The image began to break up. Faintly, they could see Swansea offering the cigarette to Preston. “It’s mid-morning, man. You want a regulation toke?”
Then the screen went blank.
The silence in Mission Control was deafening. Only the instrumentation conversed, in soft buzzes and clicks. After a long pause the president turned and began whispering to MacDonald, who nodded as he listened. The president talked for quite a while. MacDonald’s expression was grave.
After the chief executive and his entourage departed, the senior engineer beckoned to Hepworth.
“He didn’t buy it.”
“Who would, after witnessing a performance like that?” Hepworth gestured toward the big screen, now ablink with flight data and other innocuous statistics.
“He’d like to see all senior members of the team in the briefing room. Now.”
“Right.” Hepworth followed his friend and boss. The flight crew hadn’t cooperated. Not that they were expected to, but hopes had run high. So to speak. He consoled himself with the knowledge that it could have been worse. It
had
been, in the course of the flight out from Earth, but that dialogue had arrived via containable, editable, closed channels.
Actually, he thought the crew hadn’t performed too badly. Except for some of their dialogue. And Major Oakley’s exposure. And Commander Swansea’s closing commentary.
Well, maybe they had performed badly.
The president was waiting for them, a measure of his concern. He sat at one end of the desk and bid them join him. As the door closed behind him Hepworth could hear the distant howls of reporters struggling to get past the guards. On a trip to Tanzania, Hepworth had once heard hyenas closing in on an injured impala. The memory came back to him now, unbidden.
The president was quiet, staring down at his folded hands. Hepworth thought the room too brightly lit. Then that familiar face rose to eye each of them in turn. To Hepworth’s immense discomfort, it eventually settled on him.
A small eon or two passed in continued silence before the chief executive said softly but firmly, “Well?”
The voice of Mission Control looked to Tetsugawa, then MacDonald, who nodded but offered no support. Hepworth was on his own.
“I guess you’d like an explanation, Mr. President.”
“Your observation reeks of understatement, Mr. Hepworth.”
So it’s no longer “Warren,” he reflected. Not a good sign.
He rose and began pacing. He always thought better on his feet.
“The White House science advisor may have told you, Mr. President, that the weight of accumulated research has shown us that long-term exposure to weightlessness in Earth orbit is not in the same league, physiologically speaking, with much greater exposure over interplanetary distances. As we discovered several years ago, the illness that develops during such extended trips is persistent, debilitating, and if allowed to continue results in physical problems as well as severe psychological complications.”
“I’ve been briefed,” the president replied. “I’ve kept abreast of the project since before I was elected.”
Hepworth nodded, grateful that he wouldn’t have to explain every little detail, every nuance of the situation. Compared to his elected brethren on Capitol Hill, this president was technologically sophisticated. It just might make a difference. At the very least, it was bound to help.
“We experimented with every imaginable kind of medication, sir, to alleviate the symptoms attendant on such far-ranging expeditions. The ones we would have preferred to use were too weak, or wore off after a month or so. Anything strong enough to significantly mute the relevant debilitating condition affected individual performance to the point where it compromised mission safety.
“What we needed was medication which could be taken as necessary but would not impair the crew over a time span of several months. We also needed something that would not damage the crew’s mental well-being. As you know, the problem of being cooped up in a small ship over so much time and distance was more difficult for us to deal with than the hard science and engineering.
“In the end it was Ms. Tetsugawa who came up with the right stuff. As you may know, she is our chief design engineer and is responsible for the overall performance of the spacecraft, particularly the lander. She also suffers from inoperable glaucoma in her right eye. Among the medications that have been prescribed for her over the years and that allow her to continue in her career is cannabis.”
Tetsugawa gave him a welcome breather as she spoke up. “In the course of preparing for this expedition, Mr. President, we discovered that periodic use of cannabis, or rather, its principal component, ACTH, relieved the majority of symptoms associated with long-distance interplanetary travel while still allowing the crew a sufficient degree of functionality to successfully carry out their assignments. It has the added side benefit of enhancing their mental well-being.
