“Your memoirs, interviews, so on.” Axelrod beamed. “You are planning on coming back and telling your story, aren't you?”
They were officially media figures now. The world was steadily going Mars-mad and the four of them were at the center of it all.
First they were invited to all the big social events in Houston, thrown by people they didn't know. Later they received invitations from all over the country. Wannabe “megabillionaires”—a media misnomer—offered to send private jets to whisk them to posh mansions. Cost was no object. Your party was an instant success if one or more of the Marsnauts attended.
“Another big do,” Julia said one morning, looking at the latest round of invitations. “This one's in New York. Wanna go?”
“To big doo-doo? I think not. Too much caviar is bad for astronaut training.” He put a hand over his liver with a pained expression on his face.
It was a game they played. Julia would read Viktor the most outrageous of the invitations, and he would pretend to take them seriously.
It was their way of dealing with the craziness of it all. As astronauts, they had been faces in the crowd, lost among one hundred others. No one had recognized them in the street, wanted autographs, or invited them anywhere. Now suddenly they were hyperstars, megacelebs, their every move outside JSC stalked by crowds of paparazzi. Axelrod's security guards moved them between the training center and their secluded living compound.
Somehow she hadn't anticipated this roller-coaster life. At least the recent nasty talk in some of the down-market media had gone away, once their marriage was announced. Amazing, what a piece of legal paper could silence. Still, she felt that a lot of this had fallen upon her while she was busy doing something else. Like her job, for instance.
“I'd feel better about it if we weren't getting all this attention before we'd done anything.”
“Yes. But maybe no time after.”
A good way to put it, she thought sourly. Maybe what we'll be remembered for will be our deaths.
July 4, 2015. An Axelrod irony, “getting hitched” on Independence Day.
The wedding took place on Axelrod's private island off the coast of North Carolina, six weeks later.
“Just a simple garden wedding,” he said to Julia and Viktor. “Leave all the arrangements to me. You concentrate on Mars.”
And that was just fine with Julia. She didn't like weddings, had no interest in organizing one. She'd always thought vaguely that if she ever did marry, it would be in a judge's office with a couple of friends.
But here she was, in a long white dress, looking like someone from a bride's magazine. Her short brunette bob had been meticulously arranged; she was wearing a veil and had a bouquet of flowers in her hand. After months in training, she felt like a butterfly, emerged from the chrysalis of her astronaut coveralls. Axelrod had flown her in two days early, for a succession of mud baths, facials, hair and makeup consultations, and last-minute dress fittings. It would be more than three years before she had the opportunity to do anything remotely like it again, so she just smiled and went along with it all.
“Oh, my,” Robbie said, dabbing her eyes. “You look gorgeous, Jules.” She sniffed. “I do wish your father were here.”
Julia felt his absence keenly. Harry was a devoted family man, and they had been close for years. The death of Julia's brother, Bill, had melded the three of them into a solid unit.
And yet he wouldn't come to her wedding. What was it he so disliked in Viktor?
In the absence of Harry, Axelrod would give the bride away. He was between wives at the time, so Julia's mother had flown in from Australia the week before to personalize the arrangements. But she hadn't been able to make a dent in the spectacle.
The media were divided into “invited” and “uninvited.” Axelrod sent boats to the mainland for the former, the latter were reduced to buzzing the island in rented motorboats and helicopters.
Huge quantities of food and drink were ferried or helicoptered in. The JSC crowd and the media were serious partyers.
It was time. Her mother left. There was a knock on the door.
Julia hesitated one last moment before opening it to a beaming Axelrod in an ice cream suit. He was clearly relishing this.
“Ready, my dear?” He offered his arm and they walked through the cavernous mansion and out into the lush garden.
Her mother copied Julia with her letter:
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
July 5, 2015
Dear Harry,
You really missed a great party! The Axelrod island looks like all those old movies of the American South. It's not just a house, but a complex. Great hunks of communication gear around. John must be able to reach anywhere on Earth he wants.
