by Ben Bova
“So . . . ?” President Harper asked.
“So, at this point, we don’t know for sure whether we can get them back home or not.”
Obviously holding his temper in check, the president demanded, “When will you know?
“Sometime shortly before they arrive back here at Earth. If they don’t have to perform any major course corrections, if they don’t have to use extra propellant . . .”
“What if they do have to use extra propellant?” The NSA man asked.
Saxby hesitated a heartbeat before answering, “Then they’ll sail past the Earth and we’ll never see them again.”
“That’s unacceptable,” said President Harper.
“Yes, sir, we know. But there’s another problem, as well. A more pressing problem.”
“More pressing than losing the whole damned crew?”
With a reluctant nod, Saxby explained, “Yes, sir. They also took a hit in their water reservoir and they lost a lot of water. Even with recycling there simply isn’t enough water to keep them alive for the trip home. They’d run out before they got halfway back. And that assumes minimum rations of water from today onward.”
Saxby felt as if he wanted to crawl into a hole and come out on the other side working in a no-stress job where human lives were not hanging in the balance.
The president looked grim. “So you’re saying that even if they survive getting to Mars and leaving again, and if they have enough fuel to get home, they’ll come home dead due to a lack of drinking water?”
“Dead or very sick. Yes, sir. That’s what I’m saying. I wish to God that I weren’t, but that’s what we’re up against.”
The National Security Advisor fixed Saxby with an accusatory stare. “You mean there’s no other option? Didn’t we already send supplies to Mars to keep the crew alive while they’re on the planet’s surface? Why can’t they pick up those supplies, bring them back to the ship, and use them for the trip home?”
“We’ve looked into that,” Saxby said. “Even if we bring all the water back from the surface habitat to the ship, it won’t be enough. There are also the risks of sending a team down to the surface under these circumstances.”
Sarah Fleming spoke up. “Weren’t we ready to take those risks? This was supposed to be a Mars landing expedition, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but again, that was for an undamaged ship. The crew will have been without artificial gravity for many weeks by the time they arrive at Mars. Their bodies will be weakened by cardiovascular deconditioning, general body muscle loss, and increased bone brittleness. If we send someone down to the surface to offload supplies from the habitat onto the lander, there’s a high probability that they’ll fail.”
“Fail? Why? Was the habitat damaged?”
“No, Ms. Fleming. It appears to be in good shape. But without the artificial gravity produced by spinning the Arrow, the crew will have atrophied muscles and brittle bones. Not a good situation. If somebody goes to the surface and falls due to muscle weakness, there’s a really good chance of breaking a bone because of the embrittlement. Not a pretty picture.”
“So what do we do about it? Do they know?” The president asked.
“No, we haven’t told them yet. The propellant problem leaked to the news media this morning but the water crisis is still under wraps. That’s one reason why I’m here. I need to be the one to break the news, before it leaks to the media and the crew finds out from the internet news feeds.” Saxby looked Harper straight in the eye. “And before I do that, I had to let you know the situation.”
The president looked as he wanted to erupt, throw a tantrum, break things with his bare hands. With an obvious effort, he took a deep breath and calmed himself.
“All right, Bart, you’ve checked the box. Now call a news conference and tell all the facts. I hold you responsible for finding a solution that doesn’t end up in complete failure and the loss of the crew.”
Saxby nodded wearily. “For what it’s worth, we’ve got all of our best and brightest people working on this.”
“You’d damned well better,” said the president. “The entire future of human spaceflight is hanging on this. If we lose this crew, Donaldson and his ilk will have the ammunition they need to stop all human missions.”
“And sweep the elections next year,” said Sarah Fleming.
“We’re doing our best,” Saxby told them. It sounded like whining, even in his own ears.
July 24, 2035
17:30 Universal Time
Earth Departure Plus 101 Days
Galley of the Arrow
Ted Connover was smiling when he said it, but he still expressed the crew’s prevailing opinion, “How far up shit’s creek are we, Bee?”
All seven of them had assembled in the galley, looking to Benson for reassurance, for some shred of news that was favorable. Instead he gave them a straightforward, honest assessment of their predicament. Not one to mince words, Benson laid it all out on the table, hoping that someone would come up with the bright idea that could save the day—and their lives.
“The propellant leak was a disaster averted,” he told them. “The chunk of debris that punctured the tank also acted as a sort of partway plug to keep the leakage rate low, so we only lost reserve propellant. There should be enough propellant to get us home, just barely.”
He saw Connover’s brows rise, but Ted kept his mouth shut. For once.
“The water leak, well, that’s another story altogether. The engineers back home haven’t come up with a solution yet, but they’re working on it.”
An expression of alarm broke out on Taki Nomura’s normally stolid face. “We’re going to run out of water? All of it? Including the radiation shielding?”
“Including the radiation shielding,” Benson replied evenly. “The leak was apparently a gusher before we got out there to patch it. By the time we’re about halfway home there won’t be any water left. Not for drinking, not for radiation shielding. And that’s if we go on minimal water rations beginning today—which, by the way, we are.”
