Return to Mars (33 page)

“Get rid of him? How? The man’s on Mars.”

“I don’t want him directing the expedition. Never did want him, as a matter of fact. I just let the rest of you talk me into it.”

Laurence took a longer sip of his tall drink. Then, “I don’t see how—”

“He’s too much of a dreamer, not the proper man to head the expedition at all,” Trumball said. “And he doesn’t follow orders. He thinks that just because he’s out there on Mars he can do what he wants.”

“Ah,” said Laurence. “Do you have specific instances? I mean, the team seems to be following the schedule we all agreed upon— except for this extra excursion to pick up the old Pathfinder equipment.”

“I specifically gave orders that my son was not to be sent out on that trek!” Trumball hissed, his face paling as he tried to keep his voice down. Still, several people at nearby chairs turned toward him with disapproving frowns.

“Yes, that may be, but there’s not much we can do from this distance, is there?”

“Oh, there certainly is,” Trumball, said. “I want him removed from his position as expedition director. Demoted. Broken.”

Laurence sighed. “But don’t you see, Darryl, that is merely paperwork. He will still be on Mars and still in command there. From all I’ve learned, the other team members hold him in extremely high regard. He’s their hero, really.”

“I want him broken!”

“You’ll make a martyr out of him.”

Trumball glared at the ICU executive. “That’s why I asked Newell to join us. I want to make sure that the news media handle this story the way I want them to.”

Laurence sank back in his armchair. “I think you’re stirring up a tempest in a teapot.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“It won’t make any difference if he’s officially expedition director or not.”

“Yes it will!” Trumball snapped. “He wants to go out to find some mythical village he claims he saw on the first expedition. As director, he can set up an excursion whenever he wants. With somebody else as director, he’ll never get permission to go.”

”Do you think the new director would refuse to grant him permission for such an excursion?”

“Damned right I do!”

“But they all admire the man so much. Who would deny him the chance to see if his village actually exists?”

“The new director will.”

Comprehension lit in Laurence’s mind, but he asked the question anyway, even though he knew what Trumball’s answer would be.

“And who might the new director be?”

“My son Dex, of course.”

“Of course,” Laurence murmured. “Of course.”

RODRIGUEZ WATCHED FUCHIDA SLITHER UP AND AWAY FROM HIM, A DIM pool of light that receded slowly but steadily. Through the insulation of his helmet he could not hear the noise of the biologist’s hard suit grating against the ice-rimed rock; he heard nothing but his own breathing, faster than it should have been. Calm down, he ordered himself. Keep calm and everything’ll turn out okay.

Sure, a sardonic voice in his head answered. Nothing to it. Piece of cake.

Then he realized that he was totally, utterly alone in the darkness.

It’s okay, he told himself. Mitsuo’ll send the harness down and then I can winch myself up.

The light cast by his helmet lamp was only a feeble glow against the dark rough rock face. When Rodriguez turned, the light was swallowed by the emptiness of the caldera’s abyss, deep and wide and endless.

The darkness surrounded him. It was as if there was no one else in the whole universe, no universe at all, only the all-engulfing darkness of this cold, black pit.

Unhidden, a line from some play he had read years earlier in school came to his mind:

Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.

Don’t be a goon! He snapped at himself. You’ll be okay. Your suit’s working fine and Mitsuo’s up there by now, taking off the harness and getting ready to send it down to you.

Yeah, sure. He could be unconscious, he could be snagged on a rock or maybe the damned harness broke while the winch was dragging him up the slope. Or the winch pulled loose and he’ll come tumbling back down on top of me, winch and all.

The image of the two of them knocked off the ledge and plunging into the black endless pit of hell curdled his blood.

No fear! Rodriguez told himself. No fear. He put a gloved hand against the solid rock to steady himself. You’ll be out of this soon, he repeated silently. Then he wondered if his lamp’s light was weakening. Are the batteries starting to run down?

Fuchida’s head was banging against the inside of his helmet so hard he tasted blood in his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw his father’s stern, uncompromising glare. How disappointed he will be when he learns that I died on Mars, like Cousin Konoye.

And Elizabeth. Perhaps it’s better this way. She can go back to Ireland and find a man of her own culture to marry. My death will spare her a lifetime of troubles.

