Olympus Mons (43 page)

During one of the dark days when Croatoan lurked right around the corner, Jesperson and I were sweating out the water crisis whilst trying every which way we knew how to put the kibosh on Doc Franklin's harebrained scheme to waste time, energy, lives and another crawler or two hunting for buried water ice. Both feeling deep-down sorry for ourselves, we were sitting in Art the Barkeep's joint, swilling his pukey imitation wine ‘cause the beer blight was on and no suds were to be had. As usual, Jesperson had been letting off steam, bad-mouthing Franklin and his ice pirates non stop, when all of a sudden he clammed up tight, sat a touch straighter in Art's chipped glass chair and looked through me with that patented thousand-meter stare of his.

His deceptively innocent blue eyes defocused from what I thought at the time was an overload of vino, in round tones that would've tickled Shakespeare he said, “But at my back I always hear time's winged chariot hurrying near.”

Fired by my own vinous glow, I waved my palm in a way meant to demonstrate one hand clapping. “Terrific, Bwana! More Kip-ip-ling, right?”

“Wrong, Barnes!” A wispy half-smile tickled the corners of his mouth. “That indelible line was scribed by a superb practitioner of seventeenth century poesy named Andrew Marvell.”

“Sounded downright Marvell-ous,” I told him. “Whoever penned the poopy-posey, it sure fits the tight corner we've got ourselves painted into.”

He nodded. “Tongue-in-groove! What really hurts is that unless we come up with a solution Marvell's next line may suit the fix we're in even better.”

“Okay, lay it on me, Bwana.”

“And yonder all before us lie,” he quoted, “deserts of vast eternity.”

“Don't rime too good,” I complained, adding that I didn't care a whole lot for the sentiment, either; it was too gloomy and doomy.

For whatever reason one of his lightning mood changes ratcheted Jesperson full circle. He got up unsteadily, snatched up his empty wine glass, lifted it high overhead and smashed it on Art's none too clean floor. “We've
got
to find a way to get up there, get the job done!”

“I hear you, Bwana. Soon's you figure out a way, let me know.”

“I'll think of something,” he promised.

He did, too. He kept that promise, along with every other promise I ever heard him make. Jesperson was tough-minded, yet sensitive as a cat's whisker. He was able as all get-out in any number of directions, and smarter in more ways than you can catalog, not to mention being physically and emotionally tough as a forged steel pry bar. He was also braver than any bo has a right to be, especially when his angries got riled and all of a sudden you found out you had a wild, rabid wolverine on your hands. Topping it all off the tongue in his mouth was so razor sharp it'd slice your head clean off your shoulders if you were dumb enough to try and do word-battle with him.

Yet of all the adjectives ever written in any of dozens of books and articles and spoken dramas some goofball dreamed up to tell his or her version of the climb my partner organized and led, I think tough says it best. Yeah, tough! Reach for the bottom line, and you'd better believe my partner was one tough bo. Come right down to it, he didn't have much choice. Jesperson
had
to be tough.

He was a Martian.