Mars

by Ben Bova

  Brumado put on his smile again. “That number is a considerable exaggeration of this mission’s cost. And, of course, the costs are being shared by more than two dozen nations; the United States is not bearing the burden alone.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “We have made significant discoveries on Mars.” Brumado overrode him. “Very significant discoveries. The landing teams have been on the ground there for little more than a week, and already they have found water—the elixir of life.”

  “Buried underground, frozen,” said the television news-woman.

  “But no signs of life itself,” the magazine reporter said.

  “Not yet.”

  “You expect to find life on Mars?”

  “I am more optimistic now than I was a week ago,” Brumado said, his smile genuine now. “It would seem that there are extensive areas of permafrost. And according to the very latest report from the geologist who has trekked out to the Valles Marineris—the Grand Canyon of Mars—there are mists in the air each morning. That means moisture. And down at the bottom of that valley the temperatures may be considerably warmer than elsewhere. Life may exist there.”

  The newspaperman fixed Brumado with a glittering eye. “Now let’s face it—you need to find life on Mars to justify this enormously expensive program. You’ve got to be optimistic, don’t you?”

  “I want the program to continue, of course. What this first mission has discovered is already more than enough to justify the next mission.”

  “Another five hundred billion?”

  “Nowhere near that amount. Most of the costs of development and facilities construction have already been paid. The second expedition will cost a fraction of the first. In fact, follow-on missions will amortize the costs we have already incurred and give us more value for the money we have already invested.”

  “And on that note,” the moderator said, leaning forward between Brumado and the reporter, “we must take our leave. We’ve run out of time. I want to thank …”

  Brumado leaned back in his chair and relaxed. Later he would review a tape of the show, but at the moment he felt he had gotten his points across well enough.

  And they never once brought up the subject of the American Indian and his effect on the political situation here in the States. We can thank Konoye for that. He did not die in vain.

  The overhead lights went off and Brumado allowed the electrician to remove his microphone. The three reporters made a few obligatory smiles and noises, then swiftly headed toward the small bar that had been set up at the rear of the studio.

  “You’ve earned a drink,” the moderator said to Brumado.

  “Thank you. I could use one.”

  Brumado intended to use these informal few minutes to educate his interrogators. Without their knowing it, hundreds of media reporters had been subtly proselytized by him during social occasions such as this.

  There was a younger woman already talking with the reporters, a pert blonde who had an outdoor, all-American look to her. She introduced herself as Edie Elgin, a newcomer to the New York scene—and a personal friend of James Waterman.

  Brumado’s internal defenses flared at Waterman’s name.

  “How is he?” Edith asked. “They haven’t let me talk to him since he landed on Mars.”

  “You are a reporter?” Brumado asked.

  Edith smiled her best Texas smile. “I’m a consultant with the news department. To tell the truth, Dr. Brumado, I’m looking for a job.”

  “You knew Dr. Waterman in Houston?”

  “We were very close friends. And now they won’t even let me talk to him.”

  Her smile warmed Brumado, melted his suspicions. “You don’t want to interview him for the media?”

  “I just want to talk with him for a few minutes, to see if he’s okay and … well, to see if he still …” Edith let her voice dwindle into silence.

  The mission administrators can’t hold the man incommunicado, Brumado told himself. He smiled back at Edith. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Oh, thank you! You’re the kindest sweetest man in the whole Mars Project!”

  WASHINGTON: Alberto Brumado liked the idea that a pretty young woman considered him kind and sweet. And influential But he did not truly believe that he was a Very Important Person. “There are no indispensable men,” he had often said. “If I had not led the effort for the Mars Project, someone else would have.”

  Yet both the Japanese and Russian project directors easily agreed to come to Washington to meet with their American counterpart and Dr. Brumado—not only because they had an urgent problem to discuss, but because they actually desired to save Brumado from another long intercontinental flight. Hypersonic aircraft could cross half the globe in two hours, but the human passengers they carried suffered from jet lag all the same. The Russian and Japanese project directors decided, simultaneously and independently, to save their revered mentor from such fatigue.

  Fresh from his television interview in New York, Brumado flew to Washington to meet them at the office of the American project director, in the old NASA headquarters building on Independence Avenue. As government offices go, it was not much: a room large enough to house an oblong conference table butted against a broad mahogany desk like the long arm of a T. The walls were covered with maps and photos of Mars and other photographs of rocket boosters lifting off on tails of flame and smoke. Behind the director’s desk was a table covered with more personal photos showing the director with the high and mighty: presidents, ministers, even television personalities.

  The American director of the Mars Project had once been an excellent engineer, many years ago. Now he was an excellent politician, crafty in the ways and means of surviving in the Washington jungle and keeping the lifeblood of money pumping into his project. He did not look like the archetypical “faceless bureaucrat,” however. He wore utterly comfortable snakeskin cowboy boots below his rumpled gray business suit and a conservative blue tie. His fleshy face was florid, his hair thick and still fiery red despite the streaks of gray running through it. Behind rimless glasses his eyes gleamed with fervor; he still cared about what he was doing. Mars was not a program to him, it was a life’s work.