The winch stopped suddenly and Fuchida felt a pang of terror. It’s stuck! He realized at that moment that he was not prepared for death. He did not want to die. Not here on Mars. Not at all.

A baleful red eye was staring at him. Fuchida thought for a moment he might be slipping into unconsciousness, then slowly realized that it was the light atop one of the geo/met beacons they had planted at the lip of the caldera.

Straining his eyes in the starlit darkness, he thought he could make out the form of the winch looming above his exhausted body. He reached out and touched it.

Yes! He had reached the top. But he felt faint, giddy. His body was soaked with perspiration. Heat prostration, he thought. How funny to die of heat prostration when the temperature outside my suit is nearly two hundred degrees below zero.

He began to laugh, knowing he was slipping into hysteria and unable to stop himself. Until he began coughing uncontrollably.

Down on the ledge, Rodriguez tried to keep his own terrors at bay. “Mitsuo,” he called on the suit-to-suit frequency. “You okay?” No answer. Of course, dummy! His radio’s not working. The cold seemed to be leaching into his suit. Cold enough to freeze carbon dioxide. Cold enough to overpower the suit’s heater. Cold enough to kill.

It was imagination, he knew. You’re more likely to broil inside the suit, like Mitsuo, than freeze.

“Get up there, Mitsy,” he whispered. “Get up there in one piece and send the damned tether back down to me.”

He wouldn’t leave me here. Not if he made it to the top. He wouldn’t run for the plane and leave me here. He can’t run, anyway. Can’t even walk. But he could make it to the plane once he’s up there. Hobble, jump on one leg. Crawl, even. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t leave me alone to die down here. Something must’ve happened to him. He must be hurt or unconscious.

The memory of his big brother’s death came flooding back to him. In a sudden rush he saw Luis’ bloody mangled body as the rescue workers lifted him out of the wrecked semi. A police chase on the freeway. All those years his brother had been running drugs up from Tijuana in his eighteen-wheeler and Tomas never knew, never even suspected. There was nothing he could do. By the time he saw Luis’ rig sprawled along the highway median it was already too late.

He saw himself standing, impotent, inert, as his brother was pronounced dead and then slid into the waiting ambulance and carried away. Just like that. Death can strike like a lightning bolt.

What could I have done to save him? Rodriguez wondered for the thousandth time. I should have done something. But I was too busy being a flyboy, training to be an astronaut. I didn’t have time for the family, for my own brother.

He took a deep, sighing breath of canned air. Well, now it’s going to even out. I got all the way to Mars, and now I’m gonna die here.

Then he heard his brother’s soft, musical voice. “No fear, mucha-cho. Never show fear. Not even to yourself.”

Rodriguez felt no fear. Just a deep sadness that he could not help Luis when his help was needed. And now it was all going to end. All the regrets, all the hopes, everything …

For an instant he thought he saw a flash of dim red light against the rock wall. He blinked. Nothing. He looked up, but the top of his helmet cut off his view. Grasping at straws, he told himself. You want to see something bad enough, you’ll see it, even if it isn’t really there.

But the dim red glow flashed again, and this time when he blinked it didn’t go away. Damned helmets! He raged. Can’t see anything unless it’s in front of your fuckin’ face.

He tried to tilt his whole upper body back a little, urgently aware that it wouldn’t take much to slip off this ledge and go toppling down into the bottomless caldera.

And there it was! The red glow of the beacon’s light swayed far above him, like the unwinking eye of an all-seeing savior.

Me leaned against the rock ledge again. His legs felt weak, rubbery. Shit, man, you were really scared.

He could make out the dangling form of the harness now, with the telescoped pole of the beacon attached to it by duct tape. Where the hell did Mitsuo get duct tape? He wondered. He must’ve been carrying it with him all along. The universal cure-all. We could do a commercial for the stuff when we get back to Earth. Save your life on Mars with frigging duct tape.

It seemed to take an hour for the tiny red light to get close enough to grab. With hands that trembled only slightly, Rodriguez reached up and grabbed the beacon, ripped it free and worked his arms into the climbing harness. Then he snapped its fasteners shut and gave the tether an experimental tug. It felt strong, good.

