Rebecca was dismayed. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “Unbelievable!”
The rabbit began to act nervous, agitated.
Observing its behavior, the biologist had a bizarre thought: Could it be that the rabbit was upset with her defeat? That even simple creatures required order in their universe? Rebecca tried to calm her pet with baby talk. “Don’t worry, Louise. Mommy will win next time.”
This proved ineffective. The rabbit started clawing madly, squirming in her lap. Now Rebecca was alarmed. Was the rabbit sick? “Louise, what’s wrong, baby?” Strange, her own voice sounded high.
McGee stood up from the table and screeched. “Does anyone think it’s getting stuffy in here?”
The colonel looked at the historian in amazement. “What’s wrong with your voice?” His own pitch rose in apparent comic imitation.
But before Rebecca could laugh at the colonel’s uncharacteristic attempt at humor, Louise leapt from her lap and went into convulsions on the floor. Suddenly, Rebecca felt very short of breath. She looked at the others in alarm.
“Helium!” she gasped. “The air. Check the readouts.”
Rebecca tried to stand but collapsed back into her seat, hyperventilating. McGee and Townsend stumbled out of the galley toward the pilot’s control booth. Suddenly weak, the colonel crashed beside the door.
Totally out of breath, McGee fell halfway across the room. Somehow, though, he found the strength for one final surge forward, making it to the panel. He looked at the array of controls in alarmed incomprehension. “What do I do?”
“Emergency oxygen,” Townsend gasped, his voice high and tiny. “Switch 4A.”
McGee saw it, two feet from his hand. Two feet too far. The room was going dark, and he had no strength left at all. He stretched his arm toward the switch and touched it, but then his vision blurred and he fainted. . . .
When McGee awoke, Rebecca was standing over him, holding a breathing mask to his mouth. Observing her concern and angelic countenance, he wondered if this might be heaven, but the sight of Colonel Townsend behind her brought him back to Mars. He opened his eyes to full awareness, and she removed the mask.
“What happened?”
“The cabin atmosphere cycler replaced all of our air with a helium/nitrogen mix. It’s lucky you made it to the oxygen switch, Kevin, or we’d all be dead.”
Townsend appeared confused. “I just don’t see how a malfunction like this could happen.”
Rebecca’s eyes flashed. “Really? I think it’s pretty easy to see who could make it happen.”
The colonel shook his head. “Doctor, you’re a sophisticated person. I expect you to be above such paranoia.”
Even with an edge of anger in Rebecca’s voice, her argument was coldly rational. “What’s paranoid about my assessment? She’s accused me of planning to kill her in the rover, then she disappears right before a convenient equipment failure occurs, something she could easily engineer. Gwen’s got a motive for murder, and she’s got the weapon for it. Q.E.D.”
Just then Gwen entered the Hab, followed by Luke. They were greeted by looks of curiosity from Townsend and McGee, and icy suspicion from Rebecca. Gwen and Luke appeared puzzled.
“What’s the matter, Gwen, have you just seen a ghost?” Rebecca challenged.
“Ghost?” Gwen scowled. “What are you talking about? What’s going on here?”
“The cabin pumps just tried to replace our air with a mixture of helium and nitrogen.” McGee’s tone was level.
Rebecca’s voice was sharp. “While you two were conveniently away. We all almost suffocated.”
“You’re accusing me?”
The doctor didn’t blink. “Yes. Where were you, Major? And you, Luke?”
“We were in the ERV,” the geologist replied simply.
“And what were you doing there?” Rebecca’s voice was inquisitorial.
The flight mechanic put her hands on her hips. “That’s none of your damn business!”
Townsend intervened with all the authority he could muster. “That’s enough. There was no sabotage. Not here today, not two weeks ago in the rover. They were both machine malfunctions.”
“Oh, is that the official story?” Rebecca asked dryly. “Convenient.”
