Icehenge (22 page)

“
Please,
Hjalmar.” Now he was in the kitchen, cutting vegetables on the wooden counter for the wok. “Look at it less idealistically. How can any person change anything singlehandedly?” Big knife:
chop chop chop chop chop.
“Aren't you taking on too much? Have you ever considered how well entrenched the system is?”
Chop chop chop chop chop.
He waved the knife at me like a baton, big shrug, sigh of resignation: “Marx never guessed how technology would fix wood-and-steam capitalism into concrete for the ages. We're just tiny organic components of a solar-system-wide machine, Hjalmar. How can you fight it?”

“Show where we came from. Show we were once an organism.”

“But we're Martians. It was never an organism here. Things as they are have been destroyed, remember? We were always a machine. You can't show it here.”

“
Show,
then, that once all the Martians revolted together, and broke spontaneously toward utopia. And show they almost succeeded, show they had a real, workable plan. Show how they were crushed, with the idea of indicating what they did wrong, so that implicit everywhere in the exposure is the idea of doing it right—of
doing it again,
with maps of things to be avoided. We are twenty million millennials on this planet, Shrike, condemned to live out every day of our lives. What mere
form
can hold us?”

“Pretty abstract.”

“Okay—I'll be more concrete—why should we spend our lives making profits for Terrans? Why shouldn't we—why can't we—throw off Earth's colonial rule?”

“Perhaps we c—”

“And so
archaeology,
you see Shrike? It's the best way I can figure out to do it! I mean for me to do something to
start
it, or work in that
direction,
at
least
—”

“All right, Hjalmar. All right. Calm down. Ha! I knew you wouldn't fall into a funk. You were just on the big slide. But listen here. You're talking to a member of the Mars Development Committee, the newest and brightest. That means something. Things are changing. There's more ways to work at this than your own, and more people than you working at it. Keep that in mind! You're so wrought up these days, and I think it comes from this feeling that you're doing it all yourself—that no one else on Mars thinks!” He threw cabbage in the heated oiled wok, and it sizzled madly.

“… That's because it's not working,” I admitted, and felt myself drain again. “I brought the past back, and it doesn't matter. Your bosses are just slotting it into the machine. It isn't going to make any difference.”

“You don't know that yet. Listen to this, wild man—you're going to be appointed head of the Planetary Survey.”

I thought I had heard him wrong in the crackle of vegetables. “What's this?”

“Satarwal's out. You'll be given the authority to open up any site you want for a dig. And to convene an inquiry into the Aimes Report.”

I must have looked like a cretin, I was so shocked; Shrike looked up from stirring and laughed like a maniac. “Go get some clothes on for dinner. And dry off first.”

“But why?”

“So you won't get your food wet!”

“No, damn it,
why?
Why the appointment?”

“Haven't you been paying any attention to the effect your work has had?”

“Of course! It hasn't had any effect at all! I've barely found anything.”

“Well. People say you are very conservative in interpreting your data. Which is all to the good as far as the rest of the Committee is concerned. You've got a reputation for responsible science. And though there hasn't been a big public reaction to your findings, you can hardly expect it, since none of them have appeared in the news. But the scientific community has been impressed, I'm told. It stands to reason—after all, what other explanation of Icehenge even makes sense? I ask you!”

“Don't ask me! I've often wondered that myself.”

“Well there you have it. We've been contacted by Nakayama and Anya Lebedyan and other advisors to the Survey, who have pointed out the implications of your work for—for Mars. Here, eat. And the Committee has decided to make the appointment, so you can do the job properly.”

“Ah,” I said. Now I began to understand. “You're going to make me into a good party man, eh?”

Shrike grinned. “You were always a good party man, Hjalmar. You just didn't know it.”

I dropped my fork in my plate, went to the bathroom, dried off and dressed. A great fear was filling me; I saw their plan, I saw what they were hoping to do with me. I returned to the living room.

“I'll show there was a revolution! A civil war!”

