Olympus Mons (11 page)

The stiff-'n-sore days dragged past at a monotonous, foot-slogging tempo, salted in my case with abusive blasts from dear Mrs. Barnes. It upset Jesperson when the survey team trucked back from Olympus Rupes and voiced an up-to-date report on the pipeline's visible condition. The following morning, as my partner had predicted, the director called another special council session.

In the partitioned “meeting hall” area, I sat in the folding chair beside Jesperson. After parking our youngster with Mrs. Chang's daughter, the teenage sweetie who does what little babysitting my better half allows, Lorna stationed herself in the row behind us, taking the tactical high ground from where she could launch poison-tipped zingers at the back of my partner's head, and the one belonging to her own true-blue spouse.

I did a quick and dirty headcount. A hundred and forty interested adults were jam-packed in the rows of folding chairs; some had even brought along the older kiddies. Compared to the bunch at that first session, this crop was fairly subdued. Looming beside Scheiermann and Yokomizo on the podium, the council's new sergeant-at-arms sat rocked back on the rear legs of a folding chair looking fit to collapse under his muscle-bound frame. On a scale of one to ten, I would've awarded the glassblower's frown only a two and a half, or maybe a three. Compared to the audience at that first special session, these Marsrats didn't partake of any shouting matches, cries for attention or self-centered complaining about quake damage. No hooraw at all, which struck me as surprising and surely disappointed Black-like-me.

Wait, hold it. I should've said almost no hooraw. Jesperson believes
Herr Doktor
Walther Scheiermann, Ph.D, suffers from an ingrown fetish for by-the-numbers “parliamentary procedure.” Light metronome beats of his gavel pulsed through the meeting area as he called the session to order and cagily attended to old and new business before meandering around to the topic of our dried-up aqueduct, listening politely to one long-suffering Marsrat after another, but not once did he offer a nugget of advice or assistance. The juiciest morsel, and cause of the minor “hooraw,” came from a luckless woman who happened to be among the most recent batch of immigrants.

Now “immigrant” needs a few words of explanation. At first an out-of-sight, out-of-mind dumping ground for cons, misfits and deportees like Jesperson, Black-like-me and yours truly, that put ‘em out of sight drill soon became obsolete. Nowadays, a ticket to exotic, sandblasted, UV-irradiated Mars by way of Christchurch's Bevvins Clinic is offered gratis to qualified professionals. Current examples are self-labeled areography expert Doc Franklin, M.D. Yokomizo, and academic Doc Scheiermann, all specialists homeworld bureaucrats chalked up as worthwhile assets who'd definitely contribute to the enclave' continuing health and prosperity.

Anyhow, exceptionally qualified folks can now sign up for Mars-rationalization, and spend months in whirligig trajectory after being courted like royalty, and suckered into accepting a subsidized package from the U.N. coffers. Less accomplished dullards of one stripe or another
—
in many cases starry-eyed nitwits who fall for visions of a Martian utopia
—
pay through the nose for the privilege of living burial in this frozen wasteland.

The woman in question, a forty-something legal secretary from western Canada, was an outstanding example of head-in-the-clouds wishful thinking. She boldly announced her intention to file a lawsuit naming Scheiermann, the other council members, U.N. officialdom, and the Vonex Board of Directors as codefendants, and self-righteously insisted on her “God-given” right to use every legal siege weapon in the arsenal to batter down the door and reap “substantial recompense” for incurred quake losses.

Floored by what he was hearing, the director's pointy spade beard began dancing in a fit of semi-hysterical amusement. “Madam, really! A
lawsuit . . ?”

“Everything's broken,” the woman said, sounding extra put-out and bitter. “Things were smashed I paid a huge surcharge to have shipped all the way from Calgary
—
irreplaceable porcelain, works of art, genuine heirlooms.”

At which point Scheiermann reared up on his hind legs and told the “everything's broke” woman that while the council was wholly sympathetic to the “inconvenience” she had suffered, then reminded her that most if not all of her fellow Burroughs denizens had likewise been victims of precisely the same misfortune.

“Where else,” she cried,“can one turn for recourse?”

