As they stood looking at the robot a second time, who should come up but the walrus?
“Buzz Aldrin,” he said with a shit-eating grin. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Taking a last shot. You could still sell your sensor to us, Mike,” Buzz said.
“You can pay what compared to NASA?” said the walrus like he didn’t know. “Not to mention the prestige.”
“Ten years from now. Sell to us, you’d get to see it working. Not one, dozens. Maybe not this year, but next for sure.”
“What you really mean is, you won’t be around to watch our NASA mission.” The walrus clapped him on the shoulder and walked away.
Little J. said in a low voice, “Want I trips him for you, General?”
“No. No, he’s right. The moon is a young man’s game, Jay. Are you good at math and physics? Because you’ll need to be.”
Not to mention reading.
“That the government way, General.” He could have left it there, but Little J. heard his voice go on like he’d been dreaming for years. “I figure, private be smart enough know they need go-to guys. That going to be me.”
“You could be right. I wish you luck.” Buzz put out a hand. If he tried a fist-bump it was all over. But of course he didn’t. Buzz? He shook hands man to man. “Time to tackle Iron Mike again.”
“I calls him the walrus.”
“Good call.”
The first part—taking the eye—was now done. Serve the walrus right for being so busy sneering at Buzz that he overlooked Little J.
A roomful of people eating, drinking, and talking, all of them a foot and a half taller: Mike McSwain wasn’t the only one to overlook Little J. Just for fun, he hung the eye on one of the rent-a-cops, a waiter refilling ice buckets, a teevee man, while he waited for the six o’clock news. He kept an eye on the walrus, though. Good thing, because somebody must have asked him about the eye. He patted his breast pocket, then, grin gone, patted it again. Little J. barely had time to stumble against him and drop it in a front trouser pocket.
After he took it a second time he kept his hands to himself.
The tricky parts lay ahead: keeping the eye hidden through a search and having it reappear in a way that didn’t blame Ricky. Well, or Little J.
He didn’t need Ricky’s watch to know when they hit news time. People lined up on two sides of the room, leaving McSwain alone by the robot, facing the cameras. Their lights turned red, and he commenced some aren’t-I-wonderful blah-blah—he even gave a shout out to Ricky—but briefer than Little J. expected. They must have given him a deadline. Then he gave a big smile, reached into his pocket, reached in again, his smile oozing away. He raised a wait-a-second finger and commenced working all his pockets, trousers, too. His forehead looked damp.
Even before he said, “It’s been stolen,” three rent-a-cops headed for the doors.
The teevee cameras’ eyes swung anxiously back and forth like they were searching for a missing cousin. The announcers tried to talk into their mics and lick their chops at the same time.
Little J. sidled toward the doors. If the cops actually shut them, he’d have to think fast. But they just told people to back off.
When Little J. tried to slither past anyway, he could see Ricky’s panic all the way across the room. A cop grabbed at him. Not very fast—Little J. actually had to slow down so the man could seize his ass and wrestle him down, with Little J. squirming till he managed to reach the coat rack, trying to burrow in until the cop finally managed to pull him back out. All he had to do then was wail for the cameras.
The struggle wouldn’t have mattered if the cop found the eye on him. But he didn’t. Then he looked like a bully. The wailing didn’t hurt.
“Damn it, you’re hiding something,” said the cop, clearly wanting to slap Little J., but the cameras were right there. “You tried to sneak out.”
“Ain’t you ever had a ma?” Little J. asked. “What she like when you late?”
“What’s this watch?” He held up Little J.’s wrist with Ricky’s Rolex, like he’d accomplished something.
The walrus said, “Isn’t that yours, Nousherwani?”
Ricky managed to look damn superior. Little J. was proud of him. “With evening clothes? No, Mr. McSwain.”
“Why you think I a thief?” Little J. asked. “Why ain’t it the walrus there?”
All for the cameras to see.
McSwain said, “Nonsense.”
