Mars (6 page)

Yet he put the helmet on and strapped it tight under his chin.

“Is easy,” Zavgorodny said. “You have done gymnastics. It is on your file. Just land with knees bent and roll over. Easy.”

Jamie was-shaking. The helmet felt as if it weighed three hundred pounds. His left hand was wrapped around that overhead rod in a death grip. His right was fumbling along the parachute harness straps, searching blindly for the D-ring that would release the chute.

Zavgorodny looked quite serious now. The plane was banking slightly, tilting them toward the open, yawning hole in the plane’s side. Jamie planted his feet on the metal flooring as solidly as he could, glad that he had worn a sturdy pair of boots.

The Russian took his right hand and placed it on the D-ring. The metal felt cold as death to Jamie.

“Not to worry,” Zavgorodny shouted, his voice muffled by Jamie’s helmet. “I attach static line to overhead. It opens chute automatically. No problem.”

“Yeah,” Jamie’s voice was shaky. His insides were boiling. He could feel sweat trickling down his ribs even though he felt shivering cold.

“You step out. You count to twenty. Understand? If chute has not opened by then, you pull ring. Understand?”

Jamie nodded.

“I will follow behind you. If you die I will bury you.” His grin returned. Jamie felt like puking.

Zavgorodny gave him a long probing look. “You want to go back and sit down?”

Every atom in Jamie’s being wanted to answer a fervent “Yes!” But he shook his head and took a hesitant, frightened step toward the open hatch.

The Russian reached up and slid the visor over Jamie’s eyes. “Count to twenty. Slowly. I will see you on ground in two minutes. Maybe three.”

Jamie swallowed hard and let Zavgorodny position him squarely at the lip of the hatch. The ground looked iron-hard and very, very far below. They were in shadow, the overhead wing was shading them, the propeller too far forward to be any danger. Jamie took that all in with a single wild glance.

A tap on his shoulder. Jamie hesitated a heartbeat, then pushed off with both feet.

Nothing. No motion. No sound except the thrum of wind rushing past. Jamie suddenly felt that he was in a dream, just hanging in emptiness, floating really, waiting to wake up safe and somehow disappointed in bed. The plane had disappeared somewhere behind and above him. The ground was miles below, revolving slowly, not getting noticeably closer.

He was spinning, turning lazily as he floated in mid-air. It was almost pleasant. Fun, nearly. Just hanging in nothingness, separated from the entire world, alone, totally alone and free.

It was as if he had no body, no physical existence at all. Nothing but pure spirit, clean and light as the air itself. He remembered the old legends his grandfather had told him about Navaho heroes who had traveled across the bridge of the rainbow. Must be like this, he thought, high above the world, floating, floating. Like Coyote, when he hitched a ride on a comet.

He realized with a heart-stopping lurch that he had forgotten to count. And his hand had come off the D-ring. He fumbled awkwardly, seeing now that the hard baked dry ground was rushing up to smash him, pulverize him, kill him dead, dead, dead.

A gigantic hand grabbed him and nearly snapped his head off. He twisted in mid-air as new sounds erupted all around him. Like the snapping of a sail, his parachute unfolded and spread above him, leaving Jamie hanging in the straps floating gently down toward the barren ground.

His heart was hammering in his ears, yet he felt disappointed. Like a kid who had gone through the terrors of his first roller-coaster ride and now was sad that it had ended. Far down below he could see the tiny figure of a man gathering up a dirty-white parachute.

I did it! Jamie thought. I made the jump. He wanted to give out a real Indian victory whoop.

But the sober side of his mind warned, You’ve still got to land without breaking your ankles. Or popping that damned incision.

The ground was really rushing up at him now. Relax. Bend your knees. Let your legs absorb the shock.

He hit hard, rolled over twice, and then felt the hot wind
tugging at his billowing chute. Suddenly Zavgorodny was at his side pulling on the cords, and the other cosmonaut was wrapping his arms around the chute itself like a man trying to get a ton of wrapping paper back inside a box.

Jamie got to his feet shakily. They helped him wriggle out of the chute harness. The plane circled lazily overhead.

“You did hokay,” Zavgorodny said, smiling broadly now.

“How’d you get down so fast?” Jamie asked.

