Who knew all about it, it turned out.
The night clerk at their local precinct had the records right there. Boldon DeWoe had managed to go farther than even the usual tolerance for drunks allowed. He had been arrested for starting a fistfight in a barroom—fistfight! The trial was already over; Boldon DeWoe had been convicted and sentenced to rehabilitation, and he was already beginning to serve his time in the Colorado Rehabilitation Facility, in a place called Pueblo.
Pueblo wasn't that far from Denver, but the price of the train ride knocked a big hole in Dekker's few remaining credits. He couldn't help that. He didn't hesitate; he knew at once what he had to do, and at the crack of dawn the next morning he was on his way. It was his father.
Dekker DeWoe had never been in a maglev train before. The ride took him through tunnels and on bridges across deep, wooded valleys, and—he observed, without feeling much pleasure in it—the scenery was magnificent. The ride could have been a joyous new experience for Dekker DeWoe . . . if only there had been enough collateral joy anywhere else in his life to let him appreciate it.
There wasn't. Wherever Dekker looked his life was troubled, and the worry about his father was only the newest and most urgent of his problems. Conscience made him try to study on his pocket screen as he rode, but his mind wouldn't stay concentrated. He gave up, put the reader back in his pocket, and closed his eyes.
He dozed for the last fifty kilometers of the trip, and got out, stiff and aching, in Pueblo's noisy terminal. The city of Pueblo turned out to be only a smaller, slightly less dingy Denver, and it took him half an hour to find out just where the rehabilitation facility was and to locate the cheapest way of getting to it. The Pueblo people weren't that helpful, either. Clearly none of them had ever heard of the Pledge of Assistance, and when he did manage to get one of them to talk to him long enough to discover that there was a bus that went to the door of the facility he arrived at the terminal just in time to see one pull out.
It was an hour before the next one, and he nearly missed that one, too, because he fell asleep in the hot, crowded waiting room. Then it was half an hour more, after many stops, before the hot and crowded bus reached the gate of the facility.
Dekker was the only person to get off there. A Peacekeeper was standing before the barred gate, gazing at him without pleasure. When Dekker limped up to him, his braces heavier than ever, the man didn't respond to his greeting; he just nodded and tugged at the amulet around Dekker's neck before Dekker had a chance to remove it and hand it to him. The Peacekeeper thrust it into a hand-reader and studied the results. "Dekker DeWoe," the man read from his screen. "You're a Martian, aren't you? We don't get many Martians here."
"I hope not," Dekker said.
The man wasn't listening. He released the amulet and said, "You can go on in. Go straight to the main door and don't leave the walk. There are alarms, and you don't want to set them off."
Then there was the long walk along a gravel path to the main building, creamy-white and featureless. Evidently there were a lot of people in need of rehabilitation in Colorado, for the building was huge. Six stories at least, Dekker thought, though it was hard to be sure since the facility didn't have any windows that Dekker could see. And when he was admitted he was kept waiting for nearly an hour before a clerk consented to see him. "Yes," the woman said, nodding, "he's here. Boldon DeWoe. You're his son?"
"Yes."
"Well, let's hope you can do better than your father. He got picked up because he committed an act of violence at a place called Rosie's Bar and Grill in Denver. Convicted, Fifth Municipal Court, Justice Harmon; got the usual indeterminate sentence."
Dekker blinked. "Indeterminate sentence? What does that mean?"
She shrugged. "It means he stays here until he's rehabilitated. Whenever that is. Let's see, it's his third conviction"—Dekker blinked again; his father had said nothing about previous convictions—"so he isn't likely to get out very fast. I'd say he'll be with us for at least three months, probably, maybe six or more if he gives any trouble. But maybe he won't. He can't get anything to drink in here, and it looks like he generally keeps his nose clean when he's sober. I suppose you want to see him."
"That's what I came here for, yes."
