There were three Empresses of Mars.

The first one was a bar at the Settlement. The second was the lady who ran the bar; though her title was strictly informal, having been bestowed on her by the regular customers, and her domain extended no further than the pleasantly gloomy walls of the only place you could get beer on the Tharsis Bulge.

The third one was the Queen of England.

 

One: The Big Red Balloon

What were the British doing on Mars?

For one thing, they had no difficulty calculating with metric figures. For another, their space exploration effort had not been fueled primarily by a military industrial complex. This meant that it had never received infusions of taxpayers’ money on the huge scale of certain other nations, but also meant that its continued existence had been unaffected by the inconvenient disappearance of enemies. Without the necessity of offworld missile bases, the major powers’ interest in colonizing space had quite melted away. This left plenty of room for the private sector.

There was only one question, then: was there money on Mars?

There had definitely been money on Luna. The British Lunar Company had done quite well by its stockholders, with the proceeds from its mining and tourism divisions. Luna had been a great place to channel societal malcontents as well, guaranteeing a work force of rugged individualists and others who couldn’t fit in Down Home without medication.

But Luna was pretty thoroughly old news now and no longer anywhere near as profitable as it had been, thanks to the miners’ strikes and the litigation with the Ephesian Church over the Diana of Luna incident. Nor was it romantic anymore: its sterile silver valleys were becoming domesticated, domed over with tract housing for all the clerks the BLC needed. Bureaucrats and missionaries had done for Luna as a frontier.

The psychiatric hospitals were filling up with unemployed rugged individualists again. Profit margins were down. The BLC turned its thoughtful eyes to Mars.

Harder to get to than Luna, but nominally easier to colonize. Bigger, but on the other hand no easy gravity well with which to ship ore down to Earth. This ruled out mining for export as a means of profit. And as for low-gravity experiments, they were cheaper and easier to do on Luna. What, really, had Mars to offer to the hopeful capitalist?

Only the prospect of terraforming. And terraforming would cost a lot of money and a lot of effort, with the successful result being a place slightly less hospitable than Outer Mongolia in the dead of winter.

But what are spin doctors for?

So the British Arean Company had been formed, with suitably orchestrated media fanfare. Historical clichés were dusted off and repackaged to look shiny-new. Games and films were produced to create a public appetite for adventure in rocky red landscapes. Clever advertising did its best to convince people they’d missed a golden opportunity by not buying lots on Luna when the land up there was dirt cheap, but intimated that they needn’t kick themselves any longer: a second chance was coming for an even better deal!

And so forth and so on.

It all had the desired effect. A lot of people gave the British Arean Company a great deal of money in return for shares of stock that, technically speaking, weren’t worth the pixels with which they were impressively depicted in old-engraving style. The big red balloon was launched. Missions to Mars were launched, a domed base was built, and actual scientists were sent out to the new colony along with the better-socially adapted inhabitants of two or three hospitals. So were the members of an incorporated clan, as a goodwill gesture in honor of the most recent treaty with the Celtic Federation. They brought certain institutions the BAC officially forbade, like polluting industries and beast slavery, but conceded were necessary to survival on a frontier.

So all began together the vast and difficult work of setting up the infrastructure for terraforming, preparing the way for wholesale human colonization.

Then there was a change of government, which coincided with the BAC discovering that the fusion generators they had shipped to Mars wouldn’t work unless they were in a very strong electromagnetic field, and Mars, it seemed, didn’t have much of one. This meant that powering life support alone would cost very much more than anyone had thought it would.

Not only that, the lowland canyons where principal settlement had been planned turned out to channel winds with devastating velocity. Only in the Tharsis highlands, where the air was thinner and colder, was it possible to erect a structure that wouldn’t be scoured away by sandstorms within a week. The BAC discovered this after several extremely costly mistakes.

The balloon burst.

Not with a bang and shreds flying everywhere, exactly; more like a very fast leak, so it sort of dwindled down to an ignominious little lopsided thing without much air in it. Just like the dome of the Settlement Base.

So a lot of people were stuck up there without the money to come home, and they had to make the best of things. Under the circumstances, it seemed best to continue on with the job.

Mary Griffith woke alone that morning, though she did not always do so. She lay for a while in the dark, listening to the quiet, which was not the same thing as silence: low hum of the jenny and a few snores drifting from the other lofts tucked in under the curve of the dome like so many swallows’ nests. No coughing. No quarreling. No fretful clunking to tell her that Three Tank needed its valves unblocked yet again.

Smiling to herself, she rolled out of her bedclothes and tossed the ladder over the side, so descending nimbly to meet the day. She was a compactly built and muscular little woman of a certain age. Her ancestors, most of them coal miners, had passed along with other hardy genetic characteristics a barrel chest, which gave her considerable bosom a certain massive foundation, and Martian gravity contributed in its own way to make Mother Griffith’s Knockers famous throughout the Settlement.

Having sent the ladder back up on its reel and tied off the line neat as any sailor, she set the stove to heating and pumped a kettle of water. The water came up reluctantly, as it always did, rust-colored, strangling and spitting slush from the pipe, but it boiled clear; and as she sat and sipped her tea Mary watched the steam rise like a ghost in the dry cold air.

The visible phantom ascended and dissipated, reaching the lofts and sending its message to the other sleepers, who were pulled awake by its moistness as irresistibly as though it was the smell of eggs and bacon, were they back on Earth. Soon she heard them tossing in their blankets, heard a racking cough or a whispered exchange. She sighed, bidding goodbye to the last bit of early-morning calm. Another day begun.

She got up and rolled back the shade on the big window, and the sullen purple dawn flared in and lit her house.

"Oh, my, that’s bright," said someone plaintively, high up in the shadows, and a moment later Mr. Morton came down on his line, in his long black thermals looking uncommonly like a hesitant spider.

"Good morning, Mr. Morton," said Mary, in English because his panCelt was still halting, and "Good morning, Ma’am," said he, and winced as his bare feet hit the cold sanded floor. Half-hopping he picked his way to the stove and poured his tea, inhaling the steam gratefully; brought it back to the long stone table and seated himself, wincing again as his knees knocked into the table supports. He stirred a good lump of butter into the tea and regarded Mary through the steam, looking anxious.

"Er . . . what would you like me to do today?" he inquired.

Mary sighed and summoned patience.

He was nominally her employee, and had been so since that fateful afternoon when he, like so many others, had realized that his redundancy pay did not amount to half the fare back to Earth.

"Well, you didn’t finish the scouring on Five Tank yesterday, did you?" she said.

"No," he agreed sadly.

"Then I think perhaps you had better do that, Mr. Morton."

"Okay," he said.

It was not his fault that he had to be told what to do. He had spent most of his adult life in hospital and a good bit of his childhood too, ever since (having at the age of ten been caught reading a story by Edgar Allan Poe) he had been diagnosed as Eccentric.

Mind you, it wasn’t all jam and tea in hospital. Even the incurably twisted had to be of some use to society, and Mr. Morton had been brilliant at the chemistry, design, and fabrication of cast-stone structures for industrial use. That was why he had been recruited by the BAC, arriving on Mars with a single black duffel containing all he owned and a heart full of dreams of romantic adventure.

Having designed and fabricated all the structures the BAC needed, however, he had been summarily fired. He had gone wandering away through the Tubes and wound up at the Empress, his white thin face whiter still for shock, and sat at a dark table drinking batch for eight hours before Mary had asked him if he was ever going home, and then he had burst into tears.

So she had given him a job. Mary had been fired, herself. Not for redundancy, though, really; for being too Ethnic.

"Five Tank, yes, and in the afternoon we can brew another pale ale," she decided, "Or maybe a good oatmeal stout, what do you think?" and Mr. Morton brightened at that.

"Have we got any oats?" he inquired.

"If She provides them," Mary said, and he nodded sagely. Mr. Morton wasn’t an Ephesian himself, but he was willing to concede that there was Somebody out there responsive to human prayer, and She certainly seemed to hear Mary’s.

"Something will turn up," he said, and Mary nodded.

And when the day had well and truly begun–when the lodgers had all descended from their alcoves and gone trudging away down the Tubes to their varied employments, when Mary’s daughters and their respective gentlemen callers had been roused and set smiling or sullen about the day’s tasks, when the long stone counter had been polished to a dull shine and the heating unit under One Tank was filling the air with a grateful warmth, and Mary herself stood behind the bar drawing the first ale of the day, to be poured into the offering basin in the little shrine with its lumpy image of the Good Mother herself, dim-lit by her little flickering votive wire–even in that moment when the rich hoppy stuff hit the parched stone and foamed extravagantly, for CO2 is never lacking on Mars–even just then the Lock doors swung open and in came the answer to prayer, being Padraig Moylan with a hundredweight sack of Clan Morrigan oats and two tubs of butter in trade.

Mr. Moylan was thanked with grace and sincerity, the clan’s bar tab recalculated accordingly. Soon he was settled in a cozy alcove with a shot of red single malt and Mona, the best listener among Mary’s children. Mary, having stashed the welcome barter in a locker, set about her slow eternal task of sweeping the red sand from her tables. She could hear Mr. Morton singing as he worked with his scouring pads, his dreamy lyric baritone echoing inside Five Tank, reverberating "Some Enchanted Evening."

Mary ticked him off her mental list of Things to be Seen To, and surveyed the rest of her house as she moved down the length of the table.

There was Alice, her firstborn, graceful as a swan and as irritable too, loading yesterday’s beer mugs into the scouring unit. Rowan, brown and practical, was arranging today’s mugs in neat ranks behind the bar. Worn by scouring, the mugs had a lovely silkiness on them now, shiny as pink marble, dwindling to a thinness and translucency that meant that soon they’d be too delicate for bar use and more would have to be cast. (Though when that happened, the old ones could be boxed up and sent out to the souvenir store in the landing port, to be sold as Finest Arean Porcelain to such guests as came to inspect the BAC public facilities.)

