The Empress of Mars (16 page)

“I do.”

“Well, that’s good, because what Uncle Tars has for you is a complete set of the printed works of H. P. Lovecraft!” The Brick mimed holding up another huge parcel. “And! Not just any edition. This is the lost Stephen King–annotated version with the illustrations by J. K. Potter!”

“Oh my,” said Mr. Morton, tearing up as though it were true. “Thank you, Uncle Tars!” He mimed clutching something to his chest and went staggering back to his seat. The Brick pretended to scan his imaginary list once more.

“And here’s something new! Why, what’s this? Uncle Tars sees we have not one, but
two
sets of Martian newlyweds! Mr. and
Mrs
. De Wit, please stand up!”

Beaming, Alice leaped to her feet, dragging Mr. De Wit with her. He looked around, a little dazzled by the cheers. Mary, watching fondly, thought:
I can’t imagine lawyers hear cheering for themselves very often. How nice
.

“Guess what Uncle Tars has for Newlyweds Number One!” said the Brick.

“Oh, I can’t!” said Alice, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. For the first time, Mary noticed the little bulge of her grandchild in Alice’s profile.

“Sure?” said the Brick coyly. “Well, all right then. Seeing as you
are
newlyweds, just starting out and all, Uncle Tars thought you’d like this
beautiful lounge suite
!!” He stood back and gestured as though inviting her to consider the furniture in all its imaginary splendor.

There was riotous applause and laughter. Alice giggled and kissed Mr. De Wit, who smiled shyly. Then Mary, watching, saw him look up with a puzzled expression. He turned his head slowly, for all the world like a tracking radar dish. His gaze fixed on the lock entrance. Mary was just wondering why when the lock opened and admitted a stranger.

“. . . Italian gentleman adventurer and his blushing bride!” the Brick
was shouting, as Alice tugged Mr. De Wit by the hand and led him back to their seat. Mr. De Wit let himself be led, but never took his eyes from the stranger; and Mary saw a moment’s alarm on his face, recognition and something powerfully negative. Anger? Dislike? She looked back at the stranger, who had proceeded into the room with a confident stride.

His psuit was new and fit him well; he looked young, strong, and indefinably aristocratic. He paused for a moment, turning his head to survey the crowd in just the way Mr. De Wit had done. He spotted Mr. De Wit and, smiling, advanced on him.

Some instinct made Mary rise and follow, to be within earshot of their conversation over the Brick’s bawling.

“. . . as every successful prospector knows, is a
complete set of monogrammed bath towels by Mumbai Platinum!”

“Eliphal De Wit, I believe?” said the stranger, reaching out and shaking Mr. De Wit’s hand. “William Nennius. I believe we have friends in common. So nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure,” said Mr. De Wit warily, disengaging his hand. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I simply thought I’d touch bases with a fellow member of the legal profession. And, I confess, I wanted to have a good look at the more colorful members of Martian society.”

“. . . now, tell Uncle Tars what you really want. A new sump pump? A crate of air filters? Or . . . an
all expenses paid trip to the posh Luna Sands Resort?”

“Eli, dear, won’t you introduce me to your friend?” said Alice.

“Of course. Mr. Nennius, this is my wife. Alice Griffith De Wit.”

The stranger grinned, with more teeth than Mary would have thought quite friendly. “So you’ve married one of them, have you? But who hasn’t heard of the Griffith girls? Madam, I’m enchanted.” He took Alice’s hand and bent over it for a kiss. Alice colored, abashed, and pulled her hand away after. The two men stood regarding each other, and Mary thought that she would not have been surprised if they’d suddenly leaped at each other’s throats like wolves, so tense with inexplicable animus they were.

But all that happened was that the one called Nennius laughed. “Actually,” he said, “I
am
here on business, too. I’m working for the British Arean Company, as it happens; Mr. Rotherhithe needed an assistant. The Company’s quite impressed with the progress Clan Morrigan’s made up here.”

“I daresay the Company would be,” said Mr. De Wit.

“So I’ll need you to introduce me to their chief. Maurice Cochevelou, I believe, is the name?”

The same warning instinct sent Mary shoving through the crowd then to Cochevelou, where he sat chuckling, watching the Brick present Chiring with an imaginary Greater South Asian Journalist Society Alok Award. She caught hold of Cochevelou’s arm as he was in the act of raising a pint.