He started to reach for the control stud that would activate the winch. Then he caught himself. “Wait one,” he whispered in the clipped tone of the professional flier.

He bent down and picked up the beacon. Sliding it open to its full length, he worked its pointed end into a crack in the basalt rock face. It probably won’t stay in place for long, he thought, and it won’t work at all unless the sun shines on it for a few hours per day. But he felt satisfied that he had left a reminder that men from Earth had been here, had entered the pit and gleaned at least some of its secrets and survived.

“Okay,” he said to himself, grasping the tether with one hand. “Here we go.”

He pushed on the control stud and was hauled off his feet. Grinding, twisting, grating he felt himself pulled up the rock slope, his head banging inside his helmet, his legs and booted feet bouncing as he was dragged upward.

Worse than any simulator ride he’d ever been through in training. Worse than the high-g centrifuge they’d whirled him in. They’ll never put this ride into Disneyland, Rodriguez thought, teeth clacking as he bounced, jounced, jolted up to the lip of the caldera.

At last it was over. Rodriguez lay panting, breathless, aching. Fuchida’s hard-suited form lay on the ground next to him, unmoving.

Rodriguez rolled over on one side, as far as his backpack would allow. Beyond Fuchida’s dark silhouette the sky was filled with stars. Dazzling bright friendly stars gleaming down at him, like a thousand thousand jewels. Like heaven itself.

I made it, Rodriguez told himself. Then he corrected: Not yet. Can’t say that yet.

He touched his helmet to Fuchida’s. “Hey, Mitsuo! You okay?”

It was an inane question and he knew it. Fuchida made no response, but Rodriguez could hear the biologist’s breathing: panting, really, shallow and fast.

Gotta get him to the plane. Can’t do a thing for him out here.

As quickly as he could Rodriguez unbuckled the climbing harness, then tenderly lifted the unconscious Fuchida and struggled to his feet. Good thing we’re on Mars. I could never lift him in his suit in a full g. Now where the hell is the plane?

In the distance he saw the single red eye of another one of the geo/met beacons they had planted. He headed in that direction, tenderly carrying his companion in his arms.

I couldn’t do this for you, Luis, Rodriguez said silently. I wish I could have, but this is the most I can do.

THE BASE DOME WAS DARK AND SILENT, ITS LIGHTING TURNED DOWN TO sleep shift level, its plastic skin opaqued to prevent heat from leaking out into the Martian night. Stacy Dezhurova was still sitting at the comm console, drowsing despite herself, when Rodriguez’s call came through.

“We’re back in the plane,” the astronaut announced without preamble. “Lemme talk to Vijay.”

“Vijay!” Stacy shouted in a voice that shattered the sleepy silence. “Jamie!” she added.

Running footsteps padded through the shadows, bare or stocking feet against the plastic flooring. Vijay slipped into the chair beside Dezhurova, her jet-black eyes wide open and alert. Jamie and Trudy Hall raced in, bleary-eyed, and stood behind the two women.

“This is Vijay,” she said. “What’s your condition?”

In the display screen they could see only the two men’s helmets and shoulders. Their faces were masked by the heavily tinted visors. But Rodriguez’s voice sounded steady, firm.

“I’m okay. Banged up a little, but that’s nothing. I purged Mitsuo’s suit and plugged him into the plane’s emergency air supply. But he’s still out of it.”

“How long ago did you do that?” Vijay asked, her dark face rigid with tension.

“Fifteen-sixteen minutes ago.”

“And you’re just calling in now?” Dezhurova demanded.

“I had to fix his battery pack,” Rodriguez answered, unruffled by her tone. “It got disconnected when he was knocked down—”

“Knocked down?” Jamie blurted.

“Yeah. Thai’s when he hurt his ankle.”

“How badly is he hurt?” Vijay asked.

“It’s sprained, at least. Maybe a break.”

“He couldn’t break a bone inside the suit,” Jamie muttered. “Not with all that protection.”

“Anyway,” Rodriguez resumed, “his suit wasn’t getting any power. I figured that getting his suit powered up was the second most important thing to do. Pumping fresh air into him was the first.”