So he'd decided he should come down as soon as he could, not stay up at Synch where a man could float weightless for a day. Or four. Just made it worse when the time came. During the long trip from Mars the Edgar Burroughs had gradually increased its spin to give its passengers—the lucky eighteen, plus himself—the effect of gravity slowly building from Mars’ one third to ninety-eight percent of terrestrial, but then, necessarily, it had stopped rotation for the docking process. That had been a long, careful series of maneuvers that took most of a day. It had meant, of course, lapsing into zero G and losing some of the accommodation he'd gained by all those hours in the exercise compartment and the high-protein food. The human cardiovascular system could endure only so much. Also, hard to be sure about the bones.
Then, just his luck, Synch had been crammed. Two boosters from the Moon had docked just ahead of the Burroughs, delivering almost a thousand from the lunar stations en route to down home. By the time all the handshaking with the official welcoming committee was done—
* * * *
“Ordeal over at last,” said Rikkard Wysotski, Brazil Synch's operations director, still not letting go of his hand. “Not over,” Don had said. “Still something over five hundred up there. Waiting.”
It wasn't in Director Wysotski's script. “I understand everything that can be done, is,” he fluttered. “I really don't have anything to say about that.”
“Somebody needs to,” Don said, and finally got his hand back.
* * * *
—the medic station had a long, slow line waiting for descent-to-Earth certification. Then, when his turn finally came, the medic had been—quite rightly—methodically careful. Heart sounds, blood pressure, lung function, muscle coordination, strength, and tone. On the bicycle pedals, any joint pain in hips or knees? What about the feet? “Never had to work up anyone from Mars before,” she explained. “And you were up there so long. Some of your numbers are outside the box.”
“It's all right,” Don said. He'd learned patience during all those years.
“Really, it's an honor to serve you, Mr. Tenbrook. But to let you go down not able...”
“I understand,” Don said.
* * * *
With the clearance chit in hand at last, the lift capsule boarding-pass station came next. After checking his mass and asking about luggage—Just that little carry-on? Really?—the attendant gave him the ticket and told him the wait would be something like twenty-two hours. Time for a nap in a cocoon, a few drinks, and a meal or three at the food bar. With only the thousand dollar “distressed seaman's” card he'd been issued, not to be squandered, none of those had been practical options.
Well, let it go. Glumly he pocketed the document and made his way hand over hand though the 3D network of grabhold lines to the beehive section, belted into a bucket, and began a scan-through of the entertainments offered by the pasttime display. Not that he could afford to actually call up anything, but merely the titles could give him clues about the world he'd come back to. Speculating what they might be would keep the brain circuits working. Ballet? Drama? Game? Something to read that wasn't engineering specifications? Whatever, it didn't matter. The grim, plodding business of staying alive was done with.
Drowse came. Then—
“Excuse me. You're Donald Tenbrook. Right?”
He blinked awake. The man looked ordinary. Somewhere past thirty-five, for a guess. Round face and dark hair, but a bald spot like a patch of desert beginning to take over. “Don,” he said in automatic correction, forgetting momentarily that now he was in a place where he no longer knew every face and every face knew his. His next thought came automatic too: what did this man want?
Then he remembered. This was a man never seen before. “That and a hundred buys you half a dram,” he said.
The man chuckled at the ancient wit. “You've aged some from your pictures.”
“It happens,” Don said. “We didn't waste transmission power on portrait stuff.” Scant and unbalanced rations had taken their toll, but that he did not add. He wondered what this stranger had been doing, looking at old pictures. “You're...?”
“Marvelous job you did up there,” the man said. “Marvelous!”
It wasn't an answer. “Everybody did their share,” Don said. “Not everybody made it.”
“But if you hadn't ... Did you know they use it for a case history at Harvard Business? Crisis management?”
“Hadn't heard,” Don admitted. It explained, though, how this man knew his face. Maybe. He kept his reserve. “Most of it was just common sense.”
“That's what somebody in my class said. Know what Prof. Edelman said back?”
