As the grid talked, still photos of the project came and went on the screen in almost random order.
"Construction activity on the tunnel complex is continuously monitored by my Library Function, Channel Thirty-nine, for the interest and entertainment of guests of the Golden Lotus. A virtual-reality tour of the finished complex model is available on Channel Forty-three, for those terminals equipped with interactive V/R capability. Applications to be considered for future residential or commercial status wall be accepted through this unit by requesting—"
"Maybe later, guy," Demeter interrupted. "Look, I just want to get out there and see the place. How do I get hold of a U-Drive-It, or something? And which direction do I head out in?"
The terminal paused for what seemed like a whole bunch of nanoseconds. "Personal transport on the Martian surface must be requisitioned from the Dockmaster, Tharsis Montes. Accommodation is usually assigned on a priority basis. As the Canyonlands Complex in the Valles Marineris District is some two thousand six hundred fifty-two kilometers from this location, you should plan on at least fourteen days of travel time." The screen showed her something like a silver-and-red Travelways bus galumphing along on eight articulated stilts. "The approximate cost of mounting such an expedition is—"
"Skip it. You're telling me at least three reasons— but in the nicest way possible—why I can't get that from here, aren't you?"
Another excruciating pause. "Personal travel on the Martian surface is extremely difficult for nonadapted humans," the grid admitted.
"Well then, how do we 'nonadapted' types get around?"
"By proxy."
"How so?"
"Proxy... a person or device equipped with recording and telemetry functions to act on the request of, or in place of, another person."
The screen displayed, first, a human person under a helmet that was ringed with lenses and antennae. The person was also wearing what looked like a manplifier suit with detachable waldos. Next the terminal showed a metal ball of indeterminate size knobbed with similar pickups. The ball walked on feathery spider legs and sported two nearly human arms—which gave Demeter a queasy feeling.
"Right." Coghlan bit her lip. Something was not getting said here; she sensed she needed badly to know what that something was.
"Um, how do I get in touch with a proxy?' she asked.
"Through an interactive V/R terminal."
"Are you that kind of terminal?"
"This unit is not so equipped."
"Then how do I access?"
"Many public terminals, and those for short-term lease in some private establishments, are equipped with full sight-sound-touch reality interaction. Some of these units also provide patches for the inner ear, thereby stimulating the sense of balance, and to the rhinal cortex, stimulating the senses of smell and taste. Such features are usually provided at additional charge—"
"Thanks, I already know what Mars smells like." Burned rock and used gym socks, she guessed, with the sting of a vodka martini heavy on the vermouth. "How do I find a terminal that can handle virtual reality?"
"The Golden Lotus provides a full-feature simulation parlor for your relaxation and entertainment. In the public corridors, look for any device marked with the red V-slash-R symbol." And the screen showed her a picture of one.
"Thanks, I'll go out now and—"
"It is strongly recommended," the grid interrupted her, which was something new, "that first-time visitors be accompanied by an experienced guide. This is for your protection, so that you do not become spatially disoriented, and to protect the colony's equipment, which in the case of your incapacitation might become damaged or lost."
"I see. And where do I get a guide?"
"Many citizens will agree to escort casuals for a small fee, which may be paid directly—"
"Right. Now find me one, will you?"
"We will arrange for an appropriate person to contact you," the grid presence said stiffly. Then it went silent. As if to make its point, the screen pattern blinked off. End of conversation.
"How about that?" Demeter said to herself. "I finally managed to insult a machine."
You do it all the time, Dem," Sugar observed from her wrist. "Why, the things you say to me—"
"Shut up, Shoogs."
"Never no mind, Dem."
Suddenly the gold-flecked walls seemed to be pressing in on her. The air in her room felt all used up. Demeter stood, letting the bed swing back into its recess. After making sure that the doorlock was properly keyed to her thumbprint, she went out into the hallway, turned left for the main tunnel, and went on an unsupervised meander.
Jory den Ostreicher pulled the plastic sheet tight over the seedbed and tacked it with a nailgun. To avoid ripping the material, he put his spike through a grommet molded into the rolled seam.
Tending the new crops—this one was low-hydro carrots, by the tag stitched into the seam—was just part of his outside duties. Every citizen of Mars had three or four jobs, all assigned according to his or her skills and adaptations. Putting in carrots, or any other plantform, was a communal effort.
To begin with, an injection crew shot a perimeter wall all around the plot, going down to bedrock or permafrost, whichever came first; this formed an impermeable barrier against the Martian atmosphere. Next, someone with a rototiller had to prepare the soil, which meant breaking it up and raking it smooth. Then someone else spread the necessary mix of chemicals, including a healthy dose of nitrogen-fixers. Finally, Jory came around with his rolls of film and tacked them across the top of the harrier dike.
The double-layer film was made by someone else, probably a home-factory cooperative working with methane feedstocks from the gas wells. They sealed the edges, adding the anchoring grommets and inlet tubes for pumped air and water. Another cooperative sprouted the seedlings under blotting paper and studded the film with them. They left the finished rolls in a compartment lock for Jory to pick up and spread. It was a real community effort in the best Martian tradition, and everybody got a share of the harvest.
Jory's special skill wasn't any green thumb—he personally couldn't make hair grow. Instead it was his adaptation for working outside in the natural Martian atmosphere. Jory was a Creole, halfway between the old-line Cyborgs and the nonadapted humans. In the cold and partial pressure, the average colonist would last about fifteen seconds before his feet would freeze and his lungs collapse; with the ultraviolet bombardment his skin would go melanomic and flay off within days of his return to a protected environment—if he ever got that far. The Cyborgs, on the other hand, were an import. They had to be gutted out and retrofitted 011 Earth because of the complex surgeries that adapted them to indefinite, self-contained, and unprotected living on the surface. But after that, they were more machine than human.
Creoles were the perfect compromise. The surgery that it took to make a Jory, brutal and vast in scale as it was, was well within the capabilities of the Martian medical system. A Creole had the best of both worlds.
Unlike the Cyborgs, the Creole looked quite human. He could move easily, almost inconspicuously, among his nonadapted friends and relatives. Yet he could also work and play out on the surface, unprotected, for up to three hours at a time without distress. If there was one thing you wanted to be on Mars, it was Creole. Not the least of the advantages was the bonus pay he got for light-duty, bonehead jobs like tacking down a sheet of carrots.