Another Girl, Another Planet Page 9

  I literally smacked my lips. “Is it any good?”

  “The best in the world. This world, at least,” he said. “It’s a place called Campagna’s.”

  “Can you meet me for dinner? Is the beer there any good? Answer the second question first.”

  He laughed. “Sorry, man, all the beer on Mars sucks. They don’t even serve beer. But the house wine …”

  “Ahh, now we’re talking. Where is this place?”

  “Dome Three. Meet at six?”

  “I’ll be there. Can we walk around afterward?”

  “I’ll give you the nickel tour.”

  He gave me directions, which I jotted down.

  “Thanks, I’ll see you.” I hung up the phone.

  Sherry was hovering in the doorway. “I’m leaving. Want me to lock up?”

  “I’m right behind you. I’m meeting Mickey for some pizza and vino,” I said.

  “That’ll work,” she said, with a hint of a smile as we headed for the door.

  * * *

  Mars Base had seven “domes,” but they weren’t single structures, rather clusters of buildings. They were called “domes” as a kind of tradition because the first structure in any expansion would often be a dome. The adjacent buildings could be of any style or configuration. Many had substantial underground compounds. To say “I’m going to the dome” was like saying “I’m going downtown.” It was a pattern established with the use of the Buckminster Fuller-designed structures on the Moon, which was carried through on to Mars.

  Of course, our office was in Dome One. Dome Three was four kilometers away, only a few minutes by transport. When I left the office, I stopped at a kiosk to buy a copy of the afternoon Mars Herald-Tribune. It was printed on a thin sheet of plastic with the shiny ink people back Earthside would have recognized as being used on plastic bread wrappers.

  On the front page was a follow-up story about Governor Wilder’s death, with speculation about his possible successor. Both Wilder and his predecessor, Richard Obenshain, were former elected office holders. In a way, as in my case, getting a posting to Mars was a kind of consolation prize. The article noted that working closely with the Soviets over the years in the joint space program had resulted in traditionally Kremlin-like intrigues leaching into U.S. deliberations.

  There was an unnamed source who said former California Governor Ronald Reagan was being touted by Admiral Heinlein, but that was a long-shot because of his age and extreme politics. On the other side of the country, Long Island Congressman John LeBoutillier—who was barely older than I was—was being touted by East Coasters, but the Soviets thought he was too young and inexperienced.

  The former Arkansas Governor, Bill Clinton, was being mentioned as a compromise candidate—both politically and geographically—but wasn’t considered qualified by either the U.S. or Soviet governments. Apparently he was Commander Carter’s choice, though.

  I found another follow-up story on an inside page about the Goldome robbery and kidnapping. The NYPD said the trail had gone cold, and was asking for any tips from the public. Desiree’s photo accompanied the article. I closed my eyes and shuddered, ice running up my backbone. But I could still see her face—very pretty, with pale skin, lustrous black hair, and eyes so dark you couldn’t differentiate her pupils from her irises.

  She’d looked a lot like Snow White. God only knows what might have been done with, and to, a girl so pretty. An icy cold filled the pit of my stomach and I imagined a cold chill blowing across my hair, reminding me how horrible her husband must have felt.

  When I walked into Campagna’s and saw Mickey, he jerked his head back and narrowed his eyes with concern.

  “Christ, David, you’re pale and shaking! You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I dropped into my seat. “I hope I haven’t,” I said, as I shoved the newspaper toward him. I pointed to the photo of Desiree.

  “She was my girlfriend in college.”

  He picked up the paper and read quickly. “Oh, shit, I heard about this robbery. They never released the hostage. I’m sorry.”

  The way he said it struck a nerve. “You make it sound like you know she’s dead.”

  He shook his head. “No, but after such a long time …”

  I knew what he meant. I grabbed the edge of the table and took a deep breath.

  Mickey’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, man, you’re all tore up inside.”

