She needed a good, solid talk, but sensed that Viktor was too distracted to really hear her. Time to have a session with Erika, her Earth-side counselor. She was trying to think of a way to work it in when Marc came inside with another task.
As biologist, she managed the hab's life support. The air scrubbers needed adjustment and filter changes. It was her turn to do the housekeeping, too. They fought a steady battle to keep dust down. Their suit shower plus self-shower converted the virulent peroxides on the dust surface to oxygen, a useful gain, and left her with watery soil for the greenhouse. They used a toilet that neatly separated solid and liquid waste, and the urine got recycled.
The one trick the bioengineers had not managed was converting the solids to anything useful or even nonsickening. Let the next expedition “realize existing in situ resources,” as the NASA manuals had put it, by composting.
The biological protocols demanded that they bury their waste here. Now their third capsule of wonderful waste was ready. “Let's do it now,” Marc said. “One less item on the list for the final checkout.”
It took two hours for her and Marc to get the awkward plastic liner out of the hab underskirting and onto the hauling deck of the dune buggy. Amazing, how large half a year of four people's shit was! A big, brown mass inside a mercifully opaque plastic sack, compacted and frozen solid. They had to do this—in full pressure suits, of course. Marc had already dug the pit for it a few klicks away, using Rover Boy's back-hoe. The peroxide dust would probably eat through the plastic within a few years, but then it would also neutralize the biological elements of the mess. Here was the bizarre surface chemistry's sole advantage—it made the risk of contamination tiny. No isolation lab on Earth was remotely as hostile to organic chemistry.
Mars taught hard lessons. How much Mother Earth did for humans without their noticing, for one. Recycling air, water, and food was an intricate dance of chemistry and physics, still poorly understood. She had to tinker with their systems constantly. Let the CO2 rise and they could all be dead before anyone noticed anything wrong. Watch the moisture content of the hab's air or they would all get “suit throat”— drying out of the throat until voices rasped.
Humans were walking litterbugs. The four of them shed human dander, duly vacuumed up and used in the greenhouse for valuable proteins and microorganisms. Early on, she had set out a sample—“a dish of dander,” she had called it in a published Letter to Nature—and Mars had killed every single cell within an hour. This surface was the most virulent clean room in the solar system.
Finally she could distract herself no longer from her inner conflict. She told the others she needed a break and went into the hab. “Good, rest,” Viktor sent on comm.
First, she showered twice and had a tiny glass of cognac—a minor breach of rules—to put the dung job behind her.
As soon as she had water on for tea, she turned on some piano pieces by Chopin. They all had divergent musical tastes. Viktor liked awful, moody Tschaikovsky and Mahler, Raoul some skippy South American steel-drum bands, Marc syrupy string gloop. Seldom could they agree on music over the hab speakers for long. Instead, they listened to their headphones. Safety dictated that they not play music while in their suits, because sound was a useful warning.
Chopin's brilliant, fast runs were soothing as she sat herself before the vid camera, needing a talk session. The real-time link was open, as it should have been, so she unloaded all her pent-up pressures on her counselor Earthside—Erika the Eager, Julia's private name for her. Julia had gone for days without sending anything to Erika, and now, alone in the hab, she found all sorts of largely unsorted emotions gushing out.
“Erika, you asked me last time why I was unsatisfied with the mission, and I stalled. Okay, here's the truth. Home!—sure, I want to get going. Sometimes, the call of it is an ache in my heart. My Mums and Dad, and the—what's that old saying?—the cool green hills of Earth …”
The trouble with delayed therapy was that her monologues lacked shape. With eight minutes’ time delay, real ping-pong discussions had proved impossible.
Still, they helped. She went on.
“Leaving Mars … Y'know, behind me I can feel the yearning of millions, of a whole civilization reaching out. I want to bring them something really big.”
As she talked it out, she understood better. Why had the issue of life here come to loom so large in the contemporary mind? It dominated all discussions and drove the whole prize-money system. Viktor and Raoul thought economic payoffs would be the key to the future of Mars, but they were engineers, bottom-line men, remorselessly practical. Just the sort you wanted along when a rocket had to work, but unreliable foreseers, particularly in their prophets-of-profits phase.
Certainly profit had motivated Axelrod to mount this whole huge project. But there was more to it than that.
She suspected that the biologists themselves were to blame. Two centuries before, they had started tinkering with the ideas of Adam Smith and life-of-the-party Thomas Malthus, drawing the analogy between markets and nature red in tooth and claw. The dread specter of Mechanism had entered into Life, and would never be banished, not after Darwin and Wallace's triumphal march across the theological thinking of millennia. God died in the minds of the intellectuals, and grew a rather sickly pallor even among the mildly educated.
All good science, to be sure. But to Julia, the biologists had left humanity without angels or spirits or any important Other to talk to. Somehow our intimate connection to the animals, especially the whales and chimps and porpoises, did not fill the bill. Humanity needed something bigger.
“So the way I see it is, behind our being here is a restless, unspoken craving. It's the scientific class, people like me, reaching out—through the space program, through the radio listeners of the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence—for evidence that we intellects aren't alone. That's why our discovery of fossil microbes satisfied nobody, not even me.”
