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First Landing

Page 3

by Robert Zubrin

OPHIR PLANUM

  OCT. 26, 2011 15:20 CST

  16:43 MARS LOCAL TIME (MLT)

  MCGEE PEERED OUT the Hab Module’s dusty window at the spectacular Martian landscape. His abused arm throbbed, the ache of the sprain only slightly moderated by the anti-inflammatory and cold pack Rebecca Sherman had administered shortly after landing. But the awe he felt dulled the pain.

  This moment was grand beyond measure, a historian’s dream, the first landing on a planet that could someday be home to a new branch of human civilization. The pen of an epic poet like Homer or Milton, or a great historian like Herodotus or Thucydides, should be here to record the experience for future generations. Unfortunately, such men were not available. Instead, Kevin McGee was the inadequate man of letters on the mission, who would provide humanity with an account in workmanlike but ordinary prose. Still, he had to try.

  He turned on his minicorder. Time to be brilliant, poetic . . . “Today is October 26, 2011. Our ship, the Beagle, after a voyage of ten months from Earth and passing Venus has at last landed on the red planet. Looking out the window now, I see a cratered plain illuminated by the late afternoon Sun, backed by spectacular cliffs unlike any I’ve ever seen on Earth.

  “Mars from space was a stupendous sight. It looked a little like the Moon, with most of its surface 3.8 billion years old, dating back to the violent era in solar system history when planets and moons were cratered by the impact of meteorites. But this is not the Moon—it’s much bigger.

  “Mars is a world like Earth, but bleached of the sweet blues and green of home. You can sense the violence of the place, its complicated terrain having been shaped by impacts, volcanoes, wind, water, and ice. As we approached, I could see the giant shield volcanoes along the crest of the Tharsis bulge, as well as runoff channels and ancient dry riverbeds that emptied into what looked like the basin of a long-gone sea in the northern hemisphere.”

  McGee stopped, discouraged by the mundane quality of his prose. He needed to say something deep. Suddenly he was struck by a new idea. “Mars had rivers and seas while Earth’s oceans were still boiling. Within our solar system, Life’s first opportunity to blossom would have been here, during an era when fast and furious meteors were bombarding its surface. All those craters—were they left behind as chunks of the living Mars were driven into space? Did the bombardment rip away the planet’s life-cradling atmosphere too? Mars, was that the price that you paid to send your spawn aloft, perhaps to seed the Earth? If so, then . . . Father, we have returned.” He smiled, satisfied at last.

  “Very poetic, Kevin.”

  Startled, McGee looked up to see Rebecca Sherman, the Beagle’s doctor and chief mission scientist. She leaned over him and stared out at the same view, pressing close. McGee tensed in spite of himself. Tall and classically beautiful, Rebecca was sexually and intellectually intimidating even at a distance; at this range she was devastating.

  “So . . . you liked it?”

  “Well, I would say that it’s both good and original.”

  For a moment, he was gratified by the remark; then Rebecca’s condescending smile reminded him of the crushing subtext. But unfortunately, the part that is good is not original and the part that is original is not good—Samuel Johnson.

  “Though the insight isn’t new, I did like your metaphorical grasp of the Copernican principle suggesting the universal nature of life. Of course, that’s what we’ve got to prove. But, if my colleagues on NASA’s Mars Science Working Group shared half your intuition on that score—” She paused and looked out the window for a moment, then turned back to grin at him. “Then at least I would be dealing with a bunch of half-wits.”

  McGee chuckled along with her, only to be stopped by her raised finger. “But please, Kevin, can’t you get the point across without bringing in such dreary medieval metaphors? Mars as martyr? You can do better than that.” She turned to gaze out the window again. Stung, McGee pretended to do likewise, thinking of the beautiful doctor more than of the scenery.

  Rebecca Sherman certainly had it all: exclusive prep-school background, Radcliffe B.A., Ph.D. from Cornell in exobiology on a Carl Sagan Fellowship, M.D. from Harvard Medical School, an international scientific reputation, not to mention liberal politics and a cosmopolitan sophistication. Rebecca could stop McGee’s breath simply by combing her long brunette hair in his presence, all the while acting as if she were completely unaware of her effect on him. Never wore a spot of makeup, didn’t need any. Few men could resist her when she flashed her smile. McGee dreamed about her nearly every night.

