Mining the Oort (20 page)

But they got through it without disaster, and as they were headed for the showers she grinned at him, panting. "Good workout, DeWoe," she said. "Hey. I hear you were in Kenya before you came here."

Dekker had given up wondering how everybody in the class seemed to know so much more about him than he knew about them. "That's right, Ven."

"A grand place," she pronounced. "I was there myself, years ago. Did you see the game herds?"

"Some. I had a friend who had a farm in the Mara."

"Tanzania's better—hell, Tanzania's
wonderful
. My grandfather took me when I was fifteen and we saw all those giraffes and wildebeests and lions—all running free, even killing right before your eyes."

It had not occurred to Dekker that killing was a spectator sport. He said so, and she grinned at him. "That depends a lot on who's doing the killing and who gets killed, doesn't it? Anyway, we ought to get together and talk about it sometime."

Something inside Dekker crowed in triumph and joy, but he kept his expression cool. "I'd like that," he said. "When?"

"Oh," she said, "some time soon. Listen, DeWoe, I heard about your father. I'm really sorry."

"Thank you."

She studied him for a moment. "A lot of you Martians blame us—what's that thing you call us? 'Dirtsuckers'?—blame us dirtsuckers for things like that. Like what happened to your father, I mean, and I'm glad you don't feel that way."

Since Dekker was not in fact sure that he didn't blame the dirtsuckers, he felt a sudden tightness in his throat. Could that be anger? he wondered. Was he spending so much time with Earthies that he was beginning to react like them?

He knew that the feeling was wrong, but he couldn't help saying sharply, "What makes you think I don't?"

She didn't take offense. She just nodded as though the response was not only natural but, in some way, even right. As she turned away toward the women's shower stalls she said, "Don't forget, we want to talk sometime."

Dekker's heat cooled swiftly. He called after her, "There's a weekend coming up—maybe Saturday?"

She paused long enough to smile at him over her shoulder. "Not this Saturday, no—I'm going away for the weekend. But soon, Dekker. We have a lot to talk about.

25

Weekends were quiet for Dekker DeWoe. Half the students would be gone, mostly to the fleshpots of Denver, and the rest studying frantically to try to keep up. Dekker was one of the studying ones, but not particularly frantic: the next part of Phase Two was communications hardware, the sort of thing they would be using in a spotter ship, or for that matter anywhere in the Oort project's control system. Dekker did not need a great deal of study for that—after all, he'd been using very similar comm-sets on the Martian airships.

So he allowed himself to take time off—not to do anything in particular; actually to do nothing at all, or as close to nothing as a healthy and active young Martian ever could. He watched newscasts until they got too repulsive: The Khalistan secessionists had given up, but now there was some other trouble in a place called Brazil. And the markets were unstable again. He roamed around the campus, strengthening his new legs and breathing the sweet mountain air: wonderful grass growing, wonderful flowers. Wonderful insects, even, buzzing from plant to plant; this place was so
full
of life. He chatted with his classmates still on campus at their leisurely weekend meals. He recorded a long, affectionate letter to his mother. He drowsed, and slept late, and listened to music, and was well content.

For Dekker DeWoe on that weekend his worries seemed far away. Ven Kupferfeld offered the possibility of future pleasures, maybe—Dekker did not allow himself to count on anything with Earthies, especially Earthie women. The questionable way Dekker had got into the training course dwindled in his memory; surely it could not matter anymore as long as he continued to do well in the class work . . . and even his father's death became just another slowly mellowing pain.

He went peacefully to bed on Sunday night without any hint of insomnia. He woke only partially to hear Toro Tanabe stumbling in—of course at the last possible moment after his long weekend in town—drowsed quickly back into a pleasant dream that involved someone who looked a lot like Ven Kupferfeld—

And was suddenly jolted fully awake, startled and angry, an hour later.

It was the middle of the night. His room lights were on. A man he had never seen before was standing over him. "Up," the man snapped, jerking the covers off Dekker's body. "No, don't try to get dressed. You've got no time for that. Get your ass out here! You've got work to do, and you have to do it
now
."

