First Landing

by Robert Zubrin

  “Mr. President,” the political strategist began, “the situation has deteriorated considerably. The examining board’s decision has provoked massive public opposition, regardless of the scientific considerations. Our mail right now is running three to one against mounting any kind of rescue effort. It’s even worse on the Hill and among the European allies.”

  “That’s because the public is still being stoked by the media in an anti-NASA direction,” Media Chief Wexler interjected. “But let me tell you something, I was a journalist once, and I know how these people react. They don’t care about rational arguments. They’re like cannibals. Right now they’re demanding that you abandon the astronauts, but the instant you do it they will turn on you and rip you to shreds for betraying America’s heroes.”

  The President looked from his policy strategist to his press secretary and shook his head. “I know. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. If I maroon the crew, everyone in the country will call me a Judas, but if I try to bring them home, I’ll alienate the allies, and I’ll have to use so much muscle to get the congressional votes needed to fund a rescue that the Party will split, and we’ll be doomed this November anyway. There’s just no way out. We’re ruined.”

  The First Lady almost offered her distraught husband a handkerchief, but refrained for appearance’ sake. “Let’s think about this, dear,” she chided. “I’m sure this problem has a simple solution, and we can find it if we just focus and use a little elementary logic.”

  The great man turned his red eyes on his wife. “I’ve learned by now that your thinking cap is always on, Margaret. What do you think our answer might be?”

  The First Lady bridged her fingers thoughtfully. Her eyes became hard and calculating. “The press will annihilate us unless we at least put out the call to rescue the crew. So we formally request a rescue mission. But we know we’ll lose all our friends in Congress if we force them to go along . . . so we don’t force them. And if we don’t pressure Congress to vote our way, they won’t, and at the end of the day, a rescue expedition will never be funded, thus satisfying the Europeans. You see, everyone will be happy.”

  “Except for . . .” Wexler’s interruption was cut short by the policy strategist. “That’s great. That’ll work like a charm,” Wilson shouted.

  The President felt as if he were floating on air. He squeezed the First Lady’s hand. “Honey, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  NASA Administrator Tom Ryan was not pleased. “Mr. President, these are human lives we’re talking about here. Brave men and women, five of America’s finest. We sent them there, and we can’t just abandon them.”

  “Now, Tom, no one’s being abandoned.” The President was calm, authoritative, back in control. “Our position is that a rescue expedition should be funded. If Congress votes us the funds, we’ll do it. Admittedly, the chances of that happening are remote, but we have to be practical. If I use the power of this office to lean on Congress, we’ll lose the upcoming election, and next spring when time comes to launch, the political opposition will be right here in the White House, and the mission will be canceled anyway. But if we stay cool and all play the parts we need to play in order to win this fall, then next year, when all this fuss has calmed down, I will bring in the House and Senate leaders and do a little hard bargaining. We’ll get the funds next year. Just be patient.”

  “But if we don’t push for funds this year,” Ryan persisted, “we won’t be able to launch the resupply flight in 2013 or early 2014, and the next window isn’t until two years later. The crew will starve by then.”

  “Not necessarily, Tom.” Kowalski spoke in the tones of sweet reason. “The Beagle is carrying a demonstration greenhouse unit. If the crew makes good use of it, they could grow enough food to last until . . .”

  Ryan was flustered. “The greenhouse is just a small experimental unit! It’s doubtful that it could produce enough food to sustain one person, let alone five.”

  The President was not impressed. Ryan clearly needed to stop emoting and get with the program. “Well, if necessary, it will just have to do. This discussion is closed. It’s a difficult situation, and I know that we all have very strong feelings about it, but our game plan is set and I expect all of you to be team players. Is that understood?”

  There was a moment of silence. Wexler and Ryan shared glances, searching each other’s face for some useful support, but found none. “Yes, Mr. President,” they both said, in chorus with the rest.

  The First Lady was radiant. “I’m sure everything will work out just fine.”