A huge white mansion with pillars, of course.
My suite was simply enormous. There was a fireplace in the bedroom, and the bathroom had a tub on a dais that Cleopatra would've loved. Hot and cold running help, too.
The “simple garden ceremony” was anything but, of course. Great drifts of food and drink, live music, tents, etc. Everyone danced and laughed until the wee hours. Half of JSC must've been there, and a lot of NASA brass from elsewhere. It looked like a convention for The Mars Society. And he'd invited a slew of reporters. They were pretty well behaved, had a special roped-off place to sit during the ceremony.
But the paparazzi were something else! There must've been a fleet of them buzzing the place with helicopters and speedboats! All for our Julia! But she was worth it. She looked really beautiful! And Viktor just couldn't take his eyes off her. He was just so pleased. I know how you feel about him, but I'm sure he does love her. He was very cordial to me, said he was honored to be joining Julia's family. His parents are gone, you know, and he's so far away from the rest of his family.
The actual ceremony was pretty simple. Raoul and Katherine were the attendants, and Axelrod stood in for you, of course. They'd decided on a civil ceremony, so John arranged for a judge—I think he was a North Carolina Supreme Court Justice, some friend of his. The soprano was very good. She sang “Amazing Grace” and some other songs with a touch of jazz to them.
The cake was incredible. It was Mars, of course, a huge red-icinged confection. Julia did her best to carve it—with a laser!
Julia's really not much of a public person. That was our Bill. So she had on her public face, and a bit of a grit-your-teeth smile at times. But overall I bet she enjoyed it. How can you not, when you're at the center of the universe like that?
Well, that's about it. I'm pooped. There'll be lots more pictures— I've only attached a few to this e-mail, so you can get an idea of what it was all about.
Hope your trip is working out like you hoped. Your last message about the poacher's camp sounded a bit gruesome. It's dreadful to think that the few remaining wildlife are being butchered—and for meat!
I hope it wasn't dangerous, riding along with the park rangers like that. We've heard so many dreadful stories over the years about game park incidents. Please be careful!
Oh, forgot one thing. The kids are honeymooning here for a few days. In fact Raoul and Katherine are staying on also. It's about the only place those four can get some privacy. I'm looking forward to a few days’ peace myself. And it's a lovely place. I'll be flying back at the end of the week.
Miss you, you old curmudgeon! Take care of yourself!!
Much love, xxxx
Robbs
With Axelrod at her side, Julia launched herself into the wedding. In some ways this was the most terrifying part of the mission.
She hadn't yet gotten used to all the media attention—camera snouts, microphones, shouted questions. But it was impersonal. She was just an astronaut, an object caught in the crosshairs of the media. This was different. She knew a great many of the guests now staring wide-eyed and entranced (or so it seemed) at the spectacle. Despite her finery, she felt naked.
Axelrod leaned over, whispered in her
ear, “Someone with a small nuclear weapon could take out the entire Mars faction.”
It was just what she needed. The remark triggered her professional instincts. Axelrod was right. She caught sight of Bob Zubrin, Axelrod's Mars guru, and many of the longtime Mars researchers at NASA—Chris McKay, Carol Stoker, Nathalie Cabrol, Geoff Briggs, John Connolly, and others, some retired, all a bit grayer, but still enthusiastic.
Why are they all here! The dreamers …
And some schemers, too. They had come because of something none of them could quite put into words. Marriage, Mars …
And then she caught sight of Viktor. And all the rest dropped away. He was grinning in sheer delight. He stretched out his arm in an unplanned gesture of welcome. She took his hand and knew that this was the right thing to do.
Later, thinking about the ceremony, all she could remember clearly was the fond expression in his eyes. The right stuff.
5
JANUARY 11, 2018
DESPITE MARC'S BEST EFFORTS, DINNER WAS NOT A CULINARY SUCCESS.
He was the foodie among them, forever trying out new variations of the limited range of kitchen stores. But they had long ago exhausted the narrow potential of the supplies for new tastes, and now everything they ate was too familiar to the tongue. No surprises.
