With a song in their hearts the
                   celibates of Mars gaily relived--

                           THE GEISHA MEMORY

                           By WINSTON MARKS

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                       Planet Stories Fall 1954.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Peter Duncan lay strapped, drugged and supine on one of the eighty
narrow bucket-couches on the passenger deck and was miserably,
continuously sick. It was not a nice steady nausea that a man could
adjust to. Nor even a rhythmic vertigo like one suffered from an
ocean liner wallowing in ground swells. It was a shifting, sliding
instability in three dimensions, as the Mars-bound vessel responded to
automatic radar controls.

The concept of interplanetary space being empty was long since
an exploded myth Duncan was reminded as the space ship veered,
accelerated, decelerated and corrected course to avoid collision with
meteorites approaching from thousands of miles away.

That seventy-nine other passengers and the whole crew were suffering
as much as he, was little comfort. They, at least, had a substantial
reason for being here. Aside from the money, in which Duncan, too,
shared, these others were vital players in an enormous game, supplying
energy-starved earth with fissionable materials from the inexhaustible
mines of Mars.

The single ship was the only link between the two planets, and it
represented earth's greatest extravagance in history. The passengers,
replacements for eighty mine workers who had served their four years
and 100 days contract time, provided the essential manpower. For
them it was important work and brought them not only the $100,000
contract fee, but also membership in the highly honored and exclusive
fellowship of the Mars Society. Back on earth they were assured a
life-long position of fame and wealth. To facilitate the recruiting of
future crews, public relations man, Peter Duncan, was to see to it that
romance and glamour surrounded the Mars Society with honor bright and a
yard wide.

And it wasn't easy. The rigors of the round trip, alone, were no
secret on earth. After thirty years operation, most visions of romance
in space flight had been dissipated by the grim details of the
stomach-wrenching journey.

Duncan was new to the job. And too young for the job, he had thought.
But now the joker was apparent. Senior publicity men in the employ of
General Fission enjoyed the high pay and conventional public relations
work with their feet comfortably secure on earth. But G.F. needed a
25-year-old for this assignment that broke all precedents. Experience
came only with age. And age was the disqualifier for space ship travel.
It was not his Phi Beta Kappa key his employers admired, but his
youthful circulatory system, his sturdy, compact skeletal structure and
above all his emotional stability quotient.

And the world-shaking assignment for this proud package of manhood was
to track down the meaning and implications of a song. A song that had
seeped out of the bistros and night clubs of earth, a song that could
have no other origin than returned space miners. There were endless
verses to it, but the last lines were always similar. Several stanzas
ran through Duncan's brain to the tune of the ancient patriotic ballad,
_America The Beautiful_.

    Farewell to Mars
    And frigid stars
    That light the rusty sands!
    My one regret:
    I'll not forget
    Those ever-loving hands.

    My stint is done,
    My fortune's won.
    Break out the earthling bands!
    I'm glad to go,
    But yet I know
    I'll miss those loving hands.

    To breathe again
    Like other men
    And aereate my glands--
    For this, farewell
    To all that's hell--
    Except those loving hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

"We want to know," Duncan had been told, "what the devil is going on
out there!"

"Why not cross-examine the returned miners?" Duncan had asked.
The answer was simple. They wouldn't talk. There appeared to be a
conspiracy to keep secret the significance of the song's suggestive
last lines.

Never had a taint of immorality touched the Mars operation. When the
first party of young women were included in the crew ten years ago,
eyebrows had been raised. But subsequent returnees had given no cause
for the slightest whisper of impropriety.

They couldn't afford to.

The rules were hard and uncompromising. On Mars, no female member of
the company was allowed to associate with any male except in working
hours and within the strictest limitations of her official duty.
Twenty women and one hundred forty men lived in complete segregation.
Violation of this rule imposed a $10,000 fine on each of the violators.

When Duncan had asked the obvious question he learned the fantastic
truth: In spite of General Fission's world-wide recruiting campaign,
they couldn't fill their quota of 80 men for the half shift change
every other year. After the physical examinations reduced the thousands
of applicants to a few hundred, the emotional tests took their toll. Of
the remainder, 10 berths always remained open--the housekeeping, supply
and medical care jobs went begging. Women were the only answer.

It was not difficult to recruit suitable female candidates for the
20 berths. The complications came with the problem of a mixed crew
in isolation for over four years. Marriages would be inevitable if
allowed. But in Mars' reduced atmospheric pressure pregnancy would be
fatal to mother and child. Hence, the segregation rule.