Over behind Four Tank, the shadows had retreated before a little mine-lamp, and by its light Chiring and Manco had a disassembled filtering unit spread out, cleaning away the gudge with careful paddles. The gudge too was a commodity, to be traded as fertilizer, which was a blessing because it accumulated with dreadful speed in the bottom of the fermentation tanks. It was a combination of blown sand, yeast slurry and the crawly stuff that grew on the ceiling, and it had a haunting and deathless smell, but mixed with manure and liberally spread over thin poor Martian soil, it defied superoxidants and made the barley grow.

And everyone agreed that getting the barley to grow was of vital importance.

So Chiring and Manco sang too, somewhat muffled behind recyclable cloth kerchiefs tied over their mouths and noses, joining the last bit of "Some Enchanted Evening" in their respective gruff bass and eerie tenor. A tiny handcam whirred away at them from its place on the table, adding footage to Chiring’s ongoing documentary series for the Kathmandu Post. Mary nodded with satisfaction that all was well and glanced ceilingward at the last member of her household, who was only now rappelling down from the lowest of the lofts.

"Sorry," said the Heretic, ducking her head in awkward acknowledgment of tardiness and hurrying off to the kitchen, where she set about denting pans with more than usual effort to make up for being late. Mary followed after, for the Heretic was another problem case requiring patience.

The Heretic had been an Ephesian sister until she had had some kind of accident, about which few details were known, but which had left her blind in one eye and somehow gotten her excommunicated. She had been obliged to leave her convent under something of a cloud; and how she had wound up here on Mars was anybody’s guess. She stammered, jittered, and dropped things, but she was at least not the proselytizing kind of heretic, keeping her blasphemous opinions to herself. She was also a passable cook, so Mary had agreed to take her on at the Empress.

"Are you all right?" asked Mary, peering into the darkness of the kitchen, where the Heretic seemed to be chopping freeze-dried soy protein at great speed.

"Yes."

"Don’t you want the lights on? You’ll cut off a finger," said Mary, turning the lights on, and the Heretic yelped and covered her good eye, swiveling the ocular replacement on Mary in a reproachful kind of way.

"Ow," she said.

"Are you hung over?"

"No," said the Heretic, cautiously uncovering her eye, and Mary saw that it was red as fire.

"Oh, dear. Did you have the dreams again?"

The Heretic stared through her for a moment before saying, in a strange and breathless voice, "Out of the ground came scarlet flares, each one bursting, a heart’s beacon, and He stood above the night and the red swirling cold sand and in His hand held up the Ace of Diamonds. It burned like the flares. He offered it forth, laughing and said: Can you dig it?"

"Okay," said Mary, after a moment’s silence.

"Sorry," said the Heretic, turning back to her cutting board.

"That’s all right," said Mary. "Can you get luncheon on by eleven?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good," said Mary, and exited the kitchen.

Lady, grant me an ordinary day, she begged silently, for the last time the Heretic had said something bizarre like that, all manner of strange things had happened.

Yet the day rolled on in its accustomed groove as ordinary as you please. At noon, the luncheon crowd came in, the agricultural workers from the clan and contract laborers from the Settlement, who were either Sherpas like Chiring or Inkas like Manco; few English frequented the Empress of Mars, for all their Queen might smile from its sign.

After noon, when the laboring men and women went trooping back to their shifts through the brown whirling day, and the wind had reached its accustomed hissing howl, there was too much to do to worry. There were plates and bowls to be scoured, there was beer to brew, and there was the constant tinkering necessary to keep all the machines running, lest the window’s forcefield fail against the eternal sandblast, among other things.

So Mary had forgotten all about any dire forebodings by the time the blessed afternoon interval of peace came round, and she retired to the best of her tables and put her feet up.

"Mum."

So much for peace. She opened one eye and looked at Rowan, who was standing there gesturing urgently at the communications console.

"Mr. Cochevelou sends his compliments, and would like to know if he might come up the Tube to talk about something," she said.

"Hell," said Mary, leaping to her feet. It was not that she did not like Mr. Cochevelou, clan chieftain (indeed, he was more than a customer and patron); but she had a pretty good idea what it was he wanted to discuss.

"Tell him, ‘of course,’ and then go down and bring up a bottle of the Black Label," she said. She went to fetch a cushion for Mr. Cochevelou’s favorite seat.

Cochevelou must have been waiting with his fist on the receiver, for it seemed no more than a minute later he came shouldering his way through the Tube, emerging from the airlock beard first, and behind him three of his household too, lifting their masks and blinking.

"Luck on this house," said Cochevelou hoarsely, shaking the sand from his suit, and his followers mumbled an echo, and Mary noted philosophically the dunelets piling up around their boots.

"Welcome to the Empress, Mr. Cochevelou. Your usual?"

"Bless you, Ma’am, yes," said Cochevelou, and she took his arm and led him away, jerking a thumb at Mona to indicate she should take a broom to the new sand. Mona sighed and obeyed without good grace, but her mother was far too busy trying to read Cochevelou’s expression to notice.

Between the beard and the forge-soot, there wasn’t much of Cochevelou’s face to see; but his light eyes had a shifting look to them today, at once hopeful and uneasy. He watched Mary pour him a shot of Black Label, rubbing his thick fingers across the bridge of his nose and leaving pale streaks there.

"It’s like this, Ma’am," he said abruptly. "We’re sending Finn home."

"Oh," said Mary, filling another glass. "Congratulations, Mr. Finn."

"It’s on account of I’m dying without the sea," said Finn, a smudgy creature in a suit that had been buckled tight and was still too big.

"And with the silicosis," added Cochevelou.

"That’s beside the point," said Finn querulously. "I dream at night of the flat wet beach and the salt mist hanging low, and the white terns wheeling above the white wave. Picking dulse from the tidepools where the water lies clear as glass–"

There were involuntary groans from the others, and one of them booted Finn pretty hard in the ankle to make him stop.

"And, see, he goes on like that and drives the rest of us mad with his glass-clear water and all," said Cochevelou, raising his voice slightly as he lifted his cup and saluted Mary. "So what it comes down to is, we’ve finally saved enough to send one of us home and it’s got to be him, you see? Your health, Ma’am."

He drank, and Mary drank, and when they had both drawn breath, she said:

"What’s to happen to his Allotment?"

She had cut straight to the heart of the matter, and Cochevelou smiled in a grimacing kind of way.

Under the terms of the Mutual Use Treaty, which had been hammered out during that momentary thaw in relations between England and the Celtic Federation, every settler on Mars had received an Allotment of acreage for private terraforming. With the lease went the commitment to keep the land under cultivation, at the risk of its reverting to the BAC.

The BAC, long since having repented its rash decision to invite so many undesirables to settle on Mars, had gotten into the habit of grabbing back land it did not feel was being sufficiently utilized.

"Well, that’s the question," said Cochevelou. "It’s twenty long acres of fine land, Ma’am."

"Five in sugar beets and fifteen in the best barley," said Finn.

"With the soundest roof ever built and its own well, and the sweetest irrigation pipes ever laid," said Cochevelou. "You wouldn’t mind drinking out of them, I can tell you."

Mary became aware that dead silence had fallen in her house, that all her family were poised motionless with brooms or trays of castware to hear what would be said next. Barley was the life of the house. It was grown on cold and bitter Mars because it would grow anywhere, but it didn’t grow well on the wretched bit of high-oxidant rock clay Mary had been allotted.

"What a pity if it was to revert to the BAC," she said noncommittally.

"We thought so, too," said Cochevelou, turning the cup in his fingers. "Because of course they’d plough that good stuff under and put it in soy, and wouldn’t that be a shame? So of course we thought of offering it to you, first, Ma’am."

"How much?" said Mary at once.

"Four thousand punts Celtic," Cochevelou replied.

Mary narrowed her eyes. "How much of that would you take in trade?"

There was a slight pause.

"The BAC have offered us four grand in cash," said Cochevelou, in a somewhat apologetic tone. "You see. But we’d much rather have you as a neighbor, wouldn’t we? So if there’s any way you could possibly come up with the money. . . ."

"I haven’t got it," said Mary bluntly, and she meant it too. Her small economy ran almost entirely on barter and goodwill.

"Aw, now, surely you’re mistaken about that," said Cochevelou. "You could take up a collection, maybe. All the good workers love your place, and wouldn’t they reach into their hearts and their pockets for a timely contribution? And some of your ex-BACs, haven’t they got a little redundancy pay socked away in the bottom of the duffel? If you could even scrape together two-thirds for a down, we’d work out the most reasonable terms for you!"

Mary hesitated. She knew pretty well how much her people had, and it didn’t amount to a thousand punts even if they presold their bodies to the xenoforensic studies lab. But the Lady might somehow provide, might She not?

"Perhaps I ought to view the property," she said.

"It would be our pleasure," said Cochevelou, grinning white in his sooty beard, and his people exchanged smiles, and Mary thought to herself: Careful.

But she rose and suited up, and fitted her mask on tight, and went for a stroll through the airlock with Cochevelou and his people.

The Settlement was quite a bit more now than the single modest dome that had sheltered the first colonists, though that still rose higher than any other structure, and it did have that lovely vizio top so its inhabitants could see the stars, and which gave it a rather Space-Age Moderne look. It wasted heat, though, and who the hell cared enough about two tiny spitspeck moons to venture out in the freezing night and peer upward at them?

The Tubes had a nice modern look too, where the English maintained them, with lots of transparencies that gave onto stunning views of the Red Planet.

To be strictly accurate, it was only a red planet in places. When Mary had come to live there, her first impression had been of an endless cinnamon-colored waste. Now she saw every color but blue, from primrose-curry-tomcat-ochre to flaming persimmon-vermilion through bloodred and so into ever more livery shades of garnet and rust. There were even greens, both the subdued yellowy olive khaki in the rock and the exuberant rich green of the covered acreage.