Still, they did have luxuries. Marc's favorite duck in burgundy sauce from a trendy L.A. restaurant, authentic borscht from a San Francisco Russian bakery, blue corn enchiladas from New Mexico, kangaroo steaks, and holiday treats. The list was extensive. But frozen meals lacked that just-cooked, fresh taste.
Food and the mealtime experience were part of an elaborate emphasis on the crew's psychological well-being. There Axelrod had not cut back on the budget. No one on Earth really knew how tough it would be to live so long in a large tuna can surrounded by a hostile planet. So the psychologists intended the mealtimes to be extended breaks in the day. Chances to talk, relax, and eat good, nourishing grub. For Julia, plenty of comfort food—soups, meatloaf, chowder, oatmeal. They each had their own. “Evoke resonances of home,” a psych guy had pontificated. As one wag put it, eating is the only enjoyable activity you can do three times a day, every day.
Months before launch each crew member had filled out an exhaustive dietary survey, and then had been interviewed by a dietician. Finally, a computer program called “Meal Creativity” took all the input and attempted to create a set of enticing menus that could be prepared in their galley. The menus rotated their individual choices and the whole pattern repeated monthly. Of course the meals were balanced nutritionally by the inexorable program, which tended to homogenize them. The mission eating experience was designed to be like repeatedly visiting a favorite restaurant. Sure, the menu was familiar, but familiar was reassuring. So the theory went.
They took turns in the tiny galley. On the outbound voyage Julia bowed to the public's expectation and dutifully did her time, but the others agreed that the results were definitely substandard, and she was relieved of cooking. Instead, she did extra cleanup.
That didn't bother Julia, a dedicated non-foodie, who believed that eating was a somewhat irksome necessity. Food was fuel to power people through the day. Something to keep the “little gray cells” nourished, as her favorite detective said. But unlike Poirot's fastidiousness in cuisine, her palate was undemanding. She went through school with a minimally equipped kitchen. Dumping a box of macaroni and cheese into boiling water stretched her limits. Viktor joked that he sure as hell hadn't picked her for her kitchen skills. He had done most of the cooking for the two of them before the mission, and filled out her food survey. “Either that,” he had said, “or risk eating junk food, or worse, Vegemite sandwiches, on Mars.”
But there were limits to the technology. The microwaved frozen vegetables were especially resistant to creativity, but Marc kept trying. He and Julia worked in the greenhouse to grow fresh ones. He had asked for a wide range of spices as part of his personal picks. Some of his more infamous attempts had produced stomach-rumbling distress. Still, the food was much better than the freeze-dried horrors of NASA days.
“So what did you two do while we were gone?” Julia asked later over very slightly grainy pudding. The chocolate color disguised any visible traces of Martian dust, but the tongue found its sting.
Marc licked his spoon carefully. “Well, we were drilling into the giant gopher mounds again, ya know. Found something … interesting.” He went back to his pudding.
Julia glanced over at Viktor. Something was up. You didn't live with people for two years without being able to read them.
Twenty years earlier, Earthbound scientists at NASA analyzing Viking photo data had discovered a field of dozens of regular, hundred-foot-tall hills just north of the small crater Thyra. They put forth a strong case that the hills were actually pingos, buried mounds of ice known from Earth's arctic. But so far, Marc's attempts to drill through what turned out to be layers of salt and rubble had been unfruitful.
“So what you found?” asked Viktor.
Marc stood up. With studied casualness he said, “C'mon, I'll show you. You can watch the robot vid. It's Raoul's turn to clean up anyway.”
Aha. It's something big. She decided not to challenge him. Just let him do it in his own way. Anyway, she was enjoying the mystery.
She helped as Viktor got up clumsily and hobbled to the control room. The tape was already loaded and ready to go. Marc and Raoul must've planned this. Julia wondered, why the production?