“We considered various methods of application, from pill form to injection, but found that the, um, traditional intake methodology was the most effective. Like everything else on the ship, the
Barsoom
’s ventilation system is overbuilt and redundant. It handles the smoke without difficulty.”
“That’s nice to know,” the president responded dryly.
“I might add, sir, that the necessary material was obtained through legal sources, principally the same pharmaceutical company which supplies glaucoma sufferers like myself. I understand that the raw material comes from wild fields in Hawaii.”
The president’s fingers were working. “At least it’s the product of American agriculture. There was no other way?”
MacDonald shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. We had the choice of utilizing an effective method of treatment or abandoning the Mars flight until some chemical substitute could be found.”
The chief executive looked thoughtful. “What about long-term risks to the astronauts?”
“Compared to the other risks involved in this expedition they were deemed minimal, sir. Their dosage is carefully monitored, though occasionally they can exceed that limit. I’m afraid they may have done so today, though in light of their extraordinary accomplishment it may be understandable. As you may know, when they announced touchdown we had our own little celebration here at Mission Control.”
“Testing was rigorous, Mr. President,” the diminutive Tetsugawa put in. “The United Tobacco Company was kind enough to lend us their secret laboratory facilities. They had their own reasons for participating, of course. We’d hoped to keep this aspect of the mission quiet until the crew had returned and been through debriefing. Your insistence on this transmission made that impossible.”
“The American people have a right to know,” the president replied. “They have a right to know what their tax dollars are paying for.” Next to him, an aide put a hand to his forehead and groaned.
“I’m surprised you managed to keep it out of the papers this long,” another executive assistant exclaimed.
The president rose and turned to stare at the large relief map of Mars that dominated the near wall of the briefing room.
“This is a great day for our country. Nothing must be allowed to take away from that, nor from the accomplishments of that gallant crew. In the time-honored tradition of science and exploration they have made great sacrifices and suffered much.”
“Maybe not too much,” one aide whispered to another. The secretary of state glared at them.
“Those are our feelings also, Mr. President.” Mac-Donald’s spirits rose. It was going to be all right.
“I am sure that once the circumstances are properly explained to them, the public will see things in an understanding light. You can handle the press, can’t you, Roy?”
The White House press secretary pursed his lips. “I’ll need plenty of supportive material from NASA, sir. It won’t be easy. People have been conditioned for so long to think that—”
The president glanced over his shoulder. “Putting three men and a woman on Mars hasn’t been easy either, Roy.”
The spokesman swallowed. “No, sir.”
Hepworth was breathing easier. He marveled at the president, admiring the skill of a consummate politician at work. There was no anger; only an attempt to find solutions.
“We’ll provide all the backup material you need,” MacDonald told the press secretary. The president turned to the chief mission engineer.
“I appreciate your striving to keep this aspect of the mission out of the public eye for as long as possible, Mr. MacDonald. At least we have the successful landing to build upon. Had this information leaked earlier it would have greatly complicated funding. You’ve all done your jobs well. Now it’s my turn. Thanks to our idiot economic advisors I’ve had to justify far more unsettling surprises than this.” He turned from the map.
“It will be difficult to spin the press, but we’ll manage. Tabloid headlines like ‘Potheads Go to Mars’ will be the least of our problems. It’s the conservative media that worry me.” He sighed. “The Moral Majority never wanted any space missions anyway.”
“We’ll hold up our end, sir,” insisted MacDonald.
“I know that you all will.” He moved to shake hands with each of them in turn. “It’s been an important day, unexpected revelations notwithstanding. Now I’m afraid I have to get back to Washington. As your Commander Swansea pointed out, time waits for no man.” He headed for the door. Beyond, a phalanx of aides and Secret Service men were sweeping the corridor clean of reporters.
“One thing comes to mind right away, guys.” The press secretary lingered in the doorway. “I think it would be a good idea if future Mission Control press releases at least temporarily stopped referring to it as ‘The High Frontier’ . . .”
EMPOWERED
Litigious.