And Finn’s twenty long acres were green indeed, rich as emerald with a barley crop that had not yet come into its silver beard. Mary clanked through the airlock after Cochevelou and stopped, staring.

"The Crystal Palace itself," said Finn proudly, with a wave of his hand.

She pulled off her mask and inhaled. The air stank, of course, from the methane; but it was rich and wet too, and with a certain sweetness. All down the long tunnel roofed with industrial-grade vizio, the barley grew tall, out to that distant point of shade change that must be sugar beet.

"Oh, my," she said, giddy already with the oxygen.

"You see?" said Cochevelou. "Worth every penny of the asking price."

"If I had it," she retorted, making an effort at shrewdness. It was a beautiful holding, one that would give her all the malted barley she could use and plenty to trade on the side or even to sell. . . .

"No wonder the English want this," she said, and her own words echoed in her ears as she regarded the landscape beyond the vizio, the low-domed methane hell of the clan’s cattle pens, the towering pipe-maze of Cochevelou’s ironworks.

"No wonder the English want this," she repeated, turning to look Cochevelou in the eye. "If they own this land, it divides Clan Morrigan’s holdings smack in two, doesn’t it?"

"Too right," agreed Finn. "And then they’ll file actions to have the cowshed and the ironworks moved as nuisances, see and–ow," he concluded, as he was kicked again.

"And it’s all a part of their secret plot to drive us out," said Cochevelou rather hastily. "You see? They’ve gone and made us an offer we can’t refuse. Now we’ve broke the ground and manured it for them, they’ve been just waiting and waiting for us to give up and go home, so they can grab it all. The day after we filed the papers to send Finn back, bastardly Inspector Baldwin shows up on our property."

"Didn’t his face fall when he saw what a nice healthy crop we had growing here!" said Finn, rubbing his ankle.

"So he couldn’t condemn it and get the lease revoked, you see?" Cochevelou continued, giving Finn a black look. "Because obviously it ain’t abandoned, it’s gone into our collective’s common ownership. But it wasn’t eight hours later he came around with that offer of four thousand for the land. And if we take it, yes, it’s a safe bet they’ll start bitching and moaning about our cattle and all."

"Don’t sell," said Mary. "Or sell to one of your own."

"Sweetheart, you know we’ve always thought of you as one of our own," said Cochevelou soupily. "Haven’t we? But who in our poor clan would ever be able to come up with that kind of money? And as for not selling, why, you and I can see that having the BAC in here would be doom and destruction and (which is worse) lawsuits inevitable somewhere down the road. But it isn’t up to me. Most of our folk will only be able to see that big heap of shining BAC brass they’re being offered. And they’ll vote to take it, see?"

"We could do a lot with that kind of money," sighed Matelot, he who had been most active kicking Finn. "Buy new generators, which we sorely need. More vizio, which as you know is worth its weight in transparent gold. Much as we’d hate to sell to strangers . . ."

"But if you were to buy the land, we’d have our cake and be able to eat it too, you see?" Cochevelou explained.

Mary eyed him resentfully. She saw, well enough: whichever way the dice fell, she was going to lose. If the Clan Morrigan acreage shrank, her little economy would go out of balance. No barley, no beer.

"You’ve got me in a cleft stick, Cochevelou," she told him, and he looked sad.

"Aren’t we both in a cleft stick, and you’re just in the tightest part?" he replied. "But all you have to do is come up with the money, and we’re both riding in high cotton, and the BAC can go off and fume. Come on now, darling, you don’t have to make up your mind right away! We’ve got thirty days. Go on home and talk it over with your people, why don’t you?"

She clapped her mask on and stamped out through the airlock, muttering.

Mary had been accustomed, all her life, to dealing with emergencies. When her father had announced that he was leaving and she’d have to come home from University to take care of her mother, she had coped. She’d found a job, and a smaller apartment, where she and her mother had lived in an uneasy state of truce until her mother had taken all those sleeping pills. Mary had coped again: buried her mother, found a still smaller apartment, and taken night University courses until she’d got her doctorate in xenobotany.

When Alice’s father had died, Mary had coped. She’d summoned all her confidence, and found a prestigious research and development job that paid well enough to keep Alice out of the Federation orphanage.

When Rowan’s father had deserted, she’d still coped, though he’d waltzed with most of her money; two years’ hard work taking extra projects had gotten her on her feet again.

When Mona’s father had decided he preferred boys, she had coped without a moment’s trouble to her purse if not her heart, secure in her own finances now with lessons hard-learned. And when the BAC headhunters had approached her with a job offer, it had seemed as though it was the Lady’s reward for all her years of coping.

A glorious adventure on another world! The chance to explore, to classify, and to enshrine her name forever in the nomenclature of Martian algae! The little girls had listened with round eyes, and only Alice had sulked and wept about leaving her friends, and only for a little while. So they’d all set off together bravely and become Martians, and the girls had adapted in no time, spoiled rotten as the only children on Mars.

And Mary had five years of happiness as a valued member of a scientific team, respected for her expertise, finding more industrial applications for Cryptogametes gryffyuddi than George Washington Carver had found for the peanut.

But when she had discovered all there was to discover about useful lichens on Mars (and in five years she had pretty much exhausted the subject), the BAC had no more use for her.

The nasty interview with General Director Rotherhithe had been both unexpected and brief. Her morals were in question, it had seemed. She had all those resource-consuming children, and while that sort of thing might be acceptable in a Celtic Federation country, Mars belonged to England. She was known to indulge in controlled substances, also no crime in the Federation, but certainly morally wrong. And the BAC had been prepared to tolerate her, ah, religion in the hopes that it would keep her from perpetuating certain other kinds of immorality, which had unfortunately not been the case–

"What, because I have men to my bed?" Mary had demanded, unfortunately not losing her grasp of English. "You dried-up dirty-minded old stick, I’ll bet you’d wink at it if I had other women, wouldn’t you? Bloody hypocrite! I’ve heard you keep a Lesbian Holopeep in your office cabinet–"

Academic communities are small and full of gossip, and even smaller and more full of gossip under a biodome, and secrets cannot be kept at all. So Julie and Sylvia Take Deportment Lessons From Ms. Lash had been giggled at, but never mentioned out loud. Until now.

General Director Rotherhithe had had a choking fit and gone a nice shade of lilac, and Sub-Director Thorpe had taken over to say that It was therefore with infinite regret, et cetera. . . .

And Mary had had to cope again.

She hadn’t cared that she couldn’t afford the fare home; she loved Mars. She had decided she was damned if she was going to be thrown off. So, with her final paycheck, she’d gone into business for herself.

She’d purchased a dome from the Federation colonists, a surplus shelter originally used for livestock; and though the smell took some weeks to go away even in the dry thin air, the walls were sound and warm, and easily remodeled with berths for lodgers.

Chiring, who had had his contract canceled with the BAC for writing highly critical articles about them and sending the columns home to the Kathmandu Post, came to her because he too had nowhere else to go. He was a decent mechanic, and helped her repair the broken well pump and set up the generators.

Manco Inka, who had been asked to leave the BAC community because he was discovered to be a (sort of) practicing Christian, brought her a stone-casting unit in exchange for rent, and soon she’d been able to cast her five fine brewing tanks and ever so many cups, bowls, and dishes. Cochevelou himself had stood her the first load of barley for malting.

And once it was known that she had both beer and pretty daughters, the Empress of Mars was in business.

For five years now, it had stood defiantly on its rocky bit of upland slope, the very picture of what a cozy country tavern on Mars ought to be: squat low dome grown all over with lichen patches most picturesque, except on the weather-wall where the prevailing winds blasted it bald with an unceasing torrent of sand, so it had to be puttied constantly with red stonecast leavings to keep it whole there. Mary swapped resources with the clan, with the laborers, with even a few stealthy BAC personnel for fuel and food, and an economy had been born.

And now it was threatened, and she was going to have to cope again.

"Holy Mother, why is it always something?" she growled into her mask, kicking through drifts as she stormed back along the Tube. "Could I count on You for even one year where nothing went wrong for once? I could not, indeed.

"And now I’m expected to pull Cochevelou’s smoky black chestnuts out of the fire for him, the brute, and where am I to come up with the money? Could You even grant me one little miracle? Oh, no, I’m strong enough to cope on my own, aren’t I? I’ll solve everyone’s problems so they needn’t develop the spine to do it themselves, won’t I? Bloody hell!"

She came to a transparency and glared out.

Before her was Dead Snake Field, a stretch of rock distinguished by a cairn marking the last resting place of Cochevelou’s pet ball python, which had survived the trip to Mars only to escape from its terrarium and freeze to death Outside. Initial hopes that it might be thawed and revived had been dashed when Finn, in an attempt at wit, had set the coiled icicle on his head like a hat and it had slipped off and fallen to the floor, shattering.

There in the pink distance, just under the melted slope of Mons Olympus, was the sad-looking semicollapsed vizio wall of Mary’s own few long acres, the nasty little Allotment she’d been granted almost as a nose-thumbing with her redundancy pay. Its spidery old Aeromotors gave it a deceptively rural look. With all the abundant freaky Martian geology to choose from, the BAC had managed to find her a strip of the most sterile clay imaginable; and though she was unable to farm it very effectively, they had never shown any inclination to snatch it back.

"There’s another joke," she snarled. "Fine fertile fields, is it? Oh, damn the old purse-mouth pervert!"

She stalked on and shortly came to the Tube branch leading to her allotment, and went down to see how her own crops were doing.

