Semper Mars(115)

“What is the political situation, sir?” Lieutenant King wanted to know.

“Damfino. They haven’t told us shit.”

Suddenly Garroway was possessed by an overwhelming feeling of utter exhaustion. He wiped his face and felt the grime caked there. “We’d better take care of those UN holdouts,” Garroway said. “And after that, I think we need to arrange for showers, some serious rack time, and some new uniforms. Oh, and we’ll all need med checks. Most of us are carrying some pretty nasty bed sores, from wearing that armor for so long.”

Barnes nodded. “I think we can fix you up on all counts. I’ve already notified Dr. Rybinov.” He hesitated, his nose wrinkling. “I hope you’ll pardon me saying so, sir, but, God, you stink!”

“I think my nose stopped working about three weeks ago, Greg. All I really want right now is a shower, a drink, and a real bed…and not necessarily in that order.”

“Begging the major’s pardon, sir,” Corporal Slidell said, stepping forward, “but, ah, maybe this would help?” He held out a can wet with condensation.

“Slidell—” Barnes said, an edge to his voice. “I warned you….”

Garroway eyed the can suspiciously. “Is that what I think it is, or am I hallucinating?”

“Genuine article, sir,” Slidell said proudly. He turned the can so that Garroway could read the label. It was a beer. An honest to God Stony Brook beer.

Gently, Garroway reached out and accepted it, as though afraid it was about to disappear. “So, tell me, Slider,” he said, his voice soft. “How is it we seem to have stumbled across the only beer in a hundred million miles?”

Slidell managed to look both embarrassed and smug. “Well, ah, it’s sorta like this, sir—”

“These sons of bitches managed to stash a quantity of beer on board the cycler, Major,” Barnes said matter-of-factly.

“Smugglers, huh?”

“Aw, shit, sir!” Slidell said. “We just thought, I mean, Ben and me, well, we thought you would like a cold one, comin’ in off the desert!”

“You, ah, better have enough of these for everyone who wants one, Corporal.”

Slidell’s face fell, then brightened again. “Well, sure, sir. I think I could swing that.”

“Let’s see ’em.”

“Yessir! C’mon, Ben. Gimme a hand.”

As the two corporals hurried off, Garroway asked the question of Barnes with his eyes.

“It’s, ah, kind of a long story, Major.”

“I can imagine.” He looked at the beer can, turning it over in his hands. “This only violates about twenty or twenty-five Marine and NASA regulations that I can think of offhand.” He held the can up close, reading the fine print. “‘Packaged in USA.’ I’ve always known about the penchant Marines have for putting together stills in out-of-the-way locales so they can brew their own. This is the first time I’ve run into their importing the stuff. How much did they have?”

“About five hundred cans, sir.”

“What?”

“Yes, sir. Five hundred cans. In sealed, refrigerated, pressure-sealed cases marked ‘BATTERIES, GERMANIUM-ARSENIDE, SERIAL NUMBER 8373635, USMC, DO NOT OPEN.’”

“And, ah, what vital components were left behind to make room for these batteries, germanium-arsenide?”

“As far as I can tell, sir, none. The listing appears in the regular manifest and was factored in with all the rest. Total mass, two hundred kilos, plus another fifty kilos for the packaging. All I can think is that one or more of these guys had access to the supply depot back at Vandenberg.”

Slidell and Fulbert returned a moment later, dragging a large chest filled with cold beer. Garroway knew that he was adding a few violations of his own to the list already accumulated, but right now he didn’t give a damn. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Help yourselves, one to a customer.”

Only when the beers were being handed out, accompanied by delighted shouts, cheers, and outright laughter, did Garroway pop the top on his and allow himself a cautious sip. Normally, he disliked beer. He’d tried it a time or two when he was younger, more to fit in with his buddies than anything else, but somehow he’d never managed to acquire the taste for the stuff.

This one tasted like pure, sweet, cold nectar. After several small swallows, he studied the can carefully. He was thinking of Lloyd’s words back at Cydonia. “Never trust a Marine who volunteers for shit details.”

“So, Captain Barnes. Why do you think this man did it?”

“Well, sir, I gather the idea was, if they were going to be stuck on Mars for a year or so, they’d have enough beer squirreled away to let ’em have a cold one every so often. Either that, or they could buy a hell of a lot of favors from the other Marines.”