Blue Mars

He woke before dawn, and went out on a veranda to watch the sky lighten in a quite Martian sequence, black to purple to rose to pink, before turning the startling cyanic blue of a tropical Terran morning. His head was still sore, as if stuffed, but he felt rested at last, and ready to take on the world again. After a breakfast of green-brown bananas, he and Sax joined some of their hosts for a drive around the island.

Everywhere they went there were always several hundred people in his field of vision. The people were all small: brown-skinned like him in the countryside, darker in the towns. There were big vans that moved around together, providing mobile shops to villages too small to have them. Nirgal was surprised to see how lean people were, their limbs wiry with labour or else as thin as reeds. In this context the curves of the young women were like the blooms of flowers, not long for this world.

When people saw who he was they rushed up to greet him and shake his hand. Sax shook his head at the sight of Nirgal among them. ‘Bimodal distribution,’ he said. ‘Not speciation exactly – but perhaps if enough time passed. Island divergence, it’s very Darwinian.’

‘I’m a Martian,’ Nirgal agreed.

Their buildings were placed in holes hacked into the green jungle, which then tried to take the space back. The older buildings were all made of mud bricks black with age, melting back into the earth. Rice fields were terraced so finely that the hills looked further away than they really were. The light green of rice shoots was a colour never seen on Mars. In general the greens were brilliant and glowing beyond anything Nirgal could recall seeing; they pressed on him, so various and intense, the sun plating his back: ‘It’s because of the sky’s colour,’ Sax said when Nirgal mentioned it. ‘The reds in the Martian sky mute the greens just a bit.’

The air was thick, wet, rancid. The shimmering sea settled on a distant horizon. Nirgal coughed, breathed through his mouth, struggled to ignore his throbbing temples and forehead.

‘You have low altitude sickness,’ Sax speculated. ‘I’ve read claims that it happens to Himalayans and Andeans who come down to sea level. Acidity levels in the blood. We ought to have landed you somewhere higher.’

‘Why didn’t we?’

‘They wanted you here because Desmond came from here. This is your homeland. Actually there seems to be a bit of conflict over who should host us next.’

‘Even here?’

‘More here than on Mars, I should think.’

Nirgal groaned. The weight of the world, the stifling air—‘I’m going running,’ he said, and took off.

At first it was its usual release; the habitual motions and responses poured through him, reminding him that he was still himself. But as he thumped along he did not ascend into that lung-gom-pa zone where running was like breathing, something he could do indefinitely; instead he began to feel the press of the thick air in his lungs, and the pressure of eyes from the little people he passed, and most of all the pressure of his own weight, hurting his joints. He weighed more than twice what he was used to, and it was like carrying an invisible person on his back, except no – the weight was inside him. As if his bones had turned to lead inside him. His lungs burned and drowned at the same time, and no cough would get them clear. There were taller people in Western clothes behind him now, on little three-wheeled bicycles that splashed through every puddle. But locals were stepping into the road behind him, crowds of them blocking off the tricyclers, their eyes and teeth gleaming in their dark faces as they talked and laughed. The men on the tricycles had blank faces, and they were looking at Nirgal. But they did not challenge the crowd. Nirgal headed back toward the camp, turning down a new road. Now the green hills were blazing to his right. The road jarred up through his legs with every step, until his legs were like tree trunks aflame. That running should hurt! And his head was like a giant balloon. All the wet green plants seemed to be reaching out for him, a hundred shades of green flame melding to one dominant colour band, pouring into the world. Black dots swimming. ‘Hiroko,’ he gasped, and ran on with the tears streaming down his face; no one would be able to tell them from sweat. Hiroko, it isn’t the way you said it would be!

He stumbled into the ochre soil of the compound, and scores of people followed him to Maya. Soaking as he was, he still threw his arms around her and put his head down on her shoulder, sobbing.

‘We should get to Europe,’ Maya said angrily to someone over his back. ‘This is stupid, to bring him right to the tropics like this.’

Nirgal shifted to look back. It was the Prime Minister. ‘This is how we always live,’ she said, and pierced Nirgal with a resentful, proud look.

But Maya was unimpressed. ‘We have to go to Berne,’ she said.

They flew to Switzerland in a small spaceplane provided by Praxis. As they travelled, they looked down on the Earth from thirty thousand metres: the blue Atlantic, the rugged mountains of Spain, somewhat like the Hellespontus Monies; then France; then the white wall of the Alps, unlike any mountains he had ever seen. The cool ventilation of the spaceplane felt like home to Nirgal, and he was chagrined to think that he could not tolerate the open air of Earth.

‘You’ll do better in Europe,’ Maya told him.

Nirgal thought about the reception they had got. ‘They love you here,’ he said. Overwhelmed as he had been, he had still noticed that the welcome of the duglas had been as enthusiastic for the other three ambassadors as for him; and Maya had been particularly cherished.

‘They’re happy we survived,’ Maya said, dismissing it. ‘We came back from the dead as far as they’re concerned, like magic. They thought we were dead, do you see? From ’61 until just last year, they thought all the First Hundred were dead. Sixty-seven years! And all that time part of them was dead too. To have us come back like we have, and in this flood, with everything changing – yes. It’s like a myth. The return from underground.’