The clerk cocked an eyebrow at him, but only said, "You can have a ten-minute meeting in the interview room. You can't have it now, though. Rehabilitees aren't permitted to leave their units during cycle hours, so you have to wait until the cycle ends. That'll be at half past six."
"Half past six?"
"You do want to see him, don't you?" Then, almost kindly, she added, "His shift's at meal now. You can look in on them if you want. Up two flights, where it says 'Mess'; don't go anywhere else, because there are alarms. There's a viewing window there."
There was. There was a whole viewing gallery, in fact, with a one-way mirror that allowed them to look in on the vast dining hall, and about twenty people there to look through it. Most of the people watching were visitors like Dekker himself, but four were guards, laughing among themselves, but their eyes were roaming over the prisoners, alert for infractions. There were at least five hundred prisoners at meal, seated stiffly erect on backless benches at bare wooden trestle tables. If Boldon DeWoe was among them, Dekker could not pick him out. The rehabilitees were of all kinds—old and young, male and female, skins of all the colors human beings came in—but they all looked alike from behind the one-way window: silent, quick in their movements, eyes fixed on their plates, almost like machines. At a harsh beep they all rose quickly and filed out of the room.
That was when Dekker recognized his father at last—when he stood up to leave, though he was limping and bowed, he was enough taller than those around him to stand out—though there were, surprisingly, three or four other Martians in the room. Boldon DeWoe looked old and sick, Dekker thought worriedly.
Then the Peacekeepers stood up. "Show's over," one of them called. "On your way, people. We need to get this place cleaned up."
Everyone else seemed to know what to do. They turned and headed for the exit, but Dekker tarried. "Excuse me," he said to the Peacekeeper. "I'm waiting to see my father."
The man stared at him. "Rehabilitees aren't permitted to leave their groups until the cycle's over," he said.
"I know that."
The Peacekeeper shrugged. "There's a visitors' lounge. One flight down, and don't try to go anywhere else; there are alarms. But he won't be able to see you until six or so."
"I know that, too," Dekker said. Most of the visitors were already gone, but as Dekker attached himself to the tail of the group he saw another door open. Six men and women in inmates' uniforms were waiting there, mops and brooms in their hands, their heads cast down. None of them was his father.
"Step it up," the Peacekeeper called. "They can't come in until you're all out, and they've got work to do."
The visitors' lounge was large enough for several dozen people, but the only other person in it was an elderly woman who was eating her lunch. She looked up at Dekker three or four times before she said, "Didn't you bring anything to eat?"
"I didn't think I was going to be here this long."
"They never tell you anything ahead of time, do they?" She considered for a minute, and then offered him half of a sweet roll. The price for that was conversation, but Dekker was glad enough to pay it. The woman knew the ropes. All those other people watching the rehabilitees eat? They just came in for that, to have a look at whoever it was dear to them now undergoing rehabilitation; each inmate was limited to one outside contact a month, but still you did want to see them now and then, didn't you? The one she was going to see today was her daughter, and, yes, she knew all about the place—had been there twice herself in her younger days. It wasn't so bad. It wasn't good, either, because the guards were always trying to get you to start a fight, or at least talk back—when they weren't spilling things on the floor or pushing over a pile of laundry just to make you have to do everything over. But yo
u could stand it, mostly. And hardly anybody ever had to stay there more than a year.
When she had finished her lunch she gathered up the crumbs—"They'll just have to clean them up if I don't, you know"—and pulled two chairs together to make a place to go to sleep.
Leaving Dekker to his own thoughts. But he didn't like them, and so doggedly he pulled out his screen and immersed himself in trajectory planning and impact analysis, while slowly the room filled around him . . . and his time was being eroded away.
When the Peacekeeper finally bawled his name he was admitted to a tiny visiting room, and his father was sitting there already—as far as Dekker could see, older and sicker still. They were given two facing wooden chairs, a meter and a half apart, and they weren't allowed to touch. There was no guard present to enforce the rule, but one of those windows was set into the wall, and Dekker had no doubt there was someone behind it. "Hello, Dad," he said. "How are you?"