  CHAPTER 13

  OPHIR PLANUM

  FEB. 6, 2012 11:20 MLT

  THE DEMORALIZED CREW gathered in the galley of the Beagle, doing a great deal of nothing. Gwen looked up from her third re-reading of the transcript of the President’s statement and the accompanying encouraging remarks from Mission Control.

  “They’re lying to us, they’re all lying to us.” She gritted her teeth in frustration. “They’re going to let us die and not even look us in the eyes when they give the death sentence.”

  Luke ignored her, choosing instead to zonk out to the music of Hank Williams crooning about melting someone’s cold, cold heart, until Rebecca abruptly slapped off the audio. In its place, the chords of a Bach toccata filled the cabin.

  The Texan geologist looked up in irritation. “Can’t a man give his soul a little peace without that organ-grinder nonsense?”

  “Organ grinder! This happens to be a work of musical genius by Johann Sebastian Bach, you ignorant redneck.”

  Gwen snapped at the doctor, “None of this would have happened if not for you and your damned germs.”

  Rebecca was taken aback, but only for a moment. “My damn germs? I thought it was your God who created life, or didn’t you read Genesis at North Carolina Christian Tech?”

  “Shut up, all of you. You’re squabbling like a bunch of snot-nosed school kids.” With all the authority he could muster, Townsend switched the audio to a John Philip Sousa march. “Patriotic music, that’s the spirit we need now.”

  For a full minute no one spoke, then McGee began quietly. “Gwen’s right about one thing, Colonel—they are lying to us. I got the straight story from my friend Wex at the White House. There will be no push for funding a relief expedition this year, which means no resupply launched in 2013 or early 2014. Maybe in 2016 at the soonest, but that means no possibility of return until 2018. We’re here for the duration.”

  “Yes, I know. I got the same message through my back channel from the Joint Chiefs.”

  “Not until 2018!” Luke exclaimed. “That’s six years from now. We only have supplies for two years at most.”

  McGee nodded in agreement with the geologist’s facts, but continued with his own conclusion. “We’ve got to start thinking about how to stretch our resources for long-term survival.”

  The thought of positive action stiffened the colonel’s spine. Somewhere in his soul a dormant faculty of his mind awoke. “Right. Dr. Sherman, how low can we cut our rations and still maintain strength?”

  “For an extended period, no less than three-quarters of the NASA minimum standard. The meals we’re used to have been about twenty percent larger than the NASA minimum.”

  Townsend felt his belly, which in recent years had pouched a bit heavier than desired. Think of this as an opportunity to get back into shape, Andy. He grinned inwardly. “Well, so much for high living. Effective immediately, the whole crew will be placed on rations, seventy-five percent of NASA minimum.”

  Luke shook his head. “That still won’t get us there.”

  The colonel was unflappable. “I know, we still need more food. I want that greenhouse powered up ASAP. Dr. Sherman, you’re the biologist. Effective immediately, you will suspend your exobiological investigations and devote yourself full-time to the management of the greenhouse unit.”

  Rebecca smoothed her hair in thought. “It’s only an experiment. At maximum design
capacity it could produce fifteen, maybe twenty percent of what we need.”

  “Then modify it, make it produce more than it was designed for.”

  “Increasing yields above design max won’t be easy.”

  The conversation suddenly became interesting for Gwen. “What would you need?”

  Rebecca looked at the resourceful flight mechanic and allowed herself a momentary surge of admiration. Never say die, eh, Gwen? OK, I’m with you on this. “In the first place, we’ll need additional racks for more plants.”

  “I can make them.”

  “And, we’ll need more power and light in there. The autonomous photovoltaic array that comes with the greenhouse is too small to support much in the way of crop yield.”

  That was harder, but after a moment’s thought Gwen had a response. “I can run an auxiliary power cable to the greenhouse from the reactor. As for lights, I could pull the landing beacon lights off the ERV, but . . .”

  Townsend was firm. “Do it, Major. We’re not expecting visitors any time soon.”

