Mars

by Ben Bova

  SOL 37: MORNING

  Jamie stood naked under the hot sun of Mars, sweat trickling down his ribs and legs as the gods gathered around him. His groin ached with the pleasurable anguish of yearning. His empty hands reached out longingly.

  The land was as red as blood, the sky a blue so bright that it hurt his eyes to look upward. Across the sandy desert the gods were descending in their fiery chariots, one after another. Wherever they touched down, Martian rocks instantly changed into brilliant blooms of flowers. Soon the entire desert was carpeted with color, and even the craggy cliffs in the far distance shifted and melted into cities of adobe and wood. Jamie could see plumes of smoke rising from their chimneys.

  The gods wore feathers and glittering beads. Their faces were those of totems: fox, eagle, dog, snake. Their bodies were magnificent, straight and tall as lofty pine trees, beautifully muscled and gleaming like burnished copper.

  They gathered around Jamie solemnly, silently, encircling him until he felt like a small child in their superb presence. Jamie fingered the totem his grandfather had given him; the bear was his protector and guide.

  “I have returned to you,” Jamie said to the gods. “I have come back to your domain.”

  The gods said nothing. They stared wordlessly down at Jamie while the soft winds of Mars sang their morning song.

  “From a great distance I have come,” Jamie explained, pointing toward a single star that shone even in the daytime sky. “All the way from Earth.”

  The gods drew closer, looming over Jamie, making him feel small, weak, afraid. His knees trembled. He was sweating hard.

  “You have brought all the white man’s ills with you,” said the voice of the gods. “You have brought death to our abode.”

  “No!” Jamie protested. “I bring life to you!”

  “You bring death.”

  They raised their hands against Jamie. Each carried a mighty implement in his hand. For some it was a rattle fashioned from a giant gourd and painted in gaudy colors. For others it was a war club, daubed black and heavy with menace. They brandished the clubs, rattled the gourds. And vanished.

  The gods disappeared, faded into oblivion, and the world around them lost all its life. The flowers, the blossoms, the beautiful adobe cities melted away and vanished, leaving only the empty desolation of Mars stretching as far as the eye could see.

  The buzzing sound of the gourd remained, though—threatening, insistent, inescapable.

  Jamie realized that it was the buzzer of the comm console. He opened his eyes, making the transition from dream to reality with the reluctance of a man leaving a warm fire to face a winter storm.

  He was in the rover. Eighteen inches above his head stretched the gray bottom of Joanna’s bunk. Even closer, to his left, Connors lay sprawled and entwined in his blanket. The astronaut’s face was bathed in a sheen of sweat. His sleeping features looked drawn and pained.

  The damned comm unit up in the cockpit was buzzing like a hive of hornets. Nobody else seemed to hear it. Jamie crawled carefully out of his bunk and padded in his stockinged feet to the cockpit. He shivered. His coveralls were soaked with cold sweat. His head thundered as if from a hangover.

  Slumping into the right-hand seat, Jamie leaned a finger against the button that activated the communicator. With his other hand he started to wind the little wheel that pulled the thermal shroud off the canopy. It was still dark outside on the canyon floor. The only light in the cockpit came from the telltales on the instrument panel.

  Seiji Toshima’s round face appeared on the small screen. He looked as baggy-eyed and bleary as Jamie felt.

  “I am sorry to awaken you so early,” the meteorologist said, without preamble, “but I must warn you of a dust storm that may strike your region this morning.”

  “Dust storm?” Jamie muttered. “What?”

  “Dust storm! Wind speeds of two hundred knots. Visibility reduced to near zero. Density of particles in air high enough to damage unprotected equipment! You must prepare!”

  “Wait …” Jamie’s head was buzzing. “Slow down. What are you talking about?”

  “The canyon system acts as a wind tunnel,” Toshima said rapidly. “The approaching cold front will send a wave of energy down the canyon and create a dust storm of great severity. You must be prepared for this! Unprotected equipment could be damaged. People out in the open could become disoriented. The dust could be thick enough to reduce vision severely. Even radio communications might be affected.”