Until the song reached Earth, all had gone well. Young people
selected for their emotional stability seemed able to withstand the
terrible loneliness. But now--the song. And the whisperings that were
threatening to disrupt the whole recruiting campaign. These young
people were subject to the influences of their parents, churches and
sweethearts. Even this tenuous wisp of smoke might indicate fire. And
if the verses of the song became one shade more ribald, G.F. would
whistle for qualified applicants. A wide open scandal could wreck the
whole enlistment program.

Back on earth the problem had presented Duncan with a provocative
challenge. Now, 20 days out, with 42 days travel ahead, his thoughts
were wrapping into a tight spiral of resentment. His imagination had
run the gamut of every possible situation he might find, each more
lurid and revolting than the last. He cursed man's lustful nature that
made this whole mission necessary, and in particular he blamed the Mars
colony for the physical discomfort he was being forced to endure. What
kind of medal might they award him for spying on a herd of billy-goats
and weak-willed nannies?

A buzzer vibrated under his arm. It was his turn for exercise. Wearily
he unfastened the webbing that strapped him to the g-couch and hauled
his way forward to the tiny physical therapy chamber. They were in
so-called free flight, but the lurches required that he hold fast to
the padded rail and move hand-over-hand.

There would be the tension exercises, then a "shower" with a damp
towel. Then meal time. He made a face at the thought. So far he had
been able to eat fewer than a dozen meals orally. His arms already
were becoming freckled with scars from the intravenous feedings and
anti-vertigo injections.

       *       *       *       *       *

To his considerable surprise he was able to step through the air-lock
and descend the steep, cleated ramp to the surface of Mars under his
own power. The setting sun was a tiny, hot eye burning across the
reddish orange plains. A light breeze refreshed his face after the rank
humidity of the space ship. But the mask through which he breathed and
the oxygen bottle on his back reminded him it was an unfriendly wind,
the movement of a thin ocean of nitrogen in which a man could drown
within minutes. He sucked gratefully at the low-pressure oxygen, and in
silence shuffled after their guide.

Gravity was only a third of earth's. After weeks of free-fall and the
last hours of heavy deceleration, the replacements stumbled drunkenly
seeking their land legs. A half mile from the ship the lights of
the mine and lesser glow from the settlement alongside guided their
course. As they neared the village he could make out a sprawl of
squat, box-like buildings of a dull, silvery finish. They were the
thin-walled, magnesium alloy structures in which Duncan would sleep,
eat and spy until the next ship-landing.

Behind him the holds were gasping open and beginning to disgorge the
massive supply cargo that must keep 160 souls alive for 780 terrestrial
days. Fragile appearing trucks rumbled out and passed the group. A pair
of spindly cranes that could barely have supported their own weight on
earth, jounced behind tiny jeep-like tow-cars.

Now the sun was below distant low hills. Duncan noted the suddenness
of the sunset, and as he looked, Phobos, the nearer moon rose out of
the west, a huge crescent like the stage moons on earth. Only 3700
miles from Mars' surface, it would race overhead in the space of
minutes. Even in the dark, its progress could be followed by the disk
of blackness against the stars. Now the crescent lay horizontal and
narrow, but even as he watched, the sliver fattened and separated
itself from the low mountain range.

The new group was waved into the largest building, through a double
entrance of curtains. Inside was air. Everyone was removing his mask.
Evidently this was the recreation room. A small stage at one end held a
man and ten women.

When they were all seated in the rows of chairs, the man on the rostrum
arose and spoke. "Fellow PhD's and fatheads, may I welcome you to
your new home for the next," he looked at his wrist watch, "781 days,
six hours and 18 minutes." He was short, blond, powerfully built and
pleasant of face. A rather pale, symmetrical blotch of skin containing
his mouth, nose and part of each cheek, was outlined by his heavily
sunburned complexion. That would be the shadow of his oxygen mask,
Duncan surmised. "My name is Lee Bowen, your newly elected spokesman,"
he went on. "My chief qualification is the biggest mouth and the
loudest voice on Mars. Before you leave you will have two elections
in which to vote, but until the next ship comes you'll have to put up
with me. And the girls here." He waved forward one of the slack-suited
females. Like the others she looked intelligent, but her closely
cropped brown hair and loose-fitting clothes almost concealed her sex.
Her face was pretty but seemed pale without make-up. "Discretion is the
better part of pallor," Duncan punned to himself.

"Dr. Martha Rice is spokesman for the ladies." Bowen bowed briefly and
stepped back.