The director cut a sharp glance at Doc Yokomizo. Smiling unhappily, Yokie made a careful inspection of what might have been a hangnail.

“Where indeed?” said Scheiermann. “Madam, as a matter of general curiosity, may I ask where you intend to file the, uh . . . lawsuit?”

The woman obviously hadn't thought things through clearly. She had disremembered where her “everything's broke” habitation was located. Us Marsrats are fresh out of law courts, judges and ambulance chasers. No ambulances to chase.

The Canadian lady went kind of pale. Her hand flew to her throat. “Why, I . . . er,” she stammered, “Th-this is . . . It's
intolerable!”

Mightily amused, Jesperson leaned toward me and whispered “How Byzantine!”

It got a sight more Byzantine, whatever that means, the longer our leader locked horns with the litigation-minded woman. Director Scheiermann can be a courtly old codger when the mood strikes him, but not when he's riled. “It pains me deeply,” he said, “to tell you the unpleasantness visited upon us can be attributed only to an act of God. To seek redress, I suggest you petition Him.”

The lady blushed a pale rose-petal shade. To a chorus of titters and jeers, she got up and stumbled out of the meeting area.

Doc Yokomizo, clinging to the dignity of his office, did what he could to hide his acutely distressful smile behind slender surgeon's fingers, and pointed out the next agenda item.

“Ah, yes.” The director looked up, owl-eyed behind his bifocals. “Mr. Jesperson, I assume your action committee has prepared a report for us regarding the aqueduct.”

Some committee! Fully assembled, it was just us, and the onliest action I knew about was foot-sloggin' up and down the damned ringwall trail two, three, four times each day.

“Yes, sir.” Jesperson came to his feet. “Shall I come up front?”

“By all means, Mr. Jesperson.”

Conscious of Lorna's gimlet stare boring holes in the back of his head, Jess shot a guilty glance her way, tugged some folded notes from the slash pocket of his jumpsuit, and went up on the dais. Standing between the massive seated figure of Black-like-me and pint-sized Doc Yokomizo, he scanned the audience as if to make sure it was still there. “The action committee's findings,” he began, “indicate that unless some form of effective corrective action is undertaken to restore our water supply, four and one-half to five E-months from the present day every man, woman and child in Burroughs will be either dead, or dying.”

***

Seven score sleepy-eyed Marsrats sat up straighter in their folding chairs, alerted by the deathly silence that filled the meeting and dragged on for seconds, and was eventually broken by a buzz of conversation starting low and slow, but once underway swelled into a concerted grumble rolling around the partitioned area.

The director rapped his gavel. “Order, order! Come to order, please.” He directed the sternest look in his stock of threats at my partner. “Mis-ter Jes-per-son,” he said through his teeth, drawing out the name and coating it with a hefty layer of reproach, “I assume that outrageous statement has attained every iota of shock value you anticipated. I assure you that it has gained our rapt, undivided attention. Please tell us, if you will be so kind, what prompted such a stark, uncompromising declaration.”

“Of course, Mr. Director.” Jesperson referred unnecessarily to his notes, riffling and squinting at them, flicking his fingers over them as if brushing away fly specks. It was showmanship pure and simple; my partner keeps more data locked in his skull than he ever jots down. “As matters stand of this moment,” he said, speaking extra-slowly and distinctly, “the eventuality I described appears to be inevitable. To ensure our enclave's survival, I'm certain you will all agree that a supply of potable water heads the list of absolutely vital necessities. The recent eruption and quake have in some unknown manner caused aqueduct function to cease. Since then, visual verification has assured us a break is not to be found in the visible stretches of pipeline. A blockage is also possible, although in the committee's opinion far less likely than a break. Ergo, it will be mandatory to either obtain water from another indefinite source, repair the aqueduct, or prepare for the enclave's demise. It pains me greatly to report that neither of the first two alternatives appear to be either practical, or feasible.”

Rustlings and mutterings rippled through the audience, gradually upping in volume to become a chorus of indignant exclamations. Yokie whispered something to the director, whose expression mimicked that of a convict mounting the gallows steps, and he nodded, tapped his gavel and paused for a sip of water
—
an act as symbolic as symbols get, though its significance sailed over my head until Jesperson mentioned it later.

