Moon Shot

by J. Alan Hartman

  “Michael.”

  I turned around to face to her. She bent her head and looked up at me through mascaraed eyelashes.

  “I still love you. It’s just—”

  I closed the airlock before she could give me the let’s-be-friends speech.

  My six-wheel-drive, a 2216 Honda Cratercat, was anchored right where I’d left it, by the pneumatic waste chute. Belting myself in, I got the current going and mosied forth at five miles an hour, the speed limit on Mars. I was feeling very sorry for myself and just a mite panicky. She was leaving in three days. There wasn’t enough time to come up with four hundred thou, give or take, even for a clever bastard like me.

  I entered the riverbed road and headed downtown, past the Joneses and Ortizes and Krumholzes. Miriam Krumholz was watching television in her dome. There were only a few other cars on the road.

  I had to find a way to stop my wife from leaving, or at least postpone her departure until I replaced the money. If I could manufacture a crisis of some kind—but how? Then I reminded myself of all the times I had solved this sort of problem before. Getting out of tight spots is my forte, my special gift. I’d think of something. I always do.

  I glanced at the temperature gauge. Eighty below zero and falling, and the sun was fast disappearing behind red dust. The domicile domes receded; ahead was the steel framework of the new stadiumMars Hiltonentertainment complex, opening next year, a few small businesses, and then nothing but rocks and craters and the distant lights of the power plant. When I first moved here, it took me a long time to get used to not seeing people and trees outside. Now it was normal. But it was still depressing.

  I pulled up to The Finish Line and anchored the car. Only one other car was there, that belonging to Harvey, the bartender.

  “Where is everyone tonight, Harv?” I removed my helmet and laid it on the bar. Like all Mars structures, The Finish Line was a dome with all of the essentials of life piped in. Harvey had run a bar by the same name on Earth for 25 years, and he had re-created it on Mars. The whole inside was painted red except for one small square by the airlock. Within that square a neon racehorse flashed, setting the swirling dust outside aglow. It was like being in an inside-out snow globe, only with red snow.

  Harvey’s eyebrows went up. “Down at the power plant. It’s opening night of the Expo. How come you’re not there?”

  “Mary Beth isn’t feeling so hot, so we decided not to go.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “When does the ship of prospectives come in, do you know?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” He set a Guinness in front of me.

  “Ah,” I said. At the moment I didn’t care about the Expo, but the ship of prospective buyers was another story. There were lots of rich, single women flying in, all looking for ways to spend their money. Buying a vacation home on Mars is a big deal these days, and a good planetary investment specialist is a rare commodity. I decided I’d go to the Expo tomorrow and try to drum up some new business after convincing Mary Beth to stick around for a while. I took a big gulp of ale and felt a river of blessed heat run through me.

  Harvey wiped a glass and eyed me curiously. “Everything okay, Mike?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  The airlock slid open. My buddy Otto tossed his helmet on the bar next to mine. Otto is about six-three, thirty-something like myself, single and a chick magnet. I looked at Harv and put my finger to my lip in a “hush” sign.

  Otto patted me on the back. “How’s the missus feeling?”

  “She’s better, thanks.”

  “Good. Say, I’ve got a joke for you. A skeleton walks into a bar and says to the bartender, ‘Give me a moonshot—’” he paused dramatically “‘—and a mop.’”

  Harvey and I cracked up. The moonshot was The Finish Line’s signature drink: Pour equal parts vodka and tomato juice, some sweetened lime juice and a splash of Tabasco in a shaker of ice. Shake the piss out of it. Strain into a glass. Add two skewered pearl onions, for Mars’s two moons, and serve.

  The three of us spent the next hour telling jokes, chewing the fat, and drinking moonshots and beer. A couple other guys joined us. We clapped each other on the back and said, “Cold out there!” laughing at the well-worn words. By the end I was not any closer to figuring out what to do about my wife, but I felt a hell of a lot better.

  It was Otto who brought me crashing down.

  “I got a transfer,” he said, after the other guys drifted into their own conversation.

  “A transfer!”