  Rebecca went on. “But light and heat are not enough. We’ll need fertilizer.”

  That caught Luke’s attention. “Some of the sediments in the layered terrain to the east are rich in nitrates.”

  Rebecca nodded. “That’s true, and they might do in a pinch. But we still need—”

  “Water,” McGee concluded, with the hint of a laugh. “Imagine that. We’re the first five Martians, and we’ll either find water or die. Percival Lowell predicted it in 1895. He wrote, ‘In the Martian mind, there would be one question perpetually paramount to all the local labor, women’s suffrage, and Eastern questions put together—the water question. How to procure water enough to support life would be the great communal problem of the day.’”

  “Thanks for the literary note, Professor,” Townsend commented sourly. “Luke, are there any ice deposits near here?”

  “No, surface ice can’t last at this latitude. The nearest likely ice deposits are at least two thousand miles to the north.”

  The mission commander slapped his fist into his palm. “Dammit, that’s too far. The rover’s one-way range is only six hundred miles.”

  “When the Israelites were thirsting in the desert,” Gwen mused, “the Almighty provided them with water when Moses struck a rock with his staff.”

  Rebecca felt her temporary admiration for Gwen ebb rapidly. “Too bad real life isn’t like storybooks.”

  Luke, however, appeared inspired. “Hold on, Gwen’s got a point. There is some water content in the soil here. Not much, only one percent on average, but two or even three percent in some places.”

  Three percent water sounded like a lot, but Rebecca knew that it wasn’t. “Still too dry to support agriculture, and even if it could, cycling moist soil around the plants would disrupt their root structure to the point where growth would be impossible. We need liquid water.”

  “If there’s some moisture in the soil, can’t we bake it out, concentrate it somehow?” McGee suggested.

  Townsend turned to the mechanic. “Major?”

  “Microwaves might work. We’d need a powerful source.”

  “The lab autoclave?” Rebecca offered.

  “Much too small.” Gwen thought furiously. “Wait, the spare S-band TWTA transponder is rated at five kilowatts rf. I could jury-rig a wave-guide out of some of the aluminum tanks from the Beagle’s landing stage, and use another tank as an oven. You’d have to shovel the dirt in manually, then close it except for a vent line that would be wound as a condenser tube. It wouldn’t be portable, because we’ll need the power of the reactor to drive it . . . but I think it could work.”

  Maybe, Townsend thought, except for one thing. “But if it’s not portable, we’ll need fuel for the rover to transport the high-grade dirt.” And we’re out of gas. Death is in the details.

  The hope that had animated the room only moments before disappeared from all except McGee, who apparently had not understood the implications of the colonel’s last remark. “Why are you all so down? You heard Gwen, we’ve got the answer.”

  Luke looked at the historian with disdain. “But we don’t have the fuel.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Excuse me, Professor?” Townsend said.

  “Sure, we’ve got it. Last week, I was having so much trouble piping propellant from the ERV’s ascent stage fuel tanks to the rover, that I transferred five tonnes to its landing stage, where it would be easier to reach. The JSC saboteur only emptied the ascent stages. We still have enough fuel to drive around.”

  Townsend leaned back in his chair and slowly allowed a smile to fill his face. “What do you know? Even laziness has its points.” Then he leaned forward and the smile was gone, replaced by the mask of command. “All right, then, we have work to do. Dr. Sherman, to the greenhouse. Major Llewellyn, I’ll assist you in the fabrication work. Luke, McGee, you two rig the trailer cart to the rover and go fetch us a load of the wettest dirt you can find. Move!”

  With grim determination, the crew went to work, fighting not for science or for glory, but for their own survival. Within hours of the meeting, Rebecca transformed from a world-class exobiologist to a scientific gardener. While Gwen and Townsend worked overtime to fashion additional plant racks from scrap material, Luke and McGee undertook sorties to gather soil samples, which Rebecca tested meticulously for mineral and nutrient content. They found nitrates, and all Martian soils were rich in iron and sulfur by terrestrial standards. As for the rest of the required plant nutrients, all the samples tested were overrich in some and deficient in others, but Rebecca was able to synthesize a satisfactory mix. To this growth medium, she added waste from the ship’s galley recycler and various strains of decomposing bacteria. It might not be a bestseller at the soil section of a suburban plant nursery, she thought, but it ought to do the trick.