Plumes of mist were leaking from the airlock seal; now that needed replacing too, something else broken she couldn’t afford to fix. There were tears in her eyes as she stepped through and lowered her mask, to survey that low yellow wretched barley, fluttering feebly in the oxygen waves. The contrast with Finn’s lush fields was too much. She sat down on an overturned bucket and wept, and her tears amounted to one scant drop of water spattering on the sere red clay, fizzing like peroxide.

When her anger and despair were wept out, she remained staring numbly at the fast-drying spot. The clay was the exact color of terracotta.

"I wonder," she said, "whether we could make pots out of the damned stuff."

She didn’t need pots, of course; she could stonecast all the household vessels she needed out of Martian dust. What else was clay good for?

Sculpting things, she thought to herself. Works of art? Useful bric-a-brac? Little tiles with SOUVENIR OF MARS stamped into them? Though she had no artistic talent herself, maybe one of her people had, and then what if they could get the Export Bazaar to take pieces on consignment? The Arean Porcelain sold pretty well.

"What the hell," she said, wiping her eyes, and standing up she righted the bucket and fetched a spade from the tool rack. She dug down a meter or so through the hardpan, gasping with effort even in the (comparatively) rich air, and filled the bucket with stiff chunks of clay. Then she put on her mask again and trudged home, lugging the latest hope for a few punts.

In her house, her family might have been frozen in their places from the moment she’d left. On her entry they came to shamefaced hurried life again, resuming their various household chores as though they’d been hard at work ever since she’d left and not standing around discussing the clan’s offer.

Mr. Morton came stalking up to her, knotting his fingers together.

"Er–Ma’am, we’ve been talking, and–"

"Here, Mama, that’s too heavy for you," said Manco, scuttling close and relieving her of the bucket. "You sit down, huh?"

"Very kind, I’m sure," Mary said sourly, looking around. "I’ll bet not one of you started the oatmeal stout brewing like I asked, have you? Take that out to the ball mill," she added to Manco, pointing at the bucket. "As long as we’ve got all this damned clay, let’s put it to good use and make something out of it."

"Yes, Mama."

"Here, you sit down–" Mr. Morton gestured her toward a chair with flapping motions of his long arms.

"I can’t sit down! I have too much to do. Holy Mother, Alice, that heating unit should have been turned on an hour ago! Do I have to see to everything around here?"

"Water’s heating now, Mum," Alice cried, running back from Tank Three.

"Well, but I wanted to tell you about our ideas–if it would be all right–" said Mr. Morton.

"I’m sure it will be when I’m not so busy, Mr. Morton," said Mary, grabbing a push broom and going after the sand again. "Rowan, did you and Chiring reinstall the filter the new way we discussed?"

"Yes, Mum, and–"

"See, I thought we might raise four thousand pounds easily if we put on a sort of cabaret in here," Mr. Morton continued earnestly. "Like a dinner show? I could sing and do dramatic recitals, and–"

"What a very nice idea, Mr. Morton, and I’m sure I’ll think about it, but in the meanwhile I need you to get that sack of oats out of the storage locker."

"And I thought I could do a striptease," said Mona.

Three broom-pushes before the meaning sank in, and then:

"Striptease?" Mary shouted. "Are you mad? When the BAC already sees us as a cesspit of immorality and substance abuse? That’d really frost the cake!"

Mona pouted. "But you said when you were at University–"

"That was a long time ago and I needed the money, and–"

"And we need the money now! We never have any money!"

"Ladies, please–" said poor Mr. Morton, his face pink for once.

"The oats, Mr. Morton. Mona, you will keep your clothes on until you come of age and that’s all that will be said on the subject, do you understand?"

"What’s this?" said Manco, emerging from the utility area and holding out something in his hand. He had an odd look on his face. "This was in the bottom of the bucket. The clay cracked apart and–"

"It’s a rock," said Mary, glancing at it. "Pitch it out."

"I don’t think it’s a rock, Mama."

"He’s right," said Chiring, squinting at it. "It looks more like a crystal."

"Then put it on the back bar with the fossils and we’ll ask one of the geologists about it. What was that?" Mary looked up suspiciously. "Who’s that? Who just threw up?"

"It was me," said Alice miserably, emerging from behind the bar, and Rowan ran to her with a bar towel.

Mary ground her teeth. "Food poisoning. Just what we all needed. That devil-worshipping looney–" She started for the kitchen with blood in her eye, but was stopped in her tracks as Rowan said quietly:

"It’s not food poisoning, Mum."

Mary did an about-face, staring at her daughters. There was a profound moment of silence in which she continued staring, and the three men present wondered what was going on, until Alice wailed:

"Well, I didn’t think you could get pregnant on Mars!"

So in all the excitement, the crystal was stuck on the back bar and forgotten until that evening, when the Brick came in from his polar run.

The Brick was so named because he resembled one. Not only was he vast and tall and wide in his quilted Hauler’s jumpsuit, he was the color of a brick as well, though what shade he might be under years of high-impact red dust was anybody’s guess.

There was red grit between his teeth when he grinned, as he did now on emerging from the airlock, and his bloodshot red eyes widened in the pleasant evening darkness of the Empress. He lifted his head and sucked in air through a nose flattened as a gorilla’s from years of collisions with fists, boots, steering wheels, and (it was rumored) hospital orderlies’ foreheads. He had been on Mars a long, long time.

"Damn, I love that smell," he howled in English, striding to the bar and slapping down his gauntlets. "Beer, onions, and soygold nuggets frying, eh? Give me a Party Platter with Bisto and a pitcher of Foster’s."

"I’m afraid we don’t have Foster’s, sir," dithered Mr. Morton. Mary elbowed him.

"It’s what we call the Ares Lager when he’s in here," she murmured, and Mr. Morton ran off at once to fill a pitcher.

"How’s it going, Beautiful?"

"Tolerably, Mr. Brick," said Mary, sighing.

He looked at her keenly and his voice dropped a couple of decibels when he said, "Trouble over something? Did the BAC finally get that warrant?"

"What warrant?"

"Oh, nothing you need to know about right now," he said casually, accepting his pitcher of beer and drinking from it. "Not to worry, doll. Uncle Brick hears rumors all the time, and half of ’em never pan out. As long as the Ice Haulers want you here, you’ll stay here."

"I suppose they’re trying to get me closed down again," said Mary. "Bad cess to them, and what else is new? But I have other problems today."

She told him about the day’s occurrences and he listened, sipping and nodding meanwhile, grunting occasionally in agreement or surprise.

"Congratulations, m’dear," he said. "This’ll be the first human child born on Mars, you know that? Any idea who the father is?"

"She knows who she hasn’t been with, at least," said Mary. "And there’ll be tests, so it’s not as though we’ll be in suspense for long. It’s only a baby, after all. But where am I going to get four thousand punts, I’d like to know?"

Brick rumbled meditatively, shaking his head.

" ‘Only a baby’, she says. You know they’re not having ’em Down Home any more, don’t you?"

"Oh, that’s certainly not true. I had three myself," said Mary indignantly.

"The birth rate’s dropping, all the same," said the Brick, having another sip of his beer. "That’s what I hear. Funny thing for a species to do when it’s colonizing other planets, isn’t it?"

Mary shrugged. "I’m sure it isn’t as bad as all that," she said. "Life will go on somehow. It always does. The Goddess provides."

"I guess so," agreed Brick, and his voice rose to a genial roar as he hailed the Heretic, shuffling out from the kitchen with his Party Platter. "Hey, sweetheart! You’re looking gorgeous this evening."

The Heretic blinked at him and shuffled closer. "Hi," she said, offering him the food. He took it in one hand and swept her close for a kiss on the forehead.

"How’ve you been?"

"I saw the living glory burning. A bright tower in the icy waste," she said.

"That’s nice. Can I get just a little more Bisto on these fries?"

"Okay."

The Heretic went back to the kitchen and fetched out a little saucepan of gravy-like substance, and as she larded Brick’s dinner, Mary went on:

"If you could see that twenty acres! It was as rich as pudding, probably from our very own sewage we sold them, and green as anything on Earth. Where I’m going to get the cash for it I simply do not know. Chiring makes forty punts a week from his column in the Kathmandu Post, of which he has kindly offered me ten per week toward the land, but I’ve only got a month. If one of my people was a brilliant artist we might sell some folk art out of clay, but all of them protested they’re quite talentless, so bang goes another good idea, and I’m running out of good ideas. Just when I thought everything had settled down to some kind of equilibrium–"

"What’s that new thing on the back bar?" inquired Brick, slightly muffled because his mouth was full.

"Oh. That? Wait, you were a mineralogist, weren’t you?" Mary paused, looking over her shoulder at him as she fetched the crystal down.

"I have been many things, m’dear," he informed her, washing down his mouthful with more beer. "And I did take a degree in Mineralogy at the University of Queensland once."

"Then you have a look at it. It was in some clay I dug up this afternoon. Maybe quartz with some cinnabar stain? Or more of the ever-present rust? It’s a funny old thing." She tossed it over and he caught it in his massive hand, peered at it for a long moment.

Then he unflapped his transport suit, reached into the breast and brought out a tiny spectrometer mounted in a headset. He slipped it on with one hand, holding the crystal out to the light with the other. He stared through the eyepiece for a long moment.

"Or do you think it’s some kind of agate?" said Mary.

"No," Brick replied, turning and turning the crystal in his hand. "Unless this gizmo is mistaken, sweetheart, you’ve got yourself a diamond here."

Nobody believed it. How could something that looked like a lump of frozen tomato juice be worth anything? A diamond?

Whatever it turned out to be, however, everyone agreed that the BAC must not be told.

Cochevelou offered to trade the glorious twenty acres for the rock outright, and in fact proposed to Mary. Smiling, she declined. But terms of sale for the land were worked out and a deposit of ten punts was accepted, and the transfer of title was registered with the BAC by Mr. Morton, who as a Briton seemed less likely to annoy the authorities.