“I did free-fall, went past you. You did not see me? I was like a rocket!”

“Yuri is free-fall champion,” said the other cosmonaut.

The plane was coming in to land, flaps down, engines coughing. Its wheels hit the ground and kicked up enormous plumes of dust.

“So now we go to Muzhestvo?” Jamie asked Zavgorodny.

The Russian shook his head. “We have found it already.
Muzhestvo
means in English courage. You have courage, James Waterman. I am glad.”

Jamie took a deep breath. “Me too.”

“We four,” Zavgorodny said, “we will not go to Mars. But some of our friends will. We will not allow anyone who does not show courage to go to Mars.”

“How can you …?”

“Others test you for knowledge, for health, for working with necessary equipment. We test for courage. No one without courage goes to Mars. It would make a danger for our fellow cosmonauts.”

“Muzhestvo,” Jamie said.

Zavgorodny laughed and slapped him on the back and they started walking across the bare dusty ground toward the waiting plane.

Muzhestvo, Jamie repeated to himself. Their version of a sacred ritual. Like a Navaho purifying rite. I’m one of them now. I’ve proved it to them. I’ve proved it to myself.

The dome was neatly laid out with two airlocks on opposite sides of its circular perimeter, all the life-support equipment in the center, and precisely partitioned little cells for each of the twelve team members arranged in an arc on one side of the floor. The plastic partitions were two meters high, like a set of office cubicles in a bank staffed by basketball players. The psychologists had insisted that the tall partitions be colored in cool pastels. Jamie would have preferred the bold warm hues of his native desert. We’re going to need all the warmth we can get here, he thought.

Two phonebooth-sized bathrooms stood at either end of the personnel cubicles. Scheduling would be a major headache.

Common areas were grouped around the center: a galley; a wardroom that was nothing more than a trio of tables with spindly Martian-gravity chairs of lightweight plastic; and a communications center with desktop computers and display screens. Workstations for the individual scientists were arrayed along the circular outer wall. Each scientist was responsible for unpacking his or her own equipment and setting up a workstation. Most of their equipment was still up in orbit; it was to be brought down by the second lander.

After their long day of labor, the four scientists and two astronauts began to shrug out of their backpacks and peel off the hard suits they had been wearing for more than twenty hours.

Within minutes the suits were strewn on the floor like discarded pieces of brightly colored armor, and the six team members stood in their coveralls of tan or olive green or pale aqua blue. We look like human beings again, Jamie thought.

Frightened human beings. Each staring silently at the others, as if seeing them for the first time. Each realizing with utter finality that they were more than a hundred million kilometers from home, from safety, that a single failed transistor or a slight rip in the dome’s plastic skin could kill them all without warning or mercy.

They stood in silence, wide-eyed, openmouthed, hands held stiffly away from their bodies, as if testing the world on which they stood and trying to determine if it would be kind to them or not. Like children suddenly thrust into a totally new place, they held their breath and stared silently around them.

Tony Reed broke the tense silence. “I hate to bring up anything so pedestrian, but I’m rather peckish. How about some supper?”

Vosnesensky snorted, Connors laughed out loud, and the others grinned broadly. They left their discarded suits on the floor and trooped to the galley where six frozen precooked meals were speedily microwaved to steaming readiness.

Joanna Brumado disappeared into her own cubicle briefly and came back with a bottle of Spanish champagne.

“You brought that all the way from Brazil?” Pete Connors asked.

Reed said disdainfully, “Of course not. Obviously Joanna fermented the grapes on the way here.”

The cork popped noisily and champagne frothed over their dining table.

“I’m afraid it’s not chilled,” Joanna apologized.

“That’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”

Jamie thought, Just put it outside for a minute or so. That’ll ice it down.

There was enough champagne for one drink each. Reed sat between the willowy blonde Ilona and the dark-eyed little Joanna. The Israeli had the lean, haughty look of an aristocrat, even in drab coveralls. Joanna looked like a waif, barely suppressing the anxiety that lay just behind her wide dark eyes.

Reed, sandy haired, athletically trim, seemed absolutely at ease. He was saying, “… so we actually have all the comforts of home, almost.”

“Almost,” echoed Ilona Malater.

“Food, air, good company,” Reed bantered. “What more could one ask for?”

