During normal operations two astronauts will be required to man the drilling operation, one to oversee the drilling itself, and one at the science workstation. We figured it would take around 32 six-hour EVA sessions to extract a drill core of length 250m. That would give you the chance to take repeated cores in the course of the mission.
In the near future ice core drilling on Mars is not going to be like the heavy-lift operations of the Antarctic and Greenland. It will be more like the heroic efforts of Lonnie Thompson (see M. Bowen, Thin Ice: Unlocking the Secrets of Climate in the World's Highest Mountains, Holt, New York, 2005), who since 1983 has been taking medium-depth ice core samples from tropical or near-tropical glaciers, from Peru to Tibet and even Kilimanjaro, at altitudes too extreme for heavy-lift support. Typically six tonnes of equipment is carried to the drilling site and an additional three tonnes of core sections are carried back, using whatever transportation is possible, often the backs of graduate students and other beasts of burden.
* * * *
Life on Mars
Our report is pretty comprehensive, I think, covering base design (inflatable modules on stilts, to keep out of the dry ice snow), life support, local resource usage, IT and comms aspects (you can't see synchronous satellites from the poles, so we have a network of high-inclination “Molniya"-like relays), science goals, psychology—and, most fascinating, exploration objectives, including jaunts down those spiral canyons.
We were cautious in our technical projections, and there's something of a paradox here. Our purpose was to show that a Mars polar base is feasible with (more or less) present-day technology, but of course by 2037 technological advances may have rendered all our assumptions invalid. In particular you could imagine smart robots capable of running their own science programs making it unnecessary to send humans at all.
But it's going to be a while before robots can carry out the sort of integrative interpretation humans would be good at in such an environment, where physical processes work together on every scale from the microscopic to the global: planetary mass cycles focusing down to each snowflake. And any roughneck would tell you, I suspect, that it will be even longer before a bunch of robots can run a balky deep drill into ice of unknown properties on an alien world.
Further in the future still, the poles of Mars may have a crucial role to play in mankind's greatest Martian project of all. Ever since the first serious terraforming suggestions made by Carl Sagan in the 1970s, melting the polar caps’ exposed ice is generally seen as a crucial first step. But the ethical dilemma of terraforming is epitomized by the fact that if the polar caps were melted, the delicate history they contain in their layers would be lost in slush and mud.
In the end, people will go to the Martian poles for exploration and wonder. Project leader Charles Cockell is considering a Ranulph Feinnes-style unsupported assault on the Martian north pole: no domes, no robots, just one human being with spacesuit and sled. But that's another story.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Stephen Baxter
[Back to Table of Contents]
Novelette: NOT EVEN THE PAST by Robert R. Chase
The scene of the crime looked like one of the old standards—but with some very important differences.
The comfortably claustrophobic kitchen had been specially designed for cooking in a less-than-one-atmosphere environment. There were half a dozen pressure cookers of various sizes, all with transparent lids and LEDs displaying the pressures and temperatures within. I even had pressurized ovens in addition to the usual microwaves. And I had the advantage of decades of chefs who had had to cook at less than a standard atmosphere.
On the other hand, I was not sure how to adjust for the incrementally decreasing gravity. My intuition was that it should slow convection and so, to some extent, offset the lower air pressure. It made preparing multi-ethnic haute cuisine even more of a gamble, but that's one of the things I like about my job. I am always learning something new.
Buzzers began to sound one after the other. I moved the pans to the cart, depressurizing them slowly to keep them from blowing up on me, and removed the handles. The pans were now plates. I counted out the proper amount of nouveau art deco silverware. Almost the entire design of the Outward Bound was nouveau art deco, from the metal-framework pin lights on the ceiling to the exquisitely cut rugs. The one exception was the nineteenth-century Ruritania-style crew uniforms. These served no useful purpose save to inspire my current nom de guerre.