  “I ’predate your coming here to my humble domain,” he said to the others, with the trace of a south Texas twang in his gravelly voice that even years of testifying before Congress had not quite erased.

  He was leaning back precariously in his chair on one side of the conference table, boots on the table and tie loosened from his collar. Brumado sat beside him. The Russian and Japanese project directors sat primly on the other side of the table.

  Neither was smiling; both wore carefully tailored business suits with neatly knotted ties; but there the similarities ended. The Russian was bald, sallow faced, lean, and unhappy. He reminded Brumado of a melancholy movie actor from his youth who always portrayed émigrés pining for Mother Russia. The Japanese was a compact bundle of barely suppressed energy, his dark eyes darting everywhere, his fingers drumming nervously on the tabletop.

  “As y’all know,” said the American, his chins on his chest as he picked up a single sheet of paper from the table in front of him, “we have something of a problem with the ever-loving, blue-eyed Vice-President of the United States.”

  “I believe I should say at the outset,” the Russian interjected, “that serious objections have been raised in Moscow about the wisdom of committing to a second expedition so soon.”

  The Japanese said rapidly, “The death of Professor Konoye has not dimmed Japan’s enthusiasm for further missions. If anything, my people feel we must press on to honor his memory.”

  The ex-Texan glanced at Brumado, then at his fellow directors across the table. “Let’s get one thing straight here: How do you all feel about the next mission?”

  “I am in favor of it, of course,” the Russian answered immediately. “I would go myself if they would allow me!”

  The Japanese grinned. “Yes, of c
ourse.”

  “As I see it,” Brumado said gently, “we have a sacred trust. Project Mars must not end as Project Apollo did. We must continue the exploration of the planet and its moons.”

  The American pushed his chair back. It screeched against the uncarpeted floor. “Okay,” he said as he lumbered to his feet. “We’re agreed as to what we want. Now we’ve got t’ figure out how to get it.” He walked around his desk and, bending down slowly, opened a panel and took out four glasses and a bottle of Kentucky sour mash. “Fuel for thought,” he said, a bright grin spreading across his ruddy face.

  Three hours later the bottle sat empty on the conference table and Brumado, who had hardly touched the one glass poured for him, was summarizing: “The Vice-President told me personally that she is willing to make a statement supporting the further exploration of Mars if we can get Dr. Waterman to make a statement supporting her candidacy.”

  “Better get her statement in writing,” said the American, grumpily. “And get it down on paper before you let the Indian open his mouth.”

  “I’m not certain that Dr. Waterman would be willing to make such a statement,” Brumado admitted.

  “Then you’ll have to convince him. Use your powers of persuasion. I’d do it myself,” the former Texan said, “but if anybody up on the Hill found out about it they’d pin my balls to the wall and the Mars Project would go down the toilet in half a minute.”

  The Japanese turned to the Russian. “What would be the reaction of the Russian Federation if the United States makes a strong statement of support for further missions?”

  The Russian shrugged elaborately. “With both the U.S.A. and Japan lined up in favor, I think the forces of enlightenment in Moscow would gain enough strength to override the objections of the obstructionists.”

  The American hiked a shaggy eyebrow. “Does that mean yea or nay?”

  They all burst into laughter. “Yes,” said the Russian. “Positively yes.”

  Then all three of the project directors fixed their eyes on Brumado.

  “It’s up to you, then, Alberto old pal,” said the American. “None of us can do it. You’ve got to convince this redskin that he’s got to support the Vice-President.”

  “I hope he will,” said Brumado.

  “It’s either that or the program ends when they return to Earth.”

  Brumado nodded his agreement. Then, “Has Waterman been kept from taking personal messages? Is he being held incommunicado while he is on Mars?”

  The three project directors glanced uneasily at one another. The Russian said, “Once the American government refused to release his interview tape we assumed that he was not to have any contact with the media.”

  “Far as I know,” said the American, “he hasn’t squawked. Hasn’t even asked to send any personal messages, I don’t think.”

  “No personal communications at all?” Brumado asked. “Not to his family, his friends?”

  The Russian shrugged. “Apparently no one has tried to reach him, nor has he attempted to call anyone.”

  “Not even his parents?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Why do you ask?” said the Japanese director.

  Brumado replied, “I ran into a young woman who says she is a friend of Waterman’s, and she has been denied permission to speak with him.”

  The American leaned back in his chair again. “I don’t see why she can’t make a tape, like everybody else’s friends and relatives are doing. Then Waterman can decide if he wants to answer her or not. That’s the way we’ve been handling personal messages, what with the time lag and the busy schedule those guys have down on the surface of the planet.”

  “That makes sense,” Brumado said. “I will tell her that.”

  SOL 13: MORNING

  “The computer enhancements prove that your ‘village’ is nothing more than a natural formation of rock,” said Ravavishnu Patel.

  Jamie shook his head stubbornly. “The enhancements prove nothing of the sort.”

  “I’m afraid I must agree with Rava,” Abdul al-Naguib said. “You are leaping to an erroneous conclusion.”

