Night Freight

It would be the best damn rec field anybody ever built spaceward of Earth.

Once we were satisfied with the plans, we went looking for the best possible site. It took us two days to settle on one that pleased both of us. The spot we picked was behind and to the east of the bubble we lived in, at the edge of the compound and right up close to the biggest cluster of trees and patch of grass.

We started construction the next day. We measured distances, staked them out, and cleared the area of ash and rock. With laser tools from the repair hangar, we cut down trees and shaped them into boards and posts of different sizes. We dug holes for fence posts and the soccer goals and home plate on the baseball diamond. We used a thermosetting resin to bind joints and lock the bleacher sections together.

At the end of eight months—forty-two months altogether on Outpost 217-C—we had the field roughed out; the fence and bleachers built. We considered painting everything, but the only duropaint we had was gray, the color of the Company freighters and the color of the surroundings, and we weren't about to use that. Besides, the natural wood color looked fine. And it would look even better once we got the grass put in.

That was our next project, the grass. We dug up blocks of sod a half meter square and carried them to the field and laid them down carefully to form the baseball diamond and the soccer rectangle. When that job was finished we set to work on the dugout benches and the goals. And when they were done we laser-carved a rock into a replica of home plate, put it down, manufactured three bases and two goal nets out of supply material, and put those in place.

By that time we had been working on the field a few days short of eleven months. We weren't quite finished yet—there were a few small things to be taken care of, and one major problem to be solved, before we could begin to use it—but in essence it was done. And done right, just as we had pla

Renzo and I stood admiring it after we'd tied the last goal net into place. "You ever see anything so goddamn fine in all your life?" he said.

"No," I said, "never."

"All the work was worth it, Alex. If it hadn't been for the field, the past eleven months would've been rough—a hell of a lot rougher than the first thirty-four."

"I know," I said. "But we've got it made now; once we start the games, the next twenty-seven will be even easier."

"We'll play soccer first, when everything's ready," he said. "That all right with you?"

"Sure. Soccer it is."

A little while later, when the heat got to be unbearable, we went back to the bubble to rest and take some nourishment. And while we were eating, a message came through from Sector Base, the first one we'd had since an outbound freighter was diverted in for airlock repairs three months ago: Sector Chief Dietrich was on his way to 217-C for another inspection and was scheduled to arrive in sixty-two hours. Renzo and I were to get everything ready for him, including the spare quarters; he was pla

The news didn't interest either of us as much as it might have before we began building the rec field. It had been fifteen months since Dietrich's last visit—fifteen months since we had seen another human being—but we were still pretty excited about the way the field had turned out. And neither of us liked Dietrich much anyway. He was a strict Company man, the kind that let you know you were only a drone yourself, not much different than the fleet of ships that were under his supervision. He didn't like sports, either. I'd tried to talk to him about baseball the first time he'd come for inspection and he hadn't shown the slightest bit of interest.

But after we had acknowledged the message, Renzo said, "You know, the timing for Dietrich's visit isn't bad. Now we'll be able to show off the completed field to him."

"You think he'll approve of it?"

"Sure he will. Why wouldn't he approve of it?"

We spent most of the next three days getting the repair hangar and refueling station and rocket pit ready for Dietrich's inspection. Everything had to be clean, in its proper place, ready for any emergency; if he found anything at all out of line, which he wouldn't, the Company contract said we could get docked for it.

We did manage to do a little more work on the rec field, most of it cosmetic: trimming the grass, sanding rough edges off the fence and the bleacher seats, that sort of thing. Renzo and I had a lot of pride in that field and we wanted it to look as nice as possible for Dietrich.

As scheduled, the Sector Chief's small one-man shuttle vectored in at 0900 hours. When Dietrich had shut off his engines and locked down on the pad, Renzo and I went out and stood waiting near the hatch for the forward airlock. It was another ten minutes before he came out, dressed in his silver-gray Company uniform.

It was good to see another human again, even Dietrich; and he was a pretty impressive figure, you had to admit that. Tall, ageless, big round head with a mat of hair the same silver-gray as his suit, face brown and so smooth it looked polished. Sharp green eyes, bright and cold—the only color anywhere about him. Like the grass and the tree leaves were the only color on 217-C.

The first thing he said was, "Good to see you again, men." But he didn't sound as if he meant it. And he didn't smile or offer to shake hands with either of us. "Everything cope here?"

"Yes, sir," Renzo said. "Everything cope."

Dietrich gave both of us long penetrating looks, like he was trying to establish a telepathic link so he could shuffle through our thoughts. Then he said, "Well, let's get moving," and we left the pad and went straight to the bubble.

But Dietrich didn't want to rest or eat or clean up in his quarters before begi

It was late afternoon before Dietrich finished with the hangar. He seemed satisfied that everything was in order—but not too happy about it, as if he'd wanted to find something out of line. He said, "We'll save the rest of the compound for tomorrow. Right now I could use some nourishment."

I said, "Whatever you say, Mr. Dietrich."

On the way back to the bubble Renzo caught my eye and gri

"Show me?"

"Yes, sir. It won't take long."

"What is it?"

"Something we're kind of proud of."

I could see that Dietrich wasn't much interested in anything we would want to show him, but he shrugged and said, "All right, where is it?"

"Over behind the bubble," Renzo said, and we took him out there and right up near the fence beyond the bleachers, on the first base side of the baseball diamond. "Isn't that a fine-looking recreation field, Mr. Dietrich? Alex and me built it in our spare time over the last twelve months; we just finished it a few days ago."

Dietrich stood looking around at the field for a third of a minute. Then he turned and stared at us. There were wrinkles in his forehead and alongside his nose, and his cold eyes seemed even colder, like frozen green water. "Is this some kind of joke?" he said.

"Sir?"

"There's no recreation field here. There's nothing here except bare rock."