Chapter 17: Security Payoff

It was three days before Bruce Gordon made up his mind to hunt up Security; another four days passed after they had sent him back to wait until they received orders from Headquarters for him. There was a man coming from Earth on a second ship who would see him. They gave him a chauffeur back to the Chicken Coop, and politely indicated that it would be better if he stayed within reach.

The dome had been down a full week when he watched the last of Randolph’s equipment packed onto a truck and hauled away. The little publisher was back at the Crusader again. Rusty was busy opening his bar, and the others were all busy. Only Gordon and Sheila were left.

He heard her coming down the old stairs, and ducked out through the private exit, snapping his helmet in place as he went through the seal. She must have sensed his desire to be left alone, since she made no attempt to follow. She’d asked no questions and hadn’t even tried to convince him that he’d be sent back to Earth now.

He muttered to himself as he headed over the rubble toward the previously domed section.

Out at the spaceport, ships were dropping down from Deimos with the supplies that had been held up so long, and a long line of trucks went snaking by. Credit had been established again, and the businesses were open.

For the time being, the hoods and punks were having a tough time of it, with working papers demanded as constant identification. And while it lasted, at least, Marsport was beginning to have its face lifted. Wrecks were being broken up, with salvageable material used for newer homes. Gordon came to a row of temporary bubbles, individual dwellings built like the dome, but opaque for privacy.

As Gordon drew closer to the old foundation of the dome, the feeling around began to clarify into something halfway between what he had seen on the real frontier and what he had known as a kid in Earth’s slums.

They had been lucky. The dome had exploded outwards, with only bits of it falling back; and the buildings had come through the outward explosion of the pressure with little damage. Gordon grinned wryly. Schulberg’s volunteers were official, now. Izzy was acting as chief of police, Schulberg was head of the reconstruction corps, and Mother Corey was temporary Mayor of all Marsport. The old charter for Marsport from North America was dead, and the whole city was now under Security charter, like the rest of the planet. But the dozen Security men had left most of the control in the Mother’s hands, and the old man was up to his fat jowls in business.

Gordon moved automatically toward the Seventh Ward. Fats’ Place was still open, though the crooked tables had been removed. Gordon dropped to a stool, slipping off his helmet. He reached automatically for the glass of ether-needled beer. This time, it even tasted good to him.

“On the house, copper,” Fats’ voice said. The man dropped to another stool, rolling dice casually between his thumbs. “And bring out a steak, there! You look as if you could stand it--and Fats don’t forget old friends!”

“Friends and other things,” Gordon said, remembering his first visit here. “Maybe you should have got me that night, Fats.”

The other shrugged. “That’s Mars.” He rolled the dice out, then picked them up again. “Guess I’ll have to stick to selling meals, mostly--for a while, at least. Somebody told me you’d joined Security and got banged up trying to keep Trench from blowing up the dome. Thought you’d be in the chips!”

“That’s Mars,” Gordon echoed the other’s comment. “Why don’t you pull off the planet, Fats? You could go back to Earth, I’d guess.”

The other nodded. “Yeah. I went back, about ten years ago. Spent four weeks down there. I dunno. Guess a man gets used to anything ... Hell, maybe I can hire some bums to sit around and whoop it up when the ships come in, and bill this as a real old Martian den of sin! Get a barker out at the port, run special busses, charge the suckers a mint for a cheap thrill.”

Gordon grinned wryly; Fats would probably make more than ever.

He finished the meal, accepted a pack of the Earth cigarettes that sold at a luxury price here, and went out into the thin air of Mars. It was almost good to get out into the filth of the slums, and be heading back to the still-standing monument of the old Chicken Coop. He headed for the private entrance out of habit, and then shrugged as he realized it was a needless precaution now. He moved up the front steps and through the battered seal.