Free Mars Life by Ben Bova Page A

Graycloud. A computer geek.
    Suddenly seething with anger, the liquor’s warmth fueling him, Carleton marched through the crowd toward them.
    “Goodbye, Raincloud,” he growled.
    Doreen looked startled, the Navaho more so.
    “Uh, it’s Graycloud, Dr. Carleton. Billy Graycloud, sir.”
    “Whatever.” Carleton grasped Doreen’s wrist. “The A team has arrived. Go back to your tepee.”
    And he towed Doreen away from the youngster. Graycloud stood there dumbfounded, his coppery cheeks flaming deep red.
    “That was cruel,” Doreen said, barely loud enough over the noise of the ongoing party for him to hear it.
    “Fuck him,” Carleton snapped.
    “Is that what you were afraid I’d do?”
    He turned on her angrily. “Now look, if you think—”
    Just then Chang’s office door slid open and the mission director stepped out, with Yvonne Lorenz behind him. Carleton stopped in midsentence. All the laughter snapped off as if a switch had been clicked. Everyone froze where they stood. In the abrupt silence Carleton could hear the soft footfalls of Chang’s slippersocks against the plastic flooring.
    Furtively trying to hide their liquor bottles and flasks, the crowd in the cafeteria melted away before him as Chang strode into their midst, arms stiffly at his sides, hands balled into round little fists.
    “Carter Carleton, I too wish to congratulate you,” Chang said. “You have made an important discovery. You will be honored for it.”
    Blinking with surprise, Carleton said, “Why, thank you, Dr. Chang. Er.. . would you like some juice?”
    With the slightest dip of his pudgy chin, Chang said, “Yes. I want to offer a toast.”
    Doreen, standing at Carleton’s side, picked up an empty cup and poured a splash of the nearest fruit juice into it, then wordlessly handed it to the mission director.
    Chang raised his cup and proclaimed, “To Dr. Carleton. May your discovery be the first of many. May we uncover a village of ancient Martians and learn much about them.”
    Somebody shouted, “Hear! Hear!” But Chang impatiently waved them all to silence.
    “I am not finished,” he said.
    Turning to Yvonne Lorenz, Chang went on, “To you who have been forced to abandon your work at Hellas site I offer my thanks for your toil and my regret that your effort has been terminated. I have added my highest recommendations to each of your personnel files.”
    They murmured thanks.
    Chang half-turned and gestured to Dr. Lorenz. She was a short, slim Provencal with dark hair that was streaked with gray, a lean face that ended in a pointy chin, and eyes the color of a polar sea. Like almost everyone else, she wore coveralls, but hers were carefully tailored to her petite figure.
    In a low but firm voice she said, “I believe we should all thank Dr. Chang for his generous recommendation. I realize most of you are disappointed to be sent home. I know that I myself am.”
    “I won’t miss living in that damned camper,” said one of the astronauts. No one laughed.
    Lorenz said, “I must admit that our living accommodations were ... eh, what is the word?”
    “Rugged.”
    “Crowded.”
    “Piss poor—especially when the toilets broke down.”
    That brought a chuckle. But Lorenz said, “No, the word I wanted is ‘Spartan.’ Our living conditions were Spartan.”
    “You can say that again.”
    “She already did.”
    “Please,” Lorenz said, making a silencing motion with both her tiny hands. “Hear me out. Dr. Carleton has asked for five volunteers to help him excavate the village. Five of us may remain here if we are willing to assist Dr. Carleton.”
    For a moment no one spoke. Then one of the men asked, “What kind of work would this be?”
    “Manual labor,” Carleton answered, raising his voice so that they could all hear him clearly. “For the most part it’ll be digging and hauling a lot of dirt and rock. Not glamorous. Hard physical labor.”
    They looked at one another. Carleton knew exactly what was on