Her tone was so supercilious that the colonel got angry. “That is the story, the only story. And get this straight—” he removed his belt and held it menacingly in his hand, “I am prepared to flog anyone who says otherwise.” With that, he whipped the belt down hard upon the table, making a loud and nasty sound. He looked threateningly around the room. “If I have to, I will enforce the strictest military discipline upon this crew. I don’t want to do that, but, by God, I will if I have to. I don’t care what you think of each other; we will function as a team, or we will all die. Starting right now, these social cliques are history. No more rednecks verses eggheads. Got that?”
Rebecca stared at the belt in disbelief. Flogging? As unbelievable as it sounded, something warned her the colonel was serious. None of the others had any doubts. As one they all responded: “Yes, sir.”
Pleased, and slightly amazed at this response, Townsend continued: “Right. The rover sortie that begins tomorrow will include all four of you. It will do you good to be crammed together for a few days of exploration.”
“That’ll be a pretty tight fit,” Luke commented.
“It’ll be fine, if you just stop hating each other,” the colonel responded.
The crew members looked uneasily at each other.
“If you don’t, then do me a favor and don’t come back.”
CHAPTER 20
XANTHE TERRA
OCT. 27, 2012 16:40 MLT
THE PRESSURIZED ROVER was comfortable for two, but awfully snug for four—especially under such tense circumstances.
During the long sortie, Gwen drove with Luke beside her, pretending to watch the radar readouts. In the uneasy silence, the two tried with limited success to forget about McGee and Dr. Sherman in the seats behind them. The terrain was novel, for they had never been so far from base along this particular runoff channel. For Rebecca, such new landscape sights offered only a modest diversion; the others showed little interest at all.
Suddenly, the radar began to receive echo pings. Luke snapped out of his woolgathering. “I think we might be getting something.”
Gwen ventured a side glance at the digital readout. Nothing she hadn’t seen before. “You think. Tell me when you know. I don’t want to drill another dud.”
Luke could only shrug. “It’s impossible to know for sure.”
That was hardly good enough. Gwen shook her head. “Well, this time, we’ll just keep driving until something really jumps out at us.”
Again silence prevailed—if anything, made worse by the hopeless hope the weak echo pings offered.
Realizing how intolerable the situation was, McGee thought to begin a conversation. “I wonder how our man in the White House is doing. There’s supposed to be a new poll out today.”
In response, Gwen turned on the radio. “Beagle this is rover. Do you read?”
After an answering crackle of static, Townsend’s voice said, “Beagle here. I read you clearly.”
“Roger that, Beagle. Do you have the campaign scores?”
More crackles, then, “The President trails Fairchild, 39 to 55.”
McGee shook his head. “And less than two weeks to go.”
So much for that. Gwen picked up the mike again. “Got any baseball scores? How are the Braves doing?”
This time the time lag before a response was radioed seemed longer. “The season ended two weeks ago, Major.”
Gwen was stunned. Was she losing it? “Yeah, I forgot,” was all she could muster.
As if to rescue her from her embarrassment, a change of subject was offered by Townsend’s radio voice. “How’s the search going?” he crackled.
“We’ve had a couple of radar hits,” she reported, “but nothing special, so I decided
to keep driving.”
There were more static and whistles, typical of late afternoon conditions when the thinning Martian ionosphere made the rover’s over-the-horizon shortwave radio unreliable. Soon it would be nonoperable. Gwen adjusted the frequency, obtaining a clear channel only in time to get the last words of Townsend’s reply.
“Rover, I repeat, it’s getting late.” Townsend’s voice was briefly clear, then the crackles and whistles got stronger. “You might as well try the next hit you get, or there’ll be no time for drilling today.”
This made sense. There was no point pinging if you don’t eventually drill.
“Roger. Rover out.” Gwen terminated the radio connection.
“I’ve got something now.” Luke seemed faintly excited, but noticing Gwen’s cynical look, he added, “Nothing out of the ordinary, though.”
Gwen stopped the rover and stretched. “Let’s give it a try. Break out the gear, people. It’s drilling time again.”
With four crew members, it took little time to set up the lightweight drilling rig, but once it was operative they had nothing to do but wait as the bit hummed and chewed its way through the Martian regolith.