  The three men—two geologists and the Egyptian geo-physicist—were sitting tensely on spindly stools in front of a computer display screen in the geology lab. The area was partitioned off from the rest of the dome, its shelves cluttered with bare rocks and transparent plastic cases that held core samples and stoppered bottles filled with red soil. A long table set against one partition held analysis equipment and computer modules, their display screens flickering orange and blue, showing curves and graphs of data from the global network of sensors that changed every few moments.

  “Look,” Jamie said to the others, “the computer enhancement of the videotape shows a nicely enlarged view of that formation. I’m not saying it’s artificial; all I’m saying is that the enhancement really doesn’t prove it’s natural.”

  “But it cannot be artificial!” Patel insisted. “Even Father DiNardo back in Rome agrees it has to be a natural formation!”

  Jamie gave him a stern look. “Rava, science doesn’t work on opinions. We learn by observing, by measuring. For god’s sake, when Galileo first reported seeing sunspots, there were priests in Rome who claimed the spots must have been in his telescope because everybody knew that the sun was perfect and without blemish.”

  Naguib smiled in a fatherly way. Older than either of the two geologists, he saw himself as the voice of mature wisdom in this emotional debate.

  “We have observed,” the Egyptian said patiently. “We have measured. The most powerful tools we possess tell us that the formation is natural, a formation of rocks and nothing more.”

  “The evidence says nothing of the sort,” Jamie snapped. “You’re looking at the evidence with a bias against it being artificial.”

  “And you are looking at the same evidence with a bias against it being natural,” Patel countered.

  “Which proves to me that the evidence is not conclusive,” Jamie said.

  Naguib asked, “But how could it be artificial? You are presupposing that an intelligent species once existed on Mars and built itself a village—in the same manner that your own ancestors built cliff dwellings? That is so unlikely that it beggars the imagination.”

  Patel added, “When you make a large claim, you must have strong evidence to back it up.”

  “Right!” Jamie said. “I agree! We have to go back to Tithonium Chasma and see that formation close up. Go right up to it and put our hands on it.”

  The Hindu geologist stared at Jamie as if he had uttered blasphemy. “Go there! And what of my excursion to Pavonis Mons? Do you think your make-believe ‘village’ is more important than the Tharsis volcanoes?”

  “If that ‘village’ really is artificial, it sure as hell is more important than anything else,” Jamie shot back.

  “The next thing you know, you will want to go all the way to Acidalia to examine the ‘Face’!”

  Photographs from early spacecraft orbiting Mars had found a rock formation that resembled a human face when the sun hit it at the right angle.

  “Maybe we’ll have to,” Jamie snapped. “But first I want to see if that ‘village’ is natural or artificial.”

  Naguib raised his hands in a gesture of peacemaking. “Everyone who has examined the enhanced video agrees that the formation must be natural. Just as the ‘Face’ is.”

  “Science doesn’t work by counting votes,” Jamie said, feeling anger rising inside him. “The only way to settle this question is to go back there and see for ourselves.”

  “It would wreck our schedule,” Patel said. “It is entirely unnecessary.”

  “The hell with the schedule,” Jamie said.

  “The hell with your Village’!” Patel shouted. “The hell with your fantasies!”

  Jamie took a deep breath, trying to control his seething temper. Then, “Listen, both of you. Our job here is to seek the truth—and not be afraid of finding it. We’ve got to
go back to the canyon.”

  “No,” said Patel, anger simmering in his dark face.

  “I’m afraid I must agree with Rava,” Naguib said reluctantly. “Our mission here is clearly defined. We are the first scouts, our task is to make the preliminary reconnaissance. We have two other regions scheduled for overland traverses before our forty-nine days are finished. Others will come to study the planet in greater detail on follow-on missions. We are not here to swallow everything in one gulp.”

  Jamie looked at the two of them. Patel, worried that his excursion to the goddammed volcano might be in jeopardy. Naguib, willing to let others get the glory. Jamie thought that the Egyptian was old enough to become an administrator when they returned to Earth; his days as an active scientist are finished. He’ll go back to Egypt and be a famous man, get a prestigious chair in a university and be solidly fixed for the rest of his life. What the hell does he care?

  “What makes you so damned certain there’ll be follow-on missions?” Jamie asked. “If the goddammed politicians have their way we’ll be the last expedition to Mars as well as the first one.”

  Naguib and Patel looked at each other, dumbstruck, as if the idea had never occurred to them before.

  Jamie grimaced and turned slightly on his stool. The display screen still showed the enhanced image of the rock formation: straight walls with some detritus at their base, set well back into the rock cleft, protected by the massive overhang of deep red iron-rich stone.

  “Okay,” he said calmly. “If you won’t back me on this I’ll just have to ask Dr. Li by myself.”

  The two other men groaned their displeasure.

  • • •

  Even over the whirring hum of the centrifuge Ilona Malater could hear the argument among the geologists growing into vehemence.

  Ah, she said to herself, Jamie is showing some passion at last.

  Joanna Brumado, a few feet away from Ilona at her workstation in the biology lab, heard the argument too. She looked worried, almost frightened as the men snapped at each other. She’s frightened for Jamie’s sake, Ilona thought. She cares about our Red Indian more than she is willing to admit. Perhaps more than she herself realizes.