It was a rhetorical question. Boldon DeWoe's eyes were bloodshot and he looked ten years older than he had forty-eight hours before. He was still wheezing, but all he said was, "Well enough," and stopped there, leaving Dekker to try to think of something to say.
Ten minutes was not very much time, but even so there was not enough conversation available between them to fill it all up. After all, what was there to say? His father acknowledged that he had been guilty of the infractions charged—that took ten seconds, at most—and Dekker said he was keeping up his studies, and then there wasn't much left. Only at parting Dekker was galvanized into speech.
"Look," he said desperately, "things aren't so bad. You'll be out of here in a couple of months, with any luck at all, and then you can start taking care of yourself. I'll be in the program by then, so you won't have to worry about me."
"Sure, Dek," his father said.
"I'll pass the test. I promise."
His father nodded.
"So then you can go back to Nairobi, get out of this cold, wet climate—"
"Right."
Dekker shook his head. "Dad," he said, "I care about you."
His father was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I know you do," and looked around, and then quickly stepped up to his son, flung his arms around him, and kissed him on the cheek.
When he stepped back he was grinning. 'That'll put at least an extra ten days on my time, I guess," he said, "but it was worth it.
20
The next morning, back in the furnished room in Danktown, Dekker awoke to a hammering on the door. When he got his braces on and had limped over to open it Marcus Hagland was there, looking accusing. "What are you doing, sleeping late?" he demanded. "Where were you yesterday?" And when Dekker had explained, Hagland looked angrily amused. "Sure they locked him up," he said. "He's a Martian, isn't he? I bet the guy he was fighting was Jap or Yankee or some other kind of Earthie, and I bet they didn't arrest him. You really ought to open your eyes and see what's going on, DeWoe."
Dekker didn't answer that. He shuffled over to the hot plate and asked, "Do you want some coffee?"
"Why not?" But Hagland was watching him closely, and before Dekker had poured it he said, "We'd better talk money first. You owe me for yesterday even if you weren't here; I did my part, I showed up. So let's get this account up to date before we start today."
That took Dekker by surprise. "Oh," he said, "right. I see what you mean. But can't do anything about that. I don't have enough cues left on my amulet."
"You what?"
Dekker said, embarrassed, "Well, my father was the one who paid you, wasn't he? I just had enough for incidentals—and most of that went yesterday."
"Jesus!" Marcus snarled. "How dumb can you be? You saw him; didn't you think of getting him to transfer funds to your account?"
"I'll take care of it right away," Dekker promised.
"Damn right you will. Forget the coffee; you need it more than I do. And I'll be back tomorrow to collect."
It wasn't just a matter of paying Marcus Hagland for tutoring, Dekker realized; he was also going to need money for food. So as soon as he was dressed he .went in search of his father's bank.
When he finally found out where it was, the assistant manager was polite but unhelpful. "You see, our problem is that your father's not here to authorize transferring his credit balance," he explained. "From what you say, he's a rehabilitee."
"He is a rehabilitee. He's in Pueblo. That's the whole problem."
"Well, rehabilitees' rights are safeguarded by law," the man said primly. "Maybe you are this Boldon DeWoe's son, maybe you aren't, probably you are—no, Mr. DeWoe, don't bother trying to prove it. That's not the point. What difference does it make if you are? We have to keep in mind that your father may not want you to receive his credit balance."
"But I don't have any other money!"
The assistant manager shrugged in mild sympathy. "If there's nothing else—?" he suggested.
"I don't even have enough to eat on."
"If you could get a notarized statement from your father—"
"He's not allowed to do anything like that! I visited him, and he can't have any other outside contact for the rest of the month."
"A court order, then?"
"How do I get a court order?"