I pushed the cart into the main lounge, carefully keeping my gaze lowered as I served our very important passengers. Besides aiding my image as an obsequious servant, it kept me from staring out the glass wall at twelve thousand miles of nothing. It may seem odd that someone who has jumped out of airplanes and rappelled down from helicopters should be afraid while cosseted by cutting-edge twenty-first-century technology, but in those situations, I at least felt I was in control. In the Outward Bound, I was too aware that my life was hanging, almost literally, by a thread and that if it snapped, there would be absolutely nothing I could do about it.
I served nearest to farthest, so no one could make accusations of favoritism. Narayan Singh got the Kashmiri Gustaba. His neatly trimmed, graying beard was the only sign of his sixty plus years. Dark eyes beneath his turban moved quickly from one to the other of his luncheon companions.
"Why do you insist that we are being treated poorly by the Beanstalk Corporation, Mr. Zhao?” he asked. Beanstalk was the Japanese-American joint venture that had nudged asteroid 2009 AP15 into geosynchronous orbit so that it could be used as the raw materials for the space elevator we were presently ascending.
Annie Jackson received the shrimp salad and can of Foster's. I opened the can carefully. These were said to be especially prepared cans with lower carbonation, but already one unfortunate incident had reminded Vice Captain Piper of the fountains at the Bellagio. “Thanks, Rassendyll,” Jackson said. “I have to agree with Mr. Singh. After all, Beanstalk won the rights to the asteroid fair and square. They could have frozen out all the rest of us. Instead, they have invited us in as partners in what promises to be an extremely profitable venture."
"To open the solar system to all so that mankind may make a new start unconstrained by the mistakes of the dead past,” Captain Miyamoto said, parroting the company line. It was hard to tell if he was being ironic—inscrutable Orientals and all that. He nodded as I gave him the sashimi and soy sauce. Inscrutable or not, he had been feeling an increasing tension the past three days, and his appetite had suffered accordingly.
Zhao Changxing received the last plate, boiled beef with noodles, along with chopsticks to complete the regular place setting. Of all of them at the table, he was the only one not to acknowledge my existence in any way. I might as well have been invisible. Which was fine with me.
"Your principals would never choose to be represented by fools,” Zhao said. “It is insulting to me and demeaning to yourselves to pretend to be fools. Fetterman and Ishikawa, the controlling partners of Beanstalk, know that the power they have makes them targets. The beanstalk itself, from the sea-based platforms anchoring its two completed cables, all the way up to Laputa Station, is indefensible from terrorist attacks. In the old days, someone in their position might have tried to pay off prospective terrorists. Fetterman and Ishikawa prove their superiority by arranging to have prospective terrorists pay them."
"Just a moment now,” Jackson objected. “You can't mean—"
"I mean my country would have been able to make the first legal claim to ownership of the asteroid if our spacecraft had not exploded on the launchpad.” Zhao stared at each of the others in turn. “No investigation has ever explained the cause of that explosion in a satisfactory manner."
Each of the junior partners had been allowed to take one aide with them. Zhao's was Zin Chondin. At the age of fifteen, she had charmed the world while winning an Olympic gold medal in gymnastics. Four years later, she was back in competition, but the little girl was gone, replaced b
y an emotionless perfectionist the press dubbed the Ice Goddess. Now she was in a whole new game. She sat on a sofa behind her boss, ready to go for anything he might need. As I passed by, I handed her a mug of buttered tea. “Sorry it can't be as hot as you would like it, given our air pressure."
"No need to apologize, Rudy,” she said. “I grew up on lukewarm tea."
I took my seat behind her. It was situated so that I had a view of everyone in the room, ostensibly so that at the lift of a finger I could jump to my feet and pour coffee or take an order back to the kitchen. It had the additional benefit of putting the glass wall behind me. I could at least pretend that I was in a building firmly rooted to terra firma.
And I could muse on Zin without being obvious about it. She moved with an athlete's unself-conscious grace. Her features suggested a mixture of something other than Chinese, though I could not put my finger on it.
