and talked back toward them, “Hey, is this place legal? I didn’t know you could smoke on Mars.”

  “This place has a special permit from your office,” Pete said. “The result of a fee to compensate for the fouling of the air. Plus, it has special extra-strong purification and recirculating units. We condense the air and pull ou
t the smoke, then pump the smog outside. That’s why we’re up against the wall of the dome. The smoke that’s pulled out goes directly outside.”

  There was an old-fashioned jukebox up against a wall, all flashing lights and colored panes of glass, with a patriotic portrait of President Anderson and the First Lady above it. Mickey gestured to me, and we walked toward the far wall. I could see, off to the side, a small office with the door propped open, and a red-faced man with a permanent scowl sat inside.

  We walked up to a small room and Mickey slid the glass door open with a “screech.” He gestured for me to step inside.

  I did and looked around in amazement. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The walls of the walk-in humidor were lined with boxes of cigars. “Where’d all these come from?”

  “From Cuba,” Jon said as they followed me in. “Thanks to the Soviets.”

  I looked at some of the brand names. “I’m not sure I can afford these.”

  “Pick a couple, they’re on the house,” Pete said. “A welcoming gift.”

  I picked out a pair of Macanudo Gold Labels, and Jon handed me a silver-plated Zippo lighter. I lit the first cigar with a tower of flame and smoke and we sat down at a table.

  “This is very suspicious,” I said, half-serious. “Why are you guys being so nice to me?”

  “Pure self-interest,” Jon said. “Mark Davis-Seale didn’t get out much and didn’t get much done during the past year.”