28

  Mars was close now.

  The prisoners had been ordered to take to their bunks, but most of them could still see the big tridi screen, the limits of which were now over-flowed by the ruddy globe. The portion visible was a landscape, with its details growing more distinct with every passing minute, every second. Clayton stared fascinatedly at the alien scenery. For a confused second or so he thought that some crazy mistake had been made, that after all these weeks in space the ship was coming in for a landing on the Moon. Folk myths die hard. For many years the Moon had been associated with craters, and Mars with canals. The terrain to which they were dropping was abundantly cratered.

  Clayton laughed inwardly at his stupidity. He knew that Mars was pockmarked with craters. And the Moon was not red, and the ring walls of the lunar crater had not been subjected to millenia of erosion by wind and sand. The Martian craters, evidence of some catastrophic meteoric bombardment ages ago, were shallow. Paradoxically they became less easy to distinguish as the ship lost altitude. From ground level they would be no more obvious than craters of similar origin on Earth.

  The inertial drive hammered more loudly as lateral thrust was applied. The huge crater — it could almost have been a dry sea bed — to the centre of which they had been heading drifted slowly across the screen. The new target was a little crater, a circular indentation in the western ring wall, a bay on the coastline of the non-existent sea. There was a scattering of white specks about it. Snow patches? Limestone outcroppings ? But was there limestone on Mars ?

  Still the ship dropped, towards the . . . the bay.

  'Botany Bay!' shouted somebody above the clangour of the drive.

  'Botany Bay!' echoed all around the dormitory.

  It was hard to sing against the mechanical racket, but they managed it 'And we're bound out for Botany Bay.'

  But they were no longer bound for Botany Bay. They had arrived.

  'Hear this! Hear this! We have landed at Port Wilberforce.'

  'Botany Bay, he means,5 muttered somebody. With both the drive and the fusion reactor shut down the words were distinctly audible, must have been picked up by the bugs situated throughout the compartment.

  'We have now landed at Port Wilberforce. You may leave your bunks. Pack your possessions in your flight bags. You will be told when you are to leave the dormitory. That is all.5

  Starr stood with Clayton. They were both of them looking up at the tridi screen. The scanner was rotating slowly, covering the entire Port Wilberforce area. The buildings — if so they could be called — were similar to those at Camp Farewell, back on Earth, plastic bubbles, and some of them clusters of domes, bubbles on bubbles. In the background were the red sandhills, with outcroppings of dark brown rock. A dust devil whirled across the screen. Over all was the sky, absolutely clear, dark blue.

  'Hear this! Hear this! You will now leave the dormitory in single file, by the lower hatch. Ship's personnel will be at hand to direct you. Before entering the after airlock you will put on the respirators that will be issued to you. There will be no need for special protective clothing. That is all.5

  'The hatch is open,5 called somebody.

  'Get the lead out of your pants!5 shouted a strange voice.

  There was a little milling around, and then the prisoners began to file out through the open hatchway to the spiral ramp. A uniformed petty officer, with a wicked-looking pistol in his hand, stood there, waving them on and down. Other P.O.s were stationed along the ramp at intervals, making sure that the flow of traffic was maintained.

  Down they trudged, and down, in the space between inner and outer shells. Down, and round, and down, and round. . . At last they came to a sort of vestibule, where a lieutenant and two petty officers stood behind a wide counter, handing out equipment consisting of facepiece, harness and air bottle. This was identical to the gear with which they had had so many drills back in Camp Farewell. Every prisoner put his on without fumbling. By fours they were ordered into the airlock chamber. The inner door shut behind each quartet and then, after a delay of no more than a minute, reopened for the next party.

  Finally it was the turn of Clayton and Starr. They, together with Levine and Brown, entered the airlock chamber. The inner door shut behind them firmly. 'Swallow,5 advised Starr, his voice muffled by his mask. 'Swallow.5

  'Why?5 asked Clayton, realizing as he spoke the reason for Starr's admonition.

  Depressurization was rapid, with no consideration for the comfort of those subjected to it. Clayton's eardrums felt as though they were bursting outwards. He swallowed, swallowed again. There was a loud click, felt rather then heard, as pressures equalized. The pain, although it was diminishing slowly, persisted.