The girl smiled and looked them over thoughtfully. "We have problems
here. I would like to emphasize a couple of them. Please don't
cut yourself, shaving or working. The slightest wound in our low
atmospheric pressure requires a compress bandage. They are nuisances. A
modestly deep gash can cost you your life."

She paused and studied them some more. "And so I hope you are all
careful or at least thick-skinned. For another reason, too. Our second
problem here is the high price of love." The nine girls behind her
laughed as she looked back at them, but her face became serious.

"You were led to believe that a kiss would cost you only $10,000.00.
Well, you were misled. The price is $20,000, and the market is wide
open. Any one of us will accommodate you, but you'll have to pay our
fine as well as your own."

Duncan gasped at her first words, then, as they sank in, he smiled.
Morale, good. Morals, even better if this wasn't just an act. Applause
was enthusiastic, but there were no whistles.

Bowen came up again as the girl sat down. "Remember that, gentlemen.
You came up here to earn a tenth of a million dollars. Believe me,
you'll earn it. But don't kiss it away. It's only worth five kisses up
here, and these girls will put you on report if you lay a finger on
them. If they don't, _they_ go on report."

       *       *       *       *       *

The first two days were spent unloading supply cargo and stowing
it. The out-going passengers took care of loading the stockpile of
concentrated minerals, so Duncan had no chance to talk with them. On
the third morning the ship was launched. The bustle of activity died,
and Duncan moved into the smooth mining routine like the polished cog
that he was.

Personnel training was done on earth. All were preassigned to their
tasks, so the old crews had only to point. The mining operations went
on as if no replacements had been made. The men's work was roughly
divided into outside and inside work. Duncan's inside specialty was
feeding samples to a spectrograph and assisting the nuclear chemist
in charge of the lab. On alternate days he took his turn in the field
tending excavating equipment.

Since the mine was located near the equator, this alternation of the
whole crew was necessary to reduce exposure to the miniature sun that
provided so little useful heat, yet whose ultra-violet pierced the
cloudless, thin atmosphere with vicious intensity.

No one went hungry, but as the weeks passed the seeming variety of
food rations disappeared. The monotony of dehydrated vegetables and
meats palled. But worst was the silence. For ten hours each day almost
no communication passed among the workers. All breathable oxygen
had to be extracted from the oxides of minerals, and the by-product
oxygen from the mining operation was barely enough to supply the total
demands of their masks. So even the inside working areas were left to
Mars' unbreathable gases, and masks could be removed only in off-duty
quarters.

Chief occupations in off-hours were games of chess, reading, writing
and activities that used a minimum of conversation. No one felt like
talking much after a full shift of sucking hard at oxygen to keep up
with his body's demand. Although the lessened gravity appeared to make
all physical labor easy, Duncan could never remember such complete
fatigue at the end of a working day. He ate, worked, played chess and
slept 10 hours a day.

The women replacements had disappeared into their compound and
were seen no more. He wondered at the type of indoctrination they
were getting. Did it include an item concerning the use of _loving
hands_? Strangely, the men made no reference to the women, and he was
reluctant to draw attention by broaching the subject.

The living quarters, mess-hall and recreation spaces were grouped
intimately, but placed in such a manner that windows and entries
allowed no casual glimpses of the women from the men's areas. Complete
security in the matter of segregation appeared to be guaranteed on the
honor system alone. All 140 men slept in one long bunk-room, all 20
women in another.

Intelligent men are not easily bored, but Peter Duncan discovered a
certain restlessness developing among the new men during the fourth
month. There was a tendency to break off in the middle of a chess game,
or to speak tersely. Duncan ascribed this to a phase of adjustment,
because the second term crew seemed better tempered.

Then it began to bother _him_. He found himself developing an
unreasoning impatience. He began using profanity at slight annoyances.
The stiff soreness of chest, neck and back muscles became chronic, and
he began laying awake listening to his own rapid breathing, begrudging
every inhalation of his overworked lungs. The devil with expense! Why
didn't they at least pressurize the sleeping quarters so a man could
get some decent rest?

He recognized the symptoms of increasing irritability in himself as it
distracted him even during his work. But he couldn't put his finger on
the cause. It grew worse. During the twelfth month he reached a stage
of exasperation that almost cost him his life.

He was tightening a bolt on one of the spindles. The second time his
wrench slipped off the nut he squared away and threw the spanner at
the horizon. Too late he saw his crew-mate, geologist Magnus Porter.
Horrified he watched the wrench arc three times as far as it would have
on earth, and strike Porter in the face. He went down.

