The suit was a tight bodystocking of an elastic weave, with metal threads running through it that fitted like it had been painted on. The outfitter chewed gum and made stupid jokes about blowouts while he literally built the suit around me. He cut the cloth, stretched it, and heatwelded the plastic threads while it was in place. Then I took off that part and he finished the welding job. When it was all done it fit snugly, not quite tight enough to cut off circulation, and looked something like a thin version of a skin diver's wet suit.
"We first came here, they didn't have thread that would stand up," the outfitter said. "This new stuffs great, though. You can gain maybe five kilos and it'll still fit. Don't put on more weight than that, though, or you'll be buying a new suit."
The pressure suit ended with a gasket at the neck. A helmet dogged onto that. With pressure in the helmet you could go outside. The skintight bodystocking reinforces your own skin so it can take the internal pressure, and your sweat glands are the temperature regulator. Marsmen wear skin-tights everywhere because if there's a blowout and you get your helmet on quick, you may stay alive.
That was quite a helmet, with lights, a radio, and hoses meant to connect to air tanks. The tanks went in a backpack. There was more to the outfit: reflective coveralls, heavy foam-insulated jacket and trousers, thick gloves, a tool kit that snapped onto a belt, boots, a knife, and another radio in a holster.
Smitty the outfitter had set up a table outside for people waiting while he worked on their gear. Chad brought lunch and beer.
"Doesn't this cost a lot, Mr. Wechsung?" I asked.
"Call me Sarge. Sure it costs."
I didn't understand and I guess my face said so.
"Think you're not worth it? Hell of a time to tell me. Once Smitty starts cuttin', I've bought it."
I didn't say anything, and he laughed. It was a cheerful laugh. He didn't sound worried about anything, but I knew it would take more than a year for me to save up what he was paying. "Let us worry about the costs," he said. He looked around. No one was listening to us. "The Skipper thinks you might make a Marsman, and I take the Commander's word for it."
"You mean Mr.—"
"Yeah."
Commander. That squared with the black bands on Farr's coverall sleeves. "Are you still in the Federation Service?" I asked.
"Hell no. Retired years ago. So did the Old Man. He went to prisoner-chasin' and I went to farming. What do they call you, Pittson?"
"Garrett's my name—"
"Fine. Garrett, you were told to think about something. Did you?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"I'll make my word good."
Sarge grinned. "Okay. And you can trust people, a little anyway, or you wouldn't have waited for me. Garrett, I have a big place out there. Lots of work. You'll sweat your balls off, and I won't pay you much, but you stick with me a Mars year—that's two Earth years—and you'll know the score and have a stake you can use to get out on your own. That's what you want, right?"
"I think so—"
"What anybody in his right mind wants."
Chad shuffled up to collect the beer mugs. Across the square a group of miners came out of a brothel. They were laughing and shouting as they got onto the jitney that would take them back to their barracks.
"What happened to the last man you had helping you?" I asked.
"Got his own place. A couple of dozen have come through Windhome, Garrett. Some got themselves killed. Some couldn't stick it and ran back here to work for a company outfit. But five have their own stations."
"And why are you doing this?"
Sarge shrugged. "You ask too many questions. Finish your beer. Your stuffs about ready and we've got to move before sundown. The tractor won't run so good in the dark."
The tractor wouldn't run at all in the dark. It had solar cells all over it—on the roof, on the decks in front and behind the passenger compartment, and on wings that could fold up when it was inside but unfolded when it was running. The solar cells furnished all the power.
It was very comfortable. The passenger compartment was bigger than I had expected and had a bunk as well as seats. This was the only pressurized part of the tractor; the rest would seal up to keep out dust, but if you had to carry cargo under pressure you put it in airtight bags.
Sarge drove up the ramp from inside the city. It went up steeply, a dark tunnel with a few lights. There were three sets of air locks at the top. Then we were outside. The sun was high in the west; it seemed very bright after my time in Hellastown.
When we got onto the plains, the motors whined as the solar cell wings extended. "Okay, watch what I do," Sarge said. "Now we're outside we switch from batteries to direct solar power. This thing develops about fifty horsepower, enough to move pretty fast and still keep the batteries charged in full sun, but you don't want to run at night. It won't go more than a couple of hours."
I looked around at the Marscape. It was bleak, and in two minutes we were out of sight of Hellastown. We drove through fields of boulders. They came in all types, from house-sized to just rocks. Red dust blew all around. "What happens if you're caught out at night?" I asked.
"You pray a lot." Sarge nodded to himself. "Pray a lot and hope your air lasts. Then curl up and go to sleep. Batteries should give enough heat to last the night. It gets cold out there."