That’s a big word. One I didn’t encounter
until I was old enough to learn that it referred to a biblical affliction brought forward to modern times. Personally, I’d rather have the plague of frogs or rain of fire.
Our legal system doesn’t just impoverish people: it
withers them. Sometimes literally (see
Ally McBeal
).
You can’t do anything anymore without talking to a
lawyer. I prefer the Japanese system, where once you’ve
decided to go to court you’ve already lost face, therefore
it’s better at all costs to avoid doing so. It doesn’t matter
anymore if you’re a good guy or a bad guy—just who
your lawyer is. Every month, several folks committed to
long stays in the penitentiary are released because they’re
cleared by DNA tests, and every month O.J., who failed
his, strides the golf courses of America like some grinning front man for the Grim Reaper himself.
Doing good or doing bad, it hardly matters anymore.
It doesn’t even matter what kind of suit you wear to
work . . .
They’d used too much explosive, but Krieger didn’t care. The stuff didn’t do anyone any good sitting in the basement of the safe house, and the one thing he sure didn’t want to do was use too little and risk blowing, as it were, the whole job. So he’d told Covey to use all he wanted, and the demolition demon had taken him at his word.
Besides, Krieger liked big explosions.
Covey had certainly orchestrated one. As he and Krieger and the rest of the gang hunched down behind the truck, the force of the blast blew out the whole back of the building. Even before the dust had begun to settle they were up and running, masks and filters enabling them to breathe where others could not while simultaneously disguising their identities. Across town Joaquin and Sievers were faking their bank break-in, drawing the majority of the police to their nonexistent robbery. By now those two should be on their way to freedom via the carefully plotted escape route through the town sewers.
Meanwhile, except for its now numbed and bleeding private security force, the special Colored Gem exhibition at Vaan Pelsen’s was open to anyone who chose to saunter in without buying a ticket. Needless to say, Krieger and his team didn’t have any tickets. They never paid for admission.
Some gems lay scattered like electric gumdrops among the rubble, but Covey’s careful placement of the explosives the previous night had only destroyed the back third of the store. Save for shattered glass and bodies, the front portion was largely intact. One guard had somehow survived uninjured. He was quickly taken down by Pohatan, wielding his Uzi.
Not being averse to physical labor, Krieger carried his own canvas sack. While Pohatan and Covey kept watch over the street, where dazed pedestrians were stumbling about looking for assistance, Krieger and the rest of the team efficiently and methodically helped themselves to the necklaces and rings, watches and bracelets, settings and loose gems from the demolished display cases. No alarms rang in their ears. The explosion had destroyed them as well.
Anything worth obliterating, Krieger mused as he worked, was worth obliterating well.
Having rehearsed the heist for months, they worked fast, intending to be long gone before the first of the duped city police could make it back across town from the faked bank robbery. Still, Krieger urged his people to move more quickly, and to leave nothing behind. Ignoring the shocked and moaning injured among the store’s staff, they roughly shoved bleeding bodies aside in their quest for the last of the regular stock and special exhibition. In less than ten minutes they had reassembled and were heading for the remnants of the back door.
Where a lanky green figure waited to confront them.
“Who the hell is that?” Pohatan gaped at the caped, emerald silhouette.
“Doesn’t matter,” Krieger snapped. “Waste him.”
Reflexively, Pohatan brought the Uzi up and squeezed the trigger. The compact automatic crackled.
Before the bullets could strike home, a giant oak sprang full-grown from beneath the crumbled tarmac to interpose itself between the gunman and the green figure. Slugs thudded harmlessly into the thick wood.
Krieger’s jaw dropped. His carefully prepared plan contained no contingencies for this kind of inexplicable interference.
The green-clad man stepped out from behind the tree. Lean muscle rippled beneath his tight suit (spandex, Krieger wondered dazedly?), and he wore a green band across his eyes.
“Give it up, Krieger. It’s all over.”
“Like hell.” Krieger turned to his men. Already the distant complaint of sirens could be heard approaching rapidly from the north. “Get him!”
