At nine there was a soft knock on Carter's door. Exhausted from frustration, Carter had been lying alone, trying to think what to do tomorrow; thinking of Annie. The knock startled him with guilty pleasure. I knew she'd come, he thought.
It was the smiling "guide" who had taken them to dinner. "The boss wants to talk to you."
Lena was waiting for him in her own room. The room was only a little bigger than the cubicle he had been given. On one wall, over a tiny couch, she had a giant orbital photo of the southern polar cap in summer—it was like an abstraction, white spiral on ocher rust. One wall was covered makeshift shelving. Among the oddments, he noticed a beautiful and ancient Russian icon, with its painted, bearded Jesus surveying the room. There was a data cube, labeled in Cyrillic print: Novels of Dostoevski. And a couple of old Korennova novels in thin-paper flight editions. She had time to read? A small black enameled Russian wooden vase with a design of flowers. It reminded him of his home, when he was a boy. Why did she bring all this stuff all the way to Mars? Fragments of a life. People bring what is important to them.
Lena smiled at him as he took in the details of the room. She wore a zippered jumpsuit, a favored garment of Martian field researchers. It was a striking black, open at the neck, and set off her auburn hair.
"I knew you'd come," she said. When the door was closed she reached out and gave him a little kiss on the mouth. "I've been wanting to see you again."
He returned the kiss but then held her by her upper arms.
"What's up, Lena? What's going on?"
She put her hands on his chest, as if to push him away, but still he held her by her upper arms. For a moment her expression seemed clouded by a flicker of exhausted defeat, but then she was smiling again.
"We've got your curiosity up...?" It was a hollow attempt at teasing.
Her playfulness angered him. "Talk." He gave her a little shake.
"A tough guy, eh? Are you being Bogart? You should have said, Talk, sweetheart.'"
He didn't feel like joking. Philippe could have pulled off some wisecrack, reacting to that. In Carter, only anger rose. "Come on, Lena, stop bullshitting me."
She twisted from him and backed away. "Carter, I want to straighten everything out. I want to be your friend. But there are some big issues here. I'm not totally at liberty ... It's hard to talk."
Like a wolf cornering prey, he pushed after her, stopping just short of violence. He backed her toward one end of the room.
"All right," she said firmly. "Don't make trouble. Sit down." She gestured to the little couch. He noticed that the huge orbiter photo of the polar cap had a tiny blue enameled pin stuck outside the white spiral, marked SOUTH POLAR RESEARCH STATION. She sat on the bed facing him. "Really, don't be angry. We've got to be allies."
"What d'ya mean you're 'not at liberty'? Mars is open. That's the whole concept of Mars City and Phobos University. 'Common scientific resource..." Do you want me to call the Council into this?"
"Listen. I can explain it to you better if you tell me more of what you know. Then maybe I can fill in some pieces."
"What I know! I told you what I know. In your little conference. In front of everybody. Now you drag me down here and..."
"I thought you'd like seeing me again."
Carter waved his hands ineffectually. "Come on, Lena. This is serious. I was sent to get information from you. Instead, you're pumping me."
"You weren't sent. It was your idea to come."
"I have a mandate to figure out what's going on."
"Okay. Look. We're concerned about your ... about Annie Pohaku. I didn't want to start going into some of the delicate issues in front of a reporter. That was a hell of a thing to do, bringing her here."
"Why not? You can't just go out and find idle hands in Mars City, you know. She and Philippe ... they make a good team. And she gets a story out of it. Besides, for now she's sitting on it. So if it's a matter of timing..."
" 'She gets a story out of it.' You're still very naive."
"Why? What's she done that caused you any problem?"
"How am I supposed to make any decisions with a damn reporter hovering around." She looked vaguely off to one side. "It really makes me angry," she added, as if to herself.
"Why? You got something to hide? You know damn well, you get a reporter involved, everybody starts posturing to look good. Nothing is normal."
"That's the way it was on Earth, maybe. Not here. There's a different attitude on Mars, maybe because we're still so new and there're so few of us. It's like, we're all..."
