Green Mars Part 19

"Here, have some yourself," Nirgal told him. "Everyone needs to join the toast, that's the way they do it."

Art took a sip from his cup, looking dubious at the liquid, which was blacker than coffee, and foul-smelling. He shuddered. "It's like coffee with licorice mixed into it. Poisoned licorice."

Vijjika laughed. "It's kavajava," she said, "a mixture of kava and coffee. Very strong and it tastes like h.e.l.l. And hard to come by. But don't give up on it. If you can get a cup down you'll find it's worth it."

"If you say so." Manfully he downed another swallow, shuddering again. "Horrible!"

"Yes. But we like it. Some people just extract the kavain from the kava, but I don't think that's right. Rituals should have some unpleasantness, or you don't appreciate them properly."

"Hmm," Art said. Nirgal and Vijjika watched him. "I'm in a refuge of the Martian underground," he said after a while. "Getting high on some weird awful drug, in the company of some of the most famous lost members of the First Hundred. As well as young natives never known to Earth."

"It's working," Vijjika observed.

Coyote was talking to a woman, who, though sitting in the lotus position on one of the pillows, was just below his eye level as he stood before her. "Sure I'd like to have romaine lettuce seeds," the woman said. "But you have to take fair for something so valuable."

"They're not that valuable," Coyote said in his plausible style. "You're already giving us more nitrogen than we can burn."

"Sure, but you have to get nitrogen before you can give it."

"I know that."

"Get before you give, and give before you burn. And here we've found this enormous vein of sodium nitrate, it's pure caliche blanco caliche blanco, and these badlands are stuffed with it. It looks like there's a band of it between the tuff and the lava, about three meters thick and extending, well, we don't even know how far yet. It's a huge amount of nitrogen, and we've got to get rid of it."

"Fine, fine," Coyote said, "but that's no reason to start potlatching on us."

"We're not potlatching. You're going to burn eighty percent of what we give you-"

"Seventy."

"Oh yeah, seventy, and then we'll have these seeds, and we'll finally be able to eat decent salads with our meals."

"If you can get them to grow. Lettuce is delicate."

"We'll have all the fertilizer we need."

Coyote laughed. "I guess so. But it's still out of whack. Tell you what, we'll give you the coordinates for one of those trucks of uranium we sent off into Ceraunius."

"Talk about potlatching!"

"No no, because there's no guarantee that you'll be able to recover the stuff. But you'll know where it is, and if you do recover it, then you can just burn another picobar of nitrogen, and we'll be even. How about that?"

"It still seems like too much to me."

"You're going to be feeling like that all the time with this caliche blanco caliche blanco you've found. There's really that much of it?" you've found. There's really that much of it?"

"Tons of it. Millions of tons of it. These badlands are layered through and through with it."

"All right, maybe we can get some hydrogen peroxide from you too. We're going to need the fuel for the trip south."

Art leaned toward them as if pulled by a magnet. "What's caliche blanco? caliche blanco?"

"It's nearly pure sodium nitrate," the woman said. She described the areology of the region. Rhyolitic tuff- the light-colored rock surrounding them- had been overlaid by the dark andesite lava that roofed the tableland. Erosion had carved the tuff wherever cracks in the andesite exposed it, forming the tunnel-bottomed ravines, and also revealing great seams of caliche caliche, trapped between the two layers. "The caliche caliche is loose rock and dust, cemented together with salts and the sodium nitrates." is loose rock and dust, cemented together with salts and the sodium nitrates."

"Microorganisms must must have laid that layer down," a man beyond the woman said, but she instantly disagreed: have laid that layer down," a man beyond the woman said, but she instantly disagreed: "It could have been areothermal, or lightning attracted by the quartz in the tuff."

They argued in the way people do when they are repeating a debate for the thousandth time. Art interrupted to ask again about the caliche blanco caliche blanco. The woman explained that blanco blanco was a very pure was a very pure caliche caliche, up to eighty percent pure sodium nitrate, and thus, on this nitrogen-poor world, extremely valuable. A block of it sat on the table, and she pa.s.sed it over to Art and went back to arguing with her friend, while Coyote bartered on with another man, talking about teeter-totters and pots, kilograms and calories, equivalence and overburden, cubic meters per second and picobars, haggling expertly and getting a lot of laughs from the people listening.

