At first the embargoes by the COG threatened to return Brazil and the rest of South America to the destitution that had ravaged the region in the wake of the Great Chaos. But Pereira fought bade. Since the advanced nations of North America, Asia, and Europe would not buy his legal exports, he decided that he and his allies would export illegal products. Drugs became the primary trade of the Brazilian empire. It was an immensely successful policy. By 2240 there was a massive flow of all kinds and types of drugs from South America to the rest of the world.
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It was in this political environment that Nicole’s video was received on Earth. Although some cracks had appeared in the COG control of the planet, the organization still represented almost seventy percent of the population and ninety percent of the Earth’s material wealth. It was natural that the COG and its implementing space agency, the ISA, should take the responsibility for managing the response. Carefully following the security criteria defined by the HA, a fivefold increase in the number of people going to Mars as part of the Lowell Colony was announced in February 2242. Earth departure was scheduled for the late summer or early autumn of 2245.
The other four people in the room, all blond and blue-eyed and members of the same family from Malmo, Sweden, filed out the door, leaving Kenji and Nai Watanabe alone. She continued to gaze down at the Earth thirty-five thousand kilometers below her. Kenji joined her in front of the huge observation window.
“I never fully realized,” Nai said to her husband, “just what it meant to be in geosynchronous orbit. The Earth doesn’t move from here. It looks suspended in space.”
Kenji laughed. “Actually we’re both moving—and very fast. But since our orbital period and the Earth’s rotation period are the same, the Earth always presents us with the same picture.”
“It was different at that other space station,” Nai said, shuffling away from the window in her slippers. “There the Earth was majestic, dynamic, much more impressive.”
“But we were only three hundred kilometers from the surface. Of course it was—”
‘ ‘Shit,” they heard a voice shout from the other side of the observation lounge. A husky young man in a plaid shut and blue jeans was flailing in the air, slightly more than a meter off the floor, and his frantic motion was causing him to tumble sideways. Kenji crossed over and helped (he newcomer to stand upright on his feet.
“Thanks,” the man said. “I forgot to keep one foot on the floor at all times. This weightlessness is fucking weird for a farmer.”
He had a heavy southern accent. “Oops, I’m sorry
248 ARTHUR C. CLARKE AND GENTRY LEE
about the language, ma’am. I’ve lived among cows and pigs too long.” He extended his hand to Kenji. “I’m Max Puckett from De Queen, Arkansas.”
Kenji introduced himself and his wife. Max Puckett had an open face and a quick grin. “You know,” Max said, “when I signed up to go to Mars, I never realized we would be weightless for the whole goddamn trip. . . . What’s going to happen to the poor hens? They’ll probably never lay another egg.”
Max walked over to the window. “It’s almost noon at my home down there on that funny planet. My brother Clyde probably just opened a bottle of beer and his wife Winona is making him a sandwich.” He paused for several seconds and then turned to the Watanabes. “What are you two going to do on Mars?”
“I’m the colony historian,” Kenji replied. “Or at least one of mem. My wife Nai is an English and French teacher.”
“Shit,” said Max Puckett. “I was hoping you were one of the farming couples from Vietnam or Laos. I want to learn something about rice.”
“Did I hear you say something about hens?” Nai asked after a short silence. “Are we going to have chickens on the Pinta?”
“Ma’am,” Max Puckett replied, “there are fifteen thousand of Puckett’s finest packed in cages in a cargo tug parked at the other end of mis station. The ISA paid enough for those chickens that Clyde and Winona could rest for a whole damn year if they wanted. … If those hens are not going with us, I’d like to know what the hell they’re going to do with them.”