"...all in this together. I hear that all the time. What a bunch of romantic crap. We've got beyond that stage now. Look. I want to keep Annie Pohaku out of this. If we have a meeting tomorrow to talk about your report, she stays out."
"You can't do that. From the earliest days of Phobos University, the press has a right to attend all meetings here. The funding statutes—you know, open scientific research. There's no way you could keep her out. She'd have us over a barrel."
"There are some special considerations here. I'm getting conflicting advice. Look, I'm appealing to you. I'm really caught in the middle. There are circumstances here that you don't know about. They probably override the funding statutes."
"What are you talking about? How can you 'override' statutes?"
"Besides," she ignored his question, "you know how the press is."
"How is the press?"
"They'll twist anything you say. You're at the mercy of their personal slant. They can make you look like a leech. Especially when you have a delicate situation you're trying to keep quiet."
"Damn it, Elena! I don't have to listen to you insulting Annie. Are you going to talk to me or not?"
"Damn it yourself, Carter! You come swooping in here with your little reporter in tow, ready to accuse us of God knows what, and then you insult me for not being polite. It's you that owes me an explanation of what's going on."
The word "little" stuck in Carter's mind. The adjective that women apply to other women they view as competition. "Is it Annie you're upset about, or some secret you're trying to hide? Let's just forget it, Lena. Jeez." Carter got up to go.
Elena sprang to her feet. "Wait, Carter, I'm sorry." She put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off. He kept his other hand on the doorknob. "Maybe I am a little jealous. Who wouldn't be?" A pretty compliment. "But that's not the main thing here."
"What is the main thing here, Lena?"
She said nothing.
"At the beginning, this looked like a tragic accident. But now Stafford's gone and it's snowballing into something ... I don't know what, and you're not helping me. I've got a commission from the Council to investigate it and make a report. What have you got?"
"I want to help you, Carter. Stay with me tonight. Talk to me."
There were tears welling up in her eyes. My God, Carter thought.
"Just tell me what's going on, Lena."
Philippe, sitting in his room after dinner, had felt useless during the whole trip. Carter had asked him for help; all he had done was tag along, saying "yes" and "no." Why had he really come? Was it just his private motivation: the chance to see the ice fields of the south pole for the first time, the chance to sketch out ideas while the others scurried around...?
And what was the point of that? Once, he had invented a questionnaire for himself. The main purpose of my art is: (a) to show off, (b) to contribute something to society, (c) to earn a living, (d) to relieve a psychological compulsion, (e) I haven't the foggiest idea. He wondered why the answer was (e). What would Rodin have said, or Pericles? Had his heroes felt as ordinary and confused as he did?
Well, he was no more naive than Carter, with his American ideas of open societies and noble cities motivated by science. So here they were and now Carter was stuck, hitting dead ends as he explored his formal channels, probably with Annie at his side. No, he had promised himself not to obsess about Annie. At least he had his art to fall back on, to fill th
e vacuum she had created.
Philippe looked at his watch: 9:00 P.M. local time. So, now was the time for action. He was the only one who could dare to prowl about on his own, and dig up ... something. As Carter said, if anyone stopped him, he could always play the innocent artist. That was one benefit of being a creative person. No one took you seriously.
His own suspicion was that everyone here had something to hide. He could see it in their eyes. Something about this place, it was not normal. He could imagine the whole place being bugged and monitored, like the hotels in Washington in the mid-twenties.
He was about to open the door of his room, when he heard Carter's voice in the hall. Opening his door a crack, he could see one of Elena's goons—the "guide" he had talked to earlier—taking Carter off down the hall. "The boss wants to talk to you," the goon said.
Philippe watched them through a crack in the door as they headed up the steps. Here was his chance. He was pretty sure he could find his way back to Elena's office. It was late; nobody was around. Maybe ... Surely it wouldn't be open.