"You retain a lawyer, of course. It's quite simple," the assistant manager told him, looking surprised. But could not tell him how to "retain" a "lawyer" when he didn't have the money to "retain" him with.
Back in the empty-feeling room, Dekker was sure that there had to be a way, if he had the time, and the luck, to find out what it was—some sort of retrainees'-aid society, or free legal services for the indigent—something.
On the other hand, he didn't want to do any of that. That was tantamount to accepting Earthie charity, and he was a Martian. Martians took care of their own problems, and the very idea of begging for aid made him feel unclean.
In any case, he reminded himself, it was only a matter of four days until the entrance examination would come up.
Dekker took stock of his resources. The apartment rent was paid until the end of the month. There was some food in the little chiller—not enough for four days, but since there was only himself to eat it perhaps there was enough, maybe, for the first couple. And, although the trip to Pueblo had mortally wounded his credit balance, there were a few cues left on his amulet—if he ate lightly.
If he ate lightly, that was, and if he didn't spend anything at all on everything but food, and if he was careful to save out the fare to get up to the mountain for the entrance test, and especially if he gave up Marcus's services. That was a given, anyway. A single day's pay to Marcus would have bankrupted him; the one day of cramming he already owed remained as a considerable grievance in Marcus's eyes, and the tutor flatly refused to provide any more of his time for any mere promise of eventual repayment whenever Boldon DeWoe got out of the correctional facility.
So Dekker did the only thing possible. He closeted himself in the little room, and he studied. When he was hungry he tried to put the thought of food out of his mind. Sometimes he succeeded.
Unfortunately, he discovered that he had another growing appetite, as well. It had been a long time since the Masai village and Sheila.
The Peacekeeper secretary who had admitted him to the Pueblo center had not struck him as particularly attractive when he was there, but for some reason images of her crossed knees floated before his eyes when they should have been firmly focused on his screen—of her knees, and of Doris Ngemba's bare breasts and warm chocolate-colored rump. Even of some of Sheila's more useful parts, though his memories of Sheila were not visual, because it had been dark in the hut.
There were so many women in the world, he reflected. Even this harder, nastier world. Surely there was one woman somewhere—perhaps even one right here in Denver, if only he knew where to look for her—who would not object to a little bed time with a fairly healthy and passably good-looking young Martian?
But not for a Martian without any
money at all. It was a long four days.
When the test was over and they informed him he had passed and would be able to enter the dormitories the next day, Dekker thanked the proctors and went away. Other candidates were there, rioting and jubilant or slinking away in depression. Dekker didn't talk to any of them.
He hadn't needed to be told that he had passed. He had known it as soon as he looked at the test questions, and confirmed his belief that they were identical to the ones his father had given him to study.
21
It costs a lot to make a dead planet live again. It takes a tremendous mobilization of talent and treasure.
The treasure is the physical assets, and they are very considerable: the space stations, the spotter ships, the transports, the Augensteins that pull the comets out of their Oort orbits and deliver them as atmospheric replenishment to the surface of Mars, and all the associated tools and instruments and control mechanisms.
The talent is even more costly, because there's a lot of it and it constantly needs to be replenished. To start, there are the crews out in the Oort itself: six hundred miners and snake handlers, plus the mechanics and supervisors and cooks and doctors and all the others that support the miners; there are two hundred and fifty of them to be added in. In each of the co-Mars stations there are another two hundred controllers, plus fifty support personnel, and the same in each of the Mars orbiters. Total personnel in space at any one time thus comes to just about 1,850.
Of course, that doesn't complete Oortcorp's payroll. There are the administrators and the instructors and all their helpers at Denver base, five hundred and more of those. There are the pilots and crews of the resupply ships that feed the stations in space, not to mention the tens of thousands employed by the corporation's suppliers, the people who make the Augensteins and the drill snakes and all the other bits and pieces of equipment that keep the operational teams working; Oortcorp is certainly a major employer.
Mining the Oort Page 12