Fee of the Frontier

  Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from Amazing Stories August 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  _They didn't think of themselves as pioneers. They simply had a job to do. And if they had to give up money, or power, or love--or life itself--that was the_

  FEE OF THE FRONTIER

  By H. B. FYFE

  ILLUSTRATOR EMSH

  * * * * *

  From inside the dome, the night sky is a beautiful thing, even thoughDeimos and Phobos are nothing to brag about. If you walk outside,maybe as far as the rocket field, you notice a difference.

  Past the narrow developed strip around the dome, the desert land liesas chilled and brittle as it did for eons before Earthmen reachedMars. The sky is suddenly raw and cruel. You pull your furs aroundyour nose and check your oxygen mask, and wish you were _inside_something, even a thin wall of clear plastic.

  I like to stand here, though, and look out at it, just thinking abouthow far those ships grope out into the dark nowadays, and about themen who have gone out there on a few jets and a lot of guts. I knew abunch of them ... some still out there, I guess.

  There was a time when nearly everything had to be rocketed out fromEarth, before they organized all those chemical tricks that change theMartian crops to real food. Domes weren't fancy then. Adequate, ofcourse; no sense in taking chances with lives that cost so much fuelto bring here. Still, the colonies kept growing. Where people go,others follow to live off them, one way or another. It began to looklike time for the next step outward.

  Oh, the Asteroids ... sure. Not them. I did a bit of hopping there inmy own time. In fact--on account of conditions beyond my choice andcontrol--I spent too much time on the wrong side of the hull shields.One fine day, the medics told me I'd have to be a Martian for the restof my life. Even the one-way hop back to Earth was "not recommended."

  So I used to watch the ships go out. I still remember one that almostmissed leaving. _The Martian Merchant._ What joker thought that wouldbe a good name for an exploring ship I can't imagine, but it alwayshappens that way.

  I was starting my cross-country tractor line then, and had just madethe run from Schiaparelli to Asaph Dome, which was not as nice as itis now but still pretty civilized for the time. They had eight or tenbars, taverns, and other amusements, and were already getting to bequite a city.

  One of the taverns near the western airlock was named the _Stardust_,and I was approaching, measuring the sand in my throat, when thesespacers came out. The first one in sight was a blocky, dark-hairedfellow. He came rolling through the door with a man under each arm.

  Just as I got there, he made it to his feet somehow and cracked theirheads together exactly hard enough to bring peace. He acted like a manused to handling things with precision. He glanced quickly at me outof a square, serious face, then plunged back through the splintereddoor toward the breakup inside.

  * * * * *

  In a moment, he came out again, with two friends who looked the worsefor wear. The tall, lean youngster wore a junior pilot's bands on thesleeves of his blue uniform. His untidy hair was rumpled, as ifsomeone had been hanging onto it while in the process of giving himthe shiner.

  The other one was shorter and a good deal neater. Even with his tunicripped down the front, he gave the impression of making it his lifebusiness to be neat. He was turning gray at the temples and growing alittle bulge under his belt, which lent a dignity worthy of his trimmustache and expression of deferential politeness. He paused brieflyto hurl an empty bottle at someone's head.

  "Better take the alley there," I told the blocky one, on impulse."It'll bring you out at the tractor lot and I'll give you a lift toyour ship."

  He wasted no time on questions, just grabbed his friends anddisappeared before the crowd came out. I walked around a couple ofcorners and back to my tractor bus. This lot was only a clear spaceinside the Number Four Airlock. At that time, two or three tractorscame in every day from the mines or other domes. Most of the trafficwas to and from the spaceport.

  "Who's that?" asked a low voice from the shadows.

  "Tony Lewis," I answered.

  The three of them moved into the dim light from the airlock guardpost.

  "Thanks for the steer," said the blocky one, "but we can stay tillmorning."

  He seemed as fresh as if he had just landed. His friends were a trifleworn around the edges.

  "Keep playing that rough," I said, "and you may not make it tomorning."

  He just grinned. "We have to," he said, "or the ship can't blast off."

  "Oh, you three make the ship go, huh?"

  "Just about. This is Hugh Konnel, the third pilot; the gent with thedignified air is Ron Meadows, the steward. I'm Jim Howlet, and I lookafter the fuel system."

  I admitted that the ship could hardly do without them. Howlet'sexpression suggested that he was searching his memory.

  "Lewis ..." he murmured. "I've heard of Tony Lewis somewhere. You aspacer?"

  "Used to be," I told him. "Did some piloting in the Belt."

  Young Konnel stopped fingering his eye.

  "Oh, I've heard of you," he said. "Even had to read some of yourreports."

  * * * * *

  After that, one thing led to another, with the result that I offeredto find somewhere else to relax. We walked south from the airlock,past a careless assortment of buildings. In those days, there was notmuch detailed planning of the domes. What was necessary for safety andfor keeping the air thicker and warmer than outside was done right;the remaining space was grabbed by the first comers.

  Streets tended to be narrow. As long as an emergency truck couldsqueeze through at moderate speed, that was enough. The buildings grewhigher toward the center of the dome, but I stopped while they werestill two stories.

  The outside of Jorgensen's looked like any other flimsy constructionunder the dome. We had just passed a row of small warehouses, and theonly difference seemed to be the lighted sign at the front.

  "We can stop at the bar inside while we order dinner," I said.

  "Sounds good," said Howlet. "I could go for a decent meal. Rations onan exploring ship run more to calories than taste."

  The pilot muttered something behind us. Howlet turned his head.

  "Don't worry about it, Hughie," he retorted. "It'll be all over thedome by tomorrow anyway."

  "But they said not to--"

  "Mr. Lewis won't say anything, and he's not the only spacer who'llguess it."

  * * * * *

  It was easy to figure out. Ships did little exploring in the Beltnow--plenty of untouched rocks there but nothing really unknown."Exploring" could only mean that a hop to Jupiter was in the works atlast. There had already been rumors about a few wide swings outsidethe Belt.

  Well, it was just about time.

  I would have liked to go too, and it was more than just a spacer'scuriosity. To my mind, man _had_ to move out in space. Being onlyhalfway in control of his own planetary system was no state to befound in by the first interstellar visitors.

  That is a meeting bound to happen sooner or later. It would be betterfor the human race to be able to do the visiting, I thought.

  The inside of Jorgensen's always surprised new visitors to Asaph Dome.It was different from anything on Earth, and yet not too much like thereal Mars either.
That way, Jorgensen hoped to catch both thesandeaters and the tourists. The latter came to rough it in localcolor, the former to dream of a better world.

  "Hey! Look at the stars over the bar!" exclaimed Howlet.

  To begin with, the bar was of pinkish sandstone, smoothed and coveredby a coating of plastic. Behind it, instead of less imaginativemirrors or bottle displays, Jorgensen had had some drifter paint anight desert: all dull pink and bronze crags smothering in sand undera black sky. The stars twinkled like glass beads, which they were.Lights were dim enough to hide the Martian austerity of the metalfurnishings.

  "The Earth tourists spend a lot of time here," I told the trio. "Seemsthey'd rather look at that sky than the real one outside the dome."

  The dining room was for the souls of the locals, who could admire thedesert more conveniently