“Ladies and . . . g-gentlemen,” stumbled Scheiermann, “I must say that I, uh . . .” Badly flustered, he went through another throat-clearing preamble, took a grip on himself, and said, “I confess that until this moment none of us, I'm certain, had begun to appreciate the extremely grave nature of our predicament. Mr. Jesperson, your committee deserves a great deal of credit for analyzing the problem, and hopefully contemplating tentative courses of corrective action. Should your assessment of the enclave's precarious situation prove realistic, it will be essential for us to immediately contact the U.N.”

Scheiermann paused for another swallow of damp symbolism. “A U.N. relief mission will have to be organized with all due haste in order to, uh . . . tide us over until . . . That is, until technicians and the equipment necessary to effect aqueduct repairs can be dispatched.”

While he was trying to speak, Jesperson's head had been wagging in a silent denial. “Mr. Director, there are only three things a relief expedition could hope to accomplish. The most obvious would be to dispatch a vehicle capable of making a risky touch-down on the volcano's gently sloping southeastern flats, from where a well-equipped crew might locate and repair whatever pipeline damage or blockage has occurred. Such an extravagant mission, however, would be not only cost-prohibitive, but would require an excessive amount of time to organize and mount. Worst of all is the stark realization that whether such expenditures of time, effort and funding could be obtained on short notice is entirely out of our hands, solely within the purview of the United Nations, although I'm certain Vonex would willingly cooperate and assist during this transitional hand-over period.

“Unfortunately, the immediacy of our problem tends to defeat all such prospective efforts. Mounting a rescue operation is theoretically feasible, yet it would require a monumental logistics effort, and be accomplished at truly exorbitant cost. To effectively succor Burroughs, an emergency expedition would have to be equipped and manned on a scale comparable to that of the original missions which constructed and established the Olympus Mons Aqueduct System.

“A final alternative,” he concluded, “should at least be penciled in, if only for consideration as a last resort. Extended-range crawlers and drilling equipment might conceivably be dispatched from Burroughs in a search for the subsurface water ice suspected to exist beneath large impact basins such as Chryse and Argyre; or if not there beneath the carbon dioxide “dry ice” northern polar cap.” He paused to let his gaze wander over the stunned, silent audience. “I take no pleasure in announcing that it is the committee's firm judgment that severe environmental conditions and multiple difficulties preclude our ability to implement any of the cited potential solutions.”

Jesperson clammed up, folded his arms and waited with outward patience as the vocal objections to his doomsday spiel swelled, peaked and began tapering off. “The reality of the severe problem we're facing,” he declared, “is inarguable.” He stated that the immediacy of our desperate need made every prospective rescue scenario break down at the start, adding that even if the necessary funding and facilities were to be forthcoming tomorrow, the following day, or within a calendar week, the months spent in trajectory alone would doom any and all such solutions. Nor did he soft-pedal another fact of life, telling the audience what every adult in it already knew: Mars-rationalized carbon-dioxide breathers could not return to the homeworld even if the U.N. were to devise some magical means of rapid transport. Drilling for ice might be accomplished with limited success
if
we had the leisure, mobility, and professional drilling equipment needed to conduct widespread explorations. Unfortunately, he assured us, we possessed none of those necessities.”

The pregnant silence that greeted my partner's final jeremiad literally froze the Marsrats in their folding chairs. Out of the gathering, a male voice ripe with overtones of outrage cried, “Why cain't they bring us watuh? We got a right t'live, and it was they themselves who signed on a short while ago to take care of us.”

A chorus of indignant, unanimous agreement swept through the audience.

“An entertaining notion,” said Jesperson once the hubbub had died down a notch. He bluntly put the notion to death, explaining that water was heavy, bulky cargo, liquid or frozen, and then described the truly astronomical amounts of money, energy and effort that would be needed to supply us with a bare minimum. “No,” he concluded, “shipping water to a distant world is not a remote possibility, even as a stopgap solution.”