Late afternoon turned to twilight, and a magnificent sunset developed in the Martian west, made more brilliant by the bright presence of Earth, shining as a wonderful evening star. Sitting on a rock next to McGee, Rebecca was taken with the scene. “There’s Earth. Look how beautiful she is. Yet so unreachable.”
Despite it all, McGee couldn’t resist an inward chuckle at the thought of Rebecca sighing for an unobtainable beauty. “Frustrating, isn’t it?”
The biologist was alert. “Now, Kevin, don’t start,” she smiled.
You can take the girl out of Central Park West, he thought, but you can’t take Central Park West out of the girl.
Any further flirtation was precluded, however, by an announcement from Gwen. “I’m getting vibration in the rig! I think we should shut down.”
She reached for the power switch, but Luke put his gloved hand on hers. “Hold on. That’s not rig vibration—it’s seismic activity.”
The ground began to tremble.
McGee had lived in the earthquake-prone Pacific North-west. He had felt this before. “Mars quake!”
Luke saw alarm spread across the faces of his crewmates. They didn’t understand. “Bullshit! It’s, it’s—” The ground seemed about to split beneath them.
“Run for the hill!” Gwen commanded, pointing to a nearby rise.
They scrambled for safety, but before they could take five steps, a torrent of steam gushed out of the ground, firing the drilling rig high into the sky. After an instant of terror, the crew stopped in their tracks to stare in amazement. With a whistling roar, steam spouted out of the ground like the Old Faithful geyser. Up into the sky it went, shooting several hundred meters high. Then, mushrooming out at the top of its trajectory, it came down as snow. All four were awestruck at the sight. Snow. Snow! Snow was salvation.
“It’s an honest-to-God gusher!” Luke screamed. “Yahoo!”
Gwen emitted a piercing rebel yell.
McGee stared at the drifts rapidly forming around his feet, then kicked a mound into the air. “Snow! It’s snowing on Mars! We’re saved.”
Rebecca picked up a handful of the beautiful crystals. When she’d been a child, snow had sometimes meant freedom from school; somehow that sense of hope always accompanied the stuff. And this snow was life itself. She wanted to jump, she wanted to sing, she wanted to play. Well, why not? Packing the snow into a ball, she threw it at McGee, hitting him squarely on the side of his helmet.
He turned to face her, obviously surprised, then saw the light in her eyes. He returned it, along with a powdery snowball of his own. But Rebecca was nimble, and ducked, causing the projectile to overshoot her and hit Luke. Mistakenly believing that the ball was thrown by Gwen, the Texan grabbed her and gave her a country swing in the low gravity. Gwen accepted her partner, but then, breaking loose, grabbed McGee and swung him as well.
It was crazy, but in an instant all were dancing with each other. All feuds forgotten, all tiredness gone, the four danced in the twilight as the blessed crystals of water poured down around them. Copland’s Rodeo would have provided a great sound track for their wild dance. But they didn’t need music to accompany them: They had snow.
The next morning, Townsend puttered around the Hab checking instruments. He’d had no contact from the crew since the previous afternoon. In the mid-distance in the plain, the rover suddenly came over a rise and into view. About time they checked in.
Switching on the radio, he heard singing: “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas . . .”
What the heck is going on?
Then he saw it. Behind the rover was a trailer carrying a huge load of snow. Townsend dropped the mike and rushed into his Marsuit. In less than two minutes, he was out the lock to greet the crew.
The rush outside was worth the effort. Townsend could only gasp in awe at the mountain of frozen water.
From inside the rover, Gwen gave him a big thumbs up sign, which the colonel returned with both hands.
Earth, here we come!
CHAPTER 21
OPHIR PLANUM
OCT. 29, 2012
WATER IN A GLASS can cool a parched throat. Water in a shower can revive a dried, tired body. Accompanied by shampoo, it can turn a wild rat’s nest of hair covering a woman’s head back into spectacular long, shiny locks and tresses. Together with shaving cream and a razor, water can make a man’s face look civilized again. With soap, sponges, and a mop, water can make a dirty ship spotless, and fill vases on its wardroom table with happy flowers.
