“So nice to be off the canal,” she said.

“It’s true.”

They talked about the campaign, and Michel shook his head. “This anti-immigration campaign is so popular.”

“Are the yonsei racist, do you think?”

“That would be hard, given their own racial mix. I think they are just generally xenophobic. Contemptuous of Earth’s problems— afraid of being overrun. So Jackie is articulating a real fear that everyone already has. It doesn’t have to be racist.”

“But you’re a good man.”

Michel blew out air. “Well, most people are.”

“Come on,” Maya said. Sometimes Michel’s optimism was too much. “Whether it’s racist or not, it still stinks. Earth is down there looking at all our open land, and if we close the door on them now they’re likely to come hammer it open. People think it could never happen, but if the Terrans are desperate enough then they’ll just bring people up and land them, and if we try to stop them they’ll defend themselves here, and presto we’ll have a war. And right here on Mars, not back on Earth or in space, but on Mars. It could happen— you can hear the threat of it in the way people in the UN are trying to warn us. But Jackie isn’t listening. She doesn’t care. She’s fanning xenophobia for her own purposes.”

Michel was staring at her. Oh yes; she was supposed to have stopped hating Jackie. It was a hard habit to break. She waved all that she had said away, all the malevolent hallucinatory politicking of the Grand Canal. “Maybe her motives are good,” she said, trying to believe it. “Maybe she only wants what’s best for Mars. But she’s still wrong, and she still has to be stopped.”

“It isn’t just her.”

“I know, I know. We’ll have to think about what we might do. But look, let’s not talk about them anymore. Let’s see if we can spot the island before the crew.”

• • •

Two days later they did just that. And as they approached Minus One, Maya was pleased to see that the island was not at all in the style of the Grand Canal. Oh there were white-washed little fishing villages on the water, but these had a handmade look, an unelectrified look. And above them on the bluffs stood groves of tree houses, little villages in the air. Ferals and fisherfolk occupied the island, the sailors told them. The land was bare on the headlands, green with crops in the sea valleys. Umber sandstone hills broke into the sea, alternating with little bay beaches, all empty except for dune grass flowing in the wind.

“It looks so empty,” Maya remarked as they sailed around the north point and down the western shore. “They see the vids of this back on Earth. That’s why they won’t let us shut the door.”