Red Mars - Kim Stanley Robinson [224]
Thoughtlessly he stared into tents as he rode a train back up. There was one fitted with coffin hotels, Tokyo style. That would be much more crowded than El Paso, but did its occupants care about that? Some people were used to being treated like ball bearings. A lot of people, in fact. But on Mars it was supposed to be different!
Back in Sheffield he stalked the rim concourse, staring out at the thin vertical line of the elevator, ignoring other people and forcing some of them to jump out of his way as he paced. Once he stopped and looked around at the crowd; there were perhaps 500 people in view at that moment, living their lives. When had it gotten like this? They had been a scientific outpost, a handful of researchers, scattered over a world with as much land surface as the Earth: a whole Eurasia, Africa, America, Australia, and Antarctica, all for them. All that land was still out there, but what percentage of it was under tents and habitable? Much less than 1 percent. And yet what was UNOMA saying? A million people here already, with more on the way. And no police, and crime— or rather, crime without police. A million people and no law, no law but corporate law. The bottom line. Minimize expenses, maximize profits. Run smoothly on ball bearings.
• • •
The next week the people in a set of tents on the south slope went on strike. Chalmers heard about it on his way to the office, Slusinski actually breaking in on his walk with a call. The striking tents were mostly American, and his staff was in a panic. “They’ve closed the stations and aren’t allowing anyone off the trains, so they can’t be controlled unless their emergency locks are stormed—”
“Shut up.”
Frank went down the south piste to the striking tents, ignoring Slusinski’s objections. In fact he ordered several of the staff down to join him.
A team from Sheffield security was standing in the station, but he ordered them to get on the train and leave, and after a consultation with the Sheffield administrators, they did. At the passage lock he identified himself, and asked to come in alone. They let him through.
He emerged in the main square of another tent, surrounded by a sea of angry faces. “Kill the TVs,” he suggested. “Let’s talk in private.”
They killed the TVs. It was the same as in El Paso, different accents but the same complaints. His earlier visit gave him the ability to anticipate what they were going to say, to say it before they did. He watched grimly as their faces revealed how impressed they were by this ability. They were young.
“Look, it’s a bad situation,” he said after they had talked for an hour. “But if you strike for long, you’ll only make it worse. They’ll send in security and it won’t be like living with gangs and police among you, it’ll be like living in prison. You’ve made your point already, and now you’ve got to know when to let off and negotiate. Form a committee to represent you, and make a list of complaints and demands. Document all the incidents of crime, just write them down and get the victims to sign the statements. I’ll make good use of them. It’s going to take work at UNOMA and back home, because they’re breaking the treaty.”
He paused to get control of himself, relax his jaw. “Meanwhile, get back to work! It’ll pass the time better than sitting around cooped up in here, and it’ll make you points for the negotiation. And if you don’t, they’ll maybe just cut off your food and make you. Better to do it of your own free will, and look like rational negotiators.”
So the strike ended. They even gave him a ragged round of applause when he went back out into the station.
He got on the train in a blinding fury, refusing to acknowledge any of his staff’s questions or their mute looks of idiot inquiry, and savaging the head of the security team, who was an arrogant fool. “If you corrupt bastards had any integrity this wouldn’t have happened! You’re nothing but a protection