‘Did they tell you what became of the men and women who built this Earth settlement, Lieutenant?’
‘They hadn’t the foggiest notion of what happened to this town or its people.’
‘Strange. You think those Martians killed them?’
‘They look surprisingly peaceful. Chances are a plague did this town in, sir.’
‘Perhaps. I suppose this is one of those mysteries we’ll never solve. One of those mysteries you read about.’
The captain looked at the room, the dusty windows, the blue mountains rising beyond, the canals moving in the light, and he heard the soft wind in the air. He shivered. Then, recovering, he tapped a large fresh map he had thumb-tacked to the top of an empty table.
‘Lots to be done, Lieutenant.’ His voice droned on and quietly on as the sun sank behind the blue hills. ‘New settlements. Mining sites, minerals to be looked for. Bacteriological specimens taken. The work, all the work. And the old records were lost. We’ll have a job of remapping to do, renaming the mountains and rivers and such. Calls for a little imagination.
‘What do you think of naming those mountains the Lincoln Mountains, this canal the Washington Canal, those hills – we can name those hills for you, Lieutenant. Diplomacy. And you, for a favour, might name a town for me. Polishing the apple. And why not make this the Einstein Valley, and further over … are you listening, Lieutenant?’
The lieutenant snapped his gaze from the blue colour and the quiet mist of the hills far beyond the town.
‘What? Oh, yes, sir!’
The Smile
IN the town square the queue had formed at five in the morning, while cocks were crowing far out in the rimed country and there were no fires. All about, among the ruined buildings, bits of mist had clung at first, but now with the new light of seven o’clock it was beginning to disperse. Down the road, in twos and threes, more people were gathering in for the day of marketing, the day of festival.
The small boy stood immediately behind two men who had been talking loudly in the clear air, and all of the sounds they made seemed twice as loud because of the cold. The small boy stamped his feet and blew on his red, chapped hands, and looked up at the soiled gunny-sack clothing of the men, and down the long line of men and women ahead.
‘Here, boy, what’re you doing out so early?’ said the man behind him.
‘Got my place in line, I have,’ said the boy.
‘Whyn’t you run off, give your place to someone who appreciates?’
‘Leave the boy alone,’ said the man ahead, suddenly turning.
‘I was joking.’ The man behind put his hand on the boy’s head. The boy shook it away coldly. ‘I just thought it strange, a boy out of bed so early.’
‘This boy’s an appreciator of arts, I’ll have you know,’ said the boy’s defender, a man named Grigsby. ‘What’s your name, lad?’
‘Tom.’
‘Tom here is going to spit clean and true, right, Tom?’
‘I sure am!’
Laughter passed down the line.
A man was selling cracked cups of hot coffee up ahead. Tom looked and saw the little hot fire and the brew bubbling in a rusty pan. It wasn’t really coffee. It was made from some berry that grew on the meadowlands beyond town, and it sold a penny a cup to warm their stomachs; b
ut not many were buying, not many had the wealth.
Tom stared ahead to the place where the line ended, beyond a bombed-out stone wall.
‘They say she smiles,’ said the boy.
‘Aye, she does,’ said Grigsby.
‘They say she’s made of oil and canvas.’
‘True. And that’s what makes me think she’s not the original one. The original, now, I’ve heard, was painted on wood a long time ago.’