  “Yup. I’m going back to Earth.”

  I stared at him. I’d been counting on Otto’s support after wifey left. He was a generous guy.

  “Don’t they have enough atmospheric engineers on Earth? Why do they need you?”

  He smiled uncertainly, or maybe he was a little sozzled. “To teach them about my new, energy-efficient atmospherization system, so they can build it for the next colony on Mars.”

  I rolled my empty glass between my palms and muttered my congratulations. Harvey shot me a look and handed me a Coke.

  “When are you going?” I finally said.

  “Friday.” I must have shown my surprise, because Otto added hurriedly, “It was either now or in three weeks, and they need me back at headquarters. I got the last seat on this freighter.”

  I almost opened my mouth, and then I didn’t. Because suddenly I had a not very nice thought about Otto.

  He shot me a guilty look. “I put off telling you, Mike, because we’re friends. I felt bad about it. Still do. There’s nobody I’d rather shoot the breeze with than you.”

  I said woodenly, “Same here, buddy.”

  Friday. Too much of a coincidence? I recalled how he had asked about the missus, first thing. And then I remembered something else from another time, and everything clicked into place. The sons of bitches were having an affair. They were leaving together.

  Otto was still talking. “And I wouldn’t have taken it, except—the truth is, I miss Earth. I always feel upside down on Mars.”

  Harvey took a phone call at the other end of the bar.

  “Mars is the land of possibility,” I said, looking Otto in the eye.

  “Not to me. It’s the land of too many people with too much money and no idea what life’s about, except buying the next great toy. Mars is just a big, cold, empty toy store.”

  “With an upscale address.”

  Otto snorted. “Some address. Bunch of domes connected by umbilical cords to a power plant. No streets. No neighborhoods to speak of. Look at how my Earth friends addressed this letter.” Otto unfolded an envelope and put it on the bar.

  Otto Snedeker

  Corner of Night and Nowhere

  Mars

  “Sounds like the name of a horror movie,” he said.

  Instead of going home afterwards, I drove to the power plant. Two years ago, after too much to drink, Mary Beth had flirted with Otto at a party. Naturally, she had denied it. But I never forgot it. Going five miles an hour gave me plenty of time to stoke my anger and come up with a plan.

  The three-story power plant was lit up like Cinderella’s Castle at Walt Disney World. Maybe a hundred cars were parked outside. In other words, all of Mars. An enormous neon sign on the rooftop read

  FOURTH ROCK ENERGY AUTHORITY

  Powering Mars Since 2188

  And below that hung a banner welcoming visitors to the Tenth Semiannual Expo.

  I paid the entrance fee and walked in. Vendors packed the atrium from wall to wall. There were partially erected domicile domes and cross-sections of pipes showing how heat, oxygen and water were piped into homes. There were racks of Heatgloves (“Light as Air, Even Where There Is None”) and shelves of Heavisteppers (“The True-Weight Shoe”), booklets about solar power and samples of drinking water, dioramas showing new trends in low-atmosphere gardening and the latest in Honda Cratercats. Everywhere, people were browsing.

  I passed the Gravitrex all-purpose anchors and the gr
eenhouse, which produced oxygen for the Mars community. Adjacent to the greenhouse was the water plant, where slabs of harvested polar ice caps were melted and purified for drinking. Around the corner from that was the incinerator, where all trash not recycled or turned into mulch was burned to provide heat. The second floor housed farms, chicken coops and the fish hatcheries. I took the stairs two at a time and exited on the third floor, half of which was occupied by a solar power generator that made electricity for homes and cars.

  The other half of the floor was the composting plant—my destination. From the reception area I could hear the shredder shredding, the wetter wetting, and the aerodryer squeakily turning.

  Mary Beth was never going to set foot in that ship on Friday, because I was going to turn her into mulch first.

  I got at the end of a line marked, “Tour Starts Here.” I’d been to the composting plant with Mary Beth countless times to drop off food scraps. My job now was to get my timing down.

