Patron of the Arts

scratch-built Sahara racer. But they had turned out to be a triumph of unadorned beauty, generating a certain affection in their owners. They worked, they responded, they had personalities. Any craftsman knows what it is like to have the right tool for the right job, and the miners of Mars knew they had the right tool.

I dawdled behind Nova, inspecting personal modifications, enjoying touching the machines as much as I enjoyed touching a Henry Moore or a Gene Lamont. I saw Nova looking at me with a quizzical smile from the opened lock and I hurried after her.

All my life it has been difficult to explain to others that all art is not on museum walls or in concert halls. A freshly fallen leaf in the gutter, a tool worn to the hand of its user, reflections of a megalopolis in the mirrored side of a building, a distant archotolog pyramid against the sunset were all things that had pleased me as much as a Goya or Piranesi’s fanciful engravings or Turandot. A cascade of blonde hair across a bare golden back or the esoterica washed up by the tide delighted me as much as a Praxiteles fragment or a performance of Ten Worlds by Kerrigan.

I suppose some of those things are not art, but beauty, and perhaps something becomes art only when it is touched by the hand or mind of man. But beauty is as much a part of man as his ugliness, his madness, his darkness. To me the ultimate beauty was that of the person, the completeness, not only the cosmetic exterior but the more important interior.

I had found it once in Madelon.

Was I close to it again?

The years of natural caution had prevented me from exposing myself beyond a certain point with Nova. Perhaps it was the secret of the Thorne-Braddock impersonation, perhaps it was the reluctance to once again be hurt. Perhaps it was everything, known and unknown. I grinned and the dour thoughts that had flooded my mind melted away. “Nice,” I said and patted a pockmarked sandcat. She made an expression that was in casual agreement but relegated it all to the everyday. I felt faintly patronized.

The next dome was a noisy one. It was not as large as the first dome, but it was more thickly populated. Various companies and guilds and unions operated “hotels” for their members and employees. Laser-cut letters in one immense sandblock wall announced to all it was the Martian Miners Union Hall and Hostel. Next to it, an imbedded mosaic of semiprecious stones proclaimed the Elysium Tripper. Three yellow-clad men lurched from the entrance as we passed, their faces flushed and their eyes dilated.

An incoherent growl of lust came from the biggest one, almost drowning out the redhead’s “Well, hello there, pretty one!” They aimed for us and canted to the right, laughing.

“Haw, Nikolai, you can’t navigate any better here than you can out on the Cimmerian!” The redhead laughed at the bigger man, whose face clouded as he pulled his gaze away from Nova’s figure. He refocused on the laughing redhead and without warning he struck him by the ear with a meaty fist. The slighter man reeled and fell to one knee.

“Goddamn it, you salt flat romeo! That hurt? ”

But Nikolai had Nova in his sights. Fresh from the sensory drugs that had aroused him but not satisfied him, he was ready for a woman. Any woman.

“Hold it, amigo,” I said, stepping forward. A sudden bearlike arm swept me aside and I fell, my breath knocked out for a moment. I came to my feet to see her struggling in his grasp, her face more annoyed than frightened. I started forward and the third man, hitherto silent, flashed a blade at me.

Perhaps if I had thought I would have been killed. But I didn’t think, I just responded. As Shigeta had trained me, I did not go into any predictable response of karate or kung fu, but rather the deceptive blend of many disciplines called mazeru, suitable for those who do not wish to completely devote their lives to learning one discipline. I was of the lowest grade, that of gunjin, or “soldier” class. I used my knee kick against the knife-man to propel myself at the hulking Nikolai. I wrapped myself around his head, carrying him with me, rolling as we hit the ground. He came up with a roar, blocking the redhead who was lurching in toward me. I spun, getting Nikolai with a boot in the face and clipping the redhead with a usui blow that ruined his throat. I heard Shigeta’s voice. Except for training or exhibition you never must fight. But if you must, fight to win. Combat is not polite conversation.

The redhead was down, choking hoarsely. The knife-man was glaring at me, holding his kneecap. “You busted it, you goddamn tank thief!”

Nikolai was on his hands and knees, shaking his head. Blood from his smashed nose was dripping into the pinkish ground. I looked at Nova, who was looking at the three men. Her eyes came up to me with a kind of horror.

“They were just a little borracho. I could have handled them.”

I gestured towards the ripped shoulder seam of her warmsuit.

“Sure, you could.”

The man with the broken kneecap was swearing at me. “You rusted crawler, you slipped your blessed