Everything looked the same. It was all too orderly, every corner, wall, and angle too functionally oriented. Directional markers crowded out any attempts at aesthetics by the original builders, which had been few enough. The countless communications boxes and security monitors did nothing to cheer the look of the place, either.
The ambassador stared down at the ground. Every floor was painted with the same pattern of designational and classification stripes—constantly telling him where he was and where he was going.
And if you walk backwards, thought Hawkes bitterly, where you've been as well.
He had not been walking for a full hour yet, but already the look and feel of the colony had begun to depress him deeply. In his time, the ambassador had trod the ground of some of the world's poorest nations. He had witnessed desperate poverty in lands torn asunder by mindlessly horrific wars. He had seen corpor/nationals take over vast tracts of countries, evicting all their citizens. He remembered the forced marches in Africa when Inver-Comp had seized power—the tens of thousands on the march. No food, no water, dusty roads worn down into the veld by an army of marching skeletons.
This might be better than that, he grudgingly admitted to himself after a moment's deliberation, but not by much. And if things don't change, and change fast, I can see it all getting worse. Fast.
Hawkes came across the central park of the colony shortly after beginning his inspection. He was surprised to find no one in it. Of course, he also had been surprised by the fact that he had seen only one other person as he walked. But, to his way of thinking, in a place as desolate as Mars . . . how could people not be in the park? It might not be the only park in the Above, but it was known to be by far the largest and most elaborate. As he wandered through it, the ambassador winced inside, thinking, God help these people . . . if this is the best they have. . . . He glanced from side to side, misery creeping into him with every second. . . . This. This.
The cold, logical part of his brain was willing to be impressed. Not only was the park on a formerly lifeless planet, but it was inside that planet, hidden from the sun. Everything being done was being done artificially. But still, the rest of him shuddered. It was a park without trees, without water, without birds or grasshoppers, without wind or ants or grass or even loose soil.
The entire park was actually a series of potted plants, mostly short, shade growers—stunted things, really. From one end to the other, he saw no flowers, no variation—no color except the same easy-to-grow dark green. It was the only life to be had for several levels, though, which made Hawkes curious as to why there was no one else about. Continuing on through the sad little acre, he chanced across a gardener trimming away dead and dying leaves. Curiosity driving him, he asked,
"Excuse me—but is this all there is?"
"What do you mean?"
"To the park? Is this all there is? Aren't there any trees, anywhere? Any flowers, anything"—Hawkes waved his arms about somewhat helplessly, finally finishing by asking simply—"anything else?"
"No," answered the man somewhat sullenly. He did not know who the ambassador was, nor did he seem to care. He seemed interested only in performing his duties-whatever they might be.
Curious, Hawkes asked him, "Is this your job? Are you the gardener?"
"I signed on for a few hours a shift. All I could afford."
" 'Afford'? What do you mean?"
"Afford. Whadya mean, wha'do I mean? What're ya— deaf? A Jim's gotta make some extra bank to stay afloat in this crap hole. I get done down in the growth vats, I come here and do snip duty for the recyclers."
Understanding flooded through Hawkes. Suddenly he did not have to ask any more questions. There were no permanent gardeners, just workers desperate for extra units. The man was trimming away dead growth and turning it over to the recyclers for who knew how little— would four or five hours' effort buy a meal? A stiff drink? The ambassador was too embarrassed to ask.
And that, he thought, is why there's no one else here. That's why I've seen only one person since I left my rooms. Everyone else is off working their own second and third jobs to try and . . .
He hesitated for a second, wondering what anyone would save for on Mars.
Work like a dog? Who cares? What does it get anyone? More worthless stock?
Suddenly he was seized by the madness of Mars. Why would anyone come there? Stay there? How could they? How? How did a person go on, day after day, after day . . . after day . . . after day? When every moment was spent stepping over more gray flooring, going past more gray walls, under more gray ceilings. When every bit of effort went to someone else's benefit. When every breath was as useless as the last?
Staggering slightly under the weight of the horror coursing through his mind, Hawkes reached out and steadied himself against a pole. The ambassador was a student of history; he knew about slave societies, from early Mesopotamia to the Soviet Union, which had dissolved less than a century earlier. In a sudden, frightening moment of clarity he realized that the only reason Mars was continuing to function at all was because it was peopled with men and women who had known no other life.
Their mothers and fathers came here to make a new life. They took on this hellish existence to give something better to their children.
The ambassador shuddered, suddenly feeling a horrible cold growing within him. Starting to move again, he whispered, "They sold themselves into slavery so the next generation could be free. And this is all