He rootled through his pockets again just to prove it, then he shoved Little J. aside to get his coat from the rack. Little J. fell to the floor facing the cameras, wincing. Son of a bitch: there was the eye, in the left inside pocket of the walrus’s coat. McSwain gobbled like a turkey. The cameras covered that, too.
The cameras might watch McSwain finally putting Ricky’s eye in the waffle-robot, but Little J. had his eye on the men in the back shaking their heads and exchanging whispers. NASA? Probably too much to hope that they’d give up on McSwain so easy. Ricky might dream that dream, but Little J. was a businessman.
What he had done, though, was give Buzz another shot at convincing the walrus to sell the eye to private space. Buzz knew it, too, he already had a hand on McSwain’s shoulder.
Little J. caught Ricky’s eye and nodded. Ricky gave a tiny nod back. Little J. strolled to the elevator to go to his nonexistent home for dinner with his nonexistent ma.
Had Buzz Aldrin winked at him over the walrus’s shoulder? Or had he made that up?
On the street, he looked up at the moon, hiding all but a sliver of itself in the dark. Buzz Aldrin had planted a flag up there, never imagining he had left it for Little J. to find. Little J. had thought it would be plenty to learn New York City piece by piece. Now he had a whole new place, a much tougher one. Just when you thought you saw a straight line solid ahead of you, the damn thing pretzeled.
Long past time he got a handle on this reading business.
He checked the time on his new watch and commenced to trot. He was overdue uptown for his night job.
Crime of Passion
By Suzanne Derham Cifarelli
“I love wine,” thought Amelia McGhee as she leaned back on her couch and closed her eyes. She took another sip from her glass and reached for the remote device. She pressed the lighting switch to lower the brightness in the room to a gentle glow. Then she turned on the music. Tonight it would be Nat King Cole. It had been a long day.
I have to call Mom tomorrow, she thought to herself, to thank her for sending this Moscato. She was just falling into a relaxed haze when the buzz of the intercom at her door jolted her upright.
“Crap,” she said out loud as she stood up and tightened the belt of her robe. She shoved her feet into her slippers and shuffled to the door.
“Can I help you?” she asked abruptly into the intercom.
“This is the residence of Amelia McGhee, correct?” a very authoritative voice asked from beyond the door.
“Who wants to know?” Amelia countered. She was getting really annoyed now. It was after 11:00 p.m.
“Settlement police, m’am,” came the reply.
Amelia froze. The police at your door at this hour was never a good thing. She felt her mouth go dry and her stomach do a lurch.
“Step up to the scanner, please,” she said. Seconds later the information from the retinal scan appeared in the window on the intercom:
Stephen Jacobs
Age 36
Born in Aberdeen, Scotland
On settlement for 3 years, 7 months, 4 days
Detective, Settlement Police
Amelia opened the door. “Please come in,” she said to Detective Jacobs and the second officer with him. She suddenly realized that Nat King Cole was still playing and the room was nearly pitch dark.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the two officers as she fumbled to find the controls on the wall, “I was just getting ready for bed.”
“Our apologies, m’am, for disturbing you at such a late
hour,” Jacobs said. “This is Officer Smith,” he continued indicating the female officer with him.
Amelia found the controls and turned off the music and adjusted the lights to normal brightness. She blinked several times as her eyes adjusted to the glare.
“Please, come in and sit down,” she said as she walked back into her living room. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“No, thank you,” said Smith.
“Well then,” Amelia said as they all sat, “what can I do for you?”
“You are a history professor at the high school?” Jacobs asked.
“Yes, yes I am,” replied Amelia.
“And you are familiar with a Mr. Henry Watkins?”
“Um, Henry?” Amelia said. “Yes, of course, he teaches biology and chemistry.”
Jacobs proceeded, “Ms. McGhee, we need you to come with us down to the police station.”
“What’s happened?” Amelia asked, sitting up abruptly.