She poured into words her sense of the tragic desolation outside. Mars had fought an epic struggle over billions of years, against the blunt forces of cold and desiccation, betrayed by inexorable laws of gravitation, chemistry, and thermodynamics. Had life climbed up against all the odds, done more than hold on?
“To me, evolution of even bacteria in such a hellish, dry cold is a miracle. But I can't leave it at that!”
She went on about trying to persuade the others, the varying positions of each, then remembered that this wasn't a strategy session. And Erika would not enter into any quarterbacking, anyway. Each counselor kept professional confidentiality and stayed out of crew disputes.
“So, well, just wish me luck. And don't try to talk me out of it!”
The trouble with therapy at long distance was that she would have loved a response right now. She paused, feeling awkward. “I just have to face up to the others, I guess.”
She could get an answer that evening, after Erika had a chance to think and frame something suitable; the counselors were on instant demand by the Consortium.
But as she punched off with her usual wry salutations, Julia realized that she did not really need a reply. Once the pressures were out, she felt much better.
The vent beckoned. And there was such a short time left.
16
JANUARY 17, 2018
SHE TOOK A CALCULATED RISK THAT EVENING, BRINGING UP THEIR FIRST day here.
They were all tired and edgy. Mars had worn the corners off them. As she watched the weary figures riding a dune buggy back from the ERV in the stretched shadows of twilight, the memory came back sharp and clear.
Partly it was the contrast. After landing they had left the Mars Landing-Habitat Module—soon to be just “the hab”—all four together, stepping off the landing pads together on cue, so there was no single First On Mars. That was planned; even Axelrod liked the gesture.
Before them lay a sandy vista streaked with radial blast marks from their landing exhaust. A few kilometers away reared the hilly wall
s of Thyra Crater, craggy and darker red, the minor welt a mere punctuation mark compared with Gusev Crater. A hundred fifty kilometers across, its ramparts reared all around them a kilometer high, catching the slanting rays of early morning like a vast shining wall.
Her first thought had been, It's even more beautiful than I had hoped.
The others felt something similar, she felt, but they carefully said nothing. This portion they had debated endlessly. As the hab cameras and their own handhelds watched, each of them made a gesture. None knew what the others planned. A large fraction of the human race would discover their decisions at the same time—or rather, after the time delay for transmission.
Each had done something quite characteristic.
Viktor had planted the Consortium flag. “But for the whole world. Remember that Mars belongs to no one country. It is for all of us.”
Marc had been undecided about what to do. In the end, his geologist's curiosity led him to turn over a rock. “This is igneous, but plainly shows signs of water erosion. Already something exciting!”
Julia looked under Marc's rock for signs of life. Nothing, of course, but she had felt a thrill to actually get a sample into her gloved hands.
Raoul had bent down, scratched a straight line in a rock ledge nearby.
“What, you're drawing a line?” Julia asked, laughing. “Us on one side, Airbus—if they ever get here—gets the other half of the planet?”
Raoul smiled. “Nope, it's a one. One day. And we have five hundred and seventy to go.”
So that evening, when she reminisced, she hoped it would make them think about all that had happened to them here. She even recalled their celebration of Katherine's baby two months after Raoul became their hero by sealing the water leak. Anything to bind them together, she figured.
When she received Erika's return message, and played it on her slate, she was pleased to see the counselor give the same sort of advice. “Plant thoughts about what they're really there for,” Erika had said in her warm, soothing tones. “Let your shared past do the work for you. Don't harangue.”
This was further than Julia could remember Erika going. Did the tight little circle of counselors and psych types have an agenda, too? No matter; if they were allies, all the better.
She cooked that evening, a luscious beef stroganoff done in rich creamy style with a lot of freeze-dried mushrooms. It was damned good, and they had the last bottle of red wine with it. Moods lightened. Raoul fell asleep at the table.
Seven weeks to go before the absolute optimum minimum-energy orbit for Earth.
Message from Earthside: No communications from Airbus, no update on their position. The German side of the operation did send a note that their team had the capability of sending down the “repair kit” Axelrod had paid so dearly for. It could come in on a small aeroshell and parachute to within approximately twenty-five kilometers of their site. “If the Mission Commander so decides,” the German message concluded.
“Hundred million and they do not deliver to door,” Viktor grumbled as he made coffee.
Raoul was silent and distracted, staring into space as he ate. Over breakfast Julia signaled to Marc, took a deep breath and made her pitch. The last few days’ work had pushed them hard. More than that, it had nudged them across an unseen boundary in their feelings. For them, Mars was a onetime experience. Once they left it would be all over.
But she had to try. She crept up on the subject, reasonably indirectly—or so she thought.
Raoul's head jerked up. “This is going to be about that vent trip again? I thought we laid that to rest. You didn't find anything the first time.”
“Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,” she shot back.
Raoul frowned. “Besides, there isn't time. We've still got the test to do.”
“We're ahead of your schedule,” said Julia.
Viktor cut in quickly. “Under normal circumstances, would be true.” He gestured at his ankle cast. “With this, I am clumsy. It takes longer to do everything.” He peered at Julia. “I need your help.”