Obviously he was going to be told. Don turned an ear.
“He said,” the stranger said, “'In difficult times, common sense can be a very rare commodity.'”
“Not really true,” Don said. “In my experience, when the situation calls for it, most people do the smart thing without stopping to think. It's afterward they get the wobbles.”
“That's short term. You carried it for years.”
“Didn't have much choice,” Don said and asked again. “You're...?”
“Uh? Oh. Sorry. Nick Cavelli. Never heard of me, of course. But look. Only reason I'm bothering you, you want to get down the skein soon as you can. Right?”
“Get it over with,” Don admitted. “Longer I'm weightless, the tougher it'll be when I do. But—”
“I've got a layover at Footprint,” Cavelli said. “Appointment in Sao Paulo next Tuesday, so to me it makes no difference. My pass is for the capsule after next. Trade?”
“One thing I did,” Don said, “I didn't take advantage of being ... well, man running the shop. Took my turn, not somebody else's.” Surely this man would know—Harvard Business, hadn't he said?—how much it had mattered not to set himself more equal than others.
“That was then. It's different now.”
Don supposed it was, and it tempted. Each passing hour eroded some fraction of the gain he'd made during the long trip home. Neither did it make sense to argue trivial things. “Well...” he said.
“It's a deal. Uh ... just ... well, could I ask? Would you sign your pass? Before we trade?” Seeing the caution come to Don's eyes, he hurried on. “I'm not thinking investment. I promised my boy a Moon rock. I got him a few, but they look sort of ordinary. If I had something you'd signed...”
“How old?”
“Twelve. Almost thirteen.”
“Mm,” Don said. Not fair, to think his handwritten name would open doors. Bad habit to get into, besides. But...
He patted an empty pocket. “Got a pen? I don't...”
Cavelli had one. The bucket-arm's display provided a writing surface. Don paused; it had been so long since he'd signed anything with his full name he wasn't sure he remembered how. The result looked almost pathetic. Awkward, somehow.
Cavelli reached for it; Don gestured him to wait. Still with pen in hand, he added: This is the first signature I have given upon my return from Mars, and the first time I've written my whole name in years. Scribbled initials—DTb—completed it.
They made the exchange. Cavelli stared at his prize. “Oh Lordy,” he gasped. “This could pay his way through university!”
Don shrugged and pulled his sling bag around, slipped the knot, and fumbled inside. “He wants a rock? Give him this.”
Inside a plastic bubble, it was a stone the size of a nut, angular but with edges rounded, black with a dusting of rust. Also within, a scrap of, well, it looked like paper. Plastic, actually, cut by hand from a bulk fluid container. Mars specimen, it said, with the same initials. DTb. “Mostly brought ‘em for my brother's kids. And theirs. If they're interested. Got some extras, though.”
* * * *
There was still the business of clearing the exchange with the boarding attendant. Differences of mass had to be kept track of and adjustments made. The attendant goggled at Don's name. “Mr. Tenbrook. Should have said something.”
I
t was stenciled on his jumpsuit but, engrossed in routine, the attendant must not have looked. “Didn't want to make a fuss,” Don said.
The attendant looked about to say something more, but then thought better. He called up their pass numbers. “Masswise, you're within five keg of each other, so that's all right. But...” He looked straight at Don. “Really no baggage? Don't you have...?”
“Just carry on,” Don said, and made show of his patch—rag sling bag. “Traveling light.” Anything he'd had, they needed more on Mars than he needed to take with him. Aboard the Burroughs they'd given him a toothbrush, this jumpsuit, and all the freeze-dried food he could stomach. What more did a man need?
“Let mine go down with him,” Cavelli said. “Nothing I'll need, ‘tween times, and that way you don't have to adjust a thing.”
Thinking it through, the attendant paused. “Only the claim ticket code,” he said at last. “And the information that you won't be down to pick it up for a while. No problem. Uh, and...” He looked straight at Don and, hesitantly, offered his hand. “Mr. Tenbrook—am I the first?—welcome home.”
