EARTH

HOUSTON: "It must be bad," said Alberto Brumado. "Very bad. Joanna refuses to speak to me. Something must be terribly wrong."

For the first time since Edith had met him, Brumado looked his sixty-some years. His face was lined with worry; his boyish grin had been replaced by a somber, fearful frown.

She sat on the bed next to him. "Do you think the project people aren’t telling you the whole story?"

They had taken adjoining rooms at one of the dozen hotels lining the road that passed the Johnson Space Center, neither Brumado nor Edith even thinking ahead far enough to consider who would pay for her room. As they had checked in, Edith had noticed that the lobby was filling up with reporters and camera crews. They sensed that something was happening, a big news story was about to break. Somebody was leaking information.

Brumado wrung his hands. "Joanna is trapped in the rover and they are all ill. Apparently they have come down with some sort of vitamin deficiency disease."

"Holy lord!" Edith breathed. "How bad off are they?"

"That is what I do not know. I wanted to speak with Joanna, but she refused to talk to me."

"Refused? Why?"

"I don’t know!" he shouted.

Edith’s mind raced. Jamie must be sick too, then. Stuck out there in the wilderness and sick. Maybe dying. And all those newshounds gathering down in the lobby. Like buzzards circling over a wounded deer.

"And the project still wants to keep a blackout on the news?" she asked.

Brumado nodded, his face a portrait of misery. "My baby is dying out there and she won’t even speak to me."

"Alberto — the blackout won’t work. The reporters already know something big is stirring. It’s only a matter of time until somebody spills their guts, and then you’re going to have a three-ring circus here."

His deep dark eyes focused on her, as if seeing her for the first time. "You want to break the story, is that it?"

"If I don’t, somebody else will."

"Our agreement — that doesn’t matter to you anymore?"

"This is my big chance, Alberto. And yours."

"Mine?"

"You’re the soul of the Mars Project. Everybody calls you that, right? Well, now’s the time for you to get in front of those cameras and tell the world what’s happening up there on Mars. Tell it your own way. You’ve got to be the spokesman for the project now. You’ve got to be the link between them and the rest of the world."

"I can’t… the project administration would never allow it. They have their own media relations staffs, their own spokespersons…"

Edith shook her golden curls. "It’s got to be you, Alberto. Everybody in the world knows you and trusts you; they been watching you on their TVs for more’n thirty years. You’re as respected as ol’ Walter Cronkite, for lord’s sake. You’ve got to be the one who faces the media."

He got up from the bed and paced to the curtained window.

"You can tell the world what’s happening, Alberto. Tell it your way, the right way. Otherwise those reporters are going to get bits and pieces from leaks and hints and they’ll put their own suspicions and guesswork on the air. It’ll be a fiasco, a grade-A numero-uno disaster for the Mars Project. Every enemy the project’s ever had will be on TV screamin’ and yellin’ their heads off. You know how they work. If you don’t get in front of the cameras, and damned soon, they will."

"But my daughter…"

"Do it for her!" Edith snapped. "You want her to die up there while people down here are saying that exploring Mars was all a big mistake? A big waste of money?"

"I don’t know if I can do it."

"Nobody else can."

His back was still to her. He pulled the window drapery open a little. "My god, there are three TV trucks down on the parking lot — and another one pulling in."

"Somebody’s already leaking the word," Edith said.

Brumado turned back toward her, his face grim, doubtful. "I could call Kaliningrad. If they have no objection to your plan…"

"Whether they do or not, you’ve got to do it. You’re not officially part of the project. They can’t control you."

He looked as if he were going to object, but instead he went to the telephone.

"I’ll go downstairs and tell the guys in the lobby that you’ll talk to them," Edith said.

Brumado looked up at her, hesitated a fraction of a second, then nodded unhappily.

Edith went out into the corridor, heading for the elevator. It’s the right thing to do, she kept telling herself. Whether or not it helps me, it’s the right thing to do. And maybe I can get through to Jamie. Maybe they’ll let us talk to them once we break the story.

SOL 40: SUNDOWN

The thermometer on the instrument cluster built into Jamie’s left sleeve read forty below zero Celsius. He almost smiled. The one place where the Celsius and Fahrenheit scales agree: forty below is forty below on either system. Cold, no matter which way you read it.

The sun had just touched the jagged horizon, throwing immensely elongated shadows across the broken, rocky ground. Jamie saw his own shadow reaching out incredibly, stretching far out in front of him. But nowhere near far enough.

He had been pushing forward around the rippled sand that betrayed the dust-drowned crater. When he turned to see the tiny lifeless sun he also saw his rover, two thirds sunk in the red dust, disappointingly close. He had been trudging around the ghost crater’s perimeter for more than an hour, yet it seemed that he had hardly begun his trek to the second vehicle.

The cable stretched from the connection on his harness backward toward the partially buried rover, most of it resting on the ridged surface of the sand. The farther I go around the crater, the more cable’s going to be lying on the sand, Jamie said to himself. That shouldn’t cause any problems. I don’t think it will. Shouldn’t be any problem at all. The cable won’t sink into the damned sand. Even if it does we can winch it taut if I get to Vosnesensky’s rover. Not if. When. When.

He kept walking. Even when he turned backward he kept his legs moving toward his goal: that second rover where Vosnesensky and Reed and Ivshenko were waiting for him.

It was getting dark. And cold. Jamie’s legs felt rubbery, weak. Cold saps your strength. Got to keep going.

He walked at the slow, steady pace he had learned from his grandfather when they had hunted mule deer up in the mountains. "Just get your rhythm right," Al would say, "and you can walk all damned day, no trouble. It’s all in the rhythm. Don’t hurry. Don’t rush. The doer won’t run very far. You can walk him until he’s exhausted and ready to drop at your feet."

Yeah. Right, Grandfather. If you’re healthy. If you’ve been getting all your vitamins. If you’re breathing real air and it’s not forty below zero and dropping fast.

It was getting too dark to see the ground. Jamie reached up and turned on the lamp atop his helmet. Don’t want to step into the sand by mistake. Wonder how golfers would like it here on Mars? Sand traps two kilometers wide. No water hazards. Maybe we ought to bring a set of clubs here the next time. Might start a demand for tourism. Take your vacation on Mars. Climb the solar system’s tallest mountain. Drink a glass of Martian Perrier. Put your bootprints where no one has stepped before.

"Jamie! Did you hear me?"

He snapped his attention to Vosnesensky’s demanding voice. "What? What did you say?"

"I asked if you had turned on your helmet lamp. It is becoming quite dark."

"Yes, it’s on."

"Can you see the ground well enough to guide yourself?"

Jamie looked down. He was trudging along the hard-packed stony soil. A dozen paces to his right the rippled sand began.

"Yep. I can see okay."