  Our guide, a small blond wearing pink Heavisteppers, began speaking in a high, irritating voice about all the ways compost was used on Mars. I’d never paid much attention to that stuff—saving scraps was just something you had to do when you lived on Mars—but I found myself fascinated by the concept that Mary Beth would be a vital ingredient in the soil that grew feed for chickens.

  We stepped into the shredding room and peered into the river of eggshells, carrot peelings and coffee grounds slowly churning and rolling toward the shredding blade at the opposite end of the room. Everyone took turns looking without getting too close.

  “Compost breaks down by itself,” shrilled our guide, “but because we are so dependent on the soil here for food and oxygen, we speed up the process.”

  She pointed to the blade, which we had all been staring at anyway. It was a massive, sideways-revolving corkscrew, pulling in the river scraps and digesting them. All matter passing through it turned into pablum. This was where Mary Beth would check out.

  Our guide opened the door to the next room. I hung back while everyone filed through.

  On Thursday I’d take Mary Beth to the Expo for old times’ sake. I’d suggest a tour of the composting plant and make sure we were at the back of the line. I’d then find some reason to keep her from leaving the room when the others did, and push her in. Once she was in that churning morass of vegetables, she’d never escape.

  Driving home, I could hardly contain my excitement. Would my ever-loving wife take off with my best buddy? No! Try to get me off the scent with those bedroom eyes? No! Put me away for embezzling a few hundred thou, give or take? Hell, no! Not on your life!

  She’d probably already told people she was leaving. Why, I’d help spread the word myself. I’d Solarmail Stan at the museum, tell him I’d changed my mind about coming home and sign her name. I’d cancel the lease on her apartment, or whatever she had set up. No one would ever know. She’d be gone, and I’d be a grieving widower with a fat, juicy nest egg.

  As for Otto, all he’d know was that she didn’t show up for the flight. He’d think she got cold feet. Even if he guessed I’d killed her, how could he prove it?

  A perfect plan. I knew I’d think of one. I always do.

  The next two days passed uneventfully. Mary Beth stuck her rocket ticket to the fridge with a magnet. She left open suitcases on the bed. I walked around whistling.

  “What are you so happy about?” she snapped on the night before she was to leave.

  “I’ve learned something since you made your announcement.”

  “What is that?” She cast a suspicious eye my way.

  “Life is what happens when you are making other plans.”

  “Full of platitudes. You always were.”

  I made us some moonshots. My wife becomes much more agreeable when she’s had a drink.

  “Let’s go to the Expo,” I said, “for old times’ sake.”

  She agreed. We got in the Honda and drove over. The vendor-filled atrium wanted her attention for an hour. Fine with me. She bought Heatgloves in neon colors to give to her pals at the museum. At last we headed up to the third floor. I flexed my hands in my pockets and took a few deep breaths to get in the zone.

  “This is the last time I’ll have to breathe carrots, thank God,” said my wife as we entered the shredding room behind the shrill-voiced tour guide.

  “That it is,” I said. The tour had started with us in the middle of the line. “Wait a sec, my shoe’s untied.” I bent to retie my Heavistepper and the line moved past us. Now we were at the end. So far, so good.

  “Hold on,” said Mary Beth. “I want to take some pictures.” Even better. She took out her camera and began to click at the churning vegetable river and the terrible blade. I moved alongside her and got ready to push.

  “Uh-oh,” she said. The lens cover from her camera clinked to the ground and began to roll. “Would you get that for me, Michael?”

  I bent down to grab it, and that was my mistake. Two hands grabbed my shoulders from the back and shoved. Before I could stop myself, I was tumbling ass over teakettle into the compost-to-be. I pawed my way up through teabags and onion skins to see Mary Beth and—I couldn’t believe my eyes!—Harvey the bartender peering over the edge at me. He looked like he was trying not to laugh.

  “What—what?” I sputtered, spitting coffee grounds.

  Now he did laugh. “Let’s see you get out of this one, Mikey boy.”

  “This should do it,” said Mary Beth. “Now, let’s get out of here before someone sees us.”

  “Wait!” I yelled. “You can’t leave me here! Get me out!”

