The Martian Death March

I've been boss Mars Highway runs that way now. From the Kalmak Canal on the equator, north of the Highlands.

With a water station every 20 miles, a radar pickup and towing service running 24 hours a day. But there wasn't any highway 30 years ago in 97. Shifting and blowing, piling up around the empty shells of the ruined cities, ancient when man on Earth was living in caves.

I live at the edge of the Kalmak Canal then with my father. He was a prospector, searching the surrounding desert with sonar probe and gutter counter, scratching just enough ore from under the Martian sands to pay for our grub state the next year.

I remember he was in the Adamson dicker in the north quadrant when I came running out that day. Somebody coming, Dad, across the desert. You sure? I saw him. I saw him. There are a couple of miles out.

How many cars? They're on foot. On foot across the desert? I'm in stand. I saw them. You sure it wasn't a light reflection off the canal? No. It was dark against the sand. I don't like that.

You're not backing up the rifles out. I've got to pull the digger into the shed. Is it going to be fighting, dog? I don't know. Got a whole year's off piled up back on the bins.

They're going to lose it to no claim, jumbers. You can back the shack and break out those rifles. Free surplus army rifles and a couple of homemade grenades made out of orcans stuck with Adamson A explosives.

We crouched inside the shack waiting. The shadow of the water tower in the doorway grew longer as the quick Martian dusk. Funny about that second one. Look, he's all spindly and his head's funny. I never saw one of the reservation before.