Space Station 1
blue-green declivities in the terrain which looked from the air like an
actual waterway, and had deceived--or bewildered--three generations of
men.
Despite the increasing cold, Corriston did not moderate his stride.
He let his thoughts dwell on the most imaginative of the canal
speculations. It had been proven completely false, but its originality
fascinated him. Long ago, the theory held, there had been volcanic
activity on Mars. Great faults or fissures had opened up in the
planet's crust, and when the coming of spring thawed the polar ice
caps, curtains of fog swirled equatorward, filling those natural
crevices with swirling rivers of mist.
Corriston stopped walking for a moment, shifting the weight of his
equipment slightly, easing a too heavy drag on his right shoulder. He
made sure that the thin flexible tube which connected his oxygen mask
with the small tank on his back was securely clipped into place at both
ends, tested the harness buckle which supported supplies which were as
necessary to him as breathing, and took a turn up and down the sand,
stamping, shaking himself, to make absolutely certain that nothing
vital had been jarred loose.
Then he was under way again, moving along at a steady pace over the
rust-red desert, the ship now lost to view far behind him, his mind
leaping ahead to the very great dangers which he was determined to face
and overcome so long as one slender thread of hope remained.
16
It might have been almost any sleepy little town on Earth, picked at
random from a train window--a dust bowl town with a prairie name:
Hawk's Valley, Buzzard's Gulch, and the like. It might have been, but
it wasn't.
The buildings were thinner, of more precarious construction, and each
had been built to house three or more families. They were at unusual
angles on sloping ledges where the soil was firm enough to resist
overnight erosion from winds of hurricane force, and in many places
their prefabricated metal foundations were pierced and supported by
shafts of solid rock.
Without modern technology at its most advanced, the town could never
have been built. Yet in the streets of the town there was a village
rudeness of construction which no pioneering effort could quite efface:
a wide main street that gleamed red in the sunlight on which three
caterpillar tractors stood stalled, their guard rails caked with
yellow mud; a pool of stagnant black water with a wooden plank thrown
haphazardly across it; a discarded fuel container upended against a
half-rusted away metal cable, and the remnants of an hydraulic actuator
overgrown with hardy lichens that had colored it yellow and ash gray.
And here and there, projecting from the tumbled sand, were spiny
cactus-like growths.
Yet it was not too small a town. Its inhabitants numbered eight
thousand, two-thirds of them men. There were ninety-seven children. It
was not too small a town, and now, in each of the houses, a new day was
beginning.
At least thirty men and a few women had collected about the
haggard-eyed desert straggler. Every one of them hung on his words.
Every one of these people had been ruined by Ramsey's rapacious
greed. Their past accomplishments were destroyed; their futures were
non-existent. They lived in a terrorized state, from hand-to-mouth,
indifferent now to any more wrongdoing that could be visited upon them.
The fires of their hatred for Ramsey gave them the basic energy to go
on existing.
Out of grinding desperation they had turned to Henley, had given him
a free hand, even when most, in their heart-of-hearts, knew he was a
scoundrel. The fact was that he was the only man among them not so
cowed as to be actively enraged against Ramsey. He promised that the
mines would be given back to the people. And, having nothing, they
believed everything.
They came from everywhere in the colony, and from every trade and
profession. Who was this man? And was he friend or foe?
The crowd grew slowly. Despite the shouts and the sudden stir of
excitement which had greeted the speaker on his arrival, there was
no headlong rush to surround him. The colonists emerged from their
lodgings and converged calmly upon the square, some having the look
of tradesfolk concerned with a possible interruption of business, and
others seemingly intent only on what the stranger might have to say.
It was unusually warm for so early an hour, the temperature well up
in the mid-forties, and there was no need for the heat-generating
inner garments, only for oxygen masks and heavy outdoor clothing and
the careful avoidance of too much muscular exertion in the absence of
weighted shoes.
This is madness, Corriston told himself. I am in no condition to
convince these people, to make them understand. I should have rested
first. Three hours' sleep would have helped. I should have asked for
food.
Corriston felt suddenly tongue-tied. Words were failing him when he
needed them most. His speech became halting and confused. He had been
talking for twenty minutes--twenty minutes at least--but suddenly he
was quite sure that he hadn't succeeded in convincing anyone that he
was speaking only the simple truth.
He looked at the faces before him a little more intently and saw what
he had not noticed before: everyone was waiting for him to go on;
everyone seemed to be hanging on his words.
Had he misjudged them after all? Or had he misjudged his own capacity
to be persuasive, to talk with conviction when his very life hung in
the balance?
There could be no doubt on that score. His life did hang in the
balance. They'd make short shift of him if they thought he was on
Ramsey's side.
"It isn't Ramsey I'm concerned about," he heard himself saying. "I'm
pleading with you to face up to the truth about yourselves. You trusted
Henley because you were desperate. You couldn't put your trust in a
weak or indecisive man. You needed a tool with a cutting edge. That I
can understand. But you picked the wrong man. Henley doesn't want to
see justice done. He doesn't want to help you at all. He wants to help
himself at your expense, to help himself in a vicious, brutal way."