Pohatan threw his massive bulk at the figure, only to run headlong into a dense grove of new-sprung spruce that hadn’t been there when he’d started his charge. Brownlee succeeded in reaching him, whereupon the figure’s arms seemed to metamorphose into long vines. They wrapped around the startled assailant, lifted him effortlessly off the pavement, and flung him clear over the ruined store into the street beyond.
While the rest of his team rushed the floral fighter Krieger raced for the truck, the sackful of jewelry bouncing against his back. A glance rearward showed that the rest of his gang were having no better luck than their already incapacitated colleagues.
Krieger jammed the key into the ignition and fired up the big engine, slamming the truck into drive. Turning the rig, he accelerated as he bored down on the green shape, who had just disposed of the last of Krieger’s associates. There would be no time for the green stranger to get out of the way, Krieger saw. He grinned broadly. He liked running people over almost as much as he liked big explosions.
Giant roots erupted from the ground immediately in front of the truck. Wide-eyed, the gang boss tried to swerve. The roots twisted and grabbed at the truck, coiling around both axles and lifting it off the ground. As the solemn-faced green man looked on, they heaved the vehicle sideways. It smashed into a pair of parked cars, rolled over, and came to rest among the tables of an outdoor restaurant whose patrons had fortunately run inside and remained there when Covey’s explosives had first gone off.
The first patrol car to arrive in the parking lot behind the smoking ruins of the jewelry store disgorged a pair of stunned officers, who gratefully took delivery of the still alive (but badly damaged) Krieger and the rest of his gang. As the cops looked on, a brace of flexible willows emerged from the earth to lightly grasp the green figure. Bending their crowns to the ground, they aimed him skyward.
“Wait a minute!” yelled one of the officers. “Who are you?
What
are you?”
“Call me ‘Earth Spirit,’ ” the green man intoned. “I was once one of you, one of the teeming masses. Now, because of an industrial accident, I’m somewhat more, and this is what I intend to do with my newfound powers. Spread the word among lawbreakers and polluters. Let them know that no matter where they try to hide, they are safe no more!”
With that the willows sprang forward with tremendous velocity, sending the green man soaring out of sight. No doubt another tree or bush was waiting somewhere to catch him and relay him on his way. The officers exchanged a glance, then positioned themselves to watch over the battered gang until backup and medics could arrive.
Meanwhile, they had plenty to talk about.
“You know, you’re a very difficult person to locate.”
“How did you find me?” Earth Spirit stepped back into the cave. “And how did you get past all the thorn bushes and poison ivy I caused to spring forth to discourage intruders?”
The small, heavyset man set himself down in a high-backed chair that was growing right out of the cave floor. He mopped at his sweat-streaked brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Nice place you got up here. Spacious, but a little dark for my taste.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m mildly claustrophobic.”
“And hugely puzzling,” Earth Spirit declared. “You haven’t answered my questions.”
“I put out the word quietly. Announced a reward for information. Local farmer noticed a lot of sudden growth up on this mountaintop and got in touch with a regional contact of mine. At that point I decided that a personal visit was in order. May I call you ‘Earth’? It’s a lot easier, I prefer to be on a first-name basis with people, and besides, the other half’s copyrighted.”
“If it will make you feel more at ease.” The green one settled himself into a chair opposite. A compliant vine handed him a drink.
“As for the thorns and the ivy, as you can see, I dressed accordingly. Willis and Geiger. I’m not used to this kind of gear. Silk three-pieces are more to my taste.”
“You’re from the government,” Earth Spirit surmised.
“Not at all, though I’m sure they’ll get here sooner or later. My name is Lemuel French. I’m a lawyer.”
The green-clad man frowned. “What would I need with a lawyer, Mr. French?”
The smaller man stared at him in disbelief. “You really don’t know? Well, maybe not. Ever since the Vaan Pelsen debacle you’ve kept pretty quiet, except for vine-wrapping the occasional mugger.”
Earth Spirit smiled. “My actions seem to have had a deterrent effect on local crime.”
“That they have. It’s one of the problems you’re going to have to deal with.”
“Problems?” The vine held the drink steady.