  “Well, have you come up with anything?”

  McGee hadn’t realized that she’d been waiting for him to make another attempt at a profound quote; instead, he had wasted the moment in fantasy. Wisely, he decided to raise the white flag. “Sorry, I’m just drawing a blank. Everything I come up with seems either mundane or contrived. It’s a grand moment, but I can’t seem to get a handle on it.”

  Having won this battle of wits, Rebecca’s expression changed from subtle mockery to big-sister concern. She gave him an honest look in the eye. “Kevin, cobblers should stick to their lasts.” She turned to face the window again.

  Cobblers should stick to their lasts. What could that mean? Talk about what you know. He brightened. Forget about the Mars of the geologists; tell us about the Mars of the imagination. Okay, coach, you got it. He switched the recorder back on, and this time his blood warmed as he spoke, recalling the wonderful, fictional Mars that had inspired him in his youth.

  “Edgar Rice Burroughs already told us about this place. Once there were canals here, and cities, capitals of mighty empires that had names like Helium, Ptarth, and Manator. I can now see one of the plains upon which thundering herds of six-legged thoats ran, ridden by their masters, the barbaric green-skinned Tharks and Warhoons.”

  Rebecca stared at him with a look at turns quizzical, then deliberately cross-eyed. For once, he wasn’t intimidated by her. The Muse was singing in him now, and not even Rebecca could stop it. “I am looking at a pink sky, in which once the great battle fleets of the red men flew, commanded by their proud jeddaks, or daring and willful princesses”—McGee sneaked a glance at Rebecca; she’d definitely pass in that role—“seeking glory, fortune, love, and adventure beneath the two hurtling moons of Barsoom.”

  He took a breath, smiling to himself. “Ah, Barsoom, you were destroyed by the Mariner probes, which banished you into mere fiction. But now we are here to make amends. Once again, there are people on Mars, and before long there will be cities, and you shall be filled with new life, love, adventure, and unlimited potential. For those of us who dream will not be stopped, and the fact that we five pioneers are here proves that the human imagination is the most powerful force in the universe. We know your secret, Mars, we who dream by day. We know that you are not a rock, but a world, one filled with wonders waiting to be discovered and history waiting to be made by a new branch of human civilization waiting to be born.

  “And so, Red Planet, prepare to live again! For the sight that meets my eyes now out this porthole shall someday greet the eyes of numberless immigrants, dreamers who shall fill you with Life as you fill them with Hope. Barsoom, awake! Your people are here.”

  He turned off the recorder and peered gamely at Rebecca, who gave him a sly look. “Any better?”

  “Well, Kevin, it’s all you,” she replied, laughing softly. With a shake of her gorgeous hair, she glanced toward the bridge. “Hey, I gotta run. Keep working on it. I’ll be back to check on that arm.” As Rebecca hurried off, she held up her hand and said with a mocking smile, “By the way, I believe the word is Kaor.” The classic Barsoomian salute. From Brontë to Burroughs, Rebecca was well-read.

  Mildly humiliated, McGee consoled himself with the thought that over the months of flight he had occasionally beaten her at Scrabble. He had done so yesterday, as a matter of fact. Even so, somehow she always managed to win four games out of seven, thereby dooming him to do her chore duty for the
following week. Was she hustling him? Probably. But McGee didn’t mind. As the historian onboard, he didn’t have a lot to do, and Rebecca used her liberated time to write magazine articles that she promptly E-mailed to every forum of public opinion from the Weekly Reader to Newsweek to the Journal of Geophysical Research, all for the purpose of mobilizing public support for a follow-up Mars mission.

  But hey, McGee, aren’t you supposed to be the writer here? And remember that Fremont novel about the Western frontier you promised yourself you would write during the boring outbound cruise? Nearly a year wasted, and you haven’t written ten pages. Housework is your excuse for not writing. Admit it.

  Not true, McGee told his nagging inner critic. I’m doing it to have some degree of contact with Rebecca. Ah, Rebecca, goddess with the mind of an Einstein in the body of the young Kelly McGillis. And the heart of Joan of Arc, La Passionara, Bernadette Devlin. I am a mere historian; you are a maker of history.