They settled into chairs and Marc started. “Looking back over the robot's vid data, I found a hill where the morning fog seemed to have been a bit thicker or more persistent several times. Figured maybe the regolith covering was a little skimpier than on the others, ya know.”
The base sported two open dune buggies the size of ancient VW bugs that the crew used for short sprints of less than fifty klicks round-trip. By taking both buggies, two people could haul the drilling gear. The buggies had been part of the Outpost Mars robot post established by NASA in 2010 to characterize the future landing site. The buggies had been telerobotically operated from Earth, and later, from the hab at Zubrin Base. On arrival, Raoul and Viktor had added the seats to enable two people to ride in each buggy on manual mode. When not in active use, the buggies were sent out to robotically video areas of interest to the crew or to scientists on Earth.
Marc started the video. A large ruddy hill filled the screen.
Julia shivered, remembering the biting cold that morning she and Marc had first seen the fog over the mounds. Suit heaters cranked to the max, they had looked like colorful, quilted penguins. Their pictures now graced the cover of the Lands’ End catalog, wearing the parkas and leggings now called Marswear©, of course. It was the latest rage in macho-type clothes, and the licensing fees helped pay for the mission.
On that trip they'd used the big rover. As they'd prepared to leave it, she'd grabbed her tea cozy and worn it like a knit ski cap. That was only the first time she'd used it as extra insulation.
Marc was talking. “You can see that it has an exposed side. So I decided to try drilling horizontally into that. Saved hauling the gear up on top.”
He waved the remote and fast-forwarded the video, causing the two well-padded figures to waddle comically about as they positioned the gear and started drilling.
The video slowed to normal speed and the faint, tinny grind of the laboring drill came through. “Right about here we were in about thirty meters, going pretty slow through some resistant stuff, salts maybe, then all of a sudden the drill started to cut real fast. Right … there. Raoul is monitoring the depth and he shouts to me that it's speeded up. I stopped it then so we wouldn't lose the tip. Now we're pulling it out, and you can see that the drill tip is smoking.”
The camera came in for a close-up.
“Uh-oh,” said Julia, automatically sympathetic.
“That's what it looked like, anyway, but it wasn't hot, wasn't even warm.” He smiled, looking at Julia an
d Viktor slyly.
“So how could it be smok—oh, wait, it was water vapor!” shouted Julia. “You found water!”
Marc grinned. “Yep. The drill tip was really wet, and making cloud like mad.” Mars was so cold and dry that water on the surface never passed through a liquid stage, but sublimed directly from frozen to vapor. The team had concentrated their efforts to drill for water in places where early morning fogs hinted at subsurface moisture.
On the screen the two suited figures were jumping about.
“So are pingos after all.”
“Sure seems that way.” Suddenly, Julia could see how pleased Marc was. She hadn't noticed much until now, so preoccupied was she with Viktor's accident and the vent.
“How far in did you go?” asked Viktor.
Marc turned off the video. “Just under ten meters. We went back in to confirm, of course. Got one hell of an ice core.” He grinned again.
“What does Earth think?”
“I hope they're thinking: one more step towards a colony,” said Julia.
“Well, they asked for all the particulars we could squirt ‘em, that's for sure.”
She was suddenly enthusiastic. “This is great news! Fresh water on our doorstep, practically.” She had a sudden thought.
“It is fresh water, isn't it?”
“Yep. I used it in the soup.”
“What? Native water? Did you run it through the mass spec first? It could be full of toxic metals.”
He laughed. “Relax. Just kidding. I left the analysis for you to do. And a chunk of ice.”
“Wow. It's like suddenly discovering you live next to a lake.”
“More like frozen lake.”
“A frozen bumpy lake.”
“Typical Mars.” This last from Raoul, who appeared from the galley with mugs of hot chocolate. “On Earth, you'd look for water in the low spots, stream channels. Here, it's backwards—water is in the hilly hummocks. An upside-down world.”
His sardonic wit could sometimes cut through Julia's high moods, but not tonight. She was irrepressibly cheered by the discovery.
The Martian Race Page 5
