Journey Between Worlds (16 page)

It was the “running out of air” idea that scared me.

And after all, why should I go? It wasn't as if there were any real need to. Alex tried to convince me that there was. “You can't go back to Earth without having seen any of this planet!” he insisted.

“I've seen it from the monorail, coming in from the spaceport. I'll see it again on the way back.”

“That's not enough to count. I don't understand you, Mel. Here you're always complaining about us being ‘sealed in' under the dome, yet you won't leave the dome when you've got the chance.”

“I can't help how I feel about it,” I said miserably. “I just don't happen to be as fond of living dangerously as you are.”

“Living dangerously? Kathy took Paul Junior and Tim Outside three months ago!”

“I thought you told me once you were ten before you first went?”

“I did, and I seem to remember your saying you couldn't understand why I hadn't insisted on going before. It was more of an event then, because groundcars were harder to come by.”

“Well, nobody needs to make an effort to get hold of one on my account.”

Alex shook his head. “Mel, sometimes I think you're not fond of
living
at all,” he said, almost angrily. “All right, there is a risk attached to it. Nobody can promise you that you're going to be one hundred percent safe Outside, or here in the dome, or anywhere else for that matter. It's just the way things are, and if you're going to crawl back into your shell every time that fact occurs to you—”

“Do we have to talk about it?”

“No, of course we don't,” he said, softening. “Keep your illusions, if they make you happy. Only—”

Only they weren't making me happy, I realized. And he
cared.
That was why he said these things; it was as if he were really my brother, and he cared. But it wasn't going to do any good. I was the way I was, and I'd be glad when I was back at Maple Beach, where the risks were familiar things that I could cope with.

In the back of my mind, though, was a trace of a suspicion that even at Maple Beach things might not be just the same as before. That shell, maybe, was already cracked.

 

 

One Sunday when we had been in New Terra for about four weeks, Kathy and I got to talking about teaching. I planned to teach high school and she taught third grade, but she told me that there's a lot of common ground. Kathy had a huge class of fifty eight-year-olds, but she had a teacher's aide to help her, one of the young homesteader brides who was still in college. (There aren't nearly enough trained teachers in the Colonies.) “I wish I could do something like that,” I said. “It's just deadly sitting around the hotel, and I can't spend all my time in the library.”

“It must be,” Kathy agreed. “Why don't you enroll in the university, Mel?”

“But I won't be here long enough.”

“Yes you will, for one term. A new one starts next week, and it will only last a month and a half.”

“A month and a half? Oh, you mean Martian months. Twelve weeks.” It was a thought, all right. It just hadn't occurred to me that it would be possible. “Will they take me without any transcripts or anything?”

“I don't see why not, as a special student. They're not very formal about things like that, with so many homesteaders coming from all kinds of schools all over Earth. Why don't you go and see? If you can do it, you'll have advanced standing when you get home.”

Paul agreed that I probably wouldn't have any trouble getting accepted and interrupted his chess game with Alex long enough to dig out a course catalog he had stashed away somewhere. I pored over it while Kathy put the kids to bed. When the game was finished, Alex came and looked over my shoulder.

“American history, English, French . . . are you kidding, Mel?”

“What's wrong? Those are normal freshman subjects, aren't they? I thought I might as well get them out of the way.”

“Do you really want to know what I think?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well then, I say why waste your time? Why not take subjects that you won't get the same slant on anywhere else?”

“Like what, for instance?”

He took the pad and pencil from me and wrote,
Colonial History, Biology, Descriptive Astronomy
—and, after a slight pause—
Introduction to Philosophy.

“Oh, Alex, I haven't any background in those things!”

“I know.”

“But that's an awfully hard schedule—”

“I thought you had time on your hands that you wanted to fill up.” Kathy started to say something, but Alex shushed her. “Look, Mel,” he went on, “you don't think you'd flunk any of those courses, do you?”

I said heatedly, “No, certainly not! I've never flunked anything.”

“Then give them a try. For one thing, survey courses here will cover stuff that isn't touched at the undergraduate level on Earth outside of specialized courses that you wouldn't have time to take. For another, there'll be no grades to worry about; they don't give anything but ‘pass,' ‘fail,' and ‘honors.' ”

Doubtfully I agreed, “I guess it would be silly not to take advantage of the chance, then, as long as I'm here.” I knew I was committed. It was bad enough being timid about things I had no aptitude for; I wouldn't want him to think I was afraid of college work, too.

The next morning I went over to the campus, which is in East Dome, and talked to the registrar. “Sixteen units?” he said, making it sound ominous.

“Yes, isn't that all right?”

“I suppose so, since you're a special student and you're not working.” He stamped my cards with only a trace of visible reluctance.

From that time on, I didn't have the problem of boredom anymore! It was a real strain to keep up; even Sunday afternoons had to be given over to study. When I was with Alex he tried to help me, but that wasn't always too successful; Alex had a way of getting off onto something perfectly fascinating that had nothing whatsoever to do with the next day's assignment. Janet helped me, too, with my biology course, one time when I went over to return another borrowed dress. My social life with Dad's friends was being sharply curtailed, since I had to study evenings, and I can't say that was a disappointment. My presence was not really required, for the obligatory round of formal affairs was over and, increasingly, the talk centered on business.

The University of Mars isn't set up like American colleges. There's no fooling around, and no busy work. There are lectures (by some of the top people in their fields, incidentally), but outside of that you're on your own. You don't have to work through specific lessons at a computer terminal except for required quizzes that have due dates. You don't have to study at all, as far as that goes; nobody checks up. But if you don't pass that final exam, well, you don't, that's all. You repeat the course until you do. I knew I wouldn't be able to repeat any courses, and I was bound and determined to show Alex that I could pass them. Toward the end I was working day and night, practically, in my room with my handheld computer after library hours. Dad kidded me, but underneath he was proud of my ambition, and from what he said I gathered that his friends had commented on it, too.