When Duncan reached him the scientist's face was gushing blood, and his
smashed mask hissed its charge into the sterile air. Fortunately, they
were on the camp side of the pits, only two hundred yards from sickbay.
Porter weighed no more than a blanket roll, and the odds seemed good at
first. But before Duncan had bounded half the distance his lungs pumped
to the bursting point. His vision dimmed, and his legs faltered. He
tore off his mask, pressed it to Porter's face, gulped a chest full of
dead air and screamed for help.

       *       *       *       *       *

Red streaks of pain tore through his head, down his neck muscles and
into his chest. The slightest breathing movements racked his lungs,
but, incredibly, they sucked in rich, sweet oxygen, heavy and dense.

He knew he must be in a compression tank. The whispering pump and
muffled sound of voices outside were evidence enough, although he
couldn't open his eyes.

The mists cleared quickly now, and the voices formed words. He
recognized Martha Rice's voice. "--anoxia. I can't determine how
severe. Have to wait and see. He may be all right when he gets over the
headache. Then again there may be permanent brain damage."

Duncan hurt too much to care. He passed out again. When he regained
consciousness he realized the pressure was reduced, for his lungs were
pumping hard again. Then the coffin clanked apart, the sides dropped
and he was trying to focus on the ring of female faces that surrounded
him.

"Hiya, Mister?" Martha's face settled down to a recognizable fuzz-ball.

His head was clear now, but his throat was too tight to consider
speaking. He stared back blankly. The physician shook her head,
misunderstanding his failure to respond. A nurse rigged an intravenous
bottle, and they left him to his thoughts. He slept again, restlessly
this time. He dreamed of the accident, the wrench floating with
terrible slowness toward Porter. Abruptly, he was back on earth. His
mother was rubbing his neck and shoulders. Her hands were soft and
reassuring. They kneaded down over his pectoral muscles and massaged
his whole chest. But how did his mother know his chest hurt. You don't
hurt your chest playing tennis. But this chest did hurt, and the firm,
supple hands brought it warmth and life. His mother understood--

His eyes flipped open, and he stared into the inverted face of a nurse,
stubby blonde curls bobbing crazily as her body swayed over him. "He's
up," she said aloud.

Dr. Martha Rice moved into view. "I'll take over. Save yourself for
tonight, Muriel. It's getting rougher."

The physician's hands replaced the nurse's, but the gentle, rhythmic
touch was the same. Duncan relaxed in an orgy of tactile ecstasy.

"You are Peter Duncan. Do you understand?" she asked. He blinked, and
she took that for affirmation. "In fact," she continued, "you are now
Hero Peter Duncan."

This didn't register right. Hero? They must have saved Porter's life,
but they didn't realize how it happened. And now she was misconstruing
his puzzled expression. "I am Dr. Martha Rice. Remember me?"

All Duncan could think of now was the hands. _Loving hands._ What was
the right answer? If he answered wrong the hands would stop. He closed
his eyes. _Loving hands._ He remembered his mission.

How could he have better arranged it? This was ideal. By feigning slow
recovery he could--

The hands stopped. A finger peeled back an eyelid. "You are awake. Come
to, mister!"

Duncan opened the other eye and stared at her and let his lips part.
"Thuh!" he grunted.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was night. Duncan was detached from the intravenous needle and tube,
and a small compress bandage covered the throbbing vein where his blood
had boiled out when the needle was withdrawn. He had decided to reveal
enough recovery to take oral nourishment.

The wall chronometer, adjusted to the slightly longer Mars' day, read
2300, an hour before midnight. He was alone. It should have been quiet,
but several times heavy footsteps had passed down the hall near his
tiny room. The sick bay was attached to the women's quarters.

Distinctly he heard an outside door open and the clump of safety boots
passed his room. Slipping off the high bed he opened his door and
looked into the hall. It was a man. Even in the dim light there was no
mistaking the broad physique.

Duncan whipped a sheet around his nude body and followed a few yards
to where the visitor had disappeared through a curtained arch. Before
the curtains stopped swaying he saw the outlines of cots within. It was
the women's sleeping room! His stomach turned cold.

So the legend of the song was based on fact. And his trip out here was
justified after all. And what now, after he had uncovered the mess with
his own eyes?

He approached the curtains uncertainly. A sob from within startled him.
It was a man's cry. A girl's voice said something softly reassuring,
and all was still again.

Duncan lurched through the arch and stood rooted. The denunciation died
in his throat. Twenty single bunks were spaced around the walls. Each
was occupied, but only three girls were asleep. The rest were sitting
on the edge with their feet on the floor. At each girl's feet with his
back resting against her legs was a member of the male company. The
pale light of Deimos, Mars' second moon, shone through the overhead
panes to reveal the secret of the loving hands.