  I tilted my head and cracked my neck. “You know, I lost the race for Congress, then I get this assignment out here in a second-rate space colony, then I arrive and find out I have to do the job of three men, and then I find out the girl I had my one great crush on gets kidnapped by some gangsters and probably killed …” My mouth went dry as I lost my words.

  “Wow, she must have meant something to you, eh? That first great infatuation. Probably dumped you hard, too. I’ve been there.” He nodded sympathetically

  “Like a ton of bricks, then she dumped a piano on the bricks, and then dropped a safe on the bricks,” I rasped. “Thing is, it was my fault; I had it coming. But that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  The waitress brought up two glasses of red wine. I clutched my glass by the stem and took a hard gulp. “I had always hoped that, at least some time in the future, we could make peace as adults,” I said. “I really feel bad about the way we broke up, but we probably would have been terrible for each other. I know that now.”

  “We’ve all had failed relationships,” Mickey said, leaning in. “That’s why, when someone writes a newspaper profile, you mention if they were high school sweethearts. News is what’s out of the ordinary. Very few people find the right one so early in life.”

  He continued, “I had a friend in college who studied socio-biology, of all things. He said he had studied relationships scientifically. I’m not sure if he was serious or not, but this is what he told me. He said boys’ and girls’ early relationships are totally different. We men are dopes. Our first love, our first crush, is the most serious. That’s why it’s called puppy love. We’re as devoted as puppy dogs. You know it’s true, too.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “Women, girls, are the opposite. Their first romance is the least serious. A flirtation, a trifle. They don’t take it seriously. They’re just exercising their feminine wiles.”

  He took out a pen and scribbled on the tablecloth. He made two big stars, one high and one low. He pointed to the lower star. “Here is the girl’s seriousness and expectations for her first romance. And this,” he said pointing to the higher star, “is the boy’s.

  “Now this line,” he said as he drew a descending line, “is the boy’s expectations as he gets rejected in each successive love affair.” He scraped an ascending line from the lower star. “The girl, on the other hand, gets more serious each time.”

  Where the lines crossed, he drew a big circle. “At some point, the man will marry the next woman who’ll have him, because he doesn’t give a damn any more. And there’s a point where the woman will marry the next guy she goes out with because she’s ready to panic. The point where the man’s descending apathy meets the woman’s rising desperation is where you’ll find marriage and true love.”

  I blinked wide and stared at him. “That’s the most cynical thing I ever heard.”

  “Well, I agree, but I thought it was amusing,” he said with a big smile, “and I’m trying to distract you.”

  He leaned back in his chair, reached over and patted me on the forearm. “Don’t worry about it, there’s nothing you can do from here.”

  I scratched my chin. “You know, that funny story actually seems to have worked. Now let’s get on to some real distractions, like a belly full of food and wine. Let’s eat, and then you can take me around for some sightseeing.”

  He grinned. “Elaine, my wife, said she had things to do at home, so I have all the time in the world. Do you mind mushrooms?”

  “No, why?”

  “Lacking meat, the mushroom pizza
is the best here,” he said. “It’s very good; tastes meaty.”

  “Sounds good. Where does the cheese come from?”

  “You ask too many questions, like a reporter,” he said. “Better you not know. Drink your wine.”

  * * *

  Yes, the cheese was artificial and tasted like dried Play-Doh, but the wheat flour, tomato sauce, and mushrooms were all Mars-grown in the hydroponic gardens. What the pizza lacked in flavor it made up in freshness and warmth.

  A full belly and a few glasses of wine, and I was ready to roll. As we left the restaurant, I absent-mindedly went to fold the newspaper and stick it in my back pocket like it was printed on newsprint. The plastic sheet cracked and split.

  “Argh, shit,” I snarled as I tossed it in the trash.

  “I’ve never gotten used to those flexo sheets,” said Mickey.

  “Flexo?”

  “Flexography. That’s what the process that can print on plastic,” he said. “It’s common in manufacturing, but only a handful of newspapers back home use it—mainly where, for some local reason, they want newspapers whose ink doesn’t smear on people’s fingers and upholstery.”

