They had phoned Mr. Cliff I was coming; “Good Service” is the company’s motto. He was waiting when the gyro touched. A little round fellow, with a look as though something had surprised him: He said: “Major Davies, I’m delighted to see you. We don’t see many spacemen out here. Come and see my roses. ” He seemed eager and I let him take me. I wasn’t breaking my neck to get back into town.
He had a glass-house full of roses. I hesitated in the doorway. Mr. Cliff said: “Well?”
“I’d forgotten they smelled like that,” I said.
He said proudly: “It’s quite a showing. A week before Christmas and a showing like that. Look at this Frau Karl Druschki. ”
It was a white rose, very nicely shaped and scented like spring. The roses had me. I crawled round after Mr. Cliff, seeing roses, feeling roses, breathing roses. I looked at my watch when it began to get dark.
I said: “I came to buy a Christmas-tree.”
We left the rose-house reluctantly. Mr. Cliff said: “Christmas on Earth for a change?”
I liked Mr. Cliff. I said:
“No—Luna City. It’s for someone there. ”
He waited for me to go on.
“A guy called Hans,” I said. “He’s been nearly forty years in Luna City. He was born in a little village in Austria. Halfway up a mountain, with pines all round and snow on them in winter. You know. He gets homesick. ”
Mr. Cliff said: “Why doesn’t he come back?”
It’s always a shock when people show how little they know about the life you lead, though I suppose you can’t blame them.
I said to Mr. Cliff: “The doctors have it all tabbed. It’s what they call cumulative stress. You can’t bring a boat in or push her off without an initial strain. It varies with the planets, of course. For Earth, with an average-sized vessel, the peak’s about five or six gravities. ”
I flexed my shoulders back, breathing this different air.
“You’ve got to be tough physically,” I said. “But, even so, it tells. It’s the heart chiefly. They give you a warning when it begins to flicker; you can drop out then with a pension. Of course, there are some who can carry on. They’re used to the life, and... ”
“And....?” said Mr. Cliff.
“There’s a final warning as well. They check up on you after each trip; vet you for the next. Then one time it’s just a plain No. You can argue, but the answer’s No. Another take-off would finish you. So they say. There’s no way of testing it; they just don’t let you on a boat after that. ”
Mr. Cliff said: “They’re very considerate.”
I laughed. “Oh, very. The only thing is—they check you each landfall. Hans got his final warning at Luna City. ”
Mr. Cliff said: “Oh.” He bent his head to smell the red rose in his coat. “How long ago did you say?” “Hans is an old man. Over seventy. Generally you get your first warning when you’re about thirty. Near enough forty years, I suppose. ”
“And how big is this Luna City?”
“That’s easy,” I said. “It’s in the guide books. A couple of blocks long by a block wide. It goes underground a bit as well. ”
“That’s terrible,” Mr. Cliff said softly. “Forty years like that. No trees, no birds.... And young men know that and still take the risk? I can't believe it. ”
It was an old story, but I’d never felt myself getting so mad about it before. I reined myself in. He was a nice old guy.
I said: “You don’t understand, Mr. Cliff. There’s something in the life. And sometimes there’s more than five years between first and final warnings. One guy went ten. There’s always one more trip that’s worth making before you settle down for good. They don’t recruit spacemen who give up easily. And you may always strike lucky and get your ticket at this end. ”
He said gently: “When did you get your first warning, Major Davies?”
I flushed. “Three years ago. So what? Now this matter of the Christmas-tree, Mr. Cliff.... ”
Mr. Cliff said: “I’ll show you. The Christmas-tree is on me. Please. I want to. ”
I said: “Thanks, Mr. Cliff. For Hans, too. ”
“I own some stock in Lunar Mines.” He blinked. “Forty years.... ”
He led me away to show me the fir trees, and the scent of roses gave way to a rich piney smell that made me remember being a kid, and holidays up in the lakes. He said:
“I’ve been thinking, Major Davies. I’ve got a proposition that may interest you...