And on the appointed day, the rock was sewn into the lining of Finn’s thermal suit, and he was seen off to the spaceport with much cheer, after promising faithfully to take the diamond straight to the best dealers in Amsterdam immediately on arriving Down Home.

The next they heard of him, however, was that he was found drowned and smiling on the rocks at Antrim not three weeks after his homecoming, a bottle still clutched in his hand.

Mary shrugged. She had title to the land, and Cochevelou had ten punts a week from her. For once, she thought to herself, she had broken even.

Two: The Richest Woman on Mars

It was the Queen’s Birthday, and Mary was hosting the Cement Kayak Regatta.

Outdoor sports were possible on Mars. Just.

Not to the extent that the famous original advertising holo implied (grinning man in shirtsleeves with football and micromask, standing just outside an airlock door, captioned: "This man is actually STANDING on the SURFACE of MARS!" though without any mention of the fact that the holo had been taken at noon on the hottest day in summer at the equator and that the man remained outside for exactly five seconds before the shot was taken, after which he leaped back inside and begged for a bottle of Visine), but possible nonetheless, especially if you were inventive.

The cement kayaks had been cast of the ever-present and abundant Martian grit, and fitted at one end with tiny antigravity units. These, like so many other things on Mars, did not work especially well, but enabled the kayaks to float about two feet above the ground. Indoors, they bobbed aimlessly in place, having no motive power; once pushed out an airlock, they were at the mercy of the driving winds.

But it was possible to deflect or direct the wind with big double-bladed paddles made of scrap pipe and sheet metal, salvaged from the BAC’s refuse tip. It was then possible to sail along through the air, if you wore full Outside kit, and actually sort of steer.

So Cement Kayaking had become a favorite sport on Mars, indeed the only outdoor sport. An obstacle course had been set up in Dead Snake Field, and four kayaks lurched about in it now, fighting the wind and each other.

"Competitive sport and the pioneer spirit," Chiring was announcing into his handcam, a solemn talking head against a background of improbable action. "Anachronisms on Earth, do they fulfill a vital function here on the final frontier? Have these colonists fallen back on degrading social violence, or is cultural evolution an ongoing process on Mars?" Nobody answered him.

The Tube was blocked with spectators, crowding around the transparencies to watch. They were also shouting, which dried their throats nicely, so the beer was selling well.

"LEFT, RAMSAY!" howled Cochevelou, pointing vainly at the hololoop of Queen Anne waving that served as the mid-point marker. "Oh, you stupid little git, LEFT!"

"A Phobos Porter for you, Cochevelou?" Mary inquired cheerily. "On the house?"

"Yes, please," he growled. Mary beckoned and the Heretic trudged back along the line. She turned to display the castware tank she bore in its harness on her back, and Mary selected a mug from the dangling assortment and drew a pint with practiced ease.Cochevelou took it, lifted his mask and gulped it down, wiping the foam from his moustache with the back of his hand.

"Very kind of you, I’m sure," he said bitterly. "Given the amount I’m losing today. YOU’RE A DISGRACE TO FLUFFY’S MEMORY!" he bellowed at Ramsay. Fluffy had been the python’s name.

"We buried evil on Mars," said the Heretic in a dreamy little voice, and nobody paid any attention to her.

"It’s not really his fault," said Mary. "How can the poor man hope to compete with our Manco? It’s all those extra blood vessels in his fingertips, you know, from being born in the Andes. Gives him better control of the paddles. Selected by Nature, as it were."

"You must have bet a packet on him," said Cochevelou, staring as Manco swung round Fluffy’s Cairn and sent Ramsay spinning off to the boundary with an expert paddle-check.

"Bet? Now, dear Mr. Cochevelou, where would I get the money to do that?" said Mary, smiling wide behind her mask. "You’re getting every penny I earn for Finn’s Field, so you are."

Cochevelou grimaced.

"Speak no ill of the dead and all, but if I could ever get my hands on that little bastard’s neck–" he said.

"Beer please," said one of the BAC engineers, shouldering through the crowd.

"A pint for the English!" Mary announced, and he looked around guiltily and pulled up the hood of his suit. "How nice of you to come down here to our primitive little fete. Perhaps later we can do some colorful folk dancing for your amusement." She handed him a mug. "That’ll be one punt Celtic."

"I heard you’ll take air filters," said the engineer in an undertone.

"What size, dear?"

"BX3s," replied the engineer, drawing one from the breast of his suit and displaying it. Mary inspected it critically and took it from him.

"Your gracious patronage is always appreciated," she said, and handed it to the Heretic, who tucked it out of sight. "Enjoy your beer. You see, Cochevelou? No money in my hands at all. What’s a poor little widow to do?"

But Cochevelou missed the sarcasm, staring over her head down the tunnel.

"Who’s this coming?" he said. "Did they bring a passenger on the last transport up?"

Mary turned and saw the newcomer, treading gingerly along in the cat-step people walked with before they became accustomed to Martian gravity. He was tall, and wore a shiny new thermal suit, and he carried a bukecase. He was peering uncertainly through his goggles at the crowd around the transparencies.

"That’s a damned solicitor, that’s what that is," said Cochevelou, scowling blackly. "Five’ll get you ten he’s come to see you or me."

Mary’s lip curled. She watched as the newcomer studied the crowd. He swung his mask in her direction at last, and stared; then walked toward her decisively.

"It’s you, eh?" said Cochevelou, trying not to sound too relieved as he sidled away. "My sympathies, Mary darling."

"MS. GRIFFITH?" inquired the stranger. Mary folded her arms.

"I am," she replied.

"ELIPHAL DE WIT," he said. "I’VE HAD QUITE A TIME FINDING YOU!"

"TURN YOUR SPEAKER DOWN! I’M NOT DEAF!"

"OH! I’M sorry," said Mr. De Wit, hurriedly twiddling the knob. "Is that better? They didn’t seem to know who you were at the port office, and then they admitted you were still resident but unemployed, but they wouldn’t tell me where you lived. Very confusing."

"You’re not from the BAC, then?" Mary looked him up and down.

"What?" Mr. De Wit started involuntarily at the crowd’s roar of excitement. The English kayaker had just swung past the midway marker. "No. Didn’t you get my communication? I’m from Polieos of Amsterdam."

"WHAT?" said Mary, without benefit of volume knob.

"I’m here about your diamond," Mr. De Wit explained.

"And to think of all the dreadful things I said about poor dear Finn, when I thought he’d failed in his sacred trust! And I thought you were a solicitor at first!" Mary babbled, setting down a pitcher of batch and two mugs.

"Actually, Ms. Griffith, I am one," said Mr. De Wit, gazing around at the inside of the Empress. "On permanent retainer for Polieos, to deal with special circumstances."

"Really?" Mary halted in the act of reaching to fill his mug.

"And I’m here as your counsel," he explained carefully. "There has really been no precedent for this situation. Polieos feels it would be best to proceed with a certain amount of caution at first."

"Don’t they want to buy my diamond, then?" Mary demanded.

"Absolutely, yes, Ms. Griffith," Mr. De Wit assured her. "And we would prefer to buy it from you. I’m here to determine whether or not we can legally do that."

"What d’you mean?"

"Well–" Mr. De Wit lifted his mug and paused, staring down at the brown foam brimming. "Er–what are we drinking?"

"It’s water we’ve put things in, because you wouldn’t want to drink Mars water plain," said Mary impatiently. "No alcohol in it, dear, so it won’t hurt you if you’re not a drinking man. Cut to the chase, please."

Mr. De Wit set his mug aside, folded his hands and said:

"In a minute, I’m going to ask you how you got the diamond, but I’m going to tell you a few things first, and it’s important that you listen closely.

"What you sent us is a red diamond, a true red, which is very rare. The color doesn’t come from impurities, but from the arrangement of the crystal lattice within the stone itself. It weighs 306 carats at the present time, uncut, and preliminary analysis indicates it has remarkable potential for a modified trillion cut. It would be a unique gem even if it hadn’t come from Mars. The fact that it did makes its potential value quite a bit greater."

He took the buke from its case and connected the projector arm and dish. Mary watched with suspicion as he completed setup and switched it on. After a couple of commands, a holo-image shot forth, hanging in the dark air between them, and Mary recognized the lump she’d entrusted to Finn.

"That’s my diamond!"

"As it is now," said Mr. De Wit. "Here’s what we propose to do with it." He gave another command and the sullen rock vanished. In its place was an artist’s conception of a three-cornered stone the color of an Earth sunset. Mary caught her breath.

"Possibly 280 carats," said Mr. De Wit.

"What’s it worth?"

"That all depends," Mr. De Wit replied. "A diamond is only worth the highest price you can get for it. The trick is to make it desirable. It’s red, it’s from Mars–those are big selling points. We’ll need to give it a fancy name. At present," and he coughed apologetically, "it’s being called the Big Mitsubishi, but the marketing department will probably go with either the War-God’s Eye or the Heart of Mars."

"Yes, yes, whatever," said Mary.

"Very well. And Polieos is prepared to cut, polish, and market the diamond. We can do this as your agents, in which case our fee will be deducted from the sale price, or we can buy it from you outright. Assuming," and Mr. De Wit held up a long forefinger warningly, "that we can establish that you are, in fact, the owner."

"Hm." Mary frowned at the tabletop. She had a pretty good idea of what was coming next.

"You see, Ms. Griffith, under the terms of your Allotment lease with the BAC, you are entitled to any produce grown on the land. The terms of your lease do not include mineral rights to the aforesaid land. Therefore–"

"If I dug it up on my Allotment, it belongs to the BAC," said Mary.

"Exactly. If, however, someone sold you the diamond," and Mr. De Wit looked around at the Empress again, his gaze dwelling on the more-than-rustic details, "say perhaps some colorful local character who found it somewhere else and traded it to you for a drink–well, then, not only is it your diamond, but we have a very nice story for the marketing department at Polieos."