“Mr. Watkins was murdered.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Amelia sat in the back of a police transport. The streets were empty at this time of night—especially on a weekday. A handful of restaurants were still open, filled with patrons watching sporting events on delay from Earth.
“How long have you been on the Mars settlement?” asked Jacobs, looking in the rearview mirror to make eye contact. For the first time, Amelia detected a hint of a Scottish burr.
“A little over a year, this tour,” replied Amelia, although she had the distinct impression the officers already knew this. “I was here for the first time seven years ago. I did a three-year stint and then headed back home. And you?” Amelia felt she had to ask, even though she already knew the answer.
“Almost four years for me. This is my second tour. Smith here has only been on planet for seven months. She’s still getting used to living in the bubble.” Jacobs gave a hint of a smile.
“It’s been quite a transition,” Smith replied, nodding. “It is amazing what they’ve been able to engineer in fifty years, but I do miss being able to actually go outside for fresh air.”
“What’s your hometown?” Amelia asked. Hometowns were a very important part of conversation on the Mars settlement.
“A small village about sixty kilometers south of Lusaka, Zambia.”
“Africa is quite a bit warmer than Mars,” replied Amelia.
“Yes, yes it is,” replied Smith with a wide smile. “And you? Where do your people come from?”
“I grew up in Albany. A little over two hundred kilometers North of New York City,” replied Amelia.
“Lots of green there, isn’t there?” Jacobs asked. “You must miss it.”
“Yes, I do. But when I’m feeling homesick, I spend my day in the park.” The small-scale replica of Central Park in New York City had been opened with much fanfare ten years previously. It was a beautiful space that had real trees and grass and every few months, the climate control was changed to mimic the seasons in New York. Amelia had gone cross-country skiing just a few weeks before.
Jacobs brought the vehicle to a stop in a parking spot behind the police station. The three alighted and Amelia followed Jacobs and Smith. There were a handful of officers on duty during the night shift and they nodded to the detective as he led Amelia to door marked Conference Room. As Amelia entered the room, she was surprised to see most of the other teachers and administrators had already been assembled.
“Amelia.” Caroline Harris, Principal, rose from her seat. “I’m so sorry we’ve had to bring you out at this time of night and under these circumstances.”
Amelia nodded and sat in one of the empty seats along the back wall. Just as she sat down, the door opened again and David Pauling entered the room. He had been head of the music and drama departments for the last three years. Caroline relayed the same sentiment to him and he made a beeline for the seat next to Amelia’s.
“Do you believe this?” he whispered to Amelia as he sat down. She was about to reply, when Jacobs came back into the room.
“Thank you all for your cooperation at this late hour. We realize we’ve pulled most of you out of bed and will try to get you home as quickly as possible. As we’ve told all of you, Mr. Henry Watkins was found dead in his home earlier this evening. He was the victim of a homicide. We need to take statements from all of you, so I’ve called in more officers to assist us in that task. We appreciate your cooperation and patience.”
“Are we suspects then?” Audra Moreau asked. David rolled his eyes at Amelia. Audra was the teacher with the most time on planet—she was coming up on seven years. She was also one of the favorite teachers at the school—her students all said no one could teach algebra and calculus as well as she could. She actually had made math interesting. But, to her colleagues, she could be a total bitch. David said it was because of her French heritage. Amelia thought that was bullshit. The woman was just plain mean.
“Ma’m, we’ve just started to investigate. We have no suspects at this time.”
“Look, Detective,” Audra continued on, “we all have class early tomorrow.”
“Actually, no you don’t,” replied Jacobs.
“Excuse me?” Audra replied.
“We’re suspending school tomorrow. We need to interview all of you and possibly some of the students too. Also, we know this will be a great shock to the students that knew Mr. Watkins, so we’ve asked Principal Harris to cancel classes.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea at all,” Audra pressed on. “Our students need stability in their lives. After all, their parents have dragged them to this Godforsaken planet and it’s our responsibility to help them maintain as normal a life as possible. I have students preparing for college applications.”