Shrike nodded. “I believe you. And you will show that Icehenge was constructed by Martians.”

“By Martian rebels! Fighting the Committee!”

He nodded, smiling one of his private smiles, one that said, It won't matter. All those years the Committee had lied, they had crushed not only the revolution but the memory of it, and now so much time had passed that they could smile and say yes, that's what happened—it's true—we killed a fifth of the population, almost a million people—and then we buried it all. Now they've dug it up in New Houston, but so what? We're still here; everybody's happy; no one remembers it; nobody cares.

They were counting on our amnesia. They could co-opt any act, no matter how brutal, into their history; as long as it was old enough, it wouldn't affect them at all. It was as easy as co-opting a malcontent professor: give him an important-sounding job in the system, where he became part of the machine; let him taste a little power, let him censor himself to taste a little more—

“I'll be different!” I shouted at Shrike. “I won't fold up and do what you say to crawl higher! I'll use what you've given me against you, I swear. You'll regret giving me this chance.”

Shrike nodded, eyes downcast, the little smirk still in place. It said, That's what they all say, at first.

“I have to get out of here,” I said, suddenly terrified.

“This city is bad for you.” He looked annoyed. “Why don't you eat?”

I crossed the room in search of my coat. “Didn't I bring a coat?”

“No! Damn it, Hjalmar, will you be reasonable? Sit down and eat this meal I've cooked for you!”

I was shivering. “I'm going to borrow one of your coats.” I took one from the closet. “I've got to get out of here.” I put on the coat and went to the door.

“Jesus Christ. Hjalmar! Wait a second—you'll take the appointment?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, damn you.”

I hurried down the wide boulevards in a frenzy. The big public buildings loomed over me like colorful Committee flags. Of course they gave me the codes to find what they wanted me to find. Of course their censors let me publish the results. All this happened with their permission, supervision, planning. Their power over me was as tangible and massive as the great stone libraries that I scuttled between. Furiously I packed a single travel bag and left my apartment. Down the boulevards to the giant olivine train station. I had to escape before they destroyed me. Faces I passed were slack and incurious, almost dead. Bathhouse doors gaped like wet mouths, the colored stone towers pulsed and wavered in the glow of the streetlights, bending until they almost met in the sky over me. In the train station I found that a sleeper to Burroughs was about to depart; it would make a stop at Coprates, where I could rent a car and return to New Houston. I had to get to New Houston, I would be safe there. I got on the train and huddled in a corner window seat, hugging my bag, shivering violently until with a gentle bump the train slid out of the station and into the night. After a time my body calmed; but my mind spun, I could not sleep.

Nothing I could do would bring them down.

*   *   *

Kolpos Crater—this small crater (Bt, 8 km. diameter) in the western section of Hellas Planitia is the lowest point on the Martian surface, four kilometers below the datum.

Back in New Houston I found no changes. A reconstruction: “Twenty-sixth century archaeological dig, Mars.” When they were done the place would be studded with plaques and roped off: the war trophy as historical landmark. McNeil showed me around the city. He was still going at it with a toothbrush, so it looked no different than it had a year before.

Petrini hurried up with a realistic smile of welcome. “Congratulations on your new appointment,” he said. “We just heard about it today. It's quite an honor! I hope you'll remember your old friends when you're up there in Burroughs.”

“I'll remember a lot of things.”

Hana and Bill and Heidi and Xhosa were all at the physical plant, and they greeted me and showed me around the cleaned-up walls. The whole plant was ready for the plaques. “Well, it's something,” I said. “I had hoped you would get more done.” Later Bill and Hana took me up to the rim to see the work they had done on the dome explosions. It wasn't bad work, though one of them would have been enough for it.

“We're going to get married,” Bill said.

“Yes?” I tried to hide my surprise. “I didn't know people did that anymore. Congratulations.”

“We figured you would be back soon,” said Hana, “so we delayed it a bit hoping you could make it. It'll be in the camp here on Saturday.”

