Jamie said, “Let’s get you unpacked and settled in your quarters first.”
“Of course,” said Chang. “I will be in my office. Feel free to call me there when you are ready.”
“Thank you,” DiNardo said again.
DiNardo hefted his travel bag and let Jamie lead him across the emptying dome. “That’s Carter Carleton over there,” Jamie said. “You ought to meet him.”
“Yes, certainly.”
Jamie called to Carleton, but the anthropologist took no notice. He looked grim, absorbed in his own inner thoughts.
“Dr. Carleton,” Jamie called again, louder. “Carter.”
Carleton turned toward them, his face grim, scowling. “What?” he snapped.
Approaching him, Jamie said, “I’d like you to meet Monsignor DiNardo. He just arrived and—”
“Oh, yes, Dr. DiNardo.” Carleton’s expression softened a little. “Good to meet you.” His hands remained at his sides.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said DiNardo. “I congratulate you on your discovery.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Carleton turned and walked away, head bent forward.
DiNardo watched his retreating back. “There is a man with much on his mind.”
“He and one of the women here have just broken up,” Jamie said. “She’s going back to Selene.”
DiNardo nodded as they resumed walking toward his living quarters. “I wonder if it would be possible for me to say mass. There must be some Catholics here, and non-Catholics will of course be welcome.”
Jamie seemed to think it over for a few paces before he said, “I don’t see why not. Will you need anything special?”
Smiling, DiNardo replied, “Only some goodwill.”
That evening Jamie and Vijay invited DiNardo to have dinner with them.
“The food’s not bad,” Vijay joked as they went through the cafeteria line. “Best on Mars, actually.”
DiNardo smiled. The hot dishes were unidentifiable soy derivatives of one sort or another. The vegetables looked fresh, though, and there was a variety of fruit juices available. There was a tang of something spicy in the air; DiNardo reasoned that the cooks used spices liberally to disguise the lack of variety in the basic menu.
Once they were seated and had unloaded their trays onto the table, Vijay asked, “Is it proper to call you Monsignor DiNardo?”
Absently touching the purple on his clerical collar, DiNardo said, “Proper, but a bit pompous, I think. Why don’t you simply call me Fulvio.”
“I’m not sure I could do that,” Vijay said.
“Please.”
“Okay, I’ll try. And I’m Vijay.”
“And I’m Jamie.”
“Very good,” said DiNardo. He raised his glass of grape juice, “Here’s to teamwork on Mars.”
“On Mars,” Jamie and Vijay echoed.
Once they started eating, Vijay asked, “If you don’t mind me snooping, why’d you decide to come to Mars? I mean now, after all these years.”
“I want to help,” DiNardo answered.
“With the geology research?”
The priest shook his head. “Not merely that. I want to help show that science and religion are not enemies. I want to help you to continue the exploration of Mars.”
Jamie sighed. “We can use all the help we can get, Fulvio.”
New York: Grand Central Station
Dex Trumball shouldered his way through the crowd booming through the enormous terminal. Looking overhead he saw the magnificent mosaic set into the ceiling: the mythological beasts and gods and heroes of the starry constellations—all backwards, reversed left for right. Whoever did the tile work got it the wrong way round. But nobody noticed, nobody gave a damn. Dex saw that none of the scurrying commuters or gawking tourists even glanced up at the ceiling so far above them.
What caught their eyes were the huge animated advertisement screens mounted on the walls, hawking everything from cameras to salvation through Jesus. Wonder if we could put up scenes from Mars, Dex asked himself. Maybe clips from DiNardo’s documentary. Probably too expensive; not cost effective.
With an inward shrug he pushed his way through the crowd and started up the short flight of marble steps toward the hotel that connected underground with the terminal. You could spend your whole life underground in Manhattan, Dex thought. Like living on the Moon. He himself hadn’t been up at street level since he’d stepped aboard the maglev train at Boston’s South Station.
The hotel lobby was quieter, less crowded. Dex glanced at his wristwatch and saw that he was running several minutes late. He looked around the lobby, peaceful and nearly empty at this time of the morning. There was Andersen standing in front of the men’s shop window, looking at a display of Italian silk jackets.
Dex shook his head. Quentin Andersen didn’t look like the sharpest publicist in New York. He was grossly overweight, his face florid and sheened with perspiration, his multiple chins lapping down over the wilted collar of his tailor-made shirt, his unbuttoned coat sagging around him like the flag of a defeated battalion. An Italian silk jacket won’t do him any good, Dex thought. Rumor had it that Andersen was dying of cancer, but that rumor was at least ten years old and the man was still at the peak of his profession.
Walking up next to him, Dex muttered an apology for being late: “Train was held up coming out of Boston.”
Andersen smirked. “Jesse James rides again?”
“No. A demonstration that blocked the tracks. Something about—”
“Protest against the church-and-state separation,” said Andersen. “I heard about it.”
He’s got his ear to the ground, Dex said to himself. The lean, handsome mannequin wearing the silk jacket suddenly stirred to life, raising one hand and asking, “Would you like to try something on, sir?”
Dex was startled, but Andersen chuckled as he pointed. “Sensor set into the window alongside the speaker. You stop for more than thirty seconds and the program activates.”
“We have an excellent selection of…”
Andersen turned and started walking away from the window. Dex followed him.
“Uses technology your people developed for Mars, I betcha,” Andersen said, still laughing quietly at Dex’s surprise. “Hasn’t that gotten to Boston yet?”
“Don’t know,” said Dex. “I shop electronically. I haven’t been inside a store in ages.”
As they walked slowly across the hotel lobby Dex asked, “Speaking of Mars, what about our documentary? Will you manage the publicity campaign for it?”
“ ’Fraid not.” Andersen lowered himself slowly into one of the lobby’s plush armchairs. To Dex it looked like a massive load of cargo being carefully deposited by an invisible crane.
Taking the chair next to him, Dex pressed, “You want more money?”
“Money’s not an issue, Mr. Trumball.”
Dex could feel his brows knitting. “Look, we need somebody who can stir up a buzz about our documentary. It’s on the Internet but we’re hardly getting any hits on it.”
Andersen said nothing.
“We’ve got a priest from the Vatican talking about Mars, for chrissake! The controversy alone ought to be newsworthy but the goddamned networks won’t touch it.”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Andersen turned his fleshy face toward Dex. “Mr. Trumball, the word is out. Every mother-loving church in the country, just about, has told its congregation not to look at your documentary.”
“That ought to make people run to see it,” Dex said. “The kids, especially.”
“You wish. The faithful go home from church and block your documentary so that their precious little darlings can’t access it.”