Water was now available to the crew in torrents. As it filled their return ship with propellant, it filled their minds and bodies with hope and life. Like the holy rain that reportedly washed sickness and sin from the world when Christ died, the flood of crystal fluid washed away all tiredness and despair from the crew of the Beagle.
Light filled the ship. Everyone showered. Townsend shaved. Rebecca combed, and as she did, she filled the ship with the sweet sound of her well-trained classical voice. Luke, who but a few days before would have disputed her right to do so, now enjoyed her musical background as he arranged and classified his rock collection. As if by a miracle, the dingy Hab became spick-and-span, brightly reflecting the crew’s rejuvenated morale.
By the second day after the return, the trailer load of snow had been melted into water. Stored in the ERV landing-stage tanks, it was piped by automated systems into the propellant-manufacturing unit. The hard work over, the crew’s assignments were shifted to those specific to the return flight.
The most important of these—flight preparation of the Earth Return Vehicle itself—fell to Gwen. Assisted by McGee, she began testing every valve and circuit. Many people might have found such a job tedious, but Gwen and McGee, now lighthearted, considered it fun. Reflecting their mood, the ERV’s music player accompanied their work with the playful sounds of 1960’s rock and roll. As one system after another checked out, the Beach Boys, the Eagles, the Beatles, the Grateful Dead, and Three Dog Night all blared their best. By the time the two astronauts reached the pilot control board, Simon and Garfunkel were up at bat with, fittingly, “Homeward Bound.”
Gwen attached her meter to a set of terminals. “Primary pilot control circuit reads green.”
“Check,” McGee replied.
She moved the connectors. “Secondary pilot control circuit reads green.”
“Check.”
“Primary life-support-system control circuit reads green as grass.”
“Check.”
She moved her meter wires to the last set of connections. “Flight control central processing unit reads . . .”
Her sudden silence was deafening. A shudder of uncertainty ran down McGee’s spine. Could there by a problem? Don’t do this to me, Gwen.
“Well, how does it read?” he finally demanded.
&
nbsp; Gwen turned to face him, consternation in her eyes. “It doesn’t.”
Without another word, she picked up a screwdriver and disappeared under the control panel. McGee waited anxiously until a few moments later she emerged with a charred and blackened computer board.
“The flight control CPU,” she said flatly.
McGee looked at the unit. It was obviously burnt beyond hope of repair. “I don’t suppose there’s a backup to that?”
The mechanic shook her head.
In the background, the lyrics of “Homeward Bound,” which had sounded so joyful only seconds before, suddenly seemed mournful.
But there was still hope. Perhaps the ERV could be flown without the CPU. Townsend was game to try. It took a few hours to reprogram the ERV flight simulator to mimic the behavior of the vehicle with the central flight control CPU out of the loop. Shortly after dinner, the crew gathered in the control section of the Beagle to witness the attempt.
With some ceremony the colonel, complete with wing-adorned leather jacket and peaked hat, sat down at the controls. He gripped the stick, then looked to Gwen seated next to him in the co-pilot’s chair. “Okay, let’s go for it.”
Gwen threw some switches and counted down to zero. “We have ignition.”
As the rest of the crew watched on the auxiliary simulator external viewscreen, a computerized image of the ERV Retriever rose on a trail of simulated fire from the digitized landscape surrounding it. McGee’s throat tightened. He’s doing it, he’s doing it.
Suddenly, the Retriever’s image listed slightly to the right. A jet of computerized plume showed that Townsend had compensated, but the sudden tilt of the vehicle to the left signaled that he’d compensated by too much. Another plume in the opposite direction sent the vehicle toward the upright position, but too hard, and the image rapidly flopped over and crashed into the landscape.
The colonel heard the collective sigh escape from those gathered behind him. “Okay, people, that was just the first try. Gwen, reset for another sim.”
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