It was an unforgivable intrusion on his personal time. He wasn't the only one who thought so, either, because furious shouting from Toro Tanabe's room told him that the Japanese was being awakened in just the same way, with even more resistance. But when Tanabe came stumbling out into the common room, wearing a silk gown of the kind he called "kimono," Dekker saw that the person with him was the psychologist woman, Rosa McCune.

Then it all became clear.

Tardily Dekker understood what was happening. The almost-forgotten warnings had come to pass. It was a surprise psychological check. On their study table was a tool kit and a model of the refrigeration unit that was part of an Augenstein. "Get busy," the woman commanded. "Strip it. Check the parts. Put it back together, and do
it
fast
. You've got twelve minutes, and the clock's running."

At that hour of the night, without warning, that was a nasty task—especially for Toro Tanabe, who was clearly still half-drunk and wholly incompetent. Dekker had never before worked with his roommate as partners, and as he grimly began twisting at the latches with the unlocking device he hoped they never would again. His biggest problem was keeping Tanabe's fumbling fingers out of the way. He almost wished for Fez Mehdevi instead. He did wish that, at least, the two psych people would shut up, but of course they didn't. They kept a running stream of distracting chatter, with uncomplimentary references to Dekker's straining efforts to wrench apart the resisting coils and Tanabe's frequent need to clutch the side of the table for support. "At least," Tanabe moaned, "let me for Christ's sake
piss
first."

"You wouldn't have time to piss in the Oort, stupid," Dr. McCune snapped. "Move it! You've got seven minutes left!"

The seven minutes went faster than Dekker would have believed possible, but somehow, with minimal help from Tanabe, he got the job done. Then the woman demanded his arm for a moment while she took some blood—for what, Dekker could not guess—and then it was over. When the psych team had taken their hardware to plague some other students, Dekker and Tanabe rubbed the pinpricks where the blood had been taken from their arms and looked at each other.

"Shit," Tanabe said. It was all he needed to say. It included everything, from the indignity of being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, through the misery of his half-drunken state, to the fear that they had failed.

"What did they want the blood for?" Dekker asked.

"What the hell do you think? Drugs," Tanabe moaned. "If they find dope in your blood you're gone. Thank God all I had this weekend was booze; they don't count that. But
shit
."

"I think we probably passed," Dekker offered consolingly.

"How do you know that?" Tanabe demanded, anxious to believe but afraid.

"Because they didn't tell us we failed," Dekker said. "That's the way my father told me to look at it, and he's been right so far."

The whole class had had the same treatment. "Yes," Fez Mehdevi said sadly as they began to plumb the solid-state mysteries of their communications set, "they did it to me, too. It is not pleasant, this course."

"Well," Dekker said judiciously, the light of the morning illuminating the confusion of the night, "I guess it's not such a bad idea. Testing us like that, I mean. If we ever really had to do some kind of emergency repairs out in the field there'd be worse stresses than they gave us."

"I hope to my God I never have to," Mehdevi said prayerfully. "Now, what is one to do with this transponder?"

The week went well enough for Dekker, mostly. The only failing was Ven Kupferfeld. Dekker had no doubt that there had definitely been an invitation from the woman, in fact a promise. Yet every time he found a chance to come near her she seemed reasonably friendly though entirely busy with more important concerns.

It was probably, Dekker thought, just the way Earthie women were. It had no doubt been a mistake to think that she really had any interest in him. Because he was a Martian, perhaps? No, he decided, it wasn't that, at least not this time, anyway. Ven Kupferfeld didn't appear to have any prejudice against Martians. Whenever she did seem to have a private conversation with anyone else it was as likely as not to be that other Martian (though not
very
Martian, anymore), Jay-John Belster. The two of them spent what Dekker considered to be an excessive amount of time talking together, away from the rest of the class.

He took consolation in the fact that he was doing well otherwise. The communications sessions were as easy for him as he had expected, and, most important, he had survived Rosa McCune's pop psych test. Two members of the class had not. Whether it was drugs or simple failure to meet standards, they were gone.

Toro Tanabe did not seem consoled. He stayed in the dorm that Friday night, looking resentful and unhappy. He didn't spend his time studying, of course. That would have been too much of a change; but he retired to his room early. He stayed on campus all that day, too, but that night he approached Dekker gloomily. "I must ask a favor. I do not think I did well for myself this week," he announced.