It was surprising how fast those twelve weeks went.

When the term ended and I got my course certificates—with no “honors” but no “fails,” either—Alex insisted on taking me out to dinner to celebrate. (Paul and Kathy went, too, so it wasn't actually a date.) We went to the Star Tower, which is the only place in New Terra from which you can really see the sky. It's a tiny dome between two of the big ones, reached by subway like everything else, and it's crystal clear instead of translucent, as the regular domes are. The lower level is a restaurant and the upper level's a terrace for stargazing; the two are joined by several open, winding staircases that are very light and airy looking, like all low-g construction. On most nights there's dance music after twenty-one o'clock, but we went early.

“Now it can be told,” Alex announced cheerfully, over dessert. “One term hour at the University of Mars equals a unit and a half at any American university. You're going to get twenty-four credits when you transfer.”

“Oh—!” I sputtered. “Alex Preston, I don't know why I put up with you!” Then, noticing the look on Kathy's face, I accused her, “You must have known, too, all along.”

“We told Alex it was a dirty trick,” she admitted. “But he had some convincing arguments.”

“Which did you enjoy most,” Paul asked me, “your first four weeks here or the last twelve?”

Well, they were right, of course; it had been just what I needed. I hadn't had time to notice whether I was on Earth or on Mars or on the twelfth moon of Jupiter! And moreover I
had
learned a lot, all kinds of things that I'd never even thought of before. It's funny how much exists that you're just not aware of even when you think you've got your ideas all neatly organized.

 

 

The second Friday after the college term was over happened to be Christmas. It wasn't anywhere near December 25 by the Martian calendar; it was August 41, as a matter of fact. But Colonial Christians celebrate Christmas whenever it comes on Earth, for otherwise it would fall at 668-day intervals because of the greater length of the Martian year.

Christmas without a tree. Christmas without chimneys, or holly wreaths, or strings of colored lights. Having spent few Christmases in cold climates, I didn't miss snow. But Christmas without shopping! That was the strangest thought of all.

No, not quite the strangest. Because somehow I'd always thought of Christmas as an
Earth
holiday. “Peace on Earth,” after all . . . and yet I guess “Goodwill to Men” applies anywhere. I guess all the really important things apply.

We were to spend the day with the Prestons, all of us—Paul and Kathy and the kids, Dad and I. Luckily, I was forewarned about the presents; Paul Junior said something that tipped me off. The gift-giving custom hasn't been abandoned in the Colonies, it means even more, I think, because people have so little in the way of things. The lack of goods in the stores means that the status gift and the business-obligation gift are simply not around, but to people you care about you do give, and it has to be either something you can make or something of your own.

When I first caught on, I was unhappy because I had nothing to give anyone. But then I realized that I did have: the handknit sweater I'd brought! It would serve a purpose on Mars after all. I unraveled it carefully and, swallowing my reluctance, I borrowed some lightweight knitting needles from one of Ms. Ortega's friends, who'd been unaware that as a New Terran she'd have no use for them. Then in the weeks before Christmas I knitted frantically whenever I wasn't studying. Not that anybody would need heavy socks on Mars, but it was soft, lovely dark blue stuff, real wool, which none of them except maybe Kathy and Alex's parents had ever possessed. I knew that even the kids would be delighted.

I ran out of yarn before I could make anything for Dad, but he'd often admired the little wrist camera that Ross had once given me; surely Ross would understand, and Dad wouldn't object to its being slightly used looking. As I wrapped it in colored foil saved from a lunch container, I thought of how different this Christmas was from the one we'd spent together last year, in Washington. Then, if someone had told me that my next holiday season would be spent on Mars, I'd have thought it was a joke. You can never see what's coming, I suppose; and with some things, it's very lucky that you can't.

Christmas was a day that I'll always remember as my first truly happy one in New Terra. I don't suppose the light beaming down through the dome was really any different than it was on any other day, but it seemed to sparkle, somehow. We came out of church with the lilt of the carols still singing in us and walked all the way to the Prestons' with a bright buoyance that had nothing to do with the low gravity.
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, O tidings of comfort and joy!
I marveled at the sudden knowledge that there was the same amount of comfort and joy on Mars as anywhere else.

Paul and Kathy stayed at church to greet people as they left, and by the time they got to the Prestons', Alex's mother and I had dinner on the table. It wasn't very fancy fare; though I was well used to synthetic meats by that time, no one can claim they're the equivalent of roast turkey. But dessert was special, a real fruitcake, brought back from Earth by Alex (half a kilo out of his twenty!). “Extravagant,” he admitted, “but it's something Mom always said she missed.”

After dinner we gathered around in an informal circle on the living room floor and lit the candle. A candle is a very magical thing on Mars because it has to be imported at great expense and delay; the shops do stock a few at holiday time, but a person has to be in line by five in the morning to get one. There is something about an open flame, though, that just can't be duplicated. The thin Martian atmosphere won't support fire, but naturally the air in the domes will—only there's no wood. That single candle was the closest thing to a blazing hearth that Alicia and the children had ever seen; in fact, the closest that Alex had seen before he went to Earth. I wouldn't have thought it would have seemed very impressive to me after all the wintry nights I'd spent in front of the big stone fireplace at Maple Beach. And yet it did. I can't explain it, except maybe to say that there's a unique aura to Christmas candles wherever they happen to be found.