“Up shit’s creek without any water,” Connover muttered.
Prokhorov said dourly, “We might just as well kill ourselves now and save all the misery.” Then his face brightened. “I know! We can have an ongoing lottery and space the losers, one by one.”
“We’re not spacing anybody,” Benson snapped. “Cut the crap, Mikhail.”
Almost reluctantly, Hi McPherson asked, “Taki, how much water do we consume in a day?” he seemed embarrassed that he didn’t already know the answer.
“Two to three liters per day, depending on your body mass,” Nomura answered.
Benson explained, “The bright guys at mission control took that into account in their analysis, including how much we can recycle and what’s left in the tanks. We could probably get by with less for a while, but not for more than the year we’ll need to get home.”
“These are all preliminary figures, right?” asked Amanda Lynn.
Benson nodded, but he said, “Don’t expect them to change much. And if they do change, it’ll probably be for the worse, not the better.”
Virginia Gonzalez shook her head. “You’re a real ray of sunshine, Bee.”
Benson held back the angry retort that immediately flashed through his mind. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Virginia. I’m just laying out the facts, as best as we know them. I want you all to understand the situation we’re in.”
“Of course,” Catherine Clermont murmured.
Connover was unwilling to accept the news without trying to find a way out. “Bee, you said they’re looking at us going down to the Fermi habitat and bringing up water from there?”
“They looked at it. We were supposed to live there, all eight of us, for thirty days. They supplied the habitat with enough water for four months—”
“Gotta love those bean counters and their margins,” McPherson said.
“If we were to go down to the surface, and we could find a way to
store it on the lander, it would weigh six to seven hundred pounds. The lander can’t handle that load with all eight of us aboard.”
“Then we can send down a skeleton crew,” Connover suggested, brightening. “You and me, Bee. Or me and Hi.”
“But that would be extremely risky,” said Nomura. “We’ll have been in zero gee for more than two months. One trip and fall could result in a broken bone.”
“Inside the spacesuits?” Connover asked.
Taki hesitated, but then answered, “It’s a risk, Ted. A big risk.”
McPherson said, “It’s not a bigger risk than dying of thirst.”
“Agreed,” Benson said firmly. “So that’s what we’ll do. We just need to decide who goes to the habitat and how they transfer the water to the lander.”
“And we’ve got more than two months to figure it out,” Connover added.
Benson looked around the galley to see if they all agreed. Several heads nodded. Clermont looked thoughtful, perhaps doubtful.
Prokhorov grumbled, “You make my stomach hurt, Bee.”
“Sorry, Mikhail, can’t be helped,” Benson said. “All right, that’s it for now. Let’s get back to work and see if we can come up with any more good ideas.”
As the group broke up and headed for their various work stations, Benson thought that Connover showed a marked improvement in his attitude. Since the deaths of his wife and son, Ted had been uncharacteristically quiet, almost withdrawn. Now he seemed fully engaged again, even eager. Dark clouds and silver linings, he thought.
Then he remembered that if they didn’t find a way to repair the fractured truss, they’d never get to the surface of Mars. The Arrow would break up when they tried to enter Mars orbit. They’d all die more than thirty million miles from home.
July 24, 2035
19:28 Universal Time
Earth Departure Plus 101 Days
The galley
Hi McPherson saw that the galley was empty. Everybody else has already eaten, he thought. He himself had spent the nearly two hours since Bee’s discussion of their situation in the geology lab with Catherine. All his life, McPherson had preferred getting his hands dirty with good, solid work to sitting around and stewing about one problem or another.
Okay, we’re in a bad fix, he thought. But it’s not hopeless. Never hopeless, not as long as your heart beats and your brain works.
Working with Catherine was fun, but distracting. Hard to concentrate on analyzing spectrograms of soil samples scooped up by the automated rovers trundling across the frozen sands of Mars when this utterly lovely French woman was close enough to touch, to caress, to kiss.
He shook himself, trying to force such thoughts out of his mind.
Catherine had finished their analysis and sent the results back to mission control, then excused herself with, “Time for dinner, Hi.”
He had nodded and replied, “Guess so,” still bent over the rainbow of colors that revealed what the Martian soil was made of. He’d been looking for traces of water, knowing it was most likely impossible for liquid water to exist on Mars’ cold, barren surface, but peering hopefully at their last spectrogram nonetheless.
When he’d finally gone down the passageway to the galley, he felt disappointed that Catherine wasn’t there.
There was a big piece of note paper pasted to the water tap. ONE CUP PER DAY. Signed by Taki Nomura. She’s put us on the honor system, McPherson thought as he filled his drinking bottle. Maybe that’s the wrong way to do it. Maybe we should guzzle all the water we can, have a regular old-style Roman orgy of water drinking. Use it all up and put an end to our misery as quickly as we can.
Shaking his head, he knew that he was thinking nonsense. We can’t give up. We’ve got to do our best, no matter how hard it is. We’ve got to figure out a way to get through this.
“You look a thousand miles away.”
Surprised, he turned so quickly he nearly upset the tray he was carrying. Catherine Clermont was hovering beside him, looking slightly amused, cool and warm at the same time, totally beautiful. He saw that she was wearing a fresh set of coveralls.