"I see," said Mary.

"Good. And now, Ms. Griffith, if you please: how did you come into possession of the diamond?" Mr. De Wit sat back and folded his hands.

Mary spoke without pause. "Why, sir, one of our regulars brought it in! An Ice Hauler, as it happens, and he found it somewhere on his travels between poles. Traded it to me for two pints of my best Ares Lager."

"Excellent." Smiling, Mr. Dr. Wit shut off the buke and stood. "And now, Ms. Griffith, may I see the Allotment where you didn’t find the diamond?"

As they were walking back from the field, and Mr. De Wit was wiping the clay from his hands, he said quietly:

"It’s just as well the land isn’t producing anything much. When the diamond becomes public knowledge, you can expect the BAC to make you an offer for the Allotment."

"Even though I didn’t find the diamond there?" said Mary warily.

"Yes. And I would take whatever they offer, Ms. Griffith, and I would buy passage back to Earth."

"I’ll take what they offer, but I’m not leaving Mars," said Mary. "I’ve hung on through bad luck and I’m damned if good luck will pry me out. This is my home!"

Mr. De Wit tugged at his beard, unhappy about something.

"You’ll have more than enough money to live in comfort on Earth," he said. "And things are about to change up here, you know. As soon as anyone suspects there’s real money to be made on Mars, you won’t know the place."

"I think I’ll do smashing, whatever happens," said Mary. "Miners drink, don’t they? Anywhere people go to get rich, they need places to spend their money."

"That’s true," said Mr. De Wit, sighing.

"And just think what I can do with all that money!" Mary crowed. "No more making do with the BAC’s leftovers!" She paused by a transparency and pointed out at the red desolation. "See that? It’s nobody’s land. I could have laid claim to it any time this five years, but what would I have done with it? It’s the bloody BAC has the water and the lights and the heating and the vizio I’d need!"

"But with money. . . ."

By the time they got back to the Empress, she was barreling along in her enthusiasm with such speed that Mr. De Wit was panting as he tried to keep up. She jumped in through the airlock, faced her household (just in from the field of glorious combat and settling down to a celebratory libation) flung off her mask, and cried: "Congratulate me, you lot! I’m the richest woman on Mars!"

"You did bet on the match," said Rowan reproachfully.

"I did not," said Mary, thrusting a hand at Mr. De Wit. "You know who this kind gentleman is? This is my extremely good friend from Amsterdam." She winked hugely. "He’s a gem of a man. A genuine diamond in the rough. And he’s brought your mother very good news, my dears."

Stunned silence while everyone took that in, and then Mona leaped up screaming.

"Thediamondthediamondthediamond! Omigoddess!"

"How much are we getting for it?" asked Rowan at once.

"Well–" Mary looked at Mr. De Wit. "There’s papers and things to sign, first, and we have to find a buyer. But there’ll be more than enough to fix us all up nicely, I’m sure."

"Very probably," Mr. De Wit agreed.

"We finally won’t be POOR anymore!" caroled Mona, bounding up and down.

"Congratulations, Mama!" said Manco.

"Congratulations, Mother," said Chiring.

Mr. Morton giggled uneasily.

"So . . . this means you’re leaving Mars?" he said. "What will the rest of us do?"

"I’m not about to leave," Mary assured him. His face lit up.

"Oh, that’s wonderful! Because I’ve got nothing to go back to, down there, you know, and Mars has been the first place I ever really–"

"What do you MEAN we’re not leaving?" said Alice in a strangled kind of voice. "You’re ruining my life again, aren’t you?"

She turned and fled. Her bedchamber being as it was in a loft accessible only by rope ladder, Alice was unable to leap in and fling herself on her bed, there to sob furiously; so she resorted to running away to the darkness behind the brew tanks and sobbing there.

". . . felt as though I belonged in a family," Mr. Morton continued.

Alice might weep, but she was outvoted.

Rowan opted to stay on Mars. Mona waffled on the question until the boy-to-girl ratio on Earth was explained to her, after which she firmly cast her lot with the Red Planet. Chiring had no intention of leaving; his Dispatches from Mars had doubled the number of subscribers to the Kathmandu Post, which was run by his sister’s husband, and as a result of the Mars exposés he looked fair to win Nepal’s highest journalism award.

Manco had no intention of leaving either, since it would be difficult to transport his life’s work. This was a shrine in a grotto three kilometers from the Empress, containing a cast-stone life-sized statue of the Virgen de Guadalupe surrounded by roses sculpted from a mixture of pink Martian dust and Manco’s own blood. It was an ongoing work of art, and an awesome and terrible thing.

The Heretic, when asked if she would like to return to Earth, became so distraught that her ocular implant telescoped and retracted uncontrollably for five minutes before she was able to stammer out a refusal. She would not elaborate. Later she drank half a bottle of Black Label and was found unconscious behind the malt locker.

"So, you see? We’re staying," said Mary to the Brick, in grim triumph.

"Way to go, Beautiful," said the Brick, raising his breakfast pint of Ares Lager. "I just hope you’re ready to deal with the BAC, because this’ll really get up their noses. And I hope you can trust this Dutchman."

"Here he is now," said Chiring sotto voce, looking up from the taphead he was in the act of changing. They raised their heads to watch Mr. De Wit’s progress down from the ceiling on his line. He made it to the floor easily and tied off his line like a native, without one wasted gesture; but as he turned to them again, he seemed to draw the character of Hesitant Tourist about him like a cloak, stooping slightly as he peered through the gloom.

"Good morning, sir, and did you sleep well?" Mary cried brightly.

"Yes, thank you," Mr. De Wit replied. "Er–I was wondering where I might get some laundry done?"

"Bless you, sir, we don’t have Earth-style laundries up here," said Mary. "Best you think of it as a sort of dry-cleaning. Leave it in a pile on your bunk and I’ll send one of the girls up for it later." She cleared her throat. "And this is my friend Mr. Brick. Brick is the, ahem, colorful local character who sold me the diamond. Aren’t you, dear?"

"That’s right," said the Brick, without batting an eye. "Howdy, stranger."

"Oh, great!" Mr. De Wit pulled his buke from his coat. "Would you be willing to record a statement to that effect?"

"Sure," said the Brick, kicking the bar stool next to him. "Have a seat. We’ll talk."

Mr. De Wit sat down and set up his buke, and Mary drew him a pint of batch and left them talking. She was busily sweeping sand when Manco entered through the airlock and came straight up to her. His face was impassive, but his black eyes glinted with anger.

"You’d better come see something, Mama," he said.

"I went to replace the old lock seal like you told me," he said, pointing. "Then I looked through. No point now, huh?"

Mary stared at her Allotment. It had never been a sight to rejoice the eye, but now it was the picture of all desolation. Halfway down the acreage someone had slashed through the vizio wall, and the bitter Martian winds had widened the tear and brought in a freight of red sand, which duned in long ripples over what remained of her barley, now blasted and shriveled with cold. Worse still, it was trampled: for someone had come in through the hole and excavated here and there, long channels orderly cut in the red clay or random potholes. There were Outside-issue bootprints all over.

She said something heartfelt and unprintable.

"You think it was the BAC?" said Manco.

"Not likely," Mary said. "They don’t know about the diamond, do they? This has Clan Morrigan written all over it."

"We can’t report this, can we?"

Mary shook her head. "That’d be just what the BAC would want to hear. ‘Vandalism, is it, Ms. Griffith? Well, what can you expect in a criminal environment such as what you’ve fostered here, Ms. Griffith? Perhaps you’d best crawl off into the sand and die, Ms. Griffith, and stop peddling your nasty beer and Goddess-worshipping superstitions and leave Mars to decent people, Ms. Griffith!’ That’s what they’d say."

"And they’d say, ‘What were people digging for?’ too," said Manco gloomily.

"So they would." Mary felt a chill. "I think I must speak with Mr. De Wit again."

"What should I do here?"

"Seal up the vizio with duct tape," Mary advised. "Then get the quaddy out and plough it all under."

"Quaddy needs a new air filter, Mama."

"Use a sock! Works just as well," said Mary, and stamped away back up the Tube.

Manco surveyed the ruined Allotment and sighed. Resolving to offer Her another rose of his heart’s blood if She would render assistance, he wrestled the rusting quaddy out of its garage and squatted to inspect the engine.

Mr. De Wit and the Brick were still where Mary had left them, deep in conversation; the Brick seemed to be regaling Mr. De Wit with exciting tales of his bipolar journeys for carbon dioxide and water ice. Mr. De Wit was listening with his mouth slightly open.

Mary started toward him, intent on a hasty conference, but Rowan stepped into her path.

"Mum, Mr. Cochevelou wants a word," she said in an undertone.

"Cochevelou!" Mary said, turning with a basilisk glare, and spotted him in his customary booth. He smiled at her, rubbing his fingertips together in a nervous kind of way, and seemed to shrink back into the darkness as she advanced on him.

"Eh, I imagine you’ve come from your old Allotment," he said. "That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about, Mary dearest."

"Don’t you Mary Dearest me!" she told him.

"Darling! Darling. You’ve every right to be killing mad, so you do. I struck the bastards to the floor with these two hands when I found out, so I did. ‘You worthless thieving pigs!’ I said to them. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?’ I said. ‘Here we are in this cold hard place and do we stick together in adversity, as true Celts ought? Won’t the English laugh and nod at us when they find out?’ That’s what I said."

"Words are all you have for me, are they?" said Mary icily.

"No indeed, dear," said Cochevelou, looking wounded. "Aren’t I talking compensation? But you have to understand that some of the lads come of desperate stock, and there’s some will always envy another’s good fortune bitterly keen."

"How’d they know about my good fortune?" Mary demanded.

