As the bus pulled quietly away, Lamont experienced a moment of hesitation. His assignment to Mars, the last eight months of his life, had been sparked by a photograph of this man—a photograph found in the confidential archives of a corporation that was effectively limitless in its reach and power. Lamont had, of course, attempted to secure an interview with him before leaving for the Red Planet, but he hadn’t granted an interview in over a decade, and nobody seemed to know his whereabouts. Several strategies flashed through Lamont’s mind simultaneously. He observed that during his moment of indecision, the cluster of people who had disembarked with him had gone their separate ways, leaving him gawking conspicuously on the curb. Straightening his jacket, Lamont decided on a direct approach. He stepped to the opposite side of the small round table and cleared his throat.

  “I beg your pardon,” He began. “Francis Carter?”

  The tall, lanky man didn’t appear to lift his eyes from the pages of the paperback he was reading, though it was difficult to be sure because of his dark glasses. “I get that a lot,” He replied, “It’s a common mistake.”

  Lamont bit his lower lip. “Excuse me, but I don’t believe it is. You are Francis Carter, the astronaut.”

  Black eyebrows lifted over the rims of the man’s sunglasses now as he lifted his head to fully acknowledge the interruption. “I don’t know who you think you are, but–”

  “Townsend. Lamont Townsend.”

  Carter’s eyebrows remained lifted. “The author?”

  “The newspaperman,” Lamont corrected.

  Now Carter set his book down, open-faced on the tabletop in a way that was sure to ruin the spine. It was a popular spy thriller, an East-West espionage novel, the type that was churned out on a weekly basis for newsstands. “Since you’re here,” he conceded, “I have some questions for you. Have a seat.”

  Lamont glanced about furtively. He had never had the tables turned on him before. The sudden feeling of unmanageability was heightened when he noticed a man settling down with a newspaper on the bench in front of the barbershop across the street; a small man with high cheekbones in a neat black suit.

  Noticing Lamont’s hesitation, Carter extended a slender hand toward the seat across the table. “Please,” He insisted. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  Lamont forced himself into the seat, mechanically reaching inside his coat for his cigarette case. This was no time to panic. By habit, he offered the open case to Carter, who shook his head before catching the attention of the attendant in the coffee shop with two raised fingers.

  “You’ve, er, read my book, then?” Lamont asked dumbly, his mind racing to regain its confidence.

  “Hasn’t everybody?” Carter shrugged. “It was hard to resist, especially for someone like me. I confess that I’m a sucker for good propaganda.” He gestured toward the book in front of him.

  Lamont eyed the older man warily, cupping a hand over his face to light his cigarette. He took a long drag, willing the hot smoke to carry a sense of calm into his tightened chest. “That’s an oxymoron,” He protested, keeping his voice level. “Journalism is the recounting of fact without bias. Behind the Curtain is journalism. Tell me, did you purchase your copy on Earth, or here in Mars?”

  The astronaut didn’t bite. “Propaganda can be fact or fiction, as I see it. Typically, it’s both. The real mark of propaganda—and please understand that I don’t mean this critically—is that it emphasizes something that one already knows, or feels one ought to know. It brings one in line with popular thinking. Journalism, on the other hand, seeks to undermine popular opinion.”

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Since you’re an expert—” Lamont stopped himself short. Was Carter baiting him? If so, why?

  Presently, the attendant emerged with a decanter and a coffee cup, muttering a pleasantry as he filled the two cups on the table with steaming black liquid. Lamont took advantage of the interruption to check on his shadow across the street, who was apparently still engrossed in his paper. The attendant, meanwhile, turned his attention to two salesmen who had taken seats at another table nearby.

  Forcing his attention back to the conversation, Lamont tried a more strategic approach. “You’ve traveled a lot, Mr. Carter. Possibly more than any other human being, all things considered. Have you had any experiences with the Scientific Society?”

  Francis Carter sipped his coffee, scrutinizing the newspaperman thoughtfully through his dark glasses. “No,” he ventured in a casual tone. “And of course I don’t think that you have either.”

  “You seem to be saying,” Lamont observed, “That you took my book to be a work of fiction.” He kept his eyes locked on the astronaut’s as he took a measured sip of his coffee, cigarette cradled between two fingertips. He took a second sip. “This is very good,” he noted.

  Carter smiled. “It’s genuine, grown here in Hellas. Now, what I’m speaking to is the primitive labor camp, the layers of corrupt bureaucracy, the Keystone Cop guards with patches on their uniforms and pockets full of cigarettes.”

  Lamont shrugged. “Pretty much what you’d expect in the backwaters of Tibet.”

  “Exactly,” Carter agreed, extending a long finger toward the newspaperman. “That’s exactly my point.”

  Lamont took another sip of coffee. He was feeling hot now, perhaps because of the cigarette or the coffee, but more likely because—for reasons he could not begin to fathom—Francis Carter seemed intent on getting under his skin. Whatever his motivation, the tactic could not have been better calculated to frustrate Townsend’s chance encounter with a primary subject of his investigation. Lamont himself had become the object of scrutiny, and he did not like it. He sat back and took a long pull on his cigarette. “What’s it like being back to Mars after thirty years?” In the back of his mind, he heard Harry’s tinny voice suggesting human interest.

  Carter looked around, slender hands folding around his coffee cup. “Surreal,” He admitted. “The pace of colonization has been staggering. I remember Mars as cold and quiet, a monument to civilizations long gone and far greater than ours.”

  “Now it’s become a monument to human ingenuity,” Lamont prodded.

  “Or human opportunism,” Carter shrugged. “What the Martians achieved, they achieved through careful reason, a methodical progression of cultures over eons of time. Like us, they were nearly wiped out by a cataclysmic event—the loss of their atmosphere—but they had nowhere to go, no resource at their disposal but their own glorious minds. We have Mars. Soon we’ll have the stars. But we’ll have reached them on the backs of giants.”

  “How soon?” Lamont asked. He thought of the radio station on Triton.

  “Sooner than you think,” Carter said, and then he seemed to catch himself. His eyes, which had taken on a distant look during his revery, snapped back to Lamont’s behind the dark lenses of his glasses. He inhaled deeply, stood, and dropped two Munit coins on the table—a generous amount, even for the best coffee. “I’m a very private man, Mr. Townsend. I value solitude, and it’s becoming increasingly scarce. I don’t know how you found me, but I’d thank you not to make it known for a while.”

  Lamont nodded. “Is that why you came to Mars? For solitude?”

  “No,” Carter admitted. “There was a time when I had the planet nearly to myself, but that was long ago. Good day.” He turned and began to walk.

  Lamont stood, almost toppling his chair. “Nearly,” he suggested, “But not completely, isn’t that right?”

  The astronaut stopped and turned his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m referring to Phobos,” Lamont blurted. It was a chance he felt he had to take.

  Carter’s jaw worked visibly at the reference. After a moment he asked, “The moon?”

  “The Martian,” Lamont suggested. He picked the paperback up from the table, stepping forward to hand it to Carter.

  “Take care, Mr. Townsend,” Carter said in a tone that sounded more like a warning than a platitude. Accepting the book, he turned again, and his long legs carried him swiftly around the corner.

  Lamont exhaled, passing a hand over his mouth. For a long moment, he stood in place, processing the encounter and committing Carter’s few words to memory. He tossed his cigarette to the curb, a smoldering blemish on an otherwise spotless street, and began to walk with no particular destination.

  After a short wait, the man on the bench in front of the barbershop, and the two salesmen drinking coffee nearby, all rose and began to walk in the same general direction.