He wasn't the first, but no harm to let him think. With a shrug he took the hand, let it go, and turned away. In many senses of the word, he had no home.
* * * *
In the descent capsule, going down at terrible speed but felt not at all, he slept for several hours. When he woke, deceleration phase had begun and gravity or its equivalent was beginning to take hold. The steward offered him breakfast. Conventional meat and eggs? Cereal, hot or cold? Rice with brown sugar? Pancakes? Waffles?
Just the thought of bacon and eggs made Don's mouth water. It had been so long. Oh sure, the Edgar Burroughs had been provisioned with, among other things, powdered eggs and something that passed for bacon but wasn't. Not the same. Likewise the soymilk concentrate that made cereal almost edible. To have the real thing at last...
But caution intruded. The uncertain condition of his gut came into play. Also Doc Hilliard's advice: one new thing at a time, and that one thing a small portion. Don settled for oatmeal; the milk—pasteurized, but otherwise straight from the cow—would be new.
Coffee? Tea?
The coffee; it's the powdered stuff?
Oh no. Fresh ground.
All right. Coffee with real cream.
Hours later, with G force bearing almost its full force on him, he accepted a ham and cheese sandwich, warmed, and spiced with a single slice of pickle. He took it one slow bite at a time. O, the luxury!
* * * *
II
The shuttle car slowed as it rounded a curve. Over a rise the airport terminal came in sight. It looked different than he remembered, but he'd seen it from another angle back then. Besides, old memories couldn't be trusted. Beyond the terminal, apparently silent, a sleek, golden aircraft shot steeply into the sky. Then, as the shuttle car slotted into a loading bay, the thunder came.
The car's sides opened. The automatic annunciator skreeked for attention. “Ambulatory passengers may now disembark,” it said. “Those who require assistance, please wait. Attendants will be with you shortly.” After a pause it repeated the formula in other languages.
By the time it concluded, something like half the passengers had stepped off and walked away. With limbs that felt heavy as lead, Don waited. A huge cargo handler advanced to collect the baggage module. Only when it had trundled off did a team of attendants with mobilities swarm onto the platform.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said one to Don as he came up beside. “May we assist?” Hardly waiting for reply, he spun Don's recliner sidewise and rolled it out next to the mobility he'd dismounted from.
“Think I can manage,” Don said. With effort he sat up, got feet under him, and found a handgrip to help himself with. The attendant hovered close, ready to intervene.
“Were you up there long?” he asked.
“A while,” Don said, and didn't explain.
Settling into the mobility took all the strength of his arms. “Comfortable?” the attendant asked. “If there's a crease in your clothing...”
His jumpsuit's fabric was too thin to be a problem. “Think I'm all right,” Don said. “And you're familiar with the controls?”
The controls were a toggle-sized joystick at the forward end of each armrest; activate one or the other. Forward to advance, backward to reverse; lock at center to stop. Thumb to one side or the other to steer. All functions programmed to respond with careful sluggishness. “Had some practice out at Footprint,” Don said. “I'll be all right.”
The attendant stepped back. “Then welcome home, sir.” With a nod, he indicated Don was free to go, but watched for a moment more to be sure Don had control.
Home. That word again. For a wanderer, not really true. And, for nearly twenty years, de facto, Mars had been home.
Already a scatter of people were coming to board the shuttle. Outward bound. Some—old hands?—walked easily. Others hurried as if eager. Well, yes. To go up the skein could be considered exciting, though for most it would mean going into a confinement of one sort or another, and for the duration they would be at the terrible mercy of imperfect systems and machines. Don put the thought aside. Not his problem. Not ever again.
At least that no longer weighed on him.
Though he tried to keep out of their path, people coming toward him dodged out of his way. Sometimes, though, it meant footwork on their part and hasty corrections on his. Once he had to come to a full stop. Apologies were exchanged. Then the way opened out. He rolled past the security check—that was for outbound traffic—into the terminal's vast and echo-filled hall.
There he had to stop to take bearings. A bold sign with flickering arrow indicated the baggage claim. Yes, for people newly down that would be the obvious need. For him, though, not. What else?
