Looking up into the sky, he walked back out of the pit. His boots hissed as they touched the cool ground outside the ring of fire. Downing the last chunk of meat, he felt his anger sliding away, being replaced by something colder—harder. Feeling the normally warm night air suddenly chilling his body, one word filled his mind: Mars.
Walking away from the pit, he left the sheriff, Celdosso, Keller, Cook, and everyone else behind. He had to. Life had proved to him again that wherever he walked, he had to go alone.
And now, he thought, he was going to Mars.
Heaven help whoever he found there.
10
HAWKES SAT AT THE DESK IN HIS STATEROOM ABOARD the U.S.S. Bulldog. He had pinned his usual travel picture of Disraeli up over the work area. The heavily armed merchant liner had left Lunar City three solar days previously. She had roughly eight days left in her voyage to Mars— eight more than the ambassador cared for.
After he had determined that he needed to head off-world to get to the bottom of his troubles, he had snapped instantly into action. Senator Carri had been alerted to Hawkes's acceptance of the Martian posting after the ambassador was already en route to Skyhook. If he did have active enemies in Washington, Hawkes wanted to leave them as little open time as possible within which they could act.
After a life in the corps, the ambassador knew what to take and how to pack it quickly. Twelve complete changes of clothing, color-matched sets appropriate for whatever different moods he might need to set. Dress suit, of course, formal boots, sword and scabbard, toilet bag, gross pack of beef jerky—everything was bagged in less than ten minutes.
A half hour after he had walked into the pit fire, he was in his 4 X 4 with Keller, headed for town in the same clothes he had been wearing for the past two days. The drive down the mountain in the dark was a long, slow process. The foreman commented several times on the fact that Hawkes had not changed, and the relative closeness of their quarters. The ambassador just smiled and ignored him.
Hawkes had other things on his mind. As they made their way to town, he used the trip both to make his travel arrangements and to go over what his foreman should be doing while he was gone. Not only did Keller have to run the ranch, as usual, but he had to do it with fewer hands. He also had to keep a wary eye on their friends at Clean Mountain Enterprises. As Hawkes told him at the airport, "Get me any information the sheriff or the feds come across. Whatever maneuvers CME tries, I want word on it at once. They're not taking our mountain, Ed."
"Not without a fight, anyways," the grizzled older man agreed.
The two shook hands on the runway. It was an awkward moment for them both. They had said good-bye to each other a thousand times in the past. None of the previous farewells had had the sense of finality that this one did, however. Finally, Keller stepped back toward the 4 X 4, announcing, "This is gettin' silly, boss. Like we was turnin' inta a pair of ol' women or sumthin'." Hawkes nodded, then stepped up into the small chartered jet waiting to carry him to the other side of the world.
"I'll be back, Ed," he told his old friend. Then, before either of them could say another word, he ducked his head and entered the jet. Seconds later, he was in the air. Once he was over the Pacific he put his call through to Washington, getting Mick Carri out of bed.
The senator had told him the Skyhook was booked weeks in advance. Hawkes had answered that if there was no room found for him by the time he arrived, he would make a press announcement that the American Senate was blocking his departure for Mars. By the time the ambassador landed in the Maldives, room had been found.
He spent the daylong ride to the synchronous orbiting elevator platform sleeping. Arriving rested with all his anger safely in check, he had exited onto the platform demanding instantaneous passage to Lunar City. He was told that nothing was leaving for three days.
"Nothing?" he had asked, yet with no trace of a question in his tone. "I thought there was constant traffic between here and the Moon. All the time. Every day."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Ambassador," the lieutenant posted to handle him had countered. "But it's mostly cargo flights. Not much for carrying passengers."
"Are there pilots? Crew?"
"Of course, yes. But . . ."
"Then find me some room on a ship and get me off this platform in fifteen minutes or be prepared to face a board of inquiry." When the man hesitated, Hawkes fixed him with a devastating stare and snapped, "My friend, someone's trying to keep me from getting to Mars. Now, my plan is to see to it that everyone involved ends up behind bars. You want to have to prove you're not one of them . . . you keep standing there."
In twelve minutes Hawkes was aboard a tug heading out with a load of empty sponge/mush barges ready to be strung back to the Lunar Colony for transfer back to Mars. Hawkes gave the lieutenant his compliments and boarded the old force beamer. Before he had his bags stored he asked the tug's captain what her best time ever to the Moon was—then offered her a thousand-unit bribe to break that record by an hour.
"When would you