  After Mickey paid the check we sauntered out, walking toward the MarsTran.

  “It’s too expensive to print the mass quantities like newspapers do,” he explained as we walked along. “Of course, it’s used to print here because there’s no wood pulp.” He blocked the door of the transport open for me. “No wood at all, in fact.”

  “Of course,” I said as I stepped in. It began to move with the usual rubbery squeaking sound.

  It was interesting for me to see the rather “organic” way—if such a term could be applied—everything rose up from the thick concrete slab on the Martian surface. From what I could tell, all domes started the same way. The concrete was made with indigenous reddish-orange sand, which you could occasionally see in spaces between walls, while the thick wall of the dome actually rested on was buttressed by thick curved pillars of ferroconcrete.

  Only a maybe a third of the panels had been transparent to begin with, and sandstorms over the years had made those opaque. The interior was lit by glaring mercury vapor lights.

  Mickey took me on the main loop of the transport system to the uppermost level where I could see the layout of the modules below us. It was like the trip the previous night, but in reverse, as we spiraled up alongside the dome’s wall. In a few minutes we could see the tops of all but the highest modules.

  In Dome Three, as opposed to Dome One, it was mostly business and professional offices, with the usual smattering of bars and restaurants. It seemed to be a much more random layout. I noticed as we got to the end—and top—of the line, the air seemed a bit thinner, and definitely warmer. Mickey unbuttoned his collar.

  “Warm air rises,” he said, as we stepped onto the platform.

  We leaned on the railing of the station and looked over the open interior of the dome. Ironically, “We Built This City” was playing on the MarsTran PA system again as the cars began their backward, and downward, descent.

  I nodded upward, toward the train pulling away. “Funny coincidence, huh? I wonder who built this city?”

  Mickey snorted. “This city was built by Stroi Podryadchik and the Bechtel Corporation.”

  I loosened my collar, too, and tugged at my tie. “I understand that. I suppose I mean, who built this city’s economy?”

  He gave me a sly look. “Oh, you want me to confirm that Tesla is the big dog in the small pound, huh?”

  “Well, I’d like to know what I’m facing. How much clout do they have? Are they hard to handle?”

  “It’s the largest company based on Mars,” he said blandly.

  “I wonder whether it would be so big if the colony didn’t have so many service androids,” I said.

  “I’m sure it wouldn’t be,” he said, “but androids are like the gastarbeiters or braceros back on Earth.”

  “So what happens a few years down the line when it’s decided there’s no need for them anymore?”

  “I guess they’ll be moved to some colony as yet to be established. But removing them from Mars? I doubt that will happen. Kurland was caught flat-footed when androids were banned and ordered removed from the Moon. He won’t let that happen again. He’s done a much better job of buttering up the bureaucracy here. He’s been very generous with his largess.”

  I gave him a sideways look. “Is Thompson on his payroll?”

  Mickey frowned. “You don’t sound like you trust your own staff.”

  “I don’t trust lawyers, period. And how’d he get the nickname ‘Doc,’ anyway? Does he cut deals like a surgeon?”

  Mickey sucked in his breath. “God, how do you plan to go into politics if you don’t like lawyers? Of course Thompson has done deals. With Wilder preoccupied with booze and chicks, Thompson has pretty much done all the recommendations for executive action, as part of his legal review.” He paused. “Still, he only likes to be comfortable.”

  He leaned on one elbow and faced me. “Kurland is power-hungry. With him, it’s an ego thing.”

  I grabbed the railing with my hands and looked across the interior of the dome. “I know Dome One has the space program and government offices,” I said. “And Two has the embassies and various other official offices. This is Dome Three, so who’s in Four through Seven?”

  “Four is where the heavy construction and manufacturing was relocated after the initial basic construction was complete,” he said. “Five is for commercial businesses. Six is completely taken up with Mitago Mines processing. Seven is residential for everyone except government officials, like you, who have apartments near their offices.”