  The circular outer door opened. Harsh Martian sunlight flooded into the chamber. Before them the ramp stretched down to the red sand. Straggling over it was the dark grey file of those who had already disembarked, making their way to the nearer of the bubble structures.

  'Come on in,' said Starr, his voice thin and oddly high. 'Come on in, the water's fine!'

  'What water?' demanded Levine disgruntledly.

  29

  Port Wilberforce was Camp Farewell with a thin, unbreath-able atmosphere, lethally cold nights and a gravity little more than one-third Earth normal. Port Wilberforce was the dormitory in which the convicts slept; almost every day most of the men would be dispersed out along the crater rim, transported to the work sites in huge, flimsy, balloon-tyred sand buggies. The work — tiring because of the weight of the breathing equipment, despite the low gravity — was digging. If that huge crater had been a lake it would have made sense — but driving irrigation ditches from desert into surrounding desert seemed insanity.

  As at Camp Farewell, there were women. As at Camp Farewell, there was segregation. Some of the women were Mars Corps personnel, working in administration, as forewomen in those machine shops where female labour was employed, as overseers in the farms. These farms were huge circular areas of the omnipresent red dust, enriched with fertilizers, enclosed in enormous bubble tents of translucent plastic. In them were grown beans and potatoes — for protein and starchy bulk — and tomatoes and lettuces and cabbages — for vitamins.

  There was speculation among the convicts as to whether or not the Mars Corps men and women were volunteers. The general consensus of opinion was that the majority of them were not. The top-ranking officers and technicians seemed to be happy enough — at least, in public — but the lower-ranking men and women went about their duties with an all too obvious sullenness, seemed glad of any excuse to give some unfortunate convict a tongue lashing, or even a physical lashing with the whip that each of them carried in addition to a side-arm.

  Port Wilberforce was practically a small town. Some of the structures were single domes, others were bubbles piled on bubbles. Well away from all the habitations was the nuclear fusion power plant. To the south of this were the barracks of the male convicts. South again of these was the

  cluster of bubbles housing the Mars Corps personnel, offices and machine shops. Most southerly of all were the female barracks. Out in the desert, to the east, were the farms.

  Except during work periods — and each and every day was one, long work period — there was little surveillance. At sunset the convicts would be marched into their barracks, where their evening meal would be brought to them by a van that scurried around the domes, its crew anxious to get the job finished while the brief twilight lasted. It was rumoured that Port Wilberforce was a nest of electronic watching devices, but nobody was likely to try to escape under cover of darkness. There was nowhere to escape to. Some of the men in Clayton's dormitory did talk, now and again, of paying a nocturnal visit to one of the women's dormitories, but it was only wistful talk. As Starr put it coarsely, 'What those wenches want is a good, hot prick — not an icicle!'

  Nonetheless one night Clayton, with Starr and Martyn, did go outside briefly. It was Martyn's idea. He, as an astronomer, had become obsessed with the idea of seeing, with the naked eye, the famous moons of Mars. Starr said that it was a shame to come all this way, and not see them. Clayton just went along to keep his friend company. The three of them wrapped themselves in the blankets from their bunks, borrowed other blankets for additional warmth, put on their respirators and went out through the tunnel airlock.

  The night sky reminded Clayton of the night sky of the Australian desert back on Earth, except that the stars were even brighter, the blackness between the stars even blacker. Low to the west was a very bright planet, blazing greenly. 'Earth,' said Martyn briefly.

  An even brighter star had appeared a few degrees from Earth, but was not setting slowly, was rising fast. Its light was intense enough to cast faint shadows.

  'Phobos,' mumbled the astronomer. It sounded as though his lips must be almost frozen.

  Phobos, repeated Clayton. He was disappointed. He had been expecting a real moon, not a barely visible disc hardly more spectacular than the many space stations and artificial satellites circling Earth. That retrograde motion made it

  somehow exceptional, he supposed, but so what ? He hardly bothered to look up when Martyn pointed out Deimos, which did not even have an unusual orbit to recommend it. He was more interested in the brightly glowing domes of the Mars Corps barracks, from which drifted, clearly audible in spite of the thin atmosphere, the sounds of strident music, of drunken song.