"Well, your Mona might have told our DeWayne," said Cochevelou. "Or it might have gone about the Tube some other way, but good news travels fast, eh? And there’s no secrets up here anyway, as we both know. The main thing is, we’re dealing with it. The clan has voted to expel the dirty beggars forthwith–"

"Much good that does me!"

"And to award you Finn’s Field free and clear, all further payments waived," Cochevelou added.

"That’s better." Mary relaxed slightly.

"And perhaps we’ll find other little ways to make it up to you," said Cochevelou, pouring her a cup of her own Black Label. "I can send work parties over to mend the damage. New vizio panels for you, what about it? And free harrowing and manuring that poor tract of worthless ground."

"I’m sure you’d love to get your boys in there digging again," Mary grumbled, accepting the cup.

"No, no; they’re out, as I told you," said Cochevelou. "We’re shipping their raggedy asses back to Earth on the next flight."

"Are you?" Mary halted in the act of raising the cup to her lips. She set it down. "And where are you getting the money for that, pray?"

Cochevelou winced.

"An unexpected inheritance?" he suggested, and dodged the cup that came flying at him.

"You hound!" Mary cried. "They’ll have an unexpected inheritance sewn into their suits, won’t they? Won’t they, you black beast?"

"If you’d only be mine, all this wouldn’t matter," said Cochevelou wretchedly, crawling from the booth and making for the airlock with as much dignity as he could muster. "We could rule Mars together, you know that, don’t you?"

He didn’t wait for an answer, but pulled his mask on and fled through the airlock. Mary nearly pitched the bottle after him too and stopped herself, aware that all her staff, as well as Mr. De Wit and the Brick, were staring at her.

"Mr. De Wit," she said, as decorously as she could, "May I have a word with you in private?"

"That was sooner than I expected," said Mr. De Wit, when she’d told him all about it.

"You expected this?" Mary said.

"Of course," he replied, tugging unhappily at his beard. "Have you ever heard of the Gold Rush of 1849? I don’t know if you know much American history, Ms. Griffith–"

"Gold was discovered at Sutter’s Mill," Mary snapped.

"Yes, and do you know what happened to Mr. Sutter? Prospectors destroyed his farm. He was ruined."

"I won’t be ruined," Mary declared. "If I have to put a guard on that field every hour of the day and night, I’ll do it."

"It’s too late for that," Mr. De Wit explained. "The secret can’t be kept any longer, you see? More Martian settlers will be putting more red diamonds on the market. The value will go down, but that won’t stop the flood of people coming up here hoping to get rich."

And he was right.

For five years, there had been one shuttle from Earth every three months. They might have come more often; technological advances over the last couple of decades had greatly trimmed travel time to Mars. There just hadn’t been any reason to waste the money.

The change came slowly at first, and was barely noticed: an unaccustomed distant thunder of landing jets at unexpected moments, a stranger wandering wide-eyed into the Empress at odd hours. More lights glinting under the vizio dome of BAC headquarters after dark.

Then the change sped up.

More shuttles, arriving all hours, and not just the big green BAC ships but vessels of all description, freelance transport services competing. More strangers lining the bar at the Empress, shivering, gravity-sick, unable to get used to the smell or the taste of the beer or the air but unable to do without either.

Strangers wandering around outside the Tubes, inadequately suited, losing their sense of direction in the sandstorms and having to be rescued on a daily basis by some opportunistic Celt who charged for his kindness: "Just to pay for the oxygen expenditure, see?" Strangers losing or abandoning all manner of useful odds and ends in the red desolation, to be gleefully salvaged by the locals. Mary’s back bar became a kind of shrine to the absurd items people brought from Earth, such as a digital perpetual calendar geared to 365 days in a year, a pair of ice skates, a ballroom dancing trophy, and a snow globe depicting the Historic Astoria Column of Astoria, Oregon.

"I can’t think why you advised me to leave," Mary said to Mr. De Wit, as he sat at the bar. "We’ve never done so well!"

Mr. De Wit shook his head gloomily, staring into the holoscreen above his buke. "It’s all a matter of timing," he said, and drained his mug of Ares Lager.

"Let me pour you another, sweetheart," said Alice, fetching away the empty. Mary watched her narrowly. To everyone’s astonishment but Alice’s, Mr. De Wit had proposed marriage to her. As far as Mary had been able to tell, it had happened somehow because Alice had been the one delegated to collect his laundry, and had made it a point to personally deliver his fresh socks and thermals at an inappropriate hour, and one thing had led to another, as it generally did in the course of human history, whether on Earth or elsewhere.

He accepted another mug from her now with a smile. Mary shrugged to herself and was about to retreat in a discreet manner when there was a tremendous crash in the kitchen.

When she got to the door, she beheld the Heretic crouched in a corner, rocking herself to and fro, white and silent. On the floor lay Mary’s largest kettle and a great quantity of wasted water, sizzling slightly as it interacted with the dust that had been tracked in.

"What’s this?" said Mary.

The Heretic turned her face. "They’re coming," she whispered. "And the mountain’s on fire."

Mary felt a qualm, but said quietly: "Your vision’s a bit late. The place is already full of newcomers. What, did you think you saw something in the water? There’s nothing in there but red mud. Pick yourself up and–"

There was another crash, though less impressive, and a high-pitched yell of excitement. Turning, Mary beheld Mr. De Wit leaping up and down, fists clenched above his head.

"We did it," he cried. "We found a buyer!"

"How much?" Mary asked instantly.

"Two million punts Celtic," he replied, gasping after his exertion. "Mitsubishi, of course, because we aimed all the marketing at them. I just wasn’t sure–I’ve instructed Polieos to take their offer. I hope that meets with your approval, Ms. Griffith? Because, you know, no one will ever get that kind of money for a Martian diamond again."

"Won’t they?" Mary was puzzled by his certainty. "Whyever not?’

"Well–" Mr. De Wit coughed dust, took a gulp from his pint and composed himself. "Because most of the appeal was in the novelty, and in the story behind your particular stone, and–and timing, like I said. Now the publicity will work against the market. Those stones that were stolen out of your field will go on sale at inflated prices, you see? Everyone will expect to make a fortune."

"But they won’t?"

"No, because–" Mr. De Wit waved vaguely. "Do you know why they say A diamond is forever? Because it’s murder to unload the damned things, in the cold hard light of day. No dealer ever buys back a stone they’ve sold. It took a fantastic amount of work to sell the Big Mitsubishi. We were very, very lucky. Nobody else will have our luck."

He stooped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. "Now, please. Follow my advice. Take out a little to treat yourself and put the rest in high-yield savings, or very careful investments."

"Or I’ll tell you what you could do," said a bright voice from the bar.

They turned to see the Brick in the act of downing a pint. He finished, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said: "You could sink a magma well up the hill on Mons Olympus, and start your own energy plant. That’d really screw the BAC! And make you a shitload of money on the side.

"Magma well?" Mary repeated.

"Old-style geothermal energy. Nobody’s used it since Fusion, because Fusion’s cheaper, but it’d work up here. The BAC’s been debating a plant, but their committees are so brain-constipated they’ll never get around to it!" The Brick rose to his feet in his enthusiasm. "Hell, all you’d need would be a water-drilling rig, to start with. And you’d need to build the plant and lay pipes, but you can afford that now, right? Then you’d have all the power you’d want to grow all the barley you’d want and sell it to other settlers!"

"I suppose I could do that, couldn’t I?" said Mary slowly. She looked up at Mr. De Wit. "What do you think? Could I make a fortune with a magma well?"

Mr. De Wit sighed.

"Yes," he said. "I have to tell you that you could."

The only difficult part was getting the drilling rig.

Cochevelou looked uncertainly at Mona, who had perched herself on one of his knees, and then at Rowan, who was firmly stationed on the other with her fingers twined in his beard.

"Please, Mr. Cochevelou, my dear dearest?" Mona crooned.

Mary leaned forward and filled his glass, looking him straight in the eye.

"You said we might rule Mars together," she said. "Well, this is the way to do it. You and me together, eh, pooling our resources as we’ve always done?"

"You staked claim to the whole volcano?" he said, incredulous. "Bloody honking huge Mons Olympus?"

"Nothing in the laws said I couldn’t, if I had the cash for the filing fee, which, being the richest woman on Mars now, I had, of course," Mary replied. "Nothing in the tiniest print said I was even obliged to tell the BAC. I had my fine lawyer and nearly son-in-law Mr. De Wit file with the Tri-Worlds Settlement Bureau, and they just said Yes, Ms. Griffith, here’s your virtual title and good luck to you. Doubtless sniggering in their First World sleeves and wondering what a silly widow woman will do with a big frozen cowpat of a volcano. They’ll see!"

"But–" Cochevelou paused and took a drink. His pause lost him ground, for Mary shoved Mona out of the way and took her place on his knee, bringing her gimlet stare, and her bosom, closer.

"Think of it, darling man!" she said. "Think how we’ve been robbed, and kept down, and made to make do with the dry leavings while the English got the best of everything! Haven’t we always triumphed by turning adversity to our own uses? And so it’ll be now. Your ironworks and your strong lads with my money and Mars’s own hot heart itself beating for us in a thunderous counterpoint to our passion!"

"Passion?" said Cochevelou, somewhat dazed but beginning to smile.

"She’s got him," Chiring informed the others, who were lurking in the kitchen. Mr. Morton gave a cheer, which was promptly shut off as Manco and the Heretic clapped their hands over his mouth. Chiring put his eye to the peephole again.

"They’re shaking hands," he said. "He just kissed her. She hasn’t slapped him. She’s saying . . . something about Celtic Energy Systems."

"It’s the beginning of a new world!" whispered Mr. Morton. "There’s never been money on Mars, but–but–now we can have Centres for the Performing Arts!"

"We can have a lot more than that," said Manco.