  I looked across the “landscape.” Just as in an enclosed shopping mall Earthside, there was always a certain amount of echoing and reverb rising from the open spaces inside a dome.

  “So where’s Tesla located,” I asked. “Dome Five?”

  He turned and looked away with his back to the railing. “Tesla has its own underground plant adjacent to Dome Six,” he said. “It’s nicknamed Dome Zero, because it’s not supposed to be there—and because it comes before Dome One.”

  “I never heard much about Tesla back on Earth,” I said.

  “That’s because it only makes robots and androids, exactly the kind banned on Earth,” Mickey said. “No other robotic devices. Nothing is exported. It’s the largest company based on a space colony.”

  “How many robots and androids are there at large?” I asked.

  “Who knows? Thousands,” he said. “Nobody knows. Tesla is under the Eastern Bloc since it’s an East German company. There might be production reports in your office, but I doubt it, given it’s based in the WarPac.”

  “Strange for such a large company to be under the control of a non-capitalist government, isn’t it?”

  “They got a special dispensation from the East Germans and Soviets because of the need for manual labor during the first few years of construction,” he said. “Our side didn’t object because it’s headed up by an American. He and Gunter Lielischkies have the most clout around here—Kurland because his company is, by far, the largest on the planet, and Lielischkies because he knows all the comings and goings. Literally.”

  “I’m sure he’s the top Soviet spy, too,” I said.

  Mickey nodded.

  “So the two people who have the most sway here are an East German and an American who works for an East German-based company,” I said.

  “Yep.”

  I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. “You know, President Anderson isn’t a flag waver, like Reagan, but in his own way he’s very patriotic. It’s the kind of deep down patriotism that comes from his Mid-Western roots. I know he believes in America, and if I know him, he’d be appalled that the administration here is allowing our oversight in the colony to be usurped.”

  I saw a slight look of concern pass across Mickey’s expression, then disappear.

  “The Soviets and
WarPac use the distance to their advantage. Communication takes hours, and travel takes months. They are very patient and very stubborn,” Mickey said. “Obenshain was stymied, and Wilder didn’t even try. The last lieutenant governor was a non-entity, and Davis-Seale didn’t care, he’s a Brit.”

  “Ah, two can play at that game. You ever hear the expression, ‘It’s simpler to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission?’ I can get some things done before they even know about it on Earth.” I looked at him. “The question is what needs to be done?”

  “Just clearing up the backlog in your office and treating Tesla equal to everyone else will be a big deal,” he said.

  “Hey, that just made me think. Is Tesla named for the famous scientist?”

  “No, it stands for Test/Experimental Simulated Life Animation. It was founded in the late 1960s by Kurland, fresh out of MIT. He left the university along with everyone else implicated with Asimov. It was a big purge, you know.”

  “Wasn’t the Charles River Gang back there an axis of socialist activity?” I asked. “I was just a kid, but I remember all the protests about our lending aid to Dubcek in Czechoslovakia.”

  “Of course, there have always been rumors that Kurland is a communist sympathizer, but no one’s ever pinned anything definite on him. But the Soviets had no objections to his start-up on the Moon, and they certainly have no problem with his operations here.”

  “Let’s walk and talk,” I said. “Why don’t we take the ramp downward? I’ve got a few hours to spare. By the way, this whole evening is off the record, right?”

  “Excuse me, what did you say your name was again?”

  I tossed my head back and we both laughed.

  * * *

  It was almost 11 PM by the time I got back to Dome One. I was in a rush to get home and get in bed, with all the work still waiting for me at the office. I had made a dent in my first full day in the office, but only a dent.

  The news kiosk adjacent to the transport station where I got off was just about to close. I picked up a copy of the Mars Trib to replace the one I’d broken and tossed away earlier. When I got home, I emptied my pockets and tossed the “paper” on a table. Just before I went to bed, I opened it to take another look at the story about the search for Desiree. The article wasn’t there. It had been replaced by a story about how Mayor Costikiyan had signed a proclamation designating “New York, New York” as the city’s official anthem.