“The water is recycled,” Ilona said. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

Reed ran a fingertip across his pencil-slim sandy moustache. “I must admit I’d prefer to have something to purity the water. Whisky would do nicely.”

“That’s not allowed,” Joanna said seriously. “I broke the rules with my bottle of champagne.”

“Yes,” said Ilona. “I’m surprised that he”—she tilted her head slightly toward Vosnesensky, at the head of the table—“didn’t reprimand you and confiscate the bottle for himself.”

“Oh, he’s not that bad,” Reed said. “We’ll make him unbend, never fear.”

The Israeli biochemist looked doubtful. Then she said, “I wish we did have some Scotch whisky here.”

“Perhaps I could mix you some from my infirmary supplies.”

Ilona raised an eyebrow. Joanna looked perplexed at the suggestion.

“You’ve got to be careful, however,” Reed went on. “I once shared a bottle of whisky with a Scotsman. When I mixed a little water with my drink the man actually shuddered!”

Both women laughed.

The two pilots were at the end of the little table, talking earnestly together about flying, judging from the way they were using their hands. Pink-faced Russian and black American, their nationalities—even their races—made less difference here than the fact that they were fliers rather than scientists: engineers, at best. A clear difference in caste from the scientists. The American was lanky, lean dancer’s legs and arms. The Russian was shorter, thicker, his hair the shade of auburn that had probably been brick-red when he was a child. His fleshy face, normally a dark scowl, was animated now and his bright blue eyes sparkled as he talked about flying.

Jamie knew he was the outsider. For nearly four years these men and women had trained with Father DiNardo, the Jesuit geologist who had originally been picked for the Mars expedition. Jamie had been one of the also-rans, knowing every instant of every day for nearly four years that he was
going through the motions of training for a mission he would never be a part of. And then DiNardo’s god struck him down with a gall bladder infection that required surgery, and his chosen backup had been swiftly chopped down by back-room politics. Suddenly, miraculously, unbelievably, James Waterman—Native American—had joined the team that would actually set foot on Mars.

A red man on the red planet, Jamie mused. I’m here, but only because of blind luck. They accept me, but DiNardo was their first choice; I’m just a substitute.

Yes, he heard the whispered voice of his grandfather. But you’re here, on Mars, and the Anglo priest is not.

Jamie almost smiled, To his grandfather even a Jesuit from the Vatican was an Anglo. He was glad that he was here among the first explorers, yet that very emotion stirred a latent sense of guilt. He had won this privilege at the expense of other men’s pain. A true Navaho would fear retribution.

Vosnesensky pushed himself away from the table and stood up.

“Time for sleeping,” he said gruffly, as if expecting an argument. “Tomorrow we must be ready for the arrival of the second team. And before we sleep we must clean the suits and store them properly.”

No one argued, although Tony Reed muttered something that Jamie could not catch. They were all tired but they knew that the hard suits had to be properly maintained. Tomorrow’s schedule would be just as punishing as this first day’s. The tensions and hostilities that had grown during their nine-month flight had not evaporated simply because they had set foot on Mars. Maybe in the days to come, Jamie thought, when we’re busy working and we can roam around outside, maybe then things will change. Maybe then.

After vacuuming the dust off his hard suit and hanging it properly in the storage rack by the airlock, Jamie passed Ilona Malater’s quarters on his way to his own. The accordion-fold door to her cubicle was open. She was taping a tattered old photograph to the partition beside her bunk.

She noticed Jamie and said over her shoulder, “Come in for a moment.”

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Jamie hesitated at her doorway.

Ilona whispered throatily, “I’m not going to seduce you red man. Not our first night on Mars.”

Jamie hung by the doorway, not knowing what to say.

“Would you like to see my family album?” Ilona asked, with a wicked smile.

There was only the one photograph taped up. Jamie stepped in closer and saw a tall, tired man in a dirty soldier’s uniform standing in a street choked with rubble, his hands raised over his head, half a dozen soldiers in a different uniform menacing him with submachine guns.

“That is my grandfather in 1956,” Ilona said, her voice suddenly louder, brittle. “In Budapest. Those are Russian soldiers. The Russians hanged my grandfather, eventually. His crime was to defend his country against them.”