  “But I thought the storms didn’t come this far south at this time of the year,” Jamie said as the impact of Toshima’s warning began to sink in.

  The meteorologist slowed down and explained his belief that the entire canyon complex could become a giant wind tunnel filled with blowing dust.

  “I can keep you updated on an hourly basis,” he said. “I have asked Ulanov and Diels in the orbiter to focus all instrumentation on the canyon area this morning. Fortunately, the spacecraft hovers over this hemisphere constantly.”

  Jamie could hear the sounds of the others getting out of their bunks behind him.

  “I would advise against any EVA today that is farther than a few minutes’ walk from your vehicle,” Toshima said. “With wind speeds of two hundred knots a storm could be upon you before you know it.”

  “Shit,” Jamie groused. “Suppose we move the rover farther west? We were going to anyway, and then dig a deep borehole and instrument it.”

  Toshima hiked his eyebrows. “The storm will overtake you no matter what your position.”

  “If the storm actually happens,” Jamie said.

  The Japanese meteorologist closed his eyes briefly. “Yes,” he hissed. “If my forecast is correct.”

  Jamie leaned back in the seat, feeling exhausted already. “Okay. Thanks for the warning. Give us an hour to talk it over and have breakfast. Then we’ll call you back.”

  Toshima looked away from the screen, then was pushed aside by Vosnesensky. The Russian looked grimmer than usual.

  “Jamie, we have checked the situation with Dr. Li. Toshima’s prediction is tentative, but serious enough to take … well, seriously.”

  “Yep. I understand.”

  “There is to be no EVA and no moving of the rover without checking with me first,” Vosnesensky said.

  Jamie nodded.

  “Let me talk with Connors now.”

  It took an effort for Jamie to turn his head and look back toward the rear of the module. “He’s in the John,” Jamie said to the screen. “I’ll tell him to check in with you when he comes out.”

  “Yes. As soon as he comes out.”

  It took nearly half an hour before all four of them were washed and dressed in their daytime coveralls. Jamie already felt too tired even to consider shaving. One advantage of Indian blood, he said to himself as he peered blearily into the mirror. Not much of a beard. When he came out of the lavatory he noticed that Connors had not shaved either. His beard was grizzled with gray; it made him look older.

  They folded up the bunks in silence and sat on the benches, four steaming meals on the table between them, together with the usual bottle of vitamin supplement pills.

  “Mikhail doesn’t want us to move until they see if a sandstorm is actually developing,” Connors said, picking at his reconstituted eggs and soy bacon.

  “It’s just as well,” said Ilona. “I don’t think we’re in condition to do very much.”

  “You still feel that bad?” Jamie asked.

  “Terrible. What about you?”

  “Pretty punk. But I think we could at least go outside and do some more sampling. What about you, Joanna?”

  She looked miserable: pale and red eyed. There were dark rings under her eyes. Ilona looked worse: gaunt, hollow cheeked. Jamie knew that his own face was sunken, bleary.

  Connors said, “No way around it. We’re gonna have to tell Reed about this.”

  Jamie nodded reluctantly. “What about drilling a deep core while we’
re stuck here?”

  “No sense starting to unpack the power drill if we’ll have; to break it down and stow it away again when the storm hits. We’re in no great shape for heavy work anyway.”

  “But if there’s no storm we’ll have wasted the whole damned day.” Jamie realized he was starting to sound like Patel. For the same reason: precious time was being stolen from him, time he needed to do his work.

  “We ought to know if the storm’s going to happen in an hour or two,” Connors said.

  “Maybe,” said Jamie. “And maybe Toshima’s just going off the deep end.”

  “Want me to ask Mikhail?”

  Jamie knew that Vosnesensky would simply repeat what he had already said: Stay safely inside the rover and take no risks.

  Joanna was doggedly finishing her breakfast, spooning up the last of the frozen fruit dessert. “I can at least spend the day examining the rocks and soil samples we brought in yesterday,” she said.

