“Get back,” he shouted.
They paid no attention.
Swearing, he shouted again, turning up the volume. Even in the thin air, he had enough sound to blast them off their feet. But they kept on going. He poked the snout of his weapon through the porthole and then withdrew it. Who’d given him those orders anyway? He didn’t have to obey them. He clamped on his oxygen helmet and slipped into electric mitts and hurried outside.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, standing in front of them.
“Hello,” said Amantha. “Didn’t see anyone around.”
Damn senior citizens—they never used hearing aids. “You’ve got to turn around and go back,” he said.
“Why?”
He was shivering and didn’t see how they could stand it. Thin clothing and obsolete oxygen equipment. Oddly, they could take more than you’d think, though. Used to it, he supposed. “Come on in,” he commanded gruffly. He wasn’t going to freeze. They followed him into the post. “Didn’t you see the signs to keep out?”
“But the ships aren’t using the field. What harm are we doing?”
“Orders,” he said. There were still a few pilots checking over their ships, making sure everything was in working condition before they were locked up. In a week, all flight personnel would be gone to the settlements, there to await the next round of voyages when Earth came near. They had it soft, while he, the guard, had to stay in cold discomfort.
“We’re going to visit a friend of my son,” said Amantha. “They were pilots together. Do you object?”
He didn’t, but there were some who would. The order made sense with respect to little boys who would otherwise swarm over the field, falling off ships or getting stuck in rocket tubes.
“What have you got?” he asked, eying Amantha’s parcel dubiously.
“I baked something.” She opened a corner of the package and the smell drifted out. “Made it with Martian fruit. Not much of it around these days.”
He sniffed and became hungry. That was queer—he’d eaten before coming on duty.
“Okay,” he said. “You can go. Don’t get caught or it’s my neck.” He stood closer to the old man and woman, and the package, too, and pointed out the window. “Act like you’re leaving in case anyone’s checking up. When you get near the line of ships, duck behind them and walk along until you find the right one. No one will see you except me.”
Amantha pinched the package together. “I’d give you some, but I can’t cut it before the pilot sees it.”
“I guess you can’t,” said the sentry wistfully. “Maybe he won’t eat all of it.”
“May he won’t. I’ll bring you back what’s left—if there is any left.”
Long after they were gone, the sentry stood there, trying to analyze the indefinable odor. He was still standing there when the checkup squad marched in and arrested him for gross dereliction of duty.
“Go away,” said the pilot, disappearing from the viewport. Ethan pounded on the hull with a rock. The pilot came back, twisting his face. “Stop it. I’ll angle the rocket tubes around and squirt you with them.”
Ethan raised the rock.
“Okay,” said the pilot. “I’ll talk to you, though I know what you want.” Sullenly, he made the hatch swing open. He looked down at them. “All right, let’s hear it.”
“Got a present for you,” said Ethan.
“Not allowed to take bribes unless it’s money.”
“Young man, where are your manners?” snapped Amantha.
“Haven’t got any. It’s the first thing they train out of you.” The pilot started to jerk his head back, saw the rock and decided not to close the hatch. He glanced at the narrow ladder to the ground. “I’ll take your present. Bring it up.”
He stopped smirking as Amantha hitched up her skirts and, holding the package in one hand, swung up the ladder. Agile as goats and probably as sensible, he thought. He took hold of her as she neared the top.
“Grandma, you’re too old to climb around. You’ll break every brittle bone in your body if you fall.”
“Ain’t so brittle,” said Amantha, making way for Ethan who had followed her. “My, it’s cold!” She began shivering. “Invite us in to get warm.”
“You can’t go in. I’m busy. Hey, wait!” The pilot hurried after her into the control compartment.
Amantha was looking around when he arrived. “Cozy but kind of bare,” she said. “Why don’t you hang up pictures?”
“Most fabulous pictures you’ll ever see are right there.”
Amantha followed his glance. “Nothing but Mars. I can see that every day.” She puzzled over it. “Oh, you’re teasing an old woman. I didn’t mean what you see out of the port, stars and planets and such. I’d want a picture of an Indian settin’ on a horse.”
“I’ll bet!” muttered the pilot. “Get warm in a hurry. I’ve got work to do.”
“You just go ahead,” she said. “We’ll set here and toast our toes. We don’t aim to interfere.”
“I’ll stay,” said the pilot hastily. “Let’s have the present.” He’d made a tactical error—he should have ignored the noise that went shimmering through the hull when the old man had pounded with a rock. No, it was nice to think he could have, but impossible. Patience was one of the things the aged did have and the young didn’t.
Amantha set the package down. The pilot scrambled ahead of her and got the navigator’s instruments off the desk and into the drawer.
She opened and displayed the contents.
“I baked it for you,” she said. “It’s a cake.”
He could see what it was. “Hate cake,” he said. “Can’t eat it.”
“You’ll eat this. Canalberry shortcake.”
“Canalberry?” he asked, wrinkling his face. He smelled it and changed expressions in the middle of a wrinkle. Resolutely, he turned away from it and saw Ethan clearly, perhaps for the first time. It was the old man who had tried to bribe him a few days ago. They weren’t as innocent as they seemed. What were they trying to do?
“Ain’t you even going to taste it?” she urged.
He shuddered suspiciously. It smelled good, though he had told the truth about hating the stuff. Under other circumstances, he might have nibbled at a piece for politeness’ sake.
“Can’t. Doctor’s orders.”
“Diabetic? Didn’t think they let them in space-service,” said Amantha. “Funny, it’s the same with Ethan. He can’t eat sweets, either.” She looked at her creation. “Seems a shame to bring it so far to somebody who can’t touch it. Do you mind if I cut myself a slice?”
“Go ahead, Grandma.”
“Amantha,” she corrected him and brought out a knife and two small plates. He wondered if there was any significance. Two plates.
She laid a slice on the plate and poked at it with a fork that was also in the package. She put the fork down and picked up the cake.
“It don’t taste right unless you eat it the way it was meant to be,” she said.
He watched her in anguish. His nose quivered and his stomach rumbled. He shouldn’t have let them in.
A crumb fell to the floor and Amantha reached for it. She straightened up, a berry in her hand.
“Canalberries,” she said. “They’re nearly all gone. Used to be you could hardly go anywhere without stepping in them.”
She crushed the berry and the rich aroma swept devastatingly through the air.
“Sure you won’t have some?” she asked, slicing the cake and placing it in front of him. When he finished that, he cut another, and another, until the cake was gone.