  £Where do they get it from?' he demanded indignantly. His jaws were numb with the cold, and he had difficulty in moving them under the mask.

  'Get what ?' asked Starr.

  'Liquor. Booze. They seem to be having quite a party.'

  Starr managed a laugh. 'Botany Bay, I've learned, is self-supporting. The farms keep us in all essential foodstuffs. And you can do more with potatoes than just boil them.'

  'What do you mean ?'

  'Have you never heard of potato vodka ?' Then, to Martyn, 'But we haven't anything to keep us warm. We'd better get back inside.'

  30

  'She's got a beaut hangover...' said Samantha Kale enviously.

  She was Marge Fenton, who, with another woman, was working the row of tomatoes next to theirs.

  'She's welcome to it,' replied Jenny Rivers shortly, scratching at the red, friable soil with her rake.

  Samantha directed a spray of fertilizer at the broken-up surface. She said, 'A hangover's a small price to pay for a night's forgetfulness.'

  'A hangover is only a small part of the price she had to pay.'

  'Come off it, Jenny. Can the old-fashion morality. You're no plaster saint!'

  'And the last time I wasn't, look where it landed us. Here.'

  Both women were working naked in the hot, humid atmosphere of the farm dome. All the other women had stripped, even the overseers, who were wearing nothing but their short boots and pistol belts. The overseers were not as alert as usual. They, too, seemed to be suffering from the after-effects of over-indulgence.

  Jenny straightened, stretched. Hard physical work had done her figure more good than harm, and the Martian gravity was kind to her full breasts. Hard physical work had reduced Samantha almost to a skeleton, angular and breast-less. On Earth she would have collapsed under the weight of the back-pack spray.

  'Couldn'tyou make a play for one of the guards, Jenny?' whispered Samantha.

  'I'm not a prostitute!' Then Jenny added practically, 'Besides, we never see anybody over the rank of sergeant. The officers are all fixed up with the Mars Corps popsies.'

  'I've seen Butch looking at you. . .'

  Jenny, before she resumed her raking, glanced towards where the tall overseer was lounging, idly flicking her whip at a tomato plant, clipping off a leaf with each stroke. She was massive as well as being tall, big-breasted; and the coarse black mat of her pubic hair covered almost all her belly.

  'I'm neither a masochist nor a lesbian!' snapped Jenny.

  'And besides, even if I did play along, where would it get me ? What would it get me ? A little free grog and a striped back, that's what!'

  'And a foot inside the door. Their door.'

  'There'd be more than my foot inside the door. . .'

  'But it would be our chance to start boring from within. Unfortunately I haven't your looks. . . But with your looks, and my brains. .

  'I suppose I have no brains. . .'

  'I didn't mean that, Jenny. I should have said my experience. You'll not deny that I have more experience of poli tics than you. . .'

  'But you landed up in the same place. . .'

  'Break it up!' Butch was sauntering towards them, the whip ready in her right hand. 'Break it up!'

  Before Jenny could resume her raking the whip cracked loudly. She squealed as the tip of it stung the nipple of her right breast. Her hand went up to cover it, and it was her left breast that was the target.

  'You, Rivers! I'm far from satisfied with your work. You need an indoctrination session. I shall send for you after the evening meal. Carry on.'

  They carried on-

  Everybody was sleeping in the women's dormitory when Jenny came back- She crawled in through the tunnel airlock, still wearing the suit of thick synthefur that she had been given when she was sent for, still wearing her respirator. She removed the mask, walked slowly towards her bunk. She was suddenly aware that Samantha, who had the bunk over hers, had awakened and was looking at her. She could see her face in the dim light, and the expression frightened her by its avidity.

  'What happened?' whispered Samantha eagerly.

  'Oh, I got what you want. . .' Jenny fished inside her furs, brought out a bottle. 'Here. Schiaperelli Vodka, guaranteed non-lethal if you lay off it.'

  'You know what I want, and it's not a drink. . .'

  Tou lying bitch! thought Jenny.

  'I want information.

  'You're a. . . a voyeur. You want your sex secondhand.'

  'I want information. The best way to get to know the enemy is in bed. That way you find out all his weaknesses.'

  'His weaknesses ?'

  'You know what I mean.'