  As the soil racks filled, Gwen and Townsend augmented the greenhouse’s power supply. While rated at 100 kW, the base reactor was only required to put out that much power when synthesizing propellant to fill the ERV. That phase of its life had ended before the crew had ever launched from Earth. Since then, the reactor had only to meet the Beagle’s life-support-system requirements, which rarely exceeded ten kilowatts, never more than twenty. This meant eighty kilowatts of spare power was available, round-the-clock. Cables were run out from the reactor, allowing up to 50 kW of extra power to light and heat the greenhouse, as necessary. Another 30 kW was made available for the microwave oven to bake water out of the Martian soil. The power allotments were more than ample. Thank God for that nuke, Gwen thought.

  Moving the landing beacons from the ERV to the greenhouse took less than a day, but the construction of the microwave oven was considerably more complex. Nevertheless, Gwen was up to the job, and the spare S-band Traveling Wave Tube Antenna, or “tweeta,” was pulled out of the Beagle’s communication bus and reinstalled on a simple platform within an aluminum pipe that Gwen pulled from the ship’s now-useless landing stage.

  The S-band unit worked at a frequency of 2.5 GHz, very close to the 2.45 GHz commonly used in kitchen microwave ovens on Earth, whose resonance allows for very efficient heating of water. At this frequency, its emitted radiation had a wavelength of 12 cm, or five inches, which allowed the five-inch-diameter landing-stage pipe to function as an excellent wave-guide. Since the fittings were already in place to attach this tube to an aluminum landing-stage propellant tank, setting that up as the oven was straightforward, with the tank’s pressure vent ports providing a means to extract the water vapor produced from heating the soil. The hardest part was cutting a porthole in the tank to allow soil to be shoveled in, then fabricating a leakproof flange to close the hole while heating was underway. Gwen was able to do this with only the help of hand tools plus the miniature lathe, mill, drill press, and buzz saw on the Beagle’s lower deck—a testament to skill that few but an expert machinist could appreciate.

  As the oven was completed, the search for wat
er—or damp soil—began. Luke suggested the dry lake bed, so he and McGee went there first. The dirt at the surface proved to be as dry as any on Mars, but a foot beneath the surface they found spots where the soil water content approached three percent. The two men dug out a trailer load and returned to the base. Finally, about a hundred pounds of this (really not very wet) material was shoveled into the oven.

  Gwen sealed the port and threw the switch. A humming sound throbbed through the suits of the anxiously watching crew, as stray S-band emissions interfered with their radios.

  Other than the hum, nothing seemed to happen. Gwen put her glove on the exit pipe from the oven vent. Patiently she waited, feeling nothing. Then she felt it: first vibration, then heat. Steam in the pipe! She ran to the other end of the apparatus where the transparent condenser was rapidly clouding over; water droplets began to form.

  Less than an hour later, Gwen held aloft a transparent plastic gallon container, more than half filled with water. As the crew cheered, Gwen lifted her eyes in a silent prayer of thanks to He who dwelt beyond the purple Martian skies. Thank you Lord, for this bounty. May we prove worthy of it.

  Rebecca ran off to test a water sample; it would be useless if it was excessively saline or contained toxic elements. It tested pure.

  Not bad, she thought wryly. On any planet, if you want a good still, find yourself a hillbilly. She poured the contents of the plastic jug into a rack of seedlings in the greenhouse.

  The next day she did the same, and over the following two months as the crew dug more soil and produced more water, the seedlings grew, until every rack was filled with leafy greens.

  But as the plants grew more lush, on low rations the crew grew thinner and hungrier.

  HOUSTON

  MARCH 15, 2012 15:20 CST