My thoughts were cut short by raised voices at the main table. “And don't think that I miss the message sent by the seating arrangements,” Zhao said.
"What do you mean?” Singh asked.
"India to my right, then Australia to my left, and finally Japan,” Zhao said. “Just like on a map. And the Americans, who set this noose around a country they are right to fear, hiding in the background, pulling the strings."
"Oh, come now,” Jackson objected.
"It is not surprising that members of the so-called Anglosphere would ally against us,” Zhao said. “But your people, Miyamoto.” Zhao stood, towering over them. At well over two meters, he was much the tallest person in the room. “They should never have allowed themselves to become lackeys. Is there no flicker of pride, of bushido, left in you?"
Miyamoto got to his feet. As did I, judging how quickly I could get between them. Beating up honored VIPs was not part of my job description, but it would be better to do that, if necessary, and be dismissed in disgrace, than to allow an all-out brawl to occur.
"I think it would be advisable for you to leave the table,” Miyamoto said. “Now."
Zhao stared down at him for a moment. “I have lost my appetite in any event.” He turned and strode from the room. Zin followed dutifully after him. A few minutes later, Singh and Jackson made their excuses.
Miyamoto was still clenching his fists as I came over to clear the table.
"Only one more day,” I said.
"Not soon enough,” he growled.
* * * *
Plates and tableware went into the dishwasher and thirty minutes later were ready for storage. One of the things about working in a variable gee environment is that you can never just put something in a cupboard and rely on gravity to keep it from wandering. Every plate slides into a slot and then a door locks shut, securing everything in place. Each fork and spoon snaps into its assigned position in the drawer. One of the advantages of this system is that it becomes immediately evident when anything is missing.
Like a knife.
I went back out into the dining area and examined table and chairs to see if I had missed anything. Not so much as an embroidered napkin. The table had been set with four knives. Only three had come back.
I raised my tracy to punch the digit that would put me in immediate contact with the captain. Before I had the chance, Miyamoto's panicked voice came from the speaker.
"Rassendyll. Come up to cabin 103 immediately. Mr. Zhao has been stabbed."
* * * *
I learned later that Miyamoto had been in the control room with Vice Captain Piper when an emergency call came in from Zhao's cabin. Zhao was screaming incoherently in Chinese. Miyamoto did not need a translation to know that Zhao was in serious trouble. He was down the companionway and in front of Zhao's door in ten seconds.
The door was locked. This was no ordinary stateroom door. More than anything else, the cabin doors on the Outward Bound resembled submarine bulkhead doors. The idea was that in event of hull breach, each cabin would be able to maintain its own air pressure until repairs could be made. It would take an industrial laser a good fifteen minutes to cut through the lock.
Miyamoto smashed the emergency glass at the side of the door and inserted a key that he kept clipped to his belt. The bolts disengaged. Even then, the door did not open. A chair had been placed beneath the surprisingly ordinary interior doorknob. Miyamoto had to throw himself against the door three times to knock the chair out of the way.
Zhao lay on the floor of his cabin. The only light in the cabin spilled in from the corridor. Although the Outward Bound had been designed for luxury, the constraints of a car climbing the Beanstalk meant that space was limited. The most that one could say for Zhao's cabin was that, though it was eight feet high, it was basically the size of a large walk-in closet. On the left, a bed which could fold down from the wall. On the right, a fold-down desk and a door to a very small bathroom. The far wall was transparent, like the wall in the dining room.
I could not have been more than a minute behind Miyamoto. By now, the motion sensors had brought up the room lights. Miyamoto was kneeling on the right side of Zhao, administering first aid. Zin was on Zhao's left, sobbing.
Miyamoto had covered Zhao's throat with clotting foam from the kit he had had the presence of mind to grab. Judging by the pool of blood surrounding him, this was likely a futile effort. My missing knife was on the carpet two feet away.
I knelt next to Miyamoto, wondering how I could help. “I don't think he's breathing."
Miyamoto gave a quick nod. “Get the defibrillator out of the kit."