  A member of the old Mars Underground, Rebecca Sherman was one of a handful of people who had made the whole mission happen. She and McKay, Stoker, and the rest who realized that it is people with ideas who make history. It had been almost a decade and a half since Rebecca’s first Mars Society convention, but she’d finally done it. In fact, McGee had seen her score the winning touchdown in her testimony to the Senate committee three years ago.

  Did she notice him, sitting in the back of the room? He’d been there covering the hearing for the Seattle Times. McGee had given her good press; had she even paid attention? He doubted it. But, by God, she’d been perfect. Just the right mixture of brilliant reason, passionate conviction, girlish innocence, and womanly charm. In less than an hour Rebecca had turned three votes, two of which were clearly immovable. You have magical powers, Rebecca; do you know that? I’ll bet you do.

  But why did she have to keep him at such a distance? Of the Beagle’s crew of five, they were the only two at home in the world of ideas from Plato to Shakespeare, intellectuals who were passionate about real music and real poetry. On the long outbound journey, he and Rebecca had whiled away hours discussing opera, philosophy, literature. He couldn’t imagine doing that with Luke Johnson, the mission’s redneck geologist, or Gwen Llewellyn, the tomboy flight engineer, or Mission Commander Townsend, a test pilot who’d made the varsity. What did Rebecca really have in common with the others?

  McGee’s inner critic answered his question promptly and accurately—mutual respect, the kind that comes from being part of a team that had trained together for years, endured hardship and heartbreak, and beat nine competing teams to win the privilege and eternal honor of being the crew of the first human mission to Mars. In other words, the kind of respect that McGee could never have, since he was a last-minute addition to the crew, a mere replacement for a team member who should rightfully be here.

  The geologist opened a nearby locker and pulled out a Marsuit. McGee called over to him as he checked out the suit, “What’s the plan for the first sortie to the surface, Luke?”

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” The geologist moved toward the control area, his overpriced fake cowboy boots clanging on the deck.

  Disappointed and annoyed, McGee watched him depart. It had been this way since the crew shakedown simulation at the Devon Island Mars Arctic Research Station. Even at the top of the world, the team had excluded him from their camaraderie for the whole nine months there, treated him like a polar bear cub with rotten-herring breath.

  Rebecca approached again, clipboard in hand. McGee ventured an inquiry. “Looks like they’re getting ready to go EVA.”

  “Perform an EVA,” she corrected.

  “Whatever.” He looked her straight in the face and summoned a demanding tone. “When? I’ve got a right to know.”

  For a moment, she dropped her condescending smile. “Yeah, well, I guess you do. Not till tomorrow morning. Townsend wants a full system checkout before we go outside. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get a full set of readouts on the status of the life-support system. Keep that ice pack on. Be back in a bit.”

  Feeling like a fifth wheel, McGee watched her exchange a few words with Townsend and then disappear into the lab. He switched his attention to the control section. There they were, Colonel Andrew Townsend, USAF, and Army Major Guenevere Llewellyn, the pair who would make the mission’s life-or-death decisions, no input from the affected parties necessary. Military thinking. How charming.

  Still, if the recent crisis was any test, the crew could not be in better hands. He stared at Townsend. The former fighter jock sat in the pilot’s chair, wearing an old bomber jacket, half open, and a suitably decrepit military peaked hat. He looked like he’d just walked off the set of Twelve O’Clock High. McGee laughed to himself. “The target for today is Hamburg. Gentlemen, start your engines.” Well, it looks like you managed to get some real flying in, Ace.

  Next, McGee regarded the flight engineer, who was arguing with Townsend in hushed but animated tones. Suddenly, she shook her head so forcefully that her two red braids, which protruded from her Braves cap, flew like wings over her shoulders. In her own freckle-faced way, Red Wing—was it the flying braids or the big knife she kept in her boot that had earned her such an Army nickname?—was kind of cute. Not a goddess like Rebecca, but . . . cute. Definitely good enough to pass.