Airline check-in stations everywhere, each with its logo or name emblazoned above. A snack bar offered perfunctory food and booths promised downloads of reading material, video, music, and games. Sectors of bench and buttbucket seating all around. Also parking areas for mobilities, some with fold-up seating around the margins for mixed parties. Everything nicely arranged for people who knew where they were bound.
For a moment, the overload of information bewildered. Through a gap in the crowd's random movement, at last, he glimpsed the helpdesk out in the center of everything. Yes, the logical place if he'd been designing things, but someone else might have thought different. He made his way there.
A blind man wearing a GPS headset was carefully making data transfer into his omnipod. So they'd cracked the microposition problem? Be interesting to find out how. Don stopped a few meters off to allow a hazard-free space. Then it was his turn.
The neatly coiffed young woman adjusted her station down to his mobility's level. “How can I help?” Her fingers poised over her display panel, quick to enter whatever was called for.
“I asked to have my travel arranged,” Don explained. “They said they'd have somebody meet me. Where...?”
“Name, sir?”
“Don Tenbrook.”
Her mouth shaped a wordless O. “Of Mars?” As if she had trouble believing. “The one who saved the colony?”
“I didn't save it,” Don said. “All of us did.”
“We weren't expecting you yet,” she said. Hand slipping under the counter, she came out with a boundpage book with a decorated cover. “Could I ask you to sign my book? My daughter wants the names of all the famous people we see. She's only nine. We don't get that many.”
To refuse would be churlish; but famous? Him? It felt not right. “No objection,” Don said. “I'll need a pen.”
She had one. He signed the first blank page he found. The page before was inscribed Very truly yours, followed by a scrawl he could barely make sense of. “Who's Hastings Bigart?”
“The webfacts examiner? You have to ask?”
“Been a bit out of touch,” Don said.
“A thing on the web, until he has confirmed,
you don't know if it is true,” she explained.
One of those, Don thought. “And who checks him?” he asked, but shrugged. It didn't matter. To his signature he added: On the day of my return from Mars. “What's the date?” he asked; he wasn't sure. She told him and he added that plus his initials, DTb. Handing back both book and pen, he said, “Where do I go?”
She looked at what he'd written. “Oh, she'll be thrilled. Thank you!”
“Where do I go?” he asked again.
For answer she pointed to one of the seating areas where, after a dumb moment, Don saw the placard-size sign propped against a man's knee; the man himself was tapping an entry into a hand unit. DONALD TENBROOK the sign said.
Well, it answered his question. He fished a stone out of his sling bag and placed it on the counter. “For the kid,” he said, and rolled away before she realized what it was.
* * * *
He stopped in front of the man. “Looking for me?”
The man looked up from his hand unit. “You're...?”
“Don Tenbrook,” Don said with an ironic nod toward the placard. “From Mars.”
“Uh...? Oh. You've lost some weight.”
“Mass,” Don said with the twitch of a smile. “Weight I seem to have gained.” “Umm. Yes.” The man adjusted his face, pouched his unit, and started to get to his feet. Seeing Don sagged down in the mobility, though, he reconsidered. Bending far forward, he extended his hand. “Welcome home.”
They shook. For Don it was an effort; soon as the man let go he let his arm settle back on the rest. “You've got my travel plans?” An uncertain pause. “Not even sure where I'm going.”
“Our plane's at ready and hold. But I'll have to say we didn't expect you so soon.”
Don had the odd feeling they were talking past each other. Things that needed explaining hadn't been. “You're...?”
“What? Oh, sorry. Brian Scarborough. A pleasure to meet you, sir. An honor! I'm your minder.”
“My what?”
Scarborough pulled a phone from his pouch. “One moment,” he said, and touched a preset number. “You'll be—” At a voice from the phone he broke off. “Melanie? Pass a note to Miz Ell, would you, please? He's here already. Should be airborne in ... oh, about fifteen minutes. Just time to grab his baggage.”
Analog SFF, July-August 2008 Page 32