Old Mars

“They … wouldn’t.” His tongue struggled, let the words out. Mistake. Too late to call the words back now. “I … I’m care …” He gave up, pulled his pad out, tapped it. I watch how the wind is blowing them along and stay clear. He smiled, but her eyes had narrowed with that look. Oh well. Your beets are bigger than ours. He gave her a big smile. Howcum?

“Ah, it’s that greenish rock you find sometimes.” She wagged her finger at him again, her back not quite straight, even when she stood upright, so that she had to tilt her head up to look at him. “It’s got a lot of phosphorus in it, I guess. And the beets love it. Only because you help me when my back hurts.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Try it, but don’t tell anybody else, especially not Sascha. He thinks he’s such a hot gardener.” She cackled. “You’re always wandering off, keep an eye out for it, bring some back. Bring some back for me, too, since I told you.” She gave him a sly look. “And I won’t tell your dad that you were out there. Your legs are younger than mine. Soreh told me that Rav, the market guy from town, asks specifically for my beets. And pays extra for them, too. Now, he’ll pay extra for yours, too.”

Soreh said a lot of things. Won’t tell anybody. U want help? He didn’t need her headshake to know she didn’t, he could always see it when she was in pain, sort of like a heat shimmer in the air. Wasn’t there today. He nodded, waved, and stepped over the plastic tape that marked the boundary of each plot. “Dad … back …?”

“Ah, they’re already in.” She squatted amidst the beet rows, gently loosening the reddish soil around each crown of dark green leaves. “I guess the patch wasn’t as big as Gus said it was and they got the seeding done early. He came by to see if you were here.” She kept her eyes fixed on her cultivator as she worked the moist soil. “I … said I didn’t know where you were. But you shouldn’t go wandering off like that.” She shot him a quick sideways glance. “You could get lost. Those dust devils could knock you down.”

He shook his head, knelt, and started checking the drip lines, looking for any telltale dry or soggy patches that might mean a leak of too much precious water or a plugged line. He hurried. The longer Dad wondered where he was, the more likely he was to check back on the house database. Sure enough, he managed to find a couple of drippers that were partially plugged. Dad would probably go over to Canny’s place. She brewed beer out of all kinds of stuff, and he’d heard Dan Zheng say that this batch was really good. Dad was pretty easygoing about his skimping on lesson time after a couple of beers.

The sun was pretty low by the time he headed in, and he didn’t have to blur his eyes very hard to see the plaza and the fountains. Four or five musicians were piping pink and green mist from the twisted horns, over near the fountain. Some of their spinach was ready for market, and he detoured to the settlement-warehouse entrance. The weigh room was cold, right down near freezing. He set the unit basket on the scale, entered his dad’s code and contents. The scale beeped, uploading the weight of spinach contributed to their ag total for the month. Rubbing his stinging hands together, he headed for the door.

Just as it scraped open.

“Darn dust gets into everything. You gotta replace bearings here all the time.” The mayor, Al Siggrand, shoved the door all the way open. “Hey, your dad’s lookin’ for you!” He gave Maartin a fake scowl. “You weren’t wandering out there by yourself again, were you?” He talked a little loud, as if Maartin couldn’t hear right. “You know your dad told you not to do that. Do you remember?”

Maartin nodded, but his eyes went to the man standing behind the short, squat mayor, dressed in a full miner’s suit. The miner he’d talked to.

“Maartin, meet Jorge.” The mayor jerked his chin at the miner. “I guess these guys are tired of freeze-dried. They’re willing to pay good market price for some fresh stuff for a change.”

Oh great, and now he’d tell the mayor that Maartin had been in the canal. Maartin swallowed.

“Hey, Maartin.” The miner was smiling at him. He had a long, freckled face and hair that wasn’t quite the color of the Martian dust that coated the spots where the breather mask didn’t cover. “Nice to meet you. Want to sell us some of your produce? What do you and your dad grow?”

Maartin pushed past them, out into the settlement alley.

“Don’t mind him.” The closing door couldn’t quite block out the mayor’s words. “He’s not quite all there, got a head injury in a rockfall accident a couple years back. Can’t talk anymore. He gets lost, wanders off. We all kind of look out for him.”