  At thirty, Gwen was also the youngest person on the crew, and there was yet a touch of the girl about her. McGee would have bet his last dollar she was still a virgin. Unfortunately, the only things she seemed interested in were machinery, baseball, and the King James Bible. Sure, she was of humble origins, a coal-miner’s daughter whose daddy had died of black lung. Nothing wrong with all that, he reminded himself, but it was too bad she had to wear it on her sleeve.

  Townsend, Gwen, and Rebecca were an ill-assorted trio, but individually they were all superb at what they did; the basis for their selection on the mission had been obvious. And while rather cool toward McGee, they were at least civil.

  But Luke Johnson was another matter. The geologist seemed to hold some kind of grudge against McGee. As astronauts went, Luke was only average, but behind-the-scenes Texas political pull had played a role in getting him chosen for the mission. While the other crew members might not know that, McGee, as a political insider, did. And Luke must know that he did. That had to be it.

  McGee’s thoughts about Luke were pleasantly interrupted by the return of Rebecca.

  “Okay, Kevin,” she said brightly. “Life support systems are secure. Now let’s have a real look at that arm.”

  * * *

  Dr. Rebecca Sherman was glad to be free of further responsibility in the post-landing ship systems checkout. As a doctor, her proper place was with the injured. Despite his bumps and bruises, Luke wasn’t too bad off and would do fine with ice and a local anesthetic. He still had thirty teeth left.

  McGee was another story, though. She leaned over her patient, probing around his arm and shoulder. As she worked, she noticed an oddly satisfied expression on his face. I’ll bet this really sends you, Kevin. Whatever turns you on.

  She stepped back. “Well, Kevin, you’re a lucky boy. Lots of contusions and sprains, but no broken bones or dislocations.”

  “The luck of the Irish, to have my wounds place me in your arms.”

  Rebecca shook her head without comment. The writer wasn’t a bad sort . . . in fact, he was not unlike the kind of men she dated back home. Funny, intelligent, and sensitive—for a man, anyway—and he clearly respected her for her mind. So what if he wasn’t a trained scientist? Most of the so-called scientists she knew weren’t really scientists either. They were just members of a profession that “did science,” churning out meaningless papers in an endless pursuit of the next grant. Or they were research technicians with advanced degrees, like that jerk Luke Johnson, who’d been inserted on this mission by a bunch of idiots at NASA HQ.

  Kato was like that too, although Rebecca would have preferred the chemist’s company to the Texan’s; t
he fact that Kevin McGee had replaced Kato on the mission was really no great loss for science, though it hadn’t been fair. Kato had trained for six years, only to be replaced by McGee at the last minute.

  Actually, it made sense to have a man of letters on the mission. And McGee’s literate bent and poetic imagination made him much more interesting to talk to than the other members of the crew. The problem was, the writer was obviously infatuated with her, and if she gave him the slightest encouragement he’d fall madly in love with her. Rebecca couldn’t have that. She’d worked almost twenty years to make this mission happen, and there was far too much at stake to let anything interfere.

  Maybe later, when it was all over and they were back on Earth, but not now.

  She held an ice pack to his shoulder where the sprains were worst. “How does that feel?”

  “Much better, thanks.”

  Rebecca noticed Gwen advancing toward them from across the cabin. Back during training, she’d been overjoyed when she heard about Gwen’s assignment to her team; otherwise the rest of the crew would have been all male, and she didn’t relish spending a total of two and half years in a locker room. While Gwen’s career wasn’t a path she would have chosen for herself, any woman who could make major in the U.S. Army and win a Silver Star in combat was clearly a plus. Rebecca had been sure they’d hit it off like sisters.

  Unfortunately, that hadn’t happened. Gwen might be a feminist of a sort, but it was strictly the Annie Oakley sort. Despite having overcome the disadvantages of poverty and gender discrimination to make herself a place in a man’s world, Gwen was resolutely against any progressive reforms that would have made it easier for other women to do likewise. Beyond that, Gwen was a diehard conservative, a militarist and religious fanatic who seemed opposed to everything that Rebecca believed in. The more the two women had talked, the clearer it became that the major resented not only Rebecca’s liberal views, but her modern life-style, her privileged childhood, her freedom from organized religion, her good looks, her education—everything.

 

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