Martel's eyes narrowed and she focused her attention on Hawkes. She knew he was leading her somewhere, but she also knew that it was an important part of her job never to think something was a good idea simply because it had come from the great Benton Hawkes. The ambassador needed more than that from her.
"We don't know who's telling the truth—any kind of truth beyond the self-serving type that everyone believes. If we're going to help anyone here, then we're going to have to go out and get a few of the facts for ourselves."
"And so we use poor Glenia as our patsy?"
"To answer your question," answered the ambassador, "yes—we certainly do. We use anyone to get the job done to the best advantage of the greatest number of people." His voice going a bit softer, he added, "I like Glenia Waters. She was sweet and charming. We're not going to hurt her. We're simply going to use her to try and get this whole process moving forward. Maybe you're thinking of settling down here—I'm not."
The elevator doors suddenly opened again. As the silent cart moved out into the residential area set aside for the upper management of Red Planet, Inc., the ambassador lowered his voice and said, "We met Mrs. Waters on the Bulldog. We all survived the pirates together. Now we've accepted her invitation to dinner. We're not taking sides— we're taking dinner with an old friend. We're diplomats— we're allowed."
As their carrier slid to a quiet halt near a doorway labeled with the number they had been watching for, Hawkes noted that the entrances to the various apartments on the management level seemed fairly close together. Storing the fact away for later consideration, he whispered, "After all, I had dinner with one of the working class last night, so you can hardly call this taking sides."
Martel started to make a retort, but was forced to stop as the door opened. Glenia Waters flowed out of her front door. She was all smiles and open arms, calling to them, "Come in. Come in. My God, I haven't seen either of you since we left the ship, and that was only for a moment across a crowd." Taking Martel's hands in her own, the woman added with genuine warmth, "Of course we all heard that the ambassador hadn't been harmed . . ."
"Well, nothing permanent," Hawkes interjected with a tone of mock pride.
Rolling right past him, Waters continued, "But really, Dina, I hadn't known whether or not you survived until you accepted my invitation."
"I'm fine. But what about you, Glenia? Did anything . . . ?"
"No, no, not an old warhorse like me. Someone pushed me backward into a crew locker. It was uncomfortable, but considering the alternative . . ."
The trio made silent agreement that they were lucky to have survived. Before any further comment could be made, a man roughly the same age as their hostess arrived at the door, making a final adjustment to his tie. He was tired looking, his eyes dark, and his skin tight and sallow.
But he was as happy as his wife with their guests, and immediately asked why everyone was in the hall when the party was inside.
In the Waters living room they ritually were introduced to the children, who were then sent off to amuse themselves while Glenia went to attend to things in the kitchen. Samuel Waters took over as host, first serving drinks, then picking up a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Extending it to his guests, he said, "Every bit of it grown right here on Mars. This is no reconstituted sponge/mush. This is the fresh act. The real deal. And maybe it's just hometown pride, but I think dehydration just kills the taste." He gave Hawkes and Martel each a moment to make a selection, then asked, "What do you think?"
Martel's eyes opened wider as she bit into the canape she had selected. Holding it away from her mouth, she exclaimed, "This is very good—it really is." As Waters's head turned toward Hawkes, he agreed, saying,
"Yes. I must admit I've never had anything quite like it."
"It's the parsley and the peppers," called Mrs. Waters from the kitchen.
"Now, honey," complained her husband lightly, "don't give away all my secrets."
"Peppers? Parsley?" questioned the ambassador. "I thought you folks only grew smush here."
"For export," offered Mr. Waters. "Pretty much everyone keeps some kind of home 'ponics system. Good as fresh smush is, who could eat it all the time?" When Hawkes merely smiled and nodded, not bothering to mention that that was all he had been fed throughout his stay so far, his host rose to his feet and offered, "Come on, let me show you our setup."
Alerting his wife that he was taking their guests into the back of their apartment, Waters led Hawkes and Martel into a tunnel carved into the solid rock of Mars beyond the clean lines of their home. The rough ceiling was covered with a sophisticated series of grow lights. Rows of hydroponic equipment hummed silently below. Tubes of water hung from the ceiling with plants growing in them: root bases curling about in the fluid, long vines flowing down into the room. Examining a length of potato vine growing in one of the tubes, Martel said, "I had no idea there were private setups like this here."
"Oh, my," Waters answered, "everyone has them. We have to." As his guests waited politely, he continued, explaining, "Every apartment as it's built is set up with a 'ponics unit. Having plants everywhere throughout the colony keeps up the oxygen levels. People grow whatever they want."
Pointing to a long rope
