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 tap-head 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. “There seems to be some sort of moss growing up there in the loft, did you know?”
“Oh, that.” Mary waved her hand. “An old experiment from my lab days. It’s that stuff that’s growing on the outside too. Some of it got in through the airlock somehow and now it’s all over the walls. We let it stay because it makes a little oxygen. Won’t hurt you, honestly.”
“Oh, good.” Mr. De Wit flicked a few crumbs of lichen from his elbow. “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. Mr. 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 pintof 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.
Mr. De Wit turned on his stool. “What’s happened?” Manco looked at him.
“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? Then you come see, too.”
“I went to replace the old lock seal like you told me,” Manco 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 whoever had cut open the vizio 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
“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 tap-head 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. “There seems to be some sort of moss growing up there in the loft, did you know?”
“Oh, that.” Mary waved her hand. “An old experiment from my lab days. It’s that stuff that’s growing on the outside too. Some of it got in through the airlock somehow and now it’s all over the walls. We let it stay because it makes a little oxygen. Won’t hurt you, honestly.”
“Oh, good.” Mr. De Wit flicked a few crumbs of lichen from his elbow. “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. Mr. 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 pintof 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.
Mr. De Wit turned on his stool. “What’s happened?” Manco looked at him.
“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? Then you come see, too.”
“I went to replace the old lock seal like you told me,” Manco 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 whoever had cut open the vizio 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
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