“Stop drinking,” she hissed into his ear. “Someone from the BAC’s here to see you.”

“What?” Cochevelou looked around, scowling. He got to his feet and Mary took his arm, in a proprietary sort of way, as the stranger Nennius pushed his way through to them.

“Mr. Cochevelou?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Bill Nennius, Mr. Cochevelou. May I buy you a drink?”

“You’re that clerk who was wanting to talk to my Perrik the other day, aren’t you?” demanded Cochevelou, thrusting his face close to Nennius’s. Nennius, smiling, held up his open hands.

“Yes, I’m the clerk. Here unofficially. Happy Barsoom Day! And you’re Mary Griffith, of course.” He inclined forward in a bow from the waist. “What a pleasure to meet with you both at last! Might we sit down? I was hoping we might have a little confidential chat, to our mutual advantage.”

“Certainly,” said Mary, and steered them to a far booth. Passing the Heretic, who was bussing tables, she said: “Bring us a pitcher of batch and three mugs, straightaway.” The Heretic telescoped her eye in surprise but nodded, and brought the drinks when they had seated
themselves. Mr. Nennius drank, looked into his mug with disgust, and set it aside.

“Let me say first that I’m impressed, really impressed, by what you people have accomplished up here. And I’m well aware—” He held out his hands in a placatory gesture, for Cochevelou had begun to rumble like a wrathful volcano going active. “—very well aware that you’ve done it largely on your own. So far from having help from the general director’s offices, you’ve actually had to struggle against impediments he’s placed in your way. Am I right?”

“Too bloody right you’re right,” said Cochevelou. He gulped down his mugful of batch and made a face, wiping the foam from his mustache.

“Well then! I’m here to tell you that I feel things ought to change. I feel we should be working together as partners, driving the great terraforming effort forward,” said Mr. Nennius. “Hello,” he added, turning to glare as Mr. De Wit slid into the booth beside them.

“Hello,” Mr. De Wit replied. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here as Ms. Griffith’s legal counsel.”

“And that’s just great,” said Mr. Nennius. “Really. I’ll have a lot to go over with Mary here later, but what I really want to do is talk to Maurice about those incredible pollinating microbots. Your son is a bloody genius!”

“That’s what he is, indeed,” said Cochevelou, a little mollified.

“And far too busy to talk to me, and I understand that,” said Mr. Nennius, with a depreciatory wave of his hand. “Geniuses need their space. But you have to understand how absolutely gobsmacked I was to come up here and see these amazing artificial bees zipping around your fields! Miniature self-guided agricultural robots. Totally brilliant. I said to myself, ‘They’ve got to realize the commercial value of these things!’ And of course you do. Necessity really is the mother of invention, isn’t it? Who’d have thought that a technology developed for Mars would have so many potential uses for poor old Earth, too, with her agricultural crises? To say nothing of General Hydroponics Labs on
Luna. But I was just wondering: who have you got lined up to market them for you?”

“Er,” said Cochevelou. “Well. They’re still in development, see. Not ready.”

“Not ready?” said Mr. Nennius, his face a mask of honest astonishment. “They seem to work all right to me. All those fine green fields! I’ve seen the agricultural production reports for the last ten years. You came close to failing here, until your son turned everything around. Now you’ve got the perfect agricultural system for Mars! Bumper crops every four months! And you’re telling me the biis aren’t ready?”

“Perrik says not,” replied Cochevelou. “He has his plans, see.”

“Well, what are his plans?”

Mary saw the confusion in Cochevelou’s eyes, watched him rubbing his fingertips together.
He has no idea
, she realized. “Ah, that would be telling,” she said cheerfully. “Wouldn’t it, now? With the millions to be made, I’m sure you understand why the clan is inclined to be a little close-mouthed about such a discovery.”

“Well, of course,” said Mr. Nennius, with rather a thin smile. “But I’d feel better about things if I knew a bit more. I mean, I want to be able to work to your advantage with the British Arean Company. You wouldn’t want them creating problems for you at the last minute because you hadn’t filed some sort of safety permit, or anything like that.”

Sweat broke out on Cochevelou’s brow. “No, of course not,” he stammered.

Bloody hell, they’ve never filed for any permits
, Mary realized. And Mr. Nennius had just realized it too, to judge from his smirk. He reached for his mug of batch and pretended to drink.