At one point the woman interrupted Coyote with a cry: "Look, we can't just take an unknown pot of uranium that we can't be sure we'll get or not! That's either gross potlatching or else ripping us off, depending on whether we can find the truck or not! What kind of a deal is that, I mean it's a lousy deal either way!"

Coyote wagged his head mischievously. "I had to bring it in, or else otherwise you were going to bury me in caliche blanco caliche blanco, weren't you. We're out here on the road, we've got some seeds but not much else- certainly not millions of tons of new caliche caliche deposits! And we actually need the hydrogen peroxide and the pasta too, it's not just a luxury like lettuce seeds. Tell you what, if you find the truck you can burn its equivalent, and you'll still have given us fair. If you don't find it, then you'll owe us one, I admit it, but in that case you can burn a gift, and then we'll have given you fair!" deposits! And we actually need the hydrogen peroxide and the pasta too, it's not just a luxury like lettuce seeds. Tell you what, if you find the truck you can burn its equivalent, and you'll still have given us fair. If you don't find it, then you'll owe us one, I admit it, but in that case you can burn a gift, and then we'll have given you fair!"

"It'll take us a week's work and a bunch of fuel to recover the truck."

"All right, we'll take another ten picobars, and burn six of it."

"Done." The woman shook her head, baffled. "You're a hard b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Coyote nodded and got up to go refill their cups.

Art swung his head around and stared at Nirgal, his mouth hanging open. "Explain to me what just went on there."

"Well," said Nirgal, feeling the benevolence of the kava flowing through him, "they were trading. We need food and fuel, so we were at a disadvantage, but Coyote did pretty well."

Art hefted the white block. "But what's this get nitrogen, and give nitrogen, and burn burn nitrogen? What, do you torch your money when you get it?" nitrogen? What, do you torch your money when you get it?"

"Well, some of it, yeah."

"So both of them were trying to lose?"

"To lose?"

"To come out short in the deal?"

"Short?"

"To give more than they got?"

"Well, sure. Of course."

"Oh, of course!" Art rolled his eyes. "But you... you can't give too too much more than you get, did I understand that?" much more than you get, did I understand that?"

"Right. That would be potlatching."

Nirgal watched his new friend mull this over.

"But if you always give more than you get, how do you get anything to give, if you see what I mean?"

Nirgal shrugged, glanced at Vijjika, hugged her waist suggestively. "You have to find it, I guess. Or make it."

"Ah."

"It's the gift economy," Vijjika told him.

"The gift economy?"

"It's part of how we run things out here. There's a money economy for the old buy-and-pay system, using units of hydrogen peroxide as the money. But most people try to do as much as they can by the nitrogen standard, which is the gift economy. The Sufis started that, and the people in Nirgal's home."

"And Coyote," Nirgal added. Although, as he glanced over at his father, he could see that Art might find it hard to envision Coyote as any sort of economic theorist. At the moment Coyote was tapping madly at a keyboard beside another man, and when he lost the game they were playing he shoved the man off his pillow, explaining to everyone that his hand had slipped. "I'll arm wrestle you double or nothing," he said, and he and the man plonked their elbows on the table and tensed their forearms, and went at it.

"Arm wrestling!" Art said. "Now that's something I can understand."

Coyote lost in seconds, and Art sat down to challenge the winner. He won in seconds, and it quickly became obvious that no one could resist him; the Bogdanovists even cl.u.s.tered across from him, and got three and then four hands clasping his hand and wrist, but he smacked every combination of them down onto the table. "Okay I win," he said at last, and flopped back on his pillow. "How much do I owe you?"

To avoid the aureoles of shattered terrain cl.u.s.tered north of Olympus Mons, they had to circle far to the north. They drove by night, and slept by day.