  Ilona murmured, “I will assist you. I think I can manage that. The ones with the bright orange intrusions look interesting.”

  “Like Jamie’s green rock?” Joanna forced a smile.

  Ilona smiled back. “These are orange.”

  Jamie said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d analyze the core samples first.”

  “Not the rocks?”

  He started to shake his head but the motion brought fresh pain. “There’s heat coming up from below the surface and water in some form that makes up the morning mists. I think the core samples have more to tell us than colored rocks.”

  Joanna cocked her head slightly to one side. “If you wish,” she said, sounding unconvinced.

  “I’m going to call Reed,” Connors said, sliding out from behind the table.

  And I’m going to sit here like an idiot with nothing to do. The lab module was too small for three of them to work in it simultaneously. “I guess I’ll clean up,” he said.

  The women went slowly back to the airlock and through it to the lab module. Connors was already up in the cockpit calling Reed. Jamie stood alone at the narrow table littered with the remains of their breakfast, feeling a dull ache in his joints and a sullen throbbing in his head.

  It can’t be the flu, he told himself. We would have come down with it months ago if it was flu or any other kind of infectious disease. It’s something we’ve caught here, something from Mars. Can’t be anything else.

  He remembered his dream and shuddered.

  He’s let the cat out of the bag, Tony Reed said to himself as he studied the face of Pete Connors on his communications screen. Is it my imagination or has his complexion gone sallow?

  The astronaut was perspiring lightly, that much Reed could easily see. His eyes were bloodshot, his speech a bit slower than usual. And he had reported that all four of the people in the rover were feeling sick. Vosnesensky can’t hide that from Li. No matter how much Mikhail Andreivitch wants to cover this up, Connors has spilled the beans.

  “And you say that all four of you are in the same condition?” Reed asked.

  “Pretty much,” replied Connors. “Ilona seems the worst off. Jamie’s in the best shape—or at least he’s not complaining as much.”

  The stoical Indian. He’d probably refuse to utter a peep even if he were being roasted at the stake.

  “Any loss of appetite?” he asked aloud.

  Connors frowned with thought. Then, “Doesn’t seem to be. But we’re all so damned tired, it’s hard to tell.”

  “Hm, yes.” Reed chewed his bottom lip momentarily. “And you’re taking your vitamin supplements?”

  “Yessir. I see that they all take the pills every morning.”

  “You’ve only been out two days,” Reed muttered, “so it shouldn’t be any dietary deficiency. …”

  “It feels like we’re all coming down with the flu or something,” Connors volunteered.

  “I see.” Reed scratched his chin, fingered his pencil-thin moustache, ran a smoothing hand over his sandy hair. The same symptoms were showing up in the dome.

  “It’s difficult for me to do much for you remotely,” he said to Connors. “I’m afraid it would be best if you started back before things get any worse.”

  “But we just got here! We’re scheduled to be in the canyon for a week …”

  “Not if you’re all sick.” Vosnesensky would have to see the necessity of it, Reed told himself. After all, as medical officer here I have the authority to order them back to base. Even if the Russian objects.

  “Maybe if we all took a good shot of antibiotics?”

  “I doubt that it would help.”

  “Give us another day, at least. We’re not going anywhere today if that storm hits. Let’s see what develops over the next twenty-four hours.”

  Reed considered the astronaut’s earnest, anxious face. Connors was pleading with him. I am the team’s physician. I should know what to do. I ought to be able to deal with this. If I order them back now Vosnesensky will be furious. He’ll think it’s a reflection on him, most likely.

  “I’ve got to report this to Vosnesensky, you realize,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “This transmission is automatically monitored by the orbiter. And Kaliningrad.”

  Connors nodded glumly.

  Pursing his lips as though deep in careful thought, Reed at last offered, “I will recommend to Mikhail Andreivitch that you stay where you are for the next twenty-four hours. A dose of wide-spectrum antibiotic won’t hurt you; I’ll send specific written instructions over the computer link. Then we’ll see how you feel tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay! Great!” The astronaut was as grateful as a puppy.