They all knew that a public admission of weakness cost him a lot, and it touched her. He had said as much when they lay in each other's arms. But she was determined not to be swayed. She refused to meet his eyes. Damn. Why did women always have to choose? He never would've asked that of a man.
Impassioned, she used her Columbus argument—how could they go home when there was the chance they had only nibbled at the edges of discovery? Columbus never set foot on the continent that he had discovered.
Nods, but her little speech moved nobody.
Marc gave her a quick glance and she saw that he was going to come to her rescue. After days of grunt work, the scientist in him yearned for this last chance as much as she did. The dung job had somehow united them, without their ever discussing it.
He gave them all his easy smile. Again she had the flash recognition that he could quite easily have become an actor of the Tom Cruise type. He was naturally mellow, the sort of man everyone liked immediately.
“We can do it in two days,” Marc said amiably. “We'll work here tomorrow morning, fine. Get a lot of gear set up in the ERV. Then we drive Red Rover to the site and set up the pulleys by nightfall. Next day we'll explore the vent and come back. Minimum time lost. Plenty of room left before the liftoff test.” He looked at Viktor and Raoul. “Bottom line is, we feel we have to do this.”
Technically, the two scientists could amend mission plans if they felt it was warranted. Viktor could overrule that. But he shook his head, opened his mouth—
—and a priority message popped up on the board, softly buzzing. When they called it up, there was Axelrod.
“Hi, my guys! I got to come at you right away on this one. No news from Airbus, no, but I been thinking about that vent you found. It could be a big thing, and I don't like the idea of walking away from it.”
Julia frowned. When they had reported on Viktor's ankle and the vent, Axelrod had barely spent a sentence on anything but the injury. Now he was all concern, shaking his head with folded arms, the camera shooting him from below as he leaned back on his mahogany desk under soft indirect lighting.
“If you can find time in your schedule—and only if—I'd sure appreciate it if you could give that place another look-see. Maybe Julia and Marc, if they can be spared?” A winning grin. “Thing is, we're all of us back here proud of all you've accomplished, but if there's something in that vent that bears on life on Mars—life still, well, alive— we'd sure like to know it. That would enhance the value of this expedition for all humankind. Think on it, will you?”
He gave them a salute as his image faded.
Silence. One by one, the men turned to look at her.
Julia said, “You think I went to him.”
“And you didn't?” Raoul's scowl was frankly disbelieving.
“No. Not a word.”
“You were in here a long time yesterday, all alone,” Marc said.
“I called Erika. That's all.”
“You're sure?” Raoul's scowl did not go away.
“Damned right I'm sure!”
Viktor had kept his face blank the whole time. His eyes bore into her. “Then this is serious for two reasons,” he said gently.
“Axelrod's giving us orders, that's pretty serious,” Marc said. “We are in charge of scheduling on the ground.”
“Is true,” Viktor said, “and if was just that, I would not be getting, as you say, my shorts in a knot. We could maybe spare you two for a day. But big point is that the counselors are not reliable now.”
They all nodded. A cardinal point for the last two years had been their private transmissions. Nothing was more personal than their counselor chats. There they could pour out their feelings, whine and complain, vent anger, lapse into depression or self-pity or anything they liked, and it would not get back to anybody on Earth. Or Mars. A release.
“Damn bastard,” Marc said.
“Yeah,” Raoul s
aid sullenly. “How long has he been piping into everything we send? Even“—he sat upright—”my talks with Katherine.” His jaw clenched.
Viktor's face was composed, giving nothing away, but she could tell it was a struggle for him; his fingers had knotted into tight bunches, their tips white. “Why does he give this away now?”
“Maybe he just slipped up, didn't realize we'd figure it out,” Marc said.
“Or maybe he doesn't care whether we know, not now,” Raoul said bitterly. “Now that we've got to bust ass just to get home. So what if he piles on the work? So what—”
“I think is his error, you are right,” Viktor moved into Raoul's building tide of anger. “He thinks maybe we are too tired to figure him out? And he smells a big story here, maybe the biggest—and has already sold to TV or somebody.”
Julia said, “I don't think he's quite that bad. It could be that Axelrod simply wants to get one more triumph out of this expedition. He's sure we'll come home, and he wants us to have the most glory, the most discoveries, we can.”
Marc looked at her with genuine curiosity. “You're ready to put that positive a spin on it? It was your conversation with Erika he tapped into.”
She shrugged ruefully. “Don't I know it. Who is the leak? We'll never really know, not until we get back and get these clowns alone to ask.”
Viktor said softly, “Did Erika give any sign later? That she had …”
“No, none I could read.”
“So we can't know,” Raoul said. “Either Axelrod eavesdropped or Erika ratted.”
Marc said, “How long it's been going on, we dunno that either.”
“So we put it aside,” Viktor said decisively. When he was being captain his sentences rose at the last word, cutting off debate. It worked well, and Julia had always wondered if he was even conscious of it. Better not to ask; it might kill the effect for him.
“We just forget?” Raoul asked.
“Until we get Earthside, yes,” Viktor said. “And in meantime we consider what Axelrod says at face value.”
The Martian Race Page 17