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.
“That was sooner than I expected,” said Mr. De Wit.
“You expected this?” Mary said.
“Of course,” he replied, tugging unhappily at his beard. “Have you ever heard of the California 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 this 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.”
“What should I do here?” Manco inquired.
“Seal up the vizio with duct tape,” Mary advised. “Then get the quaddy out and plow 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, with Mr. De Wit trailing after her.
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 shed and squatted to inspect the engine.
He had had an office, once. Once he had worn a suit and had a gold bar on his desk with his name on it, and a string of initials after his name to signify that he had taken multiple degrees in agricultural engineering at the La Molina National Agrarian University Extension at Cusco. He had won an award for innovative designs for improvements in high-altitude agriculture. The British Arean Company had approached him about becoming part of the terraforming team on Mars. Manco had accepted their offer gladly. In those days he had been ambitious, eager to make a name for himself, and he had no family ties on Earth, his mother having died the year previous.
The arrival on the new world had been a shock. Mars was nowhere near as Earthlike as Manco had been led to believe by the smiling British Arean Company executive who had recruited him. He had spent a week in his new office, sunk in gloom as he studied the facts and figures. A frozen-fossil aquifer, deadly winds, punishing UV . . . and the British Arean Company seemed to have no terraforming plan more complicated than planting a few domed-over fields and sitting back to wait for them to vent oxygen into the starved atmosphere.
The design of the Areomotor pumps had impressed him, however, and when he realized that it was, indeed, possible to pull thawed water to the surface, Manco had psuited up and gone Outside for a walk. He had wandered through the few and pitiful acres the clan had managed to put under cultivation, because while the earthworms they had brought with them were working dutifully, the bees refused to fly and therefore to pollinate anything. It was not a sight to inspire much hope.
But Manco had taken samples of the soil, taken holoshots of the terrain, stared for hours at the Martian landscape and, finally, carried melon-sized rocks back to his office. There he had cut the Martian stone into a variety of shapes. He had ordered a cement-casting unit at his own expense and experimented with the properties of Martian grit as a construction material. He’d had a brief but insightful conversation with a young architect named Morton, who had designed most of the existing shelters on the planet.
Electrified by possibilities, obsessed with hope, Manco had locked himself in his office with his buke and spent days drawing up elaborate plans. Then he had called a
“And they’d say, ‘What were people digging for?’ too,” said Manco gloomily.
“So they would.” Mary felt a chill.
“That was sooner than I expected,” said Mr. De Wit.
“You expected this?” Mary said.
“Of course,” he replied, tugging unhappily at his beard. “Have you ever heard of the California 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 this 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.”
“What should I do here?” Manco inquired.
“Seal up the vizio with duct tape,” Mary advised. “Then get the quaddy out and plow 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, with Mr. De Wit trailing after her.
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 shed and squatted to inspect the engine.
He had had an office, once. Once he had worn a suit and had a gold bar on his desk with his name on it, and a string of initials after his name to signify that he had taken multiple degrees in agricultural engineering at the La Molina National Agrarian University Extension at Cusco. He had won an award for innovative designs for improvements in high-altitude agriculture. The British Arean Company had approached him about becoming part of the terraforming team on Mars. Manco had accepted their offer gladly. In those days he had been ambitious, eager to make a name for himself, and he had no family ties on Earth, his mother having died the year previous.
The arrival on the new world had been a shock. Mars was nowhere near as Earthlike as Manco had been led to believe by the smiling British Arean Company executive who had recruited him. He had spent a week in his new office, sunk in gloom as he studied the facts and figures. A frozen-fossil aquifer, deadly winds, punishing UV . . . and the British Arean Company seemed to have no terraforming plan more complicated than planting a few domed-over fields and sitting back to wait for them to vent oxygen into the starved atmosphere.
The design of the Areomotor pumps had impressed him, however, and when he realized that it was, indeed, possible to pull thawed water to the surface, Manco had psuited up and gone Outside for a walk. He had wandered through the few and pitiful acres the clan had managed to put under cultivation, because while the earthworms they had brought with them were working dutifully, the bees refused to fly and therefore to pollinate anything. It was not a sight to inspire much hope.
But Manco had taken samples of the soil, taken holoshots of the terrain, stared for hours at the Martian landscape and, finally, carried melon-sized rocks back to his office. There he had cut the Martian stone into a variety of shapes. He had ordered a cement-casting unit at his own expense and experimented with the properties of Martian grit as a construction material. He’d had a brief but insightful conversation with a young architect named Morton, who had designed most of the existing shelters on the planet.
Electrified by possibilities, obsessed with hope, Manco had locked himself in his office with his buke and spent days drawing up elaborate plans. Then he had called a
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