“Thanks for waiting,” I said. “Tell me, have you gotten this work published?”

They gave each other a look.

“I know I'm supposed to be keeping tabs on your work, but I've been busy in Alexandria and I thought you might have gone ahead with it.”

“We've got it ready for your review,” Hana said slowly. “We had thought you would be co-author—”

“Oh no, no, dispense with that. Your paper. I wasn't even here while you did it.” They looked odd, and Bill glanced at Hana. I said, “Ha—a little wedding present, so to speak.” Only then did it occur to me that they might want my name on the paper, to get it attention. “Again, congratulations. I'll make a point to be there.”

Marriage. What idealism. On Saturday afternoon we all gathered in the main tent, which was decorated with stained screens and strings of flowers. It was a fine day, the air still and clear, the sky a deep violet.

The ceremony was short. The Kleserts were matron of honor and best man; Xhosa, who was a Unitarian minister, performed the service. Bill and Hana exchanged the usual impossible vows, and the party began. Several cases of the finest Utopian champagne had been shipped in, and I did my share in downing them, going at it with a will. After seven glasses I moved to a corner to make room for dancing. Our whole community was there, nearly sixty people, and most danced to the complex crossed rhythms of Eve Morris tunes. I looked through their gyrations to the crater rim above our tent. How many weddings had taken place in New Houston? Had any of them miraculously survived? Not likely—but perhaps—out there in the chaos—

Petrini came and stood by me, glass in hand. “It must be nice to see your students get along so well.”

“Is that what you call it?”

He laughed. “Something like that.”

I saw he was a bit drunk himself. Alcohol is a strange drug. “We've got a lot of work to do at the Survey,” I said, and downed my glass. “We'll be starting digs at all the proscribed sites, and farming out grants to the university where we have to. I might be able to send some money your way, if you want to start investigating what
really
happened in the revolution.” I nodded seriously. “Maybe you could look into those green natives, eh?”

He was still struggling to form a response when Hana came and asked me to dance. She had tactfully chosen one of the slower numbers, and once on the floor we were able to circle sedately among the other couples, in a roar of music and voices. “You look beautiful,” I said. She was wearing a white skirt and a blue blouse. I leaned to kiss her on the cheek and lost my step, kissing her too hard.

“Thank you.”

“But I don't understand this marriage,” I complained. “It's an archaic ceremony, it makes no sense in this day and age. I'd have thought you'd know better. You're twice as smart as Bill—”

She pulled away from me, and I saw the pained expression on her face and realized what I had done. Desperately I pulled her back into the dance and said, “Oh wait, Hana, please excuse me, that was a stupid thing to say, I'm very sorry. I'm—I'm upset. I've had too much champagne.” She nodded once, looking down. “It's just that you're the best of them, Hana. The only one who never went along with Satarwal and his lies. And I worry about you. They can take anything you do and turn it bad, you know. Your victories are sucked in and used just as efficiently as your defeats. Everything can be used. You have to watch out. Don't let them suck you in, Hana—you're too good for that, too young, too smart.”

“No, Dr. Nederland. I won't. But thanks for the warning—”

“Only right! That's part of my job, being your teacher. You're the best of them, and I've got to teach you what I've learned.” I tried to give her another kiss and she held herself rigidly for it. Of course. Drunk advisor, coming on at the wedding reception itself. Disgusting. I saw that and stepped back, appalled. Hana stopped dancing and gave me a brief pitying look. To my relief McNeil cut in—he couldn't dance either, and had to take advantage of the slow song. I walked dizzily to the drinks table.

I drained a few more glasses and went outside. My mood plummeted and I pulled my hood off; the cold brought me to my senses, but I still felt black. I stared up at the bronze sun and its squadron of mirrors. When I ran away from Alexandria I had hoped I would escape this feeling; New Houston had seemed my home, my real life, my real work. But things were the same no matter where I went; here my work was just as useless, my life just as empty. No matter where I ran it would be the same. I recalled the end of Cavafy's poem “The City”—