“I . . . I was just thinking.”
“Tres bien,” said Catherine. “Thought makes man wise. Wisdom makes life endurable.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Life’s going to get very tough on this ship, Catherine.”
With a slight nod, Clermont said, “Yes. But endurable, non?”
“I hope so.”
They filled their trays and coasted weightlessly to the nearest table. Hiram let his tray hang in midair as he helped Catherine into a chair. While she buckled herself in, he pushed himself down onto the chair next to her, buckled the safety belt around his lap, then reached for his tray to pull it down to the table top.
Half distracted by Catherine’s presence, McPherson’s hand bumped the edge of the tray, and his cupful of water wobbled off it. Hi grabbed for the cup, sloshing some of the precious water out of it. The water broke into little globules and floated away on the current of the air blowers.
Catherine laughed lightly. “You should chase down the globules, Hi. They’re getting away from you.”
“It’s too much trouble,” he answered, smiling to hide his embarrassment. “I’ll just take half a cup.”
“You can share some of mine,” she said.
A genuine smile lit his bearded face. “That’s awfully kind of you.”
“C’est rien.”
They started in on their meals, but after a few swallows Catherine said, “Hi, have you thought about the fact that we might not get home? I’m not thinking only of the water problem. Ted has told me about the broken truss.”
McPherson’s head snapped up from his forkful of freeze-dried chicken. “Ted? When did you talk with him?”
“When I was changing for dinner.”
“In your privacy cubicle?” McPherson’s voice rose half an octave.
Looking halfway between puzzled and amused, Clermont answered, “In the passageway. It was all very innocent, I assure you.”
Trying to bring his voice back to normal, McPherson asked, “So what did Ted have to say?”
“When we try to enter Mars orbit the ship might break apart, unless we come up with some way to repair the truss.”
“Oh. Yeah, I know that.”
“It is very serious.”
“The brain trust back at mission control is working on a way to repair the truss. Once they’ve got it figured out, they’ll shoot the instructions to us and Bee or somebody will go EVA and make the fix.”
“Yes, of course,” Catherine murmured.
“And once we get to Mars,” McPherson went on, with a confidence he didn’t really feel, “we’ll go down to the surface and get all the water we need from the Fermi habitat.”
“And nothing else will go wrong before we get back home. I wish I could believe that. I don’t want to die out here.”
“Well, none of us do.”
She sighed. “It makes me think of the things I want to do and did not have the courage to think of doing until now. Looking death in the face makes one think about such things.”
“Like what?”
Catherine leaned closer to him, close enough that he could smell her hair. At that moment he thought it was the sweetest smell he could imagine.
“Hiram, I want you,” she whispered. “Now. I’ve wanted to be with you since we were in training, and I can’t help but think you feel the same way.”
McPherson nearly choked on his chicken. He could feel his face turning red.
He managed to stutter, “I . . . have I been that obvious?”
“Terribly.”
McPherson sat in silence for several heartbeats, staring into Catherine’s soft brown eyes. He wanted to reach out and take her into his arms, but the rational part of his mind made him hesitate. Besides, he told himself, these damned seat belts will hold us down to our chairs.
“Catherine,” he said slowly, carefully, “I’ve thought
about damned little else ever since we first met in training. But . . . but here, on this cramped little bucket, I just didn’t think it would be appropriate. I mean . . . hell, you sat through the same lectures I did when we were in training. When they were telling us we shouldn’t fraternize, all I could think about was fraternizing with you.”
With a knowing dip of her chin, Catherine said, “I honestly believed I could put away my human feelings for the duration of the trip and be the egghead scientist. But I can’t. Especially now that there’s a chance we might not live to see home again.”
McPherson leaned back in his chair and stared at the luke-warm chunks of chicken on his plate.
Feeling elated and miserable at the same time, he told her, “Catherine, I can’t. I just can’t. Not because I don’t want to. You’re a very beautiful woman. You’re also a very beautiful person, someone I’d like to know better and, well, I’d like to think that if we have something between us it would be more than physical, more than just a desperate attempt to get away from the fact that we might not have a tomorrow.”
Clermont looked at Hiram, pursed her lips, then smiled sadly.
“Hi, you are going to be a great catch for some lucky woman. Old-fashioned morality is very rare.”
“I’m not—”
She patted his hand. “I’m not so ruled by my hormones that I can’t control them when I need to. And I do want to, now.”
McPherson felt his face reddening again. At last he said, “Well, let’s finish eating and help get this ship back together so we have more to look forward to than dying out here in the middle of nowhere. I’ve got some very important business to attend to when we get back to Earth.”
Catherine smiled. “So do I.”
July 26, 2035
11:30 Universal Time
Earth Departure Plus 103 Days
The Workshop
Ted Connover stood next to the latest generation 3D printer that sat in the rear of the habitat’s third level, behind the exercise equipment. It was an unassuming-looking device: essentially just a box with a flat panel display that was used to show a Computer-Assisted-Device file of whatever was programmed to be printed.