About a hundred below zero, I remembered from the school. But in summer daytime it was warm enough to go out without a jacket as long as you had a p-suit and air.
"The manuals for the tractor are in that compartment," Sarge said. "When we get home, take 'em inside and read up."
"Sure.
"And don't forget to put 'em back before one of us has to use Aunt Ellen again."
"Aunt Ellen?"
"The tractor. Next to your p-suit, a tractor's the most important thing in your life. Treat Aunt Ellen right and she'll take care of you."
A strong wind was blowing outside. Hellas is a low basin, formed a billion years ago when a rock the size of Greenland smashed into Mars. The impact melted the rock, and lava flowed up from inside Mars to cover the hole. Huge chunks of rock were thrown up into a rimwall, and more rocks were thrown out to make another ring of secondary craters around that.
Then for the next billion years Hellas and the Rim were pounded by smaller meteoroids. They left the basin flat but partly covered with junk. Since there weren't any hills, the visibility was terrible; we were lost in a jungle of rocks. The wind whipped the dust around so thick we could hardly see out.
"You're crazy, you know," I said.
"How's that?"
"You don't know a damn thing about me. Superintendent Farr talked to me for maybe three hours—"
"Best not mention that when anybody else is around."
"Yeah, but—"
"We have the test results, Garrett. Psych and skills both. And maybe we've kept an eye on you better than you know."
"You still don't know I'm not planning to murder you for the tractor!"
Sarge laughed. "What would you do with it? Everybody knows it's mine. And just how long would you live out here?"
"Yeah." I watched the dust for a moment. "They taught us just enough, didn't they? Just enough to know there's a lot they didn't tell us."
Sarge grinned. It was a nice grin. "See how smart you're gettin' already? Know any good songs?"
He knew a lot more of them than I did. We sang along to pass the time.
"You got to learn more songs," he complained. "Here, let's teach you The Highland Tinker.' We'll work up to 'Eskimo Nell'—Hey! Look, over there. See it?"
I looked where he pointed. "Nothing I see."
"Gone now. Sand cat, maybe."
I looked at him to see if he was putting me on.
He didn't look like it. "An animal? There aren't any animals on Mars!"
"That's what the books say. Me, I'm not so sure. Every now and then you see something moving. Just a flash. Some say they've seen 'em close up, about the size of a squirrel, red brown, blends with the sand."
"I thought animals weren't even possible. No air."
"Yeah." Sarge grinned again. "I'm not sayin' those who've seen 'em close up hadn't had a few. Still in all, it's a big planet and there's a lot about it we don't know."
"That's for sure." And there are plants, I thought. Plants that have the biologists climbing the walls, because they're kin to Earth lichens and can even crossbreed with some Earth strains, but they aren't the same at all. Mars plants cover themselves with a glass bubble like snail shell but more transparent.
"Wonder what'll happen to 'em?" Sarge said.
"To who?"
"To the sand cats. When we get the Project goin', can the goddamn cats live after there's air? But they do say Mars has had air before, so maybe they can. Hope so."
"Tell me about this project. Commander Farr mentioned it, but I haven't heard much from anybody else."
Sarge guided the tractor around a boulder. "The Project's a plan, a way to pump the atmosphere up to maybe a tenth Earth normal, maybe more, enough so we can go outside without p-suits. Warm the planet up. Green things growing, not just in domes, all over,"
"Won't that take a long time?"
"Maybe. Not as long as you'd think, the way they tell me. Only we can't get started. Earth bastards won't let us."
We went over a ramp. This road had been used before, if you could call it a road. The only way I knew was here and there boulders had been blasted apart, or there were ramps over some of them. We topped a ramp and I got a good view of the plain and the blowing dust.
"One of these days we'll do it ourselves," Sarge said. "Only it takes things we don't have. Like atom bombs."
I shuddered. Like everyone else on Earth I had been brought up to think of atom bombs as something to kill worlds with. I said that.
"Just tools, Garrett. Just tools. We need the bombs to trigger volcanoes. There's a lot more air and water inside this planet if we can get them out. Then it'll come alive."
We topped another ramp and Sarge stopped the tractor. Without the whine of the electric motors it seemed very quiet, but then I heard the wind, howling ceaselessly, and the crackle as it blew sand against the tractor.
There was nothing out there but dust and the distant mountains. It didn't look as if it had ever been alive, or ever would be. Nothing moved but dust forming into little twisters that Sarge called dust devils.
We were utterly alone. If we got into trouble nobody was around to help us, and we'd have to get out by ourselves or not at all.
Well, I'd wanted to be on my own. I'd got that.