“I give up,” said Mahnmut after several minutes of pondering and poking and refolding. “What the hell is it?”
“A balloon,” said Orphu.
Mahnmut shook his moravec head. There were both living and moravec balloon creatures in the atmosphere of Jupiter, more swimming in the soup of Saturn, but what would Koros III have wanted with an artificial balloon on Mars?
Orphu transmitted the answer even as Mahnmut heard it in his own mind. “Koros’s mission was to get to the top of Olympus Mons, to the locus of the quantum disturbance, and this way he wouldn’t have to climb the volcano. What are the dimensions of this . . . balloon?”
Mahnmut told the Ionian.
“Inflated with helium here at null-null, Martian sea level, that would give a diameter of just over sixty meters and a height of about thirty-five meters, which should easily lift the gondola, you, the Device, and the squirt radio to the fringes of space . . . or the top of Olympus,” said Orphu.
“Gondola?” said Mahnmut, still trying to absorb this concept.
“The box it came in. That’s obviously what Koros III planned to ride in. Does it have a transpolymer hood—some sort of pressurizable cover?”
“Yes.”
“There you have it.”
“But Olympus Mons has an escalator going up its south side,” Mahnmut said stupidly.
“Koros and the moravecs who planned this mission didn’t know that,” said Orphu.
Mahnmut looked away from the balloon for a minute to think. The southern cliffs of Valles Marineris were just a thin red line against the blue-green horizon as the felucca moved deeper into the center channels of the estuarial river. “The gondola is too small to carry you,” he said.
“Well, naturally . . .” began Orphu.
“I’ll build a bigger gondola,” interrupted Mahnmut.
“Do you really think we’ll be ascending to the summit of Olympus Mons?” Orphu said softly.
“I don’t know,” said Mahnmut, “but I do know that we’ll still be more than two thousand kilometers from the volcano when . . . if . . . we ever reach the western end of Valles Marineris in this little ship. I didn’t have any idea how we were going to get through the jumble of Noctis Labyrinthus and over the Tharsis Plateau to Olympus, but this . . . balloon . . . might work. Maybe.”
“We could start now,” said Orphu. “It would be faster than this . . . what did you call it?”
“Felucca,” said Mahnmut, glancing up at the rigging and sails sharp against the pink and blue sky. Several of the little green men were swinging effortlessly from line to line in the rigging. “And no, I don’t think we should try the balloon until we have to. It uses chameleon-stealth fabric, even on the gondola, but I’m not convinced that the flying-chariot people couldn’t track it. We’ll launch it when we reach Noctis Labyrinthus. That’ll be a long and difficult enough aerial journey as it is, since three of the tallest volcanoes on Mars will be between us and Olympus.”
Orphu rumbled close to the subsonic. “Around the World in Eighty Days, eh?”
“Not around the world,” said Mahnmut. “Counting this boat trip, we have to travel just a little more than one-fourth the way around it.”
Mahnmut tried to pass the time and shake himself out of his low mood by reading Shakespeare’s sonnets from the physical book he’d salvaged from The Dark Lady. It didn’t work. Whereas during the past few years he’d disappeared into analysis, ferreting out hidden structures, word-connections, and dramatic content, the sonnets seemed like sad things now. Sad and rather nasty.
Mahnmut the moravec could care less what “Will” the “poet” in the sonnets did to the “Young Man” or expected done in return—Mahnmut had neither penis nor anus and longed for neither—but the copious flattery and flagrant bullying of the thick-witted but wealthy “youth” by the older poet was oppressive to Mahnmut now, bordering on the perverse. He skipped to the “Dark Lady” sonnets, but these were even more cynical and perverse. Mahnmut agreed with the analysis that the poet’s interest in this woman was centered precisely on her promiscuity—this woman of the dark hair, dark eyes, dun breasts, and dark nipples was, if the poet was to be trusted, not a whore, but certainly something of a slut.
Mahnmut had long since downloaded Freud’s 1910 essay, “A Special Type of Choice of Object Made by Men,” in which the lost-age witch doctor had documented cases of human males who could be sexually aroused only by women well known to be promiscuous. Shakespeare had no hesitation of describing a woman’s vagina as the bay where all men ride and sneeringly punning—O cunning love—about his Dark Lady’s easy promiscuity, and Mahnmut had spent happy years finding deeper levels and dramatic structures behind these vulgarities, but this day—the sun close to setting straight down the great inland sea, the cliffs glowing rose-red to the north—he could see the sonnets only as dirty linen, a raunchy poet’s private confessions.
“Reading your sonnets?” asked Orphu.
Mahnmut closed the book. “How’d you know? Have you taken up telepathy now that you’ve lost your eyes?”
“Not yet,” rumbled the Ionian. Orphu’s great crab shell was lashed to the deck ten meters from where Mahnmut sat near the bow. “Some of your silences are more literary than others, is all.”
Mahnmut stood and turned toward the sunset. The little green men were hustling in the rigging and along the sea-anchor hawser, readying the ship for their sleep. “Why’d they program some of us to have a predisposition for human books?” he asked. “What possible use is that to a moravec now that the human race may be extinct?”
“I’ve wondered that myself,” said Orphu. “Koros III and Ri Po were free from our affliction, but you must have known others who were obsessed with human literature.”
“My old partner, Urtzweil, read and re-read the King James version of the Bible,” said Mahnmut. “He studied it for decades.”
“Yes,” said Orphu. “And me and my Proust.” He hummed a few bars of “Me and My Shadow.” “Do you know what all these works we gravitate toward have in common, Mahnmut?”
Mahnmut thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said at last.
“They’re inexhaustible,” said Orphu.
“Inexhaustible?”
“Incapable of being used up. If we were human, these particular plays and novels and poems would be like houses that always opened onto new rooms, hidden stairways, undiscovered attics . . . that sort of thing.”
“Uh-huh,” said Mahnmut, not buying into this metaphor.
“You don’t sound happy with the Bard today,” said Orphu.
“I think his inexhaustibility has exhausted me,” admitted Mahnmut.
“What’s happening on deck? A lot of activity?”
Mahnmut turned away from the sunset. Three-fourths of the ship’s complement of LGM were silently scurrying and tying down and clambering and letting out the sea anchor and securing. There were only three or four minutes of usable sunlight left before they went into hibernation—lying down, curling up, and shutting down for the night.
“Did you feel the vibrations in the deck?” Mahnmut asked his friend. Except for smell, it was the last sense left to Orphu.
“No, I just knew it was that time of day,” said the Ionian. “Why don’t you help them?”
“Pardon me?”
“Help them,” repeated Orphu. “You’re an able-bodied seaman. Or at least you know a hawser from a hacksaw. Give them a hand—or your nearest moravec equivalent.”
“I’d just get in the way.” He looked at the quick work and perfect precision of the little green men. They scuttled out along the rigging and up the masts like videos he’d seen of monkeys. “We don’t have telepathy,” added Mahnmut, “but I’m pretty sure they do. They don’t need my help.”
“Nonsense,” said Orphu. “Make yourself useful. I’m going back to reading about Monsieur Swann and his faithless girlfriend.”
Mahnmut hesitated a moment, but then slipped the irreplaceable book of sonnets into his backpack, trotted to the mid-deck, and joined in the lashing down of the lowered lateen sail. At first the LGM paused in their synchronized work and just stared at him—black-button anthracite eyes staring from their clear, featureless green faces—but then they made room and Mahnmut, glancing at the setting sun and breathing in the clean Martian air, set to work with a will.