Modern gadgets are wonderful. Once you have set the paddles on the patient's chest and pressed the on button, the defibrillator delivers timed shocks while monitoring the patient's condition.
It also determines when to end the effort. “Resuscitation not possible.” The calm, alto voice seemed to issue from Zhao's chest. “Procedure being terminated."
Zin's sobbing became a wail.
* * * *
"This is the sort of thing you were hired to prevent, Angelo,” Sphinx said. He was wearing a deep voice today, maybe late Sydney Greenstreet. Someday, my curiosity might be satisfied and I would learn if Sphinx was man, woman, or machine. On the other hand, it was probably safer not to know.
"Yeah,” I agreed. I paced my cabin, talking into my headset. It had all the latest security features. Not only did it encrypt everything I said, it also generated an innocuous conversation for any prospective eavesdroppers.
"What else?"
"I gave the room a thorough examination before I left, top to bottom. There was nowhere for anyone to hide, including that minuscule bathroom."
"So Mr. Zhao was murdered in a locked room. Quite curious. Do you have a suspect?"
I shrugged. “Everyone on board. Zhao had a talent for making himself disliked."
"If I had to guess...” Sphinx began.
I waited, not wanting to be pulled into Sphinx's mind games.
"I would choose you, Angelo. You have the skills necessary to the task. And your antipathy to the Chinese is well documented."
"Untrue,” I said. “I have dozens of Chinese friends, from Taipei to Singapore."
"I stand corrected. It is your dislike of the current mainland government that is well known."
"And we both know,” I said, “that if I were to do anything so unprofessional as to kill someone I had been paid to protect, we would now be lamenting Mr. Zhao's death from natural causes."
"Ye-e-es.” Sphinx sounded pleased in spite of himself. “Around you, only natural causes and accidents. One of the reasons your services are so highly valued.
"Well, how do you propose to proceed?"
"I think it's time I drop my cover and start asking questions. We are still a day from Laputa, and I have no idea what the legal situation is when we arrive."
"Nobody does,” Sphinx said, with the suggestion of a throaty chuckle.
"I'll do what I can to preserve the evidence. The passengers should find it reassuring that some sort of investigation has s
tarted."
"And our client will be pleased with the indication that it is finally getting something for its money."
* * * *
Miyamoto called a general meeting and made a short announcement of Zhao's murder. The he reintroduced me as his security officer and informed the passengers that I would be taking statements from all of them. They were to give me their full cooperation in order to bring the murderer to justice as well as for their own protection.
"But who is going to feed us?” one of the aides asked.
* * * *
I got Miyamoto's statement in the kitchen's walk-in freezer. Zhao's corpse was being preserved as best we could among the steaks and chops. While I examined the body, Miyamoto recounted getting Zhao's call, running to Zhao's cabin, opening the door, and finding Zhao on the floor with one of my steak knives sticking out of his neck.
"Was he conscious when you arrived?” I asked. “Did he say anything?"
The cold had dried the foam Miyamoto used to seal the wound. It flaked off cleanly under the blade of my butter knife.
"He was trying to say something,” Miyamoto said. “He must have known I could not understand him, because he switched to English. I caught the words ‘in the’ clearly. Then he paused, maybe for breath, but I thought he was searching for a word. Then he said ‘stars.’ He was on his back, but he was able to raise his arm part way. I looked through the window. I could see the stars, but there was nothing unusual about them."
"Then what?"
"I knelt down beside him. That's when I saw the knife. I got the sealant foam out of the first aid kit before doing anything about it. Even though there was a fair amount of blood already, I feared there would be a gusher when I removed the knife. So I pulled the knife with one hand and sprayed with the other."
"When did Zin show up?"
"Just about the time I pulled the knife, I think. I felt a tremor and heard a gasp. Then Zin rushed in and threw her arms around Zhao. I had to push her away so I could work. When she saw the blood on her hands, she became almost hysterical."
Analog SFF, March 2008 Page 12