"You didn't get washed out," Dekker pointed out.

"Yes, but there is a problem. I do not want to spend all of my weekend in this boring place, and I cannot afford to risk another—situation. I almost did not get back last Sunday, you know."

"I didn't know."

"Well, it is true. I had been drinking, and the taxi driver was not helpful in returning me to the dorm."

Dekker waited, aware that more was coming. It took Tanabe a moment to get to it. "What I would like," he said, sounding uncharacteristically apologetic, "is for you to accompany me to Danktown tomorrow. Just for the day. I did not think I should allow myself the entire weekend. Oh, do not worry about the money; I will pay the fare. I will even see that you get something to eat, even some drinks, if you wish. But I wish you to make certain that I am back by midnight at the latest. I may not wish to go, but you must insist. I think that what happened last Sunday night was a warning."

"What are you worried about? I thought with your grades you were in solid."

"Nothing," said Tanabe mournfully, "is 'solid' here. I sometimes wish I had listened to my father. Anyway, will you make sure I am on the last bus, if possible, or a taxi at least? Then let us get some sleep and make an early start."

Right after breakfast they took the bus down to the city, Tanabe paying both fares as promised, and Dekker discovered that Denver when you had money to spend—even someone else's money—was a whole other place than Denver when you didn't. Tanabe hailed a taxi, flashed his gold amulet, and gave the driver an address.

It was a church. Dekker stared up at the huge marble edifice as their taxi drew up before it. "I didn't know you were, well, a Christian," he said while Tanabe was paying the driver.

"Christian? Of course I am not a Christian," Tanabe said indignantly. "A church is an excellent place to meet women, and I have been told there are many attractive ones here." He checked his watch, then nodded in satisfaction. "The morning service will be ending now, and we will simply drink coffee and mingle."

Dekker had never been in a church before. He looked around curiously as they entered an anteroom banked with flowers. When he peered through the open double doors into the church itself he was fascinated to see nearly a hundred male and female Earthies, in their best clothes, standing around to drink coffee and chat with each other.

"Wait," Tanabe said. "Before we go in, we must conform to the mores of the community." He paused at a table in the hall and picked out plastic name badges. He handed one to Dekker. "Put 'Mars' after your name," he ordered, carefully lettering out his own.

"Why? They can see I'm a Martian, can't they?"

"Remind them," Tanabe advised. "I am told that people in churches like foreigners. If we are lucky we may have to beat the women off with a stick."

But it didn't happen that way. There were plenty of Earthie women in the church, but not many of them very young and none who seemed interested in anything beyond a comment on the weather. After his second polite rebuff, Tanabe had an idea. "Watch what I do," he ordered, and went up to a man in flowing robes. "I would like to make a contribution to your church," he said, Dekker interestedly close behind.

"That's very kind of you, Mr.—Tanabe," the minister said, peering at Toro's badge.

"Quite a large one, perhaps," Tanabe added, glancing around to be sure he was observed. Indeed, a good-looking woman standing near the minister was nodding approvingly.

"Wonderful," the minister said. "Elsie? Will you show Mr. Tanabe to the collections register?" And the woman came smiling forward to lead Tanabe—who gave Dekker a complacent wink as he departed—to donate his money. But he was back in five minutes, looking ruffled.

"That cost me twenty cues, and the woman is married to the priest!" he complained to Dekker. "That is scandalous, isn't it? I thought priests did not marry."

"Some do, I guess," Dekker said consolingly.

Tanabe scowled. "This is not a success. I think it may be because you are with me. Perhaps they do not like all foreigners equally, after all. Come, let us get out of this place. At least we can get something to eat."

So, sulkily, Tanabe took Dekker to a downtown hotel for what he called "brunch." That was a whole new experience for Dekker, too. The hotel lobby was more like a cathedral than the church they had just left, and the restaurant almost as ornate. And the food!—Dekker had never seen anything like the counters loaded with hot pots and trays of fruits, crisp salads, pastries, breads of all descriptions. The closest he had ever come was at breakfast on the Ngemba farm or in that dim childhood memory of Annetta Cauchy's party in Sunpoint City, when the first comet struck—but this was a hundred times more opulent than either.