The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s

‘You’re always grumbling, young Wag,’ George said. ‘What are you going to do with yourself now you’re out?’

‘I’m certainly not going to get drunk, like you and Max!’ Wagner exclaimed promptly. ‘I’ve got more sense. Catch me wasting my money on booze!’

Backing up his friend, Dusty pointed across to one of the Base buildings in the direction of which they were walking.

‘See that place, George?’ he said. ‘Wag and me are staying there, mate. Other Ranks’ Hostel. We found it on the trip out. It’s got everything; showers, ultra-violet, juke-boxes, local and Earth telly, terrific canteen …’

‘And a library,’ Wagner said. ‘A library bursting full of comics! I’ve never seen so many comics in my natural.’

‘You did nothing but read comics on Ganymede,’ Max Fleet said. ‘Don’t you ever want a change?’

‘These are up-to-date comics, stupid,’ Wagner said genially. ‘Go and get sloshed with old George and keep your trap shut!’

They trudged companionably across the monotonous expanse of tarmac. It was good to be out of the confines of the ship; the air, as Max remarked to George, breathed well considering that it had once been artificially ‘planted.’

‘It’s better in the hostel,’ Wag explained. ‘They maintain it there at full Earth pressure. I tell you, that place is a dream. It is; it’s better than home! If you two drunken old reprobates had any sense –’

‘Hallo! Here comes the bleeding padre!’ Dusty said. ‘You’ve had it, lads. From the right, pray!’

The four of them groaned in unison.

No doubt Padre Column heard them, but his smile was not affected. He included them all in the smile, the beefy Wagner with his open, boyish face, weedy Dusty with his peak haircut, dark and reserved Max, dough-faced corporal Walters with his parody of a monk’s tonsure.

‘Enjoy your leave, my friends,’ the padre said. ‘Try and regard this brief break in our journey home as an opportunity for spiritual refreshment. Remember that war is raging on Earth, and that as soon as we return there we shall be called upon to give of our very best.’

‘Yes, sir, of course, sir,’ Wagner and Dusty chorused together. George Walters looked sullen.

‘You speak as if that was something to look forward to, sir,’ he said.

‘If we are to be tested, Walters, we must come to it with what fortitude we can muster,’ Padre Column said. ‘We must regard mortification as our common lot, I fear.’

‘Come on, George, let’s shove off!’ Dusty said in an undertone, tugging at the corporal’s sleeve; but George stood his ground.

‘My wife was killed in the East Anglia Massacre last year,’ he said distinctly. ‘I doubt if I shall get back aboard the Intractible until two M.P.’s carry me aboard drunk.’

‘Then you are a fool, Walters, and I only hope your younger companions will not follow your example.’

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Wagner said cheerfully; ‘we wouldn’t follow this old soak into the nearest cookhouse.’

So saying, he grabbed George’s arm and moved him forcibly away. Dusty and Max Fleet, who had said nothing during this exchange, followed hurriedly. The padre stood watching them, lips pursed. A heated argument sprang up between Dusty, George and Wagner, lasting all the way to the Base gate. As usual, Max kept out of the controversy.

‘You young fellows don’t know what’s good for you nowadays!’ George said. ‘When I was your age, I wasn’t content to bash my bunk reading bloody comics – I was seeing a bit of life, knocking round the taverns with a few likely women.’

‘No wonder you lost all your hair,’ Dusty retorted. ‘You’d better watch out, Max, or the corp will lead you down the primrose path into the dog house.’

‘I’ll watch it, Dusty,’ Max said, as they reached the gate. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, suddenly aware that although he had spent almost all his tour of duty with these three men, they were not really his friends, nor ever could be. A momentary silence spread from him to the others, as if they too, at this moment of parting, had become aware for the first time of their own, separate identities.

‘Well, we’ll meet up again tomorrow evening, and see who looks in best shape then,’ Wag said. ‘Gentlemen of the ruddy ranks, Di-i-i-iss – wait for it! – di-i-i-iss – miss!’

But his tone was not as light as usual. Wag sounded slightly defensive. George, Max thought, had caught him on a sensitive spot with his remark about the rival attractions of comics and women.

Forgetting it at once, he turned away with George. As the two youngsters entered the air-conditioned hostel, he and George showed their passes and walked through the main gate into one day’s liberty.

Roinse was partly a military town. When the terrific task of oxygenating the Martian atmosphere had been undertaken two generations back, the Army, in liaison with the Space Corps, had been in charge of the project. When the inter-racial wars had broken out on Earth, the military had tightened their grip here.

Yet mingled with the barracks and camps was a sizeable business city, also growing. As it grew its suburbs grew, bright and cheap and uniform, pathetic replicas of the square miles of suburb now being blown to bits all over Earth. There was another section of Roinse: the ancient Martian city, rock-hewn and ruinous, standing on the edge of the new built-up area. In the heart of the old alien city stood the village Roinse where the descendants of the original colonists lived, a proud and dwindling clique resenting all the more recent intruders.

Roinse, in short, was a muddled city – and an interesting one, heterogeneous as Rome, mysterious as Singapore.

George Walters and Max Fleet headed for the oldest part of town. The number of people in uniform thinned as they went, but George was still peevish and muttered about the folly of youth.

‘I don’t understand these kids,’ he said. ‘They’re all the same today – rather watch a telegame over a bottle of squash than come out and have a real drink like a man.’

‘Forget it, George,’ Max said.

‘Yes, let’s forget it,’ George agreed, taking the other’s arm. ‘Let the world go to pot eh? We’ll show ’em! I feel like getting real soused tonight, Maxie, and forget the bloody war and everything.’

They passed into the shadow of a Martian building like a small hill. It might have been, in its prime, a cathedral or a railway station. The race that had built it was long gone; now their monument bore warning notices BEWARE OF FALLING ROCK. Many of its ancient cloisters had been adapted into stalls or shops by terrestrials. In one of the darkest corners stood the Flingabout Tavern. The two Earthmen went in, into an atmosphere of neon and noise.

Few customers were about. A juke-box blazed away in a corner; two couples danced in front of it. Girls in aprons bustled round, serving drinks and marsbergers. George eyed them appreciatively.

‘This is living!’ he exclaimed, rubbing his red hands. ‘Maybe we pick up a couple of these tarts at closing time, eh, Max?’

‘Maybe,’ Max said.

They ordered Roinse Green wine in tankards.

‘Here’s to all those stinking, fruitless, useless months of our lives we wasted on Ganymede station!’ Max said, raising his tankard.

Together they drank deep. George sighed with gratification, leaning back in his chair relaxedly, his fingers tapping on the table in time with the juke-box beat.

‘This is living,’ he repeated.

‘Think of those poor kids with their faces buried in comics,’ he said.

‘I’ll bet this place gets pretty wild after dark,’ he said. He looked slightly bored.

‘We can go somewhere else after another drink or two, if you want,’ he said.

‘Really paint the town,’ he said.

‘Show ’em old soldiers never die,’ he said. Pause.