Art and Nirgal spent many hours of these nights driving the car and talking. Art asked questions by the hundred, and Nirgal asked just as many back, as fascinated by Earth as Art was by Mars. They were a matched pair, each very interested in the other, which as always made a fertile ground for friends.h.i.+p.

Nirgal had been frightened by the idea of contacting Terrans on his own, when it first occurred to him in his student years. It was clearly a dangerous notion, which had come to him one night in Sabis.h.i.+ and never let go. He had spent many hours over many months thinking about the idea, and doing research to figure out who he should contact, if he decided to act on the thought. The more he learned, the stronger grew his sense that it was a good idea, that having an alliance with a Terran power was critical to their hopes. And yet he was sure that all the members of the First Hundred he knew would not want to risk contact. If he did it, he would have to do it on his own. The risk, the stakes....

He tried Praxis because of what he had read about it. It was a shot in the dark, as most critical acts are. An instinctive act: the trip to Burroughs, the walk into the Praxis offices in Hunt Mesa, the repeated requests for a line to William Fort.

He got the line, although that in itself meant nothing. But later, in the first moment he had approached Art on the street in Sheffield, he knew that he had done well. That Praxis had done well. There had been, just in the look of the big man, some quality that Nirgal had found instantly rea.s.suring- some openness, an easy, friendly ability. To use his childhood vocabulary, a balance of the two worlds. A man he trusted.

One sign of a good action is that in retrospect it appears inevitable. Now, as the long rolling nights of their journey pa.s.sed in the light of the IR imagers, the two men spoke to each other as if they too saw each other in the infrared. Their dialogue went on and on and on, and they got to know each other- to become friends. Nirgal's impulsive reach to Earth was going to work out, he could see it right there in front of him hour after hour, just in the look on Art's face, the curiosity, the interest interest.

They talked about everything, in the way people will. Their pasts, their opinions, their hopes. Nirgal spent most of his time trying to explain Zygote, and Sabis.h.i.+. "I spent some years in Sabis.h.i.+. The issei there run an open university. There's no records kept. You just attend the cla.s.ses you want, and deal with your teacher and no one else. A lot of Sabis.h.i.+ operates off the record. It's the capital of the demimonde, like Tharsis Tholus only much bigger. A great great city. I met a lot of people there, from all over Mars." city. I met a lot of people there, from all over Mars."

The romance of Sabis.h.i.+ poured through his mind, memories flooding speech in all their profusion of incident, of feeling- all the individual emotions of that time, contradictory and incompatible though they were, experienced again simultaneously, in a dense polyphonic chord.

"That must have been quite an experience," Art remarked, "after growing up in a place like Zygote."

"Oh it was. It was wonderful."

"Tell me about it."

Nirgal crouched forward in his chair, s.h.i.+vering a bit, and tried to convey some of what it had been like.

At first it had been so strange. The issei had done incredible things; while the First Hundred had squabbled, fought, fissioned all over the planet, started a war, and were now dead or in hiding, the first group of j.a.panese settlers, the 240 who had founded Sabis.h.i.+ just seven years after the First Hundred had arrived, had stayed right next to their landing site, and built a city. They had absorbed all the changes that had followed, including the location of a mohole right next to their town; they had simply taken over the dig, and used the tailings for construction materials. When the thickening atmsophere made it possible they had gardened the surrounding terrain, which was rocky and high, not at all easy land, until they lived in the midst of a diffuse dwarfish forest, a bonsai krummholz, with alpine basins in the highlands above it. In the catastrophes of 2061 they had never moved, and, considered neutral, had been left alone by the transnats. In that solitude they had taken the excavated rock from their mohole and built it into long snaking mounds, all shot through with tunnels and rooms, ready to hide people from the south.