I didn’t see Louie when the tree went on board; one of his boys handled it. There wasn’t a sign of any of the company police around, and I guessed Louie was distracting them down at the night-office in a friendly game of poker. Skinning ’em, too, if I knew Louie. I didn’t see him until the end of my second shift on the trip. The radar screen was a beautiful blank; it was a clear season for meteors. Louie was lolling in front of it reading The Three Musketeers.
I said: “I always knew I slipped up when I majored in Nav. Do they pay you for this? ”
Sometimes there’s ill feeling about the large stretches of easy time radar-ops manage to corner, but Louie knew I’d been in space too long for that. Until the automatic relays smarten up a lot there’s got to be a man on the screen. And the company doesn’t give time away; the radar section handles the quarter-mastering, too. Every third furlough they lose two days.
Louie grinned. “I’ve got a weak heart. Didn’t you know? ”
I tossed him a cigarette. “Thanks for getting baby on board. What did you throw out—gold bars? ”
He shook his head. “Just my own brand of math. If that orbit you’ve laid us turns out bad enough we’ll hit the sun approximately ten minutes sooner than we would otherwise. And I’ve got to pep my meteor deflection up by three thousandths of a second. It’s a big risk. ”
“My orbit’s good,” I said. “I’ll only ever lay one better. Next trip I’m going to lay the tightest Moon-Earth orbit since Christiansen came in on the Leonidas. After that you needn’t worry about my failing eyes, Louie. ” He said: “I’m glad, Joe. I always knew you had sense. I’m dropping out the moment they give me a hint. It’s not worth it. ”
I said: “Yes. I’m really going. ”
Louie said: “You’ll miss it, but you’ll get over that. You would have to, anyway, before long. ”
I said: “It’s out in the country, Louie. A nursery. Growing plants, all kinds of plants. Fir trees and chrysanthemums and daffodils—and roses at Christmas. And the moon’s no more than something you plant by. I shan’t miss anything. ”
He said: “You’re lucky, Joe. That’s what it is— you’re lucky. ”
We cushioned at three G’s and I felt it again; a long ache inside my chest as though my heart and lungs were tied up with strings and someone was twisting them nice and slowly. It was all right after a few minutes, and I got up, light and active under Moon gravity. I wasted no time getting through the main lock. I looked for old Hans amongst those who stood by, but there was no sign of him. I called Portugese, who runs the grog shop.
“Portugese! Where’s Hans? I’ve got something for him. ”
He came waddling over airily. With a bulk like his I could almost understand why he had chosen Luna City. He shrugged, lifting everything: hands, shoulders and eyebrows.
“Too late now,” he said. “He died just after nightfall. We’re taking him out in a few hours. ”
*
In Luna City there are no extras. You don’t waste anything that has to be freighted a quarter of a million miles, and that includes oxygen. When men die there, their bodies are kept until nightfall, when, for three hundred and thirty-six hours, darkness freezes into rime the last traces of the Moon’s atmosphere. Sometime during the night the body is taken out in a Caterpillar and committed, with duly economical rites, to some cleft in the antique rocks. With the sunrise the thin air melts, the grey lichen runs like a sickness along the crater bottoms, and in that jungle the minute lunar insects awaken to fight batt
les as real as Tyrannosaurus ever knew. Long before the crater shadows lengthen towards sunset the cleft is empty again. No flesh, no hair, no scrap of bone escapes them.
Portugese drove the Caterpillar out through the airlock. Louie and I sat behind him with old Hans’ body, covered by a sheet, on the floor between us. We were silent while the little truck jolted on its metal tracks across granite and pumice and frozen lava. And I don’t think it was the death inside that silenced us; we had liked old Hans, but he had had his time, and was released now to infinity from the narrow confines of Luna City. It was the death outside that quieted us, as it quiets any man who goes out among those age-old crests and pinnacles, under those glaring stars.