  'Shut up, you two! We want to sleep!' yelled one of the other prisoners.

  'The toilet. . .' said Samantha.

  'Oh, all right.' Jenny shed her furs, underneath which she was wearing only brief underclothing, tossed the garment on to her bunk. She said, for the benefit of anybody who might still be awake, 'You all know who lent this to me. If you know what's good for you you'll keep your paws off it!'

  She followed Samantha to the partitioned-off space that gave a little privacy.

  Samantha was sitting on one of the toilet seats when Jenny got there. She had filled a plastic tumbler with the neat vodka, had already downed half of it.

  So you couldn't wait, thought Jenny.

  'Tell me,' ordered Samantha, her voice only slightly slurred.

  'Tell you what?'

  'This Butch. This Sergeant Padillo. What makes her tick ?'

  'You mean, what turns her on?'

  'Yes.'

  Jenny laughed. 'I'm not sure myself. Frankly, I was scared. I was expecting black leather and knee boots and a whip. But it wasn't like that at all. Under her tough exterior she's not Butch. She's Daisy.'

  'No!'

  'Yes. There she was, all dollied up in a see-through negligee. And her hair was fluffed out. And the first thing she said, after the private who brought me was out of the door, was, "Please call me Daisy." Then she fussed around me, helped me off with my respirator and that fur outfit, and sat me down, and poured me a drink. And herself one. . .

  'You know, in a kinky sort of way I rather enjoyed it. Eddie — I wonder what happened to the poor bastard ?— treated me like his sainted mother when he wasn't screwing me. With Daisy it was more like I was her big sister — a

  big sister whom she hadn't seen since Christ was a pup. Did she talk! How nobody understood her, what bitches her privates are, what bastards and bitches the N.C.O.s and officers — according to sex — are. How she wouldn't be on Mars if a hen major hadn't found her in bed with a hen captain. . . Oh, my heart fair bled for her.'

  'So the Mars Corps boys and girls are throw-outs. I'd rather suspected that. ..'

  'Too right. Even the brigadier. It seems that he trod on the corns of the Secretary of State of War. .

  'What did he do?9

  'I just told you. Somebody had to be in command of this outfit, and his name sprang readily to the Secretary's mind. Oh, yes, and then I had to tell her about me. She was clucking sympathy like an old hen.' She managed a fair imitation of Butch's voice: 'Oh, Jenny. . . It's what I've always said. Men are no good. And most women aren't much better...'

  'And then?' Samantha sloshed another generous slug of vodka into her tumbler. 'And then ?'

  'We went to bed,' said Jenny simply. She laughed again. 'I never thought that I'd have to play the male role. But I remembered all that you've told me about boring from within, and how sergeants are the backbone — and sometimes the brains as well — of any army. And. . .'

  'And what?'

  'I must have pleased her, although towards the end I was almost bringing my supper up. She was heartbroken that I couldn't spend the night with her. She pressed that bottle of vodka — what's left of it — on me as a goodnight gift. But she managed to be coldly official when the private came to escort me back here. She said, in her hearing, "You have the makings of a natural leader, Rivers. I shall expect better of you in future. That is all." Then, to the private, "Let Rivers keep the furs. I may be requiring her again." That private either has marvellous control of her expression, or wouldn't know if a big black dog was up her. All she said was, "Very good, Sergeant." Talking's thirsty work. Any of that vodka left?'

  'No,' said Samantha.

  31

  Samantha Kale had always been an ambitious woman. She had realized, while still in her early teens, that she did not have, never would have, the looks to compete with other members of her sex in the age-old sport of man-hunting. It was not just a matter of looks. She had no dress sense, and not a glimmer of style — and dress sense and style are of greater importance than mere prettiness. But she was intelligent, highly intelligent. She decided when she first entered university, long before her graduation with a good degree in political science, that her future lay in the corridors of power. A parliamentary career was considered, then decided against. She was a realist, and knew that the most that she would ever achieve would be an unimportant ministry, and that only by subservience to party leaders who were her intellectual inferiors. In another country she might have reached the top of the parliamentary ladder — but Australia was neither India nor Israel, and in a world where women were clamouring, still, for the right to exercise their capabilities to the full, it had built up, and maintained, the image of a man's country.

 

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