Thus they had invented the demimonde, the most sophisticated and complex society on Mars, full of people who pa.s.sed each other on the street like strangers but met at night in rooms, to talk, and make music, and make love. And even the people not part of the underworld were interesting, because the issei had started a university, the University of Mars, where many of the students, perhaps a third of the total, were young and Martian-born. And whether these young natives were surface-world or underground in origin, they recognized each other without the slightest difficulty, as people at home at home in a million subtle ways, in ways no Terran-born ever could be. And so they talked, and made music, and made love, and naturally quite a few of the surface natives were thus initiated into knowledge of the underground, until it began to seem as if all the natives knew all, and were natural allies. in a million subtle ways, in ways no Terran-born ever could be. And so they talked, and made music, and made love, and naturally quite a few of the surface natives were thus initiated into knowledge of the underground, until it began to seem as if all the natives knew all, and were natural allies.

The professors included many of the Sabis.h.i.+an issei and nisei, as well as distinguished visitors from all over Mars, and even from Terra. The students came from everywhere as well. There in the large handsome town they lived and studied and played, in streets and gardens and open pavilions, by ponds and in cafes, and on broad streetgra.s.s boulevards, in a kind of Martian Kyoto.

Nirgal had first seen the city on a brief visit with Coyote. He had found it too big, too crowded, too many strangers. But months later, tired of wandering the south with Coyote, so solitary for so much of the time, he had recalled the place as if it were the only destination possible. Sabis.h.i.+!

He had gone there and moved into a room under a roof, smaller than his bamboo room in Zygote, barely bigger than his bed. He joined cla.s.ses, runs, calypso bands, cafe groups. He learned just how much his lectern held. He found out just how incredibly provincial and ignorant he was. Coyote gave him blocks of hydrogen peroxide, which he sold to the issei for what money he needed. Every day was an adventure, almost entirely unscheduled, just a tumble of encounters from hour to hour, on and on until he dropped, often wherever he was. During the days he studied areology and ecological engineering, giving these disciplines he had begun to learn in Zygote a mathematical underpinning, and finding in the tutorials with Etsu, and in the work itself, that he had inherited some of his mother's gift for seeing clearly the interplay of all the components of a system. The days were devoted to this extraordinarily fascinating work. So many human lives, given over to the gaining of this body of knowledge! So varied, the powers this knowledge gave them in the world!

Then at night he might crash on the floor at a friend's, after talking to a 140-year-old Bedouin about the Transcaucasus War, and the next night be playing ba.s.s steel drum or marimbas till dawn with twenty other kavajavaed Latin Americans and Polynesians, the next after that be in bed with one of the dusky beauties from the band, women as cheerful as Jackie at her best, and much less complicated. The following night he might go with friends to a performance of Shakespeare's King John King John, and observe the great X that the play's structure made, with John's fortunes starting high and ending low, and the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's starting low and ending high- and sit shaking as he watched the critical scene at the crossing of the X, in which John orders the death of young Arthur. And afterward walk with his friends all through the night city, talking about the play and what it said about the fortunes of certain of the issei, or about the various forces on Mars, or the Mars-Earth situation itself. And then the night after that, after some of them had spent the day out fell running, exploring high basins in his quest to see as much of the land as he could, they might stay out to sleep in a little survival tent, camping in one of the high cirques east of the city, heating a meal in the dusk as stars popped out everywhere in the purple sky, and the alpine flowers faded away into the basin of rock that held them all, as if in the palm of a giant hand.

Day after day of this ceaseless interaction with strangers taught him at least as much as he learned in the cla.s.ses. Not that Zygote had left him completely ignorant; its inhabitants had included such a great variety of human behavior as to have left few surprises for Nirgal on that score. In fact, as he began to understand, he had been raised in something like an asylum of eccentrics, people bent hard by those first overpressured years on Mars.

But there still were some surprises, nevertheless. The natives from the northern cities, for instance- and not only them, but almost everyone not from Zygote- were much less physical with each other than Nirgal was used to being. They did not touch or hug or caress each other as much, or shove or strike- nor did they bathe together, although some learned to in Sabis.h.i.+'s public baths. So Nirgal was always surprising people by his touch. He said odd things; he liked to run all day; whatever the reasons, as the months pa.s.sed and he got involved in endlessly connected groups, bands, cells, and gangs, he was aware that he stuck out somehow, that he was the focal point of some groups- that a party was following him from cafe to cafe, from day to day. That there was such a thing as "Nirgal's crowd." Quickly he learned to deflect this attention if he didn't want it. But sometimes he found he did.