“I don’t need to see any actual physical plans, naturally,” he said, setting the mug aside once more. “No industrial secrets. I would just like to get acquainted with Perrik, though. You’ll feel better about that too, I’m sure. It’s not fair to put you in the middle this way. Do you think you could arrange an interview?”

There was a roar of amusement from the crowd, as Uncle Tars
presented Mr. Crosley and Eddie the Yeti with a pair of virtual fuzzy dice to hang in the Excelsior’s cab.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Cochevelou. “Can’t promise anything, of course. What with the boy being so busy and all.”

“That’s just great,” said Mr. Nennius, leaning forward to shake his hand again. Mary had a sinking feeling. Beside her, Mr. De Wit sighed.

“. . . so Uncle Tars has brought you your very own
Philips Home Holo System
, with a complete library of Mexican cinema classics!” shouted the Brick, leaping up and down so that all four of his arms flailed.

Late that night in their loft, Alice settled herself comfortably around Mr. De Wit’s long frame. He put his arm around her.

“I don’t think I like your friend Mr. Nennius,” she said.

“Hm?” Mr. De Wit lowered his eyes from contemplation of the ceiling. “Oh. I don’t like Nennius much, either. I wouldn’t call him a friend, in fact. We just . . . have worked, on occasion, for the same people.”

Alice stared at his profile and wondered what that meant. All other men she had ever entertained had poured their hearts out to her, talked endlessly about themselves, their hopes, their dreams. Mr. De Wit was kindly, certainly affectionate, even biddable to some extent; but he had an air of quiet self-sufficiency that unnerved her a little. Nor did he ever seem to feel any need to talk about himself.

“Did he say he was a lawyer, too?” she prompted.

“He didn’t exactly say that.” Mr. De Wit yawned. “Let’s just say Nennius’s job is breaking things. My job, on the other hand, is fixing them.”

“You’re a much nicer man,” said Alice. She rubbed the back of her hand, where Mr. Nennius’s lips had touched it, against the blanket.

Mr. De Wit chuckled, and kissed her. It was a warm and loving kiss, but there was neither violent passion in it nor desperate need. At moments like this Alice felt off balance, uncertain. He was her lifeline to the future, her ticket back to Earth, and if she wasn’t the center of his universe, how could she know whether he loved her?
Though love doesn’t hold a man
, she told herself.
They only stay with you if they need you
.

She was frightened, for no reason she could name. “Tell me about Amsterdam again. Tell me about the canals, and the trees!” she begged impulsively.

“Well, it has canals and trees,” said Mr. De Wit, in amusement. “And . . . lovely old houses along the canals. And canal boats on the canals. Some people live on the canal boats. And you can go out into the country, and see the flat green fields stretching away as far as the eye can see. And there’s the sea . . . and the windmills . . . and the cozy parlors where you can drop in and have a little glass of gin with friends . . . and the museums with paintings, famous old paintings. The people are brave . . . and tolerant . . . usually . . .”

“There aren’t any deserts there, I’ll bet,” said Alice.

“No. No deserts.”

“No horrible big mountains that make you feel like you’re a tiny bug about to be crushed, either. And the moon is
big
and silvery, not some stupid little rock you can’t tell from a star. And people don’t just shrug when someone dies. And you can breathe real air. And it’s warm.”

“Not all that warm,” said Mr. De Wit.

“Warmer than here. I hate Mars,” said Alice, with passion.

“I know,” said Mr. De Wit resignedly. They had had this part of the conversation nearly every night since he had begun sleeping with her.

“But we’ll go home to Amsterdam some day, won’t we? Goddess, I’m going to love it there. I want to be able to run outside without having to put a mask on first. I want to see tulips. I want to see blue water and green trees. When I get there, after living in this bloody dry desert, it’s going to look like Heaven!”

“It did to me,” said Mr. De Wit, yawning again. “The first time I saw it.”

“Where had you come from, when you first saw it? Was it someplace dry, like this?”

“Judea,” said Mr. De Wit. “But that was a long, long time ago.”

“Well, I hate, hate,
hate
it here, so anywhere on Earth would be better. But let’s live in Amsterdam. In an old house on a canal. Or maybe
on a canal boat. Or maybe we’ll go out in the country and live in a windmill. Anywhere but here . . . ow! Damn baby’s kicking.”

“She’ll calm down,” said Mr. De Wit. He cupped his hand over Alice’s belly, felt the tiny flailing inside. “No more anger, little daughter.”