What would he need? He grabbed his sketch pad. Where was the minicam that he always carried on trips? He rummaged through the side pockets of his little bag. Where had he packed the damn thing?
Suddenly he again heard noises in the hall: a knock next door, and voices. Listening once again at his own door, he discovered that the goon had already returned, to escort Annie off to some meeting. "...wants to talk to you." He didn't catch the name. Through the cracked door he watched them disappear in the same direction that the goon had taken Carter.
Philippe figured he was next. He peeked out. This time another goon was far down the hall to the right, back to him, talking in hushed tones on an intercom. If he could slip out and up the steps before the man turned around ... The hell with the camera.
Blindly, he slipped up the steps, back through the dim hallways, past the storerooms and labs, toward Elena's office and the conference room. Outside the windows the wan sun was riding low along the horizon, and the gloom of foggy polar late-summer twilight was settling in. There was still a thin snow in the air; snow falling had always been a staple of pretty Christmas-card scenes on Earth, but here, it took on an ominous quality, like the volcanic ash falling prettily on San Francisco....
Ahead, he could hear voices. The conference room. Elena's door was open. Her office was dark, but flickers of light and conversation spilled into the hall, punctuated by restrained laughter.
Philippe edged closer, and stuck his head cautiously into Elena's door, trying to keep a nonchalant expression on his face in case he blundered into someone. I'll just tell them, he thought, "Sorry, didn't know I wasn't supposed to..." People would accept any bullshit from someone they classified as an artist. He opened the sketch pad and pulled out his pencil.
The voices in the conference room were growing heated. No one would be coming out soon; they were too involved. Philippe stepped into Elena's darkened office, and slipped into the darkest corner. The door into the conference room was ajar, but blocked his view. Light spilled into the far side of Elena's office, across the bright red and black of the Navaho rug. He had followed his nose, but he did not dare stick it around the door. He stood in the shadows to listen, Jim Hawkins in the apple barrel.
"We can't send them back to Mars City." It was Sturgis. "God, there's no telling what they'd say. Have everyone down here for sure."
"Well, you can't just shoot them." A second male voice. "Can you?" The speaker laughed.
"God damn it, this is serious. We need more time. They don't realize what they've blundered into. You know what I hate about people like them? They're so damn ignorant about the real world. Can you imagine him threatening us with the Council? As if a bunch of corporate contractors would back him up. We can get to their CEOs, you know. You don't have to worry on that score. But it's better to keep this from getting any messier than it is. Somehow we've got to make them give us more time."
"Annie Pohaku's the one you have to watch."
"Oh, hell, she's a zero. She's a starry-eyed cub. Real reporters in Washington, they send people like her out to get their lunches."
"She's plugged in. She's got a whole network behind her for chrissakes."
There was a pause. That seemed to stop Sturgis.
"Maybe Lena can talk some sense into them." A third male voice. Was it Braddock? No, not Braddock. One of Sturgis's underlings. "Lena ought to be able to wrap Carter around her little finger, he's such a little shit. When Lena gets done with him, he'll volunteer us more time, out of the goodness of his heart."
"It's all Romero's fault," Sturgis went on. His voice grew angrier and angrier. "If she hadn't botched her simple little assignment in the Phobos photo archive, Jahns wouldn't even be here. Not to mention Pohaku."
"Carter's not so bad." Still another male voice; was it familiar? "He's prudent. We may just have to level with them, you know. Don't get excited. Lena can put it to them, explain the situation."
"Oh, fuck the situation," Sturgis said angrily. "A good piece of the world order may be at stake here. I'm supposed to be responsible for security; first I get forced to depend on Romero, who screws up everything, and now you tell me I have to depend on Trevina. People like that will blow everything wide open if we're not careful."
"Oh, don't get so grandiose. Might be interesting to see how this all turns out." The other voice gave a sarcastic laugh. "Besides, you need to learn, even you can't control everything."
"God damn it, it's not funny, Stafford."
A message machine beeped. "Hey, Doug. We can't find Brach. He's not in his room."