  Reed terminated the conversation, then turned to his medical computer file and tapped out a prescription for the antibiotic. He pushed himself up from the chair slowly, reluctantly. I must face Vosnesensky, he told himself. Nothing for it but to beard him in his own den. Still, he dreaded the confrontation.

  The Russian was in the wardroom, huddled over a mug of steaming tea, talking in low earnest tones with Mironov in their native language. They both looked sick to Reed’s professional eye. Haggard, sallow complexions. Even their coveralls looked baggy and rumpled, not at all the neat aspect that they had presented only a few days earlier. Whatever it is, they’ve got it. And all the others, too. All except me. And possibly Toshima.

  Reed felt absurdly normal: healthy and strong. Clearheaded and alert. He had even cut down on his morning amphetamine cocktail, to check whether or not his seeming good health was a chemically induced artifact.

  The two Russians both looked up as Tony pulled out a chair and joined them.

  “The team in the rover is down with it,” Reed told them quietly, “whatever it is.”

  “Fatigue,” Vosnesensky said immediately. “Psychological fatigue. I have seen it on long-duration missions in orbit.”

  “After only thirty-seven days?” Reed almost sneered.

  “We have been in space for almost a year.”

  “Ah yes,” Reed admitted. “True enough.”

  “The stresses of this environment …,” Mironov started, but his voice trailed off weakly.

  “Mars is no more stressful than the moon or an orbiting space station,” Reed said. “Rather less stressful, actually, I should think.”

  “Then what is it?” Vosnesensky growled. “What is happening to us?”

  Reed shook his head. “Whatever it is, it’s affecting everyone here with the same symptoms: weakness, pains in the limbs, headaches.”

  “It is the flu,” Mironov said.

  Cocking an eyebrow at him, Reed said, “How could we all come down with the flu nearly a year after leaving Earth? Influenza viruses don’t lie dormant for that long. If it were the flu we would have seen it long before this.” Unless it’s a slow virus, Tony suddenly thought. Like Legionnaires’ disease, or some such.

  Mironov looked stubbornly unconvinced.

  “But no one in orbit has it,” R
eed pointed out, arguing as much with himself as with the cosmonaut.

  “The Martian flu,” Vosnesensky half joked.

  “It is patently impossible to contract a disease from a planet that is without any life of its own,” Reed snapped, almost angrily. “There are no viruses here to infect us. Even if there were Martian microbes, they would not be adapted to our cells. Mars could be covered with all sorts of bugs, but they wouldn’t bother us at all. Couldn’t, actually.”

  “That is the theory of the doctors,” Mironov mumbled gloomily.

  “Perhaps this is not a disease at all,” Vosnesensky said.

  “Not a disease?”

  “Coal miners get black lung,” Vosnesensky said, “not from germs but from breathing in coal dust.”

  Reed stared at him. This cosmonaut actually has a brain inside that thick skull!

  “Perhaps there is something in the Martian dust that is affecting us,” Vosnesensky said.

  “But we take great care to keep the dust out of our suits and out of our living habitat,” Reed pointed out.

  “The dust is very fine. Perhaps we do not take great enough care.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Reed.

  Mironov said, “We could check the air in here, see how much dust is suspended in it”

  “Yes,” said Vosnesensky. “We must do that.”

  Reed was about to reply when Toshima came rushing up to the table. He was wide-eyed with excitement. If the “Martian flu” had hit him, he showed no evidence of it.

  “The dust storm!” Toshima fairly shouted. “It has started!”

  SOL 37: AFTERNOON

  Grounded.

  Jamie felt like an errant teenager being punished by his parents. The rover was in perfectly good shape, and even though he felt weak and headachy, he saw no reason why he should not be moving onward, closer to the “village” he had seen.

  That’s where we’ve got to go, he kept telling himself. Maybe I can even climb up there, once we get to the base of the cliffs where that cleft is. I’ll bet there’s even a natural path up the cliff face to that cleft and the formation inside it. Or maybe they carved steps out of the rock.