Red Mars (Mars Trilogy, #1) - Kim Stanley Robinson Page 0,154

learned that one? He rubbed his jaw, turned on the common band. “Hello? Anyone out there?”

“The Martians.”

It was a man’s voice. His English was accented, but John couldn’t identify how.

“We want to talk,” the voice said.

John stood and looked out the windshield. At night, in the storm, there was precious little to see. But he thought he could pick out shapes in the blackness, there below him.

“We just want to talk,” the voice said.

If they had wanted to kill him they could have blown open the rover while he slept. Besides, he still couldn’t quite believe that anyone wished him harm. There was no reason for it!

So he let them in.

There were five of them, all men. Their walkers were frayed, dirty, patched with material that had not been made for walkers. Their helmets were without identification, stripped of all paint. As they took off the helmets he saw that one of the men was Asian, and young; he looked about eighteen. The youth went forward and sat in the driver’s seat, leaned over the steering wheel to look closer at the instrument array. Another got off his helmet; a short brown-skinned man, with a thin face and long dreadlocks. He sat on the padded bench across from John’s bed, and waited for the other three men to get their helmets off too. When they did they crouched on their haunches, watching John attentively. He had never seen any of them before.

The thin-faced man said, “We want you to slow the rate of immigration.” He was the one who had spoken outside; now his accent sounded Caribbean. He spoke in a low voice, almost in a whisper, and John found it very difficult not to emulate him.

“Or stop it,” the young man in the driver’s seat said.

“Shut up, Kasei.” The thin-faced man never took his gaze from John’s face. “There are too many people coming up. You know that. They’re not Martian, and they don’t care what happens here. They’re going to overwhelm us, they’re going to overwhelm you. You know that. You’re trying to turn them into Martians, we know, but they’re coming in a lot faster than you can work. The only thing that will work is slowing down the influx.”

“Or stopping it.”

The man rolled his eyes, appealed with a grimace for John’s understanding. The youth was young, his look said.

“I don’t have any say—” John began, but the man cut him off:

“You can advocate it. You’re a power, and you’re on our side.”

“Are you from Hiroko?”

The youth snicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The thin-faced man said nothing. Four faces stared at John; the other looked resolutely out the window.

John said, “Have you been sabotaging the moholes?”

“We want you to stop the immigration.”

“I want you to stop the sabotage. It’s just bringing more people here. Police.”

The man eyed him. “What makes you think we can contact the saboteurs?”

“Find them. Break in on them at night.”

The man smiled. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Not necessarily.”

They had to be with Hiroko. Occam’s razor. There couldn’t be more than one hidden group. Or maybe there could. John felt light-headed, and wondered if they were doctoring the air. Releasing aerosol drugs. He definitely felt strange, it was all surreal, dreamy; the wind buffeted the rover, sent a sudden burst of aeolian music coursing by, a weird drawn-out hoot. His thoughts were slow and ponderous, and he felt the edge of a yawn. That’s it, he thought. I’m still trying to wake from a dream.

“Why do you hide?” he heard himself say.

“We’re building Mars. Just like you. We’re on your side.”

“You ought to help, then.” He tried to think. “What about the space elevator?”

“We don’t care about it.” The kid snicked. “That isn’t what matters. It’s people that matter.”

“The elevator will bring a lot more people.”

The man considered that. “Slow the immigration, and it can’t even be built.”

Another long silence, punctuated by the wind’s eerie commentary. Can’t even be built? Did they think people would build it? Or maybe they meant the money.

“I’ll look into it,” John said. The kid turned and stared at him, and John raised a hand to forestall him. “I’ll do what I can.” His hand stood before him, a huge pink thing. “That’s all I can say. If I promised results, it would be lying. I know what you mean. I’ll do what I can.” He thought about it more, with difficulty. “You ought to be out in the open, helping us. We need