It took Roger Torraway a full minute to realize he was looking at a hunk of real wood, not an optical simulation. That was impressive. Every stick of wood on Mars had to be brought up as freehold cargo—that is, imported at personal expense.
Of course, with the Civil Administrator, it might be hard to tell what was freehold and what government requisition. Technically, Bogan Dimelovich Ostrov was a personal employee of the mayor of Solis Planum, capable of being hired and fired at leisure. He was supposed to be something more than a secretary and less than a deputy. But Roger figured that mayors might come and go with each election—the current officeholder was a woman, Ludmilla Petrovna Sar-something—while the Civil Service went on forever.
"Frankly, Colonel Torraway, I don't think you understand the magnitude of the request you are making." Ostrov smiled broadly, meaning to take away any sting his comments might leave. "Importing fifteen hundred kilograms of refined deuterium-tritium is well beyond the means of this administration."
"Cost about as much as that desk of yours," Torraway commented internally. Then, guiltily, he checked to see that his backpack's link with the grid was currently inactive.
"I understand the costs involved," Roger said aloud, forcing his thin lips into a return smile. "But, of course, I'm not seeking charity. In exchange for Solis Planum's grant of an Earthside purchase order and import license, I'm prepared to offer exclusive rights to my memoirs as Mars's first citizen. That would include survey notes for areas of the planet that human colonists have not—"
"We have no interest in publishing, Colonel." The administrator grimaced. "Martians don't read. They don't buy books, not even to look at the pictures. Everyone's too busy."
"Then I would be . . . willing to . . ." Roger spoke slowly, fully understanding the implications of his next offer. "... to turn my recorded sensorium into a virtual-reality experience. That way your citizens could get a feel, full sound and visuals, of what it meant to be the first man to walk on the surface of—"
"We already have that record, of course." Ostrov shrugged. "I've played the Torraway Game a time or two myself. My personal favorite is the module 'Outwit the Mad Computer.' Right up there with 'Survival on the Polar Frost.' Very exciting stuff. But the market is saturated with bootleg versions by now, all of them more exciting than you could ever produce from your own life experience. Can you imagine Colonel Lindbergh's first transatlantic flight—the cold, the boredom, the anxiety—trying to compete with the thrills of an aerial dogfight? Which would you rather play?"
"All right then," Torraway said, imagining how his teeth would be gritting by now—if he still had any in his titanium-wired jaw. "You people in the colonies seem to be beset with competing territorial claims from Earth-based states. I still have some stature with those governments. After all, they paid billions to put me here. As your representative, I could—"
Ostrov was shaking his head again, that smile still fixed on his wide, rubbery lips. "Colonel Torraway, it's obvious to all of us that you served your purpose— served it with distinction, I might add—but that was fifty years in the past. With the situation now—"
"But if you would just let me contact the National Aeronautics and Space—" "Isn't anymore."
"Then the successor agency! Which state would that be? Let's see, our lab was in Oklahoma but NASA was originally based out of. . . Houston. So that would be in Texahoma either way," Roger concluded. "The Space Administration must have some continuing legal function, if only on a regional—"
'The Texahoma Martian Development Corporation, yes." Ostrov looked sour. "They are one of our biggest headaches. But there's nothing that you can do for us in that regard, Colonel. The TMDC assumed all of NASA's residual claims anywhere in the Solar System about half an hour after they foreclosed on the Space Center in Houston. Now I'm not a legal expert, but I would guess that you, your body, your equipment, and your recorded experiences are included in those claims. As an investment worth a couple of billion prewar—'dollars' is the term?—your ass is simply not yours to sell, sir. If we tried to play you back Earth-side as some kind of ambassador or negotiator, they'd slap a lien on you so last, you'd think your backpack there had shorted out."
"I see. . . ." Roger Torraway sat upright in the lavishly upholstered chair and fixed Ostrov with his mildest stare. The Cyborg smiled to himself, although not a muscle of his face moved.
If the Civil Administrator enjoyed playing simulated games, then let him try the Statues Game, especially the module called "Will Somebody Please Get the Cyborg Colonel Out of My Office?" Roger could sit rigid for hours, for whole days at a time. In fact, not a muscle in his body except for his lips, jaw, and mechanical larynx had moved in the past ten minutes. If Ostrov called in a pair of roustabouts to come and try to lift Torraway out of the chair—aside from the fact that Roger's modified body weighed almost one hundred and thirty kilograms—they would have to sweat and strain with a package that was all locked knees and elbows angled into elaborately awkward positions.
So the Cyborg just sat there, fixing Ostrov with his ruby-red glare, all flecks and glints, without a shred of humanity in the softly glowing facets of his eyes. His trump card of last resort: becoming an indignant paperweight.
"This isn't going to help anything, Roger," Dorrie said. She was sitting in the chair next to his and put her warm, moist palm on the back of his hand. He could feel it through the impervious skin layers.
"This man can't do anything for you—even if he wanted to," she went on. "He has already talked with his superiors. They have already heard about your fusion generator. It is they who have forbidden him to help you."
"Who are they?" Torraway asked inside his head. "The mayor? The other colonies? The Texahoma people?"
Dorrie looked troubled. Her signal started to break up, sending jags of interference across her pretty face. "I can't . . . don't know, Roger." Her signal cleared momentarily. "Just that becoming petulant with this little man won't get you anywhere.. . ." And then she was gone without even a carrier hum.
Torraway relaxed, unbent his knees, and shuffled his feet, as if preparing to rise. "I understand, Mr. Ostrov. The matter is out of your hands."
A look of pure relief flooded the Civil Administrator's face. "I assure you, Colonel, the people of Solis Planum have the greatest admiration for you. Anytime you want to tap into our mains—"
"I'll be sure to take you up on a generous offer like that."
Without moving to shake hands, Roger turned and walked toward the door, any door, that would take him out of this oppressive atmosphere and back to the clean, cold near-vacuum of his adopted world.
"You ought to meet some friends of mine," Jory said, suddenly dodging left into a commercial foyer.
Demeter guessed that Jory had only that moment spotted his friends. Like everything else with the young Creole, the thought of introducing her had just occurred to him.
Sitting at one of the tables—this establishment provided chairs for its patrons, as well as real-human service—were a man and a woman. He was fair-skinned and tall. Nearly two meters, Demeter estimated, from the way his shoulders, elbows, and knees overhung the edges of the chair. He was slouching on his tailbone and looking out on the world from under a thick set of blond eyebrows. As he sipped his small, pale-brown drink and eyed the doorway, he reminded Demeter Coghlan of a three-card monte shark in a Galveston saloon on payday.