“You’re really out of touch up here on this mountaintop, aren’t you? No paper, no cable, no broadband.”
“I prefer the company of the natural world,” the green man replied stiffly.
“You want to live like a granola that’s fine with me, but your activities impinge on the real world. That’s why I sought you out. See, I believe in what you’re doing and I want to help.” He smiled broadly. “For a fee, of course. We really need to discuss your putting my firm on retainer.”
“I told you, I have no need of a lawyer.”
“So you said.” French popped the polished brass clasp on an elegant eelskin briefcase and removed a thick sheaf of papers. “These are copies. You’ll be served as soon as they can find you. That gives us some time.”
Earth Spirit eyed the papers in spite of himself. “What is all that?”
“Let’s see. Where to start?” French shuffled the sheaf as smoothly as a Vegas dealer handling cards. “The first suit is from Vaan Pelsen, Inc.”
“Vaan Pelsen? Why would they want to sue me? I saved their merchandise.”
“But a lot of it was damaged in the gang’s escape attempt. Fancy goldwork, that sort of thing.”
“They wouldn’t have it to fix if I hadn’t stepped in.”
“I agree completely, and I’m sure the court will take that into account.” French had his reading glasses on now. “Here’s another: ‘Mildred Fox, plaintiff for Sissy and Michael Fox, juvenile principals.’ ”
The green man looked baffled. “I’ve never heard of these people.”
“They were dining in the restaurant where you threw Mr. Krieger and his stolen truck. Ms. Mildred Fox is the mother of the two named children. She claims that her kids suffered severe emotional distress from nearly being struck by the escape vehicle, and that among other things they now refuse to ride in the family minivan, thus forcing Ms. Fox, a working mother, to sell it at a loss and buy an ordinary car. Claimant further deposes that her children now experience uncontrollable fits at the sight of any large delivery vehicle.”
“This—this is ridiculous!” Earth Spirit sputtered.
“I heartily concur, and we’ll make Ms. Fox and her well-coached little schemers look that way in court.” As if by magic more papers appeared.
“Is there much of this?” Earth Spirit regarded the phone book–sized pile with growing trepidation.
“Depends on your definition of
much
. A Mr. Colin Hvarty is suing you for medical expenses pursuant to a broken leg and sprained back, plus possible concussion.”
“I never broke anybody’s leg, not even one of the robbers’!” the green-clad man protested.
French looked up and smiled regretfully. “Apparently Mr. Hvarty was standing in the street opposite Vaan Pelsen’s when he was struck by a flying crook. Did you happen, in the course of your work, to perhaps fling one or more of the miscreants in that direction?”
“I didn’t mean to hit anybody.”
“Well, you did.” French adjusted his glasses. “We’ll have to see about getting you some liability insurance, though after the business at Vaan Pelsen’s you’d better be prepared to deal with an outrageous monthly premium.”
“Superheroes don’t need liability insurance.”
French peered over the top of his glasses. “Is that so? You want to perform good deeds in this country, you’d better make sure you’re fully covered before you start.
“The owner of the parking lot behind Pelsen’s has presented a bill for the following: to wit, expenses directly related to removing a large oak tree and a number of smaller growths from his property, and repaving the damaged area. The owner of the restaurant where Ms. Fox and her offspring suffered their purported trauma is suing for damage to eight tables and chairs, shade umbrellas, decorative railing, landscaping, and assorted crockery, glassware, and utensils.
“A Mr. Loemann and a Mr. Kelly are suing for damage to their respective vehicles. Those are the two cars you unfortunately hit with the getaway truck. Or rather, their insurance companies are suing you. A local nature organization has filed a writ to prevent you from utilizing any vegetation of any species whatsoever in your crimefighting activities until you can present them with an acceptable environmental impact report demonstrating beyond reasonable doubt that your work does not involve the use of dangerous chemicals, stimulants, or scientifically unapproved bioengineering. The regional office of the Food and Drug Administration wants to talk to you about essentially the same thing.”
“Go on.” Earth Spirit’s expression was grim.