  “Hmmm,” said my wife, pretending to think. “Save a lousy, stealing bum from his just desserts? Nah.” The two of them started to walk back the way they came.

  “Wait! Wait!”

  “Did you cancel my flight, Harvey dear?”

  “Yes, honey. My customers believe that Mike’s going instead.”

  “Let’s go home and celebrate, shall we?”

  They were gone. I was all alone, buried up to my neck, my feet dragging me down, moving with the river of scraps ever closer to the blade. I removed my Heavisteppers to make myself as light as possible. Then I tried to swim to the edge, but I couldn’t budge. I could only move forward, pulled in by the force of the rotating blade.

  “Help! Help!”

  No one came running. The machines were making too much noise, and the next tour group wasn’t due yet.

  So, she was shacking up with old Harvey. Who woulda thunk?

  Fifty-dollar bills floated out of my pockets and got ground up by the blade.

  Outside the dome the red dust swirled, and one of Mars’s moons peeked through, a smile on its silly face. Welcome to the corner of night and nowhere, it seemed to say. Something sharp touched my toe. I drew my feet up and curled into a ball. Considered yelling for help again. This was a tight spot, to be sure, but getting out of tight spots is my forte. I’d think of something. I always do.

  On Gossamer Wings

  By Wenda Morrone

  The dude with the Star Trek pin was such a damn amateur it took Little J. valuable time to figure out why he kept lurching around Penn Plaza. All the while Little J. was watching his blue-denim ass, he was tailing a walrus in pinstripes. Over by Duane Reade, a plainclothes cop already lurked like Doom. Time to take steps.

  Easy enough—all Little J. had to do was get between him and his mark and wait for the mark to turn a corner. Star Trek rushed to turn his own self and happened to fall over Little J.’s foot.

  “You okay, mister?”

  Star Trek tried to get back on his feet. Little J. fell all over him to keep him down so they could talk.

  “Stupid boy.” Star Trek pushed Little J. off with frantic hands. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  Little J. could almost taste the man’s hunger. It didn’t matter what it was for. Any fool that desperate, there had to be something in it for Little J.

  He said, “I knows what I stop you d
oing. The cop over there ain’t so sure. He practically have his hand on you collar when I brings you down. Don’t look, fool.”

  But Star Trek scrambled up and commenced looking here, there, everywhere.

  Little J. said, “What he got that you wants to steal? The walrus?”

  Star Trek enbiggened his eyes, like he’d never had such a thought in his life. “You are imagining, little boy.”

  Little boy, when he’d finally hit double digits. That would cost him.

  “Tell you about myself.” Little J. leaned in. Dude leaned back, his nostrils flaring. Little J. knew what that meant. It was damn tough keeping clean on the street. He leaned in some more. “I work for a uptown businessman. He ain’t like it downtown. I delivers for him, people pay me, I takes the money back.”

  Star Trek came off the bench. “Oh, for God’s sake, drugs.”

  Little J. didn’t move. “I ain’t say that. You ain’t hear that. What you hearing, smart boy, is nobody know this place like me. This building, Penn Station down below, Long Island Rail Road way down below.”

  He sat back and looked around. Piece by piece, he intended to learn all of New York City. Penn Plaza was one of his favorites so far. Walkways lined with flashy stores like uptown. So big it was dark as the night-time city and lit up just as bright. On the job all the time, like a heart.

  He said, “I know the elevators. I know the offices. I know the stores. I know where the cops is and where they ain’t. Which ones keep a owl eye out, which ones asleep with they eyes open.” He thumped his chest. “This here building, I the go-to man.”

  At the mention of cops, Star Trek got very quiet. “Go on.”

  “Interesting now, ain’t I? When I passing through here, I always innocent as a baby. I give somebody my product to take through, and somebody else take the money back the other way.”

  “People agree to this? What do you pay them?”

  Hopeless. “You think they know they carrying?”

  Star Trek looked at him, puzzled, then—as Little J. spread his hands and studied his fingers, front and back—skeptical. “You’re that skilled a pickpocket? I don’t believe it.”