Often it was when Jackie was there.

"Jackie again!" Art observed. It was not the first time she had come up, or the tenth.

Nirgal nodded, feeling his pulse jump.

Jackie too had moved to Sabis.h.i.+, soon after Nirgal. She had taken rooms nearby, and attended some of the same cla.s.ses. And in the fluctuating group of their peers, they sometimes showed off to each other- especially in the very common situation in which one or the other of them was involved in seducing someone or in being seduced.

But they soon learned that they could not indulge themselves in that, if they did not want to drive away other partners. Which neither did. So they left each other alone, except if one actively disliked the other's choice of partner. So that in a way they were judging each other's partners, and acquiescing to each other's influence. And all this without a word, with this rare behavior the only visible sign of their power over each other. They were both fooling around with a lot of other people, making new relations.h.i.+ps, friends.h.i.+ps, having affairs. Sometimes they didn't see each other for weeks. And yet at some deeper level (Nirgal shook his head unhappily as he tried to express this to Art) they "belonged to each other."

If one of them ever needed to confirm that bond, the other responded to the seduction in a blaze of excitement, and off they went. That had only happened three times in the three years they were in Sabis.h.i.+, and yet Nirgal knew by those meetings that the two of them were linked- by their shared childhood and all that had happened in it, certainly, but also by something more. Everything they did together was different than when they did it with other people, more intense.

With the rest of his acquaintances, there was nothing so fraught with significance, or danger. He had friends- a score, a hundred, five hundred. He always said yes. He asked questions and listened, and rarely slept. He went to the meetings of fifty different political organizations, and agreed with them all, and spent many a night talking, deciding the fate of Mars, and then of the human race. Some people he hit it off with better than others. He might talk to a native from the north and feel an immediate empathy, starting a friends.h.i.+p that would endure forever. Much of the time it happened that way. But then once in a while he would be utterly surprised by some action totally foreign to his understanding, and be reminded yet again what a cloistered, even claustrophobic upbringing he had had in Zygote- leaving him as innocent, in some ways, as a fairy brought up under an abalone sh.e.l.l.

"No, it's not Zygote that made me," he said to Art, looking behind them to make sure that Coyote was really sleeping. "You can't choose your childhood, it's just what happens to you. But after that you choose. I chose Sabis.h.i.+. And that's really what made me."

"Maybe," Art said, rubbing his jaw. "But childhood isn't just those years. It's also the opinions you form about them afterward. That's why our childhoods are so long."

One dawn the deep plum color of the sky illuminated the spectacular fin ridge of Acheron to the north, looming like a Manhattan of solid rock, as yet uncut into individual skysc.r.a.pers. The canyonland underneath the fin was particolored, giving the fractured land a painted look. "That's a lot of lichen," Coyote said. Sax climbed into the seat beside him and leaned almost nose to winds.h.i.+eld, showing as much animation as he had since the rescue.

Under the very top of the Acheron fin, there was a line of mirror windows like a diamond necklace, and on top of the ridge itself, a long tuft of green, under the ephemeral glint of tenting. Coyote exclaimed, "It looks like it's been reoccupied!"

Sax nodded.

Spencer, looking over their shoulders, said, "I wonder who's in there."

"No one is," Art said. They stared at him, and he went on: "I heard about it in my orientation in Sheffield. It's a Praxis project. They rebuilt it, and got everything ready. And now they're just waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For Sax Russell, basically. For Taneev, Kohl, Tokareva, Russell..." He looked at Sax, shrugging almost apologetically.

Sax croaked something wordlike.

"Hey!" Coyote said.

Sax cleared his throat hard, tried again. His mouth pursed to a little O, and a horrible noise started deep in his throat: "W-w-w-w-w-" He looked over at Nirgal, gestured as if Nirgal would know.