"Oh, shit," Sturgis said.
In Elena's room, Carter sat as Elena paced back and forth, pulling herself together too easily. "Sorry, Carter. I can't tell you much yet." She stopped behind her little table, as if for protection, hands spread on its surface. She was cool now.
"Can't, or won't?"
"Won't. Not yet."
"What do you want me to say in Mars City?"
"Carter. You're a good person. Give us time. We're trying to decide how to handle this, now that you've blundered into it. We'll meet again tomorrow. I was hoping to talk some sense into you tonight."
"Handle what? For chrissakes, Elena."
Her shoulders slumped slightly. "Everything. I didn't know what this job was going to lead to when I took it. I think they're right, though, the people who say that some science is too important for scientists to handle. With you here, everything is more difficult. We don't want a lot of attention drawn to what's happening here. That's what I want to get across to you. Do you think you could just trust me on that?"
"Draw attention?"
"You're good, Carter, but you're naive. We're all naive, I guess. Anyway, you don't see the big picture. You don't see what's really important."
"Maybe I would if you'd talk some sense."
"I'm not going to talk anymore tonight. I've said enough already." She laughed, and her eyes burned into his. "Poor Carter. We've all got our problems. It isn't going to be easy for me, this mess you've made. Tomorrow we've got a meeting scheduled at ten. We'll try to work it out with you. But for now, come on. Stay with me tonight. Let me show you I'm not such a bad person."
Carter rarely turned down such an invitation. But tonight he felt tempted only by the chance to gain information. Who was exploiting whom? "Sorry. Maybe we'll make a date after you tell me what's going on."
She slumped perceptibly.
"Can I go now, or do I have to wait for my warden?"
She pressed a button on her terminal. "Your escort is on his way." Her face was harder now.
When he was leaving, she said, "Be careful, Carter, you could ruin everything."
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Carter decided he wasn't cut out for mysteries. Besides, he was sick of people telling him he was naive.
When Carter reached his room, he found that Annie and Philippe had left a message on his machine. COME TO ANNIE'S ROO
M. NEWS. ANNIE & PHILIPPE.
Annie's room was just like Carter's. Philippe's gangly frame was sprawled on the bed. He jumped up when Carter came in. Annie sat in the chair by the desk.
"I have seen the holy ghost!" Philippe said. "He's here!"
"Who? What are you talking about."
Annie just sat there, grinning.
Philippe slid onto the table, pulling his feet up in front of him and wrapping his arms around his knees. He looked over the tops of his knees with a mischievous grin. "Stafford!"
"Here?" Carter found himself leaning against the wall in the corner by the door, as if he had been blown over. He was surprised at his own reaction; he had told himself that's what they would find.
"Here. Alive."
"You saw him? You're sure?"
"Well, I did not actually see him. But I heard him. I heard them talking to him. Finally they used his name. Certainly it was him." Philippe described how he had crept out for a reconnaissance. "I got out just in time. Almost got picked up in the hall on the way back here. I managed to hide in a men's room if you can believe that."
Carter turned to Annie. "You saw this, too?"
Annie explained that she had been invited out for a talk. "I had the dubious pleasure of chatting with Braddock," she said.
"Now, we are one step ahead of them," Philippe said.
"Unless they've got this place bugged," Annie said, looking around.
"Oh, I think we can count on it," Philippe said. "Of course, I do not know, but I make that assumption. But now, you see, it does not matter. We are getting at the truth. How do you say it, we have got the goods on them. The bastards." He looked up at the ceiling. "Did you hear that, Mr. Sturgis? Bastards."
"Oh, come on," Carter said. "This is just a little dump of a research station. They don't have bugs in ... I mean, I'd know."
"Wake up, Carter," Annie said angrily. "Don't you know how easy it is to bug a whole complex?"
Philippe smiled, pleased with his discovery. "Annie's right. We have some ponderous fecal matter going down here. You can't keep pretending everything is normal. They can't either." He looked up at the ceiling again. "Right, Sturgis?"
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