"They could found a whole other city," said Chiring, stepping back. "You know? What a story this is going to be!"

"We could attract artistes," said Mr. Morton, stars in his eyes. "Culture!"

"We could be completely independent, if we bought vizio and water pumps, and got enough land under cultivation," Manco pointed out. A look of shock crossed his face. "I could grow real roses."

"You could," Chiring agreed, whipping out his jotpad. "Interviews with the Locals: What Will Money Mean to the New Martians? By your News Martian. Okay, Morton, you’d want performing arts, and you’d develop Martian horticulture." He nodded at Manco and then glanced over at the Heretic. "How about you? What do you hope to get out of this?"

"A better place to hide," she said bleakly, raising her head as she listened to the rumble of the next shuttle arriving.

It was still possible to ride an automobile on Mars, though they had long since become illegal on Earth and Luna.

A great deal of preparation was necessary, to be sure: one had first to put on a suit of thermals, and then a suit of cotton fleece, and then a suit of bubblefilm, and then a final layer of quilted Outside wear. Boots with ankle locks were necessary too, and wrist-locked gauntlets. One could put on an old-fashioned-looking aquarium helmet, if one had the money; people at Mary’s economic level made do with a snugly fitting hood, a face mask hooked up to a back tank, and kitchen grease mixed with UV blocker daubed thickly on anything that the mask didn’t cover.

Having done this, one could then clamber through an airlock and motor across Mars, in a rickety CeltCart 600 with knobbed rubber tires and a top speed of eight kilometers an hour. It was transportation neither dignified nor efficient, since one was swamped with methane fumes and bounced about like a pea in a football. Nevertheless, it beat walking, or being blown sidelong in an antigravity car. And it really beat climbing.

Mary clung to the rollbar and reflected that today was actually a fine day for a jaunt Outside, considering. Bright summer sky overhead like peaches and cream, though liver-dark storm clouds raged far down the small horizon behind. Before, of course, was only the gentle but near-eternal swell of Mons Olympus, and the road that had been made by the expedient of rolling or pushing larger rocks out of the way.

"Mind the pit, Cochevelou," she admonished. Cochevelou exhaled his annoyance so forcefully that steam escaped from the edges of his mask, but he steered clear of the pit and so on up the winding track to the drill site.

The lads were hard at work when they arrived at last, having had a full hour’s warning that the Cart was on its way up, since from the high slide of the slope one could see half the world spread out below, and its planetary curve too. There was therefore a big mound of broken gravel and frozen mudslurry, industriously scraped from the drillbits, to show for their morning’s work. Better still, there was a thin spindrift of steam coming off the rusty pipes, coalescing into short-lived frost as it fell.

"Look, Mama!" said Manco proudly, gesturing at the white. "Heat and water!"

"So I see," said Mary, crawling from the car. "Who’d have thought mud could be so lovely, eh? And we’ve brought you a present. Unload it, please."

Matelot and the others who had been industriously leaning on their shovels sighed, and set about unclamping the bungees that had kept the great crate in its place on the back of the CeltCart. The crate was much too big to have traveled on a comparative vehicle on Earth without squashing it, and even so the Cart’s wheels groaned and splayed, though as the men lifted the crate like so many ants hoisting a dead cricket the wheels bowed gratefully back. The cords had bit deep into the crate’s foamcast during the journey, and the errant Martian breezes had just about scoured the label off with flying grit, but the logo of Third Word Alternatives, Inc. could still be made out.

"So this is our pump and all?" inquired Padraig, squinting at it through his goggles.

"This is the thing itself, pump and jenny and all but the pipes to send wet hot gold down the mountain to us," Cochevelou told him.

"And the pipes’ve been ordered," Mary added proudly. "And paid for! And here’s Mr. Morton to exercise his great talents building a shed to house it all."

Mr. Morton unfolded himself from the rear cockpit and tottered to his feet, looking about with wide eyes. The speaker in his mask was broken, so he merely waved at everyone and went off at once to look at the foundations Manco had dug.

"And lastly," said Mary, lifting a transport unit that had been rather squashed under the seat, "Algemite sandwiches for everybody! And free rounds on the house when you’re home tonight, if you get the dear machine hooked up before dark."

"Does it come with instructions?" Matelot inquired, puffing as he stood back from the crate.

"It promised an easy-to-follow holomanual in five languages, and if one isn’t in there we’re to mail the manufacturers at once," Mary said. "But they’re a reputable firm, I’m sure."

"Now, isn’t that a sight, my darling?" said Cochevelou happily, turning to look down the slope at the Tharsis Bulge. "Civilization, what there is of it anyhow, spread out at our feet like a drunk to be rolled."

Mary gazed down, and shivered. From this distance, the Settlement Dome looked tiny and pathetic, even with its new housing annex. The network of Tubes seemed like so many glassy worms, and her own house might have been a mudball on the landscape. It was true that the landing port had recently been enlarged, which made it more of a handkerchief than a postage stamp of pink concrete. Still, little stone cairns dotted the wasteland here and there, marking the spots where luckless prospectors had been cached because nobody had any interest in shipping frozen corpses back to Earth.

But she lifted her chin and looked back at it all in defiance.

"Think of our long acres of green," she said. "Think of our own rooms steam-heated. Lady bless us, think of having a hot bath!"

Which was such an obscenely expensive pleasure on Mars that Cochevelou gasped and slid his arm around her, moved beyond words, and they clung together for quite a while on that cold prominence before either of them noticed the tiny figure making its way up the track from the Empress.

"Who’s that, then?" Mary peered down at it, disengaging herself abruptly from Cochevelou’s embrace. "Is that Mr. De Wit?"

It was Mr. De Wit.

By the time they reached him in the CeltCart, he was walking more slowly, and his eyes were standing out of his face so they looked fair to pop through his goggles, but he seemed unstoppable.

"WHAT IS IT?" Mary demanded, turning her volume all the way up. "IS SOMETHING GONE WRONG WITH ALICE?"

Mr. De Wit shook his head, slumping forward on the Cart’s fender. He cranked up his volume as far as it went too and gasped, "LAWYER–"

"YES!" Mary said irritably, "YOU’RE A LAWYER!"

"OTHER LAWYER!" said Mr. De Wit, pointing back down the slope at the Empress.

Mary bit her lip. "YOU MEAN–" she turned her volume down, reluctant to broadcast words of ill omen. "There’s a lawyer from somebody else? The BAC, maybe?"

Mr. De Wit nodded, crawling wearily into the back seat of the Cart.

"Oh, bugger all," growled Cochevelou. "Whyn’t you fight him off then, as one shark to another?"

"Did my best," wheezed Mr. De Wit. "Filed appeal. But you have to make mark."

Mary said something unprintable. She reached past Cochevelou and threw the Cart into neutral to save gas. It went bucketing down the slope, reaching such a velocity near the bottom that Mr. De Wit found himself praying for the first time since his childhood.

Somehow they arrived with no more damage done than a chunk of lichen sheared off the airlock wall, but they might have taken their time, for all the good it did them.

The lawyer was not Hodges from the Settlement, whose particular personal interests Mary knew to a nicety and whom she might have quelled with a good hard stare. No, this lawyer was a solicitor from London, no less, immaculate in an airlock ensemble from Bond Street and his white skullcap of office. He sat poised on the very edge of one of Mary’s settles, listening diffidently as Mr. De Wit (who had gone quite native by now, stooped, wheezing, powdered with red dust, his beard lank with facegrease and sand) explained the situation, which was, to wit:

Whereas, the British Ares Company had operated at an average annual loss to its shareholders of 13 percent of the original estimated minimum annual profit for a period of five (Earth) calendar years, and

Whereas, it had come to the attention of the Board of Directors that there were hitherto-unknown venues of profit in the area of mineral resources, and

Whereas, having reviewed the original Terms of Settlement and Allotment as stated in the Contract for the Settlement and Terraforming of Ares, and having determined that the contractment of any and all allotted agricultural zones was contingent upon said zones contributing to the common wealth of Mars and the continued profit of its shareholders, and

Whereas, the aforesaid Contract specified that in the event that revocation of all Leases of Allotment was determined to be in the best interests of the shareholders, the Board of Directors retained the right to the exercise of Eminent Domain,

Therefore, the British Ares Company respectfully informed Mary Griffith that her lease was revoked and due notice of eviction from all areas of Settlement would follow within thirty (Earth) calendar days. She was, of course, at full liberty to file an appeal with the proper authorities.

"Which you are in the process of doing," said Mr. De Wit, and picked up a text plaquette from the table. "Here it is. Sign at the bottom."

"Can she read?" the solicitor inquired, stifling a yawn. Mary’s lip curled.

"Ten years at Mount Snowdon University says I can, little man," she informed him, and having run her eye down the document, she thumbprinted it firmly. "So take that and stick it where appeals are filed, if you please." She handed the plaquette to the solicitor, who accepted it without comment and put it in his briefcase.

"Hard luck, my dear," said Cochevelou, pouring himself a drink. "I’ll just quell my thirst and then edge off home, shall I?"

"Are you a resident of the Clan Morrigan?" the solicitor inquired, fixing him with a fishy eye.

"I am." Cochevelou stared back.

"Then, can you direct me to their current duly elected chieftain?"

"That would be him," said Mary.

"Ah." The solicitor drew a second plaquette from his briefcase and held it out. "Maurice Cochevelou? You are hereby advised that–"

"Is that the same as what you just served her with?" Cochevelou demanded, slowly raising fists like rusty cannon balls.

"In short, sir, yes, you are evicted," replied the solicitor, with remarkable sangfroid. "Do you wish to appeal as well?"

"Do you wish to take a walk Outside, you little–"

"He’ll appeal as well," said Mary firmly, and, grabbing the second plaquette, she took Cochevelou’s great sooty thumb and stamped the plaquette firmly. "There now. Run along, please."

&