Portugese halted the Caterpillar on the crest of a rise about mid-way between Luna City and Kelly’s Crater. It was the usual burial ground; the planet’s surface here was cross-hatched in deep grooves by some age-old catastrophe. We clamped down the visors on our suits and got out. Portugese and I carried old Hans easily between us, his frail body fantastically light against lunar gravity. We put him down carefully in a wide, deep cleft, and I turned round towards the truck. Louie walked towards us, carrying the Christmas-tree. There had been moisture on it which had frozen instantly into sparkling frost. It looked like a center-piece out of a store shop window. It had seemed a good idea back in Luna City, but now it didn’t seem appropriate.
We wedged it in with rocks, Portugese read a prayer, and we walked back to the Caterpillar, glad to be able to let our visors down again and light up cigarettes. We stayed there while we smoked, looking through the front screen. The tree stood up green and white against the sullen, hunching blackness of Kelly’s Crater. Right overhead was the Earth, glowing with daylight. I could make out Italy, clear and unsmudged, but further north Hans’ beloved Austria was hidden under blotching December cloud.
We didn’t say anything. Portugese squeezed out his cigarette and started the Caterpillar up, turning her round again towards Luna City. We ran into B lock, and Portugese stabled the truck and came out again to join us. He put his fat arms around our shoulders.
“Come on, boys. Always a drink on the house after a burying party. ”
Louie said: “Medical first, Portugese. We’ll look in afterwards. Keep the rum hot for us. ”
We saw him glide plumply away, and turned back ourselves towards the Admin, buildings. The others had been through the Medical while we were out, and we had a doctor each without any waiting. We sat in the anteroom afterwards, waiting for them to write our cards up before we could collect them. At last the call came through on the speaker:
“Major Graves. Squadron Enderby. Cards ready now. ”
Louie got his first. He looked at the big blue stamp on the front—FIRST WARNING. He grinned.
“We’ll go out in harness, Joe. Any chance of a third partnership in that flower business?”
I didn’t say anything. I could see my card before the doctor gave it to me. I saw the red star splashed on it, and I’d seen too many of them not to know what it meant. It was the mark of the exile, the outlaw who had left it too late to get back. It was the beginning of such a story as the one whose end, forty years later, I had witnessed in the lee of Kelly’s Crater under the mocking globe of Earth.
I said: “This is my last trip, Doc. When we hit Antwerp I’m retiring. ”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Major.”
I said: “I don’t care if it’s a million to one chance, Doc. I’ll take it; and no hard feelings if it doesn’t come off. I’ll sign any disclaimer the company wants. ”
He said: “It’s no good, Major. You know the regulations. These things are too fool-proof now. We're not allowed to let you commit suicide. ”
I knew it was no good, too. Louie had gone. We all knew better than to stick around when someone got the red star. I had time to look at the doctor. He was very young and didn’t look very happy. I guessed he hadn't handed out a star before.
He said: “It could be worse, Major. It could have been Phobos. ”
I looked at him and he looked away. I walked out slowly. -
*
From the top level in Luna City you can see the sky; at night the stars and the softly glowing Earth. Down to the west Sirius blazes over Kelly’s Crater. I’ve been up here for hours watching them.
I keep thinking I can smell roses.
Happy Birthday, Dear Jesus - Frederik Pohl
It was the craziest Christmas I ever spent. Partly it was Heinemann’s fault—he came up with a new wrinkle in gift-wrapping that looked good but like every other idea that comes out of the front office meant plenty of headaches for the rest of us. But what really messed up Christmas for me was the girl.
Personnel sent her down—after I’d gone up there myself three times and banged my fist on the table. It was the height of the season and when she told me that she had had her application in three weeks before they called her, I excused myself and got Personnel on the store phone from my private office. “Martin here,” I said. “What the devil’s the matter with you people? This girl is the Emporium type if I ever saw one, and you’ve been letting her sit around nearly a month while—”
Crawford, the Personnel head, interrupted me.
“Have you talked to her very much?” he wanted to know.