“My God, Audra. Henry was murdered. In his own home. He’s dead. If you can’t show any of us or the police some respect, could you at least muster some for him? And your students are not going to miss out on college admissions if they miss one day of algebra.” Amelia hadn’t even realized she was talking until she noticed all eyes were turned on her. David was staring at her with his mouth open. Audra’s face was beat red and her lips formed a straight line. Dead silence filled the room.
“Well, then,” Jacobs said quietly, “let’s begin.”
* * *
“You teach Earth history?” Officer Smith asked.
Amelia nodded. “Yes, with a focus on United States and European history.”
Amelia had expected to be interrogated in a cold, stainless steel room, much like she had seen on the old Earth television shows. She couldn’t have been more surprised when she was led into what appeared to be a private office with a thick carpet and soft leather chairs. She was now seated comfortably with a hot cup of tea. She had to fight the urge to take her shoes off and curl up on the buttery leather.
“And you are the History Department Head?”
“Yes, I am. That title always makes me cringe a little, though. There are three of us that teach history—Monica Jameson, Tim Cantner, and I. Monica specializes in Asian and African cultures while Tim teaches the history of space exploration and the eventual settlement here on Mars,” Amelia replied.
“Lot of work for you teachers,” Jacobs spoke for the first time since Amelia had entered the room.
“Yeah, it is. But, honestly, I have to say, the students make it all worth it. There’s something special about teenagers—convinced that they’ll live forever and eager to take on anything.”
“How long have you known Henry Watkins?” Jacobs asked.
“Just since I came back fourteen months ago. He’s been here awhile, though. A couple of years, I think.”
“How would you describe him?” Smith interjected.
Amelia thought for a moment, “Well, Henry seemed like an average nice guy. He was always pleasant to the other teachers, and the kids loved him because he let them do all kinds of crazy experiments. He liked to play in the dart league on Wednesday nights. He talked
about his brother a lot, too. His name was…Jimmy. They were twins. But…”
Jacobs and Smith looked at Amelia expectantly. Jacobs spoke first, “But, what?”
“Look, it’s late and I’m exhausted so I probably shouldn’t be saying anything. David, David Pauling, the music teacher? He says I have a really active imagination because I like old mysteries. Y’know, Agatha Christie, James Patterson?” Amelia stopped to take a breath and looked from Jacobs to Smith.
“What do you have an imagination about with regards to Mr. Watkins?”
“Well, he never said anything bad. Ever. I just never thought that was natural. We all have bad days here. It gets to you. It has too.” Amelia took a long sip of her tea.
“So, you found the fact that Mr. Watkins never complained about anyone or anything to be suspicious?” Jacobs stated.
“Yes. I did. Look,” Amelia continued. “Fifty years ago a team of one hundred people arrived and created a Mars settlement. They slept on cots in small climate-controlled cubes. Now we have this,” Amelia waved her arms around her. “Nearly thirteen thousand people live on Mars now. They’ve created a whole society for us—in a plastic bubble. It’s an accomplishment I can only marvel at. But, let’s face it, life ain’t perfect on the red planet. I mean, everyone has a complaint about something. The climate control is set to high—or too low. They keep us on an Earth schedule so we have twenty-four-hour days and seven days in a week. Some people hate that—they think we should live by the Mars days.”
Neither officer said a word. They were both just staring at her.
“Take my day yesterday. I was late to work because the shuttle was late. Why? I have no idea. It just is sometimes. Then, on my way home, I stopped at the grocery store. While I was there, the sprinkler system starts going off—some sort of malfunction—all of us in the store got soaked to the skin. By the time I got home, I was absolutely freezing because some jackass in climate control decided to lower the temperature to forty degrees last night. I was so frustrated that I almost cried with joy when I saw the case of wine on my doorstep that my Mom sent me.”
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