Duncan watched seventeen pairs of arms encircling the necks of as many
men, hands reaching down under loose jackets to massage aching chests
and rising to knead gently on tired shoulder muscles. Fingers strayed
tenderly over masculine foreheads and necks with unmistakable caressing
motions.

The prone figure near him stirred, and a sleepy face looked up at him.
"Oh, my gosh, it's Duncan!" she said. It was Martha Rice. She slipped
from the blankets and drew him over to her bunk. "Sit down," she
invited.

Stunned, Duncan lowered himself to the edge of the bed. "No, not there!
Down, boy! On the deck," she pointed. "The fellows would get the wrong
idea, patient or no patient."

Duncan complied, leaning against her warm legs as the others were
doing. She sighed, yawned audibly, and began the massaging routine.
With the touch of her hands the confusion left Duncan's tortured mind.
Propaganda, morality arguments, missions into space and the importance
of $10,000 fines disappeared. This was real. A woman's heart reaching
out through her hands to comfort her man. It was physical, but it
transcended the physical. It justified the rigid segregation rules even
as it glorified them and violated them.

The need of man for woman was too great for any barrier. And no woman
could refuse giving of herself when the need was desperate enough.

Three more men came through the curtains.

Two found girls, but the third stood hesitantly. A girl on the next
bunk from Duncan and Martha, rubbed her man's head briskly and said
quietly, "Good night, mister. Got another customer. See you soon." She
waved in the new man as the other heaved reluctantly to his feet. "Good
night, honey," he said simply and left.

Men stepped over Duncan's legs coming and going, without remark,
without greeting.

Almost no conversation took place. A whispered good night or a soft
word of comfort, and then minutes of silence except for the rustle of
deep sighing breathing.

Then Martha's hands stopped. She pulled him to his feet and led him
toward the arch. Instantly several girls' heads turned toward them.
"Want help, Doctor?" one asked almost sharply.

"No thanks, Claire. This boy's sick."

She led him back to his room. He turned his back to the bed as though
to sit down, but instead he moved to her. She slid into his arms as
though it were rehearsed, and he crushed her close to him. Through
their light garments he felt her body strain for a brief moment then
completely relax. She peeled away from his lips.

"Mister, that will cost you just $10,000. You're on report!"

The shock of her voice was a cold plunge back to another reality.
Duncan's hands fell to his sides and he sat down heavily, head bowed.
Martha lifted his legs, untwined the sheet and tucked in the blankets.
Suddenly she dropped to him and pressed her face to his. "You poor
devil! You poor, poor, devil!" Her tears rolled down to his face, and
she cried unrestrainedly for more than a minute. Duncan kept his hands
at his sides, and it was his greatest triumph of self-control.

       *       *       *       *       *

He gave himself two days to affect recovery. On the second morning he
called for Dr. Martha Rice. She came in alone, her darkly handsome face
inscrutable. "You are better, I hear. For exactly how long have you
been feeling better?"

Duncan smiled. "Long enough to want to get out of here. How is Magnus
Porter?"

"He left an hour ago. He'll wear a bandage for a week, but your mask
saved him from anything serious. That was quite a gesture, my boy. As I
mentioned the other night, you are on report--"

Duncan winced.

"--for a citation for heroism beyond the call of duty."

"You're quite a girl, yourself," Duncan said. "Where are my pants? I
have some ore to get out before the next ship. We mustn't return short
of cargo, must we?"

"What do you mean, _we_? You have a term and a half to complete," she
said.

"I'm here on a special assignment, and we'll be going out together on
the next ship."

"I will, but you--you! What kind of special assignment?"

"Some fuddy-duds down sunward had some foolish ideas about reducing
the crew out here by some twenty persons. You know, trying to save
money. I'm to report upon your dispensability. I will be pleased to
report that the women's contingent is completely and magnificently
indispensable to General Fission. Which reminds me, will you have
dinner with me when we get home?"

Martha was somewhat paler. She leaned against the door. "And _I_ put
_you_ on report!"

"Answer my question, girl, and hand me my pants."

"Your question? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course, I'll have dinner with you.
Here are your pants."

"And breakfast and lunch?"

"Is this a proposal?"

"Proposals on Mars violate our contract. So do propositions, so let's
just call it a date."

"Date?" Martha fondled the word that sounded so alien and lovely. She
smiled. "All right, Peter, it's a date."