"That's a lie," someone in the crowd said. "Henley's a good man."
Corriston freed himself from his dust-caked coat. He shrugged it off
and let it drop to the sand. Then he straightened his oxygen mask and
went on: "It's not a lie. It's the simple truth."
He wondered why he had shrugged off his warmest garment. It was cold,
he was shivering, and it had been a ridiculous thing to do. Had he
intended it as a challenge? In a crazy, confused, subconscious way, was
he offering to fight anyone who disagreed with him.
He suddenly realized that he was a little drunk. Not on alcohol, but on
a slight excess of oxygen. He fingered the gauge on his mask, cutting
down the tank inflow, cursing himself for his delay in doing so.
Had he convinced anyone? He looked at the faces about him and was
astonished by their impassivity. Few of the men or women before him
seemed either angry or disturbed. They just seemed to be quietly
listening.
Suddenly he realized that he was completely in error. They were
convinced, persuaded, almost completely on his side. Their silence was
in itself revealing, just as the hush which precedes an avalanche can
be convincing, or the stillness which precedes a storm at sea.
They were waiting for him to go on.
He talked for thirty more minutes and then there was a long silence,
punctuated only by the harsh breathing of a few men who seemed to
disagree.
17
Corriston knew that the few who disagreed were prepared to make
trouble, but he was not prepared for the violence which ensued.
Fights broke out in the crowd, singly and in groups. The colonists with
strong convictions took issue with the few who disagreed. And the few
who disagreed had strong convictions, too.
Two men about the same in height were suddenly down on the ground
raining fisticuffs at each other.
"Damn you, Reeves, I'll break your jaw. From the first minute I saw
Henley I knew he was a scoundrel."
"Yeah, and who else but a scoundrel could hold his own with a rat like
Ramsey. We can call the turn on him if he goes too far."
There was an explosion of cursing and Corriston could see five more men
fighting, moving backwards as they exchanged blows toward the periphery
of the crowd.
There was nothing he could do to stop the fighting. He was close to
exhaustion, hardly able to stand. He desperately needed food and
rest--a long rest flat on his back.
Suddenly he realized that he had victory within his grasp. Most things
worthwhile in life called for a decisive effort of will. He decided
suddenly that he couldn't just let the fighting go on. He had to take
a firm stand himself, had to convince everyone that he was prepared to
fight for his convictions.
He moved forward into the crowd. He grabbed one doubter by the
shoulder, held fast to him for an instant, and then sent his fist
crashing into the astonished man's jaw.
The doubter folded in complete silence. Corriston stepped back from
him and said in a voice loud enough to carry to the rim of the crowd:
"I don't care how many of you I have to take on. Every word I've said
is the truth. If you can only settle it by killing me, you may as well
start trying."
There was a silence then. Even the sound of the breeze rustling the
garments of the colonists, stirring little flurries of sand along the
main street, seemed to become muted. Far off between the houses a clock
struck the time. It seemed very loud in the stillness.
It amazed Corriston a little, even in his exhausted state, how
determinedly a challenge like that could be accepted at face value.
He was quite sure that he had won a victory; that nine-tenths of the
colonists were on his side. But everyone remained silent, everyone drew
back in tight-lipped silence while the issue was put to the test.
A tall man with a lean, lantern-jawed face approached Corriston and
said: "I'm going to tell you exactly what I think. Henley isn't an easy
man to understand. He keeps his thoughts to himself and he may have
had his own special reasons for pulling the wool over your eyes. He's
looking out for our best interests; I'm sure of that. But what good
would it do me to knock you down to prove it?"
"No good at all," Corriston said. "But try knocking me down if you want
to."
"I'm not going to try," the lantern-jawed man said. "I think you're
lying. That's all I have to say."
Corriston watched him disappear in the crowd and shook his head. He
felt like a man with a fly swatter in his hand. He had won a victory
and yet if he failed to swat a few flies no one would believe that he
was telling the truth.
Finally he got his chance. A thickset, dark-browed man with a
trouble-seeking aspect came up and hurled insults at him in a markedly
offensive way.
Corriston hit him three times. The first blow doubled him up, the
second dropped him to his knees; the third flattened him out on the
sand.
Corriston stepped back and surveyed the crowd. Their response now was
overwhelmingly favorable.
It wasn't a complete victory. There were still doubters, still
arguments going on, still a hatred for Ramsey that overflowed and made
a mockery of the few voices raised in his defense.
And Corriston was glad that not too many voices were raised in Ramsey's
defense. He had not come to plead Ramsey's cause, and he wanted all of
the colonists to know that. He only asked that a truce be declared, an
end to the fierce, immediate hatreds, while a scoundrel was attacked by
men who had been lied to, cheated and betrayed. He moved still further
forward into the crowd, prepared to fight again if he had to, prepared
to back up his arguments with the simple, primitive and direct use of