“Well, no. But—”
“Call me back when you do,” he advised, and clicked off.
I went back to the stockroom where she was standing patiently, and looked her over a little thoughtfully. But she looked all right to me. She was blond-haired and blue-eyed and not very big; she had a sweet, slow smile. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she looked like a girl you’d want to know. She wasn’t bold, and she wasn’t too shy; and that’s a perfect description of what we call “The Emporium Type.”
So what in the world was the matter with Personnel?
Her name was Lilymary Hargreave. I put her to work on the gift-wrap spraying machine while I got busy with my paper work. I have a hundred forty-one persons in the department and at the height of the Christmas season I could use twice as many. But we do get the work done. For instance, Saul & Capell, the next biggest store in town, has a hundred and sixty in their gift and counseling department, and their sales run easily twenty-five per cent less than ours. And in the four years that I’ve headed the department we’ve yet to fail to get an order delivered when it was promised.
All through that morning I kept getting glimpses of the new girl. She was a quick learner—smart, too smart to be stuck with the sprayer for very long. I needed someone like her around, and right there on the spot I made up my mind that if she was as good as she looked I’d put her in a counseling booth within a week, and the devil with what Personnel thought.
The store was packed with last-minute shoppers. I suppose I’m sentimental, but I love to watch the thousands of people bustling in and out, with all the displays going at once, and the lights on the trees, and the loudspeakers playing White Christmas and The Eighth Candle and Jingle Bells and all the other traditional old favorites. Christmas is more than a mere selling season of the year to me; it means something.
The girl called me over near closing time. She looked distressed and with some reason. There was a dolly filled with gift-wrapped packages, and a man from Shipping looking annoyed. She said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Martin, but I seem to have done something wrong.”
The Shipping man snorted. “Look for yourself, Mr. Martin,” he said, handing me one of the packages.
I looked. It was wrong, all right. Heinemann’s new wrinkle that year was a special attached gift card—a simple Yule scene and the printed message:
The very Merriest of Season’s Greetings
From ……………………………………
To ……………………………………
$8. 50
The price varied with the item, of course. Heinemann’s idea was for the customer to fill it out and mail it, ahead of time, to the person it was intended fo
r. That way, the person who got it would know just about how much he ought to spend on a present for the first person. It was smart, I admit, and maybe the smartest thing about it was rounding the price off to the nearest fifty cents instead of giving it exactly. Heinemann said it was bad-mannered to be too pre rise—and the way the customers were going for the idea, it had to be right.
But the trouble was that the gift-wrapping machines were geared to only a plain card; it was necessary for the operator to put the price in by hand.
I said, “That’s all right, Joe; I’ll take care of it.” As Joe went satisfied back to Shipping, I told the girl: “It’s my fault. I should have explained to you, but I guess I’ve just been a little too rushed. ”
She looked downcast. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Nothing to be sorry about” I showed her the routing slip attached to each one, which the Shipping Department kept for its records once the package was on its way. “All we have to do is go through these; the price is on every one. We’ll just fill out the cards and get them out. I guess—” I looked at my watch—
“I guess you’ll be a little late tonight, but I’ll see that you get overtime and dinner money for it. It wasn’t your mistake, after all. ”
She said hesitantly, “Mr. Martin, couldn’t it—well, can I let it go for tonight? It isn’t that I mind working, but I keep house for my father and if I don’t get there on time he just won’t remember to eat dinner. Please? ”
I suppose I frowned a little, because her expression was a little worried. But, after all, it was her first day.
I said, “Miss Hargreave, don’t give it a thought. I’ll take care of it.”
The way I took care of it, it turned out, was to do it myself; it was late when I got through, and I ate quickly and went home to bed. But I didn’t mind, for oh! the sweetness of the smile she gave me as she left.
I looked forward to the next morning, because I was looking forward to seeing Lilymary Hargreave again. But my luck was out—for she was.
Christmas on Ganymede and Other Stories Page 7