“Passengers only occupy twenty percent of the space on the Pinta and the Santa Maria,” Kenji reminded Nai. “Supplies and other cargo elements take up the rest of the space. We will only have a total of three hundred passengers on the Pinta, most of them ISA officials and other key personnel necessary to initialize the colony—”
“E-nish-ul-eyes the colony?” Max interrupted. “Shit, man, you talk like one of them robots.” He grinned at Nai. “After two years with one of those talking cultiva-
THE GARDEN OF RAMA
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tors, I threw the son of a bitch away and replaced him with one of those earlier silent versions.”
Kenji laughed easily. “I guess I do use a lot of ISA jargon. I was one of the first civilians selected for New Lowell, and I managed the recruiting in the Orient.”
Max had put a cigarette in his mouth. He glanced around in the observation lounge. “1 don’t see a smoking sign anywhere,” he said. “So I guess if I light up I’ll set off all the alarms.” He put the cigarette behind his ear. “Winona hates it when me and Clyde smoke. She says only fanners and whores smoke anymore.”
Max chuckled. Kenji and Nai laughed as well. He was a funny man. “Speaking of whores,” Max said with a twinkle, “where’s all those convict women I saw on television? Whoo-eee, some of them were mighty fine. Damn sight better looking than my chickens and pigs.”
“All the colonists who had been held in detention on Earth are traveling on the Santa Maria,” Kenji said. “We’ll arrive about two months before them.”
“You know an awful lot about this mission,” Max said. “And you don’t speak garbled English like the Japs I’ve met in Little Rock and Texarkana. Are you somebody special?”
“No,” Kenji replied, unable to suppress anomer laugh. “As I told you, I’m just the lead colony historian.”
Kenji was about to tell Max that he had lived in the United States for six years—which explained why his English was so good—when the door to the lounge opened and a dignified elderly gentleman in a gray suit and dark tie entered. “Pardon me,” he said to Max, who had again placed the unlighted cigarette in his mouth, “have I mistakenly ended up in the smoking room?”
“No, Pops,” Max answered. “This room is the observation lounge. It’s much too nice to be the smoking area. Smoking is probably confined to a small room, without windows, near the bathrooms. My ISA interviewer told me—”
The elderly gentleman was staring at Max as if the man were a biologist and Max was a rare but unpleasant species. “My name, young man,” he interrupted, “is not ‘Pops.’ It’s Pyotr. Pyotr Mishkin, to be exact.”
250 ARTHUR C. CLARKE AND GENTRY LEE
“Glad to know you, Peter,” Max said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Max. This couple here’s the Wabanyabes. They’re from Japan.”
“Kenji Watanabe,” Kenji said in correction. “This is my wife Nai, who is a citizen of Thailand.”
“Mr. Max,” Pyotr Mishkin said formally, “my first name is Pyotr, not Peter. It is bad enough that I must speak English for five years. Surely I can ask that my name at least retain its original Russian sound.”
“Okay, Pee-yot-ur,” Max said, again grinning. “What do you do, anyway? No, let me guess . . . you’re the colony undertaker.”
For a fraction of a second Kenji was afraid that Mr. Mishkin was going to explode in anger. Instead, however, the smallest of smiles began to form upon his face. “It is apparent, Mr. Max,” he said slowly, “that you have a certain comic gift. I can see where that might be a virtue on a long and boring space trip.” He paused for a moment. “For your information, I am not the undertaker. I was trained in the law. Until two years ago, when I retired of my own volition to seek a ‘new adventure,’ I was a member of the Soviet Supreme Court.”
“Holy shit,” Max Puckett exclaimed. “Now I remember. I read about you in Time magazine. . . . Hey, Judge Mishkin, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you—”
“Not at all,” Judge Mishkin interrupted, an amused smile spreading across his face. “It was fascinating to be unknown for a moment and to be taken for an undertaker. Probably the practiced judge’s mien is very close to the proper dour expression of the funeral attendant. By the way, Mr. …”
“Puckett, sir.”
“By the way, Mr. Puckett,” Judge Mishkin continued, “would you like to join me in the bar for a drink? A vodka would taste especially good right about now.”
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