“Some kinda weird—no, it seems to be a bit stringy…” He looked up. “I can’t tell just by looking. You’ll hafta try some chemical tests. Do you have any more?”
“Nope, that’s it. There was more, only—”
“Science was interrupted to come to aid of fallen comrade.” Viktor came to her rescue. “You think it’s alive?”
“No. I think it’s been freeze-dried, probably torn apart by UV and peroxide dust. But it was alive, and very recently. There was more of the stuff, probably blown out when the vent outgassed.”
Raoul yawned. “When you scientists decide, come wake me up. I’m bushed. Lots to do, plenty of tests to run if we’re gonna get out of here.” He shuffled off.
Marc stood up. “Well, Jules, I just don’t know what this stuff is. It could be organic, or some funny dried saltlike formation.” He shrugged. “Find out what it’s made of. Mars has fooled us before.” He clapped Viktor on the back as he left. “Hope the ankle’s not too bad, old man.”
Julia watched him go, somewhat put off by his attitude. To Viktor she said, “They don’t seem to care. What could be more important than finding life on Mars?”
“To go home, maybe? Organic scum is not exciting to lonely men.” He reached up, put an arm around her waist. “I too long for home, but am not lonely, so is bearable.”
As she hugged Viktor back she was already planning the next step in the campaign to return to the vent.
8
SEPTEMBER 2015
THE MEDIA WENT WILD WITH THE AIRBUS ANNOUNCEMENT.
By chance, that week there were no major wars, scandals, or tragedies to capture public attention. A covert program—prepared and sprung upon the world in one rather stiff press conference in Beijing—was far more exciting than the Consortium’s by-now wearying preparations. A race for the Mars Prize! the media sang.
At least the snout of the media pig rooted after Airbus for a while, leaving them in comparative peace. Time passed quickly for the astronauts as Axelrod’s media machine purred busily day and night. Their cameras and constant, though ever-polite, questions got in the way of training. Antagonism rose in the Consortium crew. Countless times they complained, and Axelrod promised to tone it down.
Slowly it dawned on Julia that Axelrod loved it. Not just because a real race meant higher ratings, max coverage, and product endorsements, either. He had been a prominent figure before, but now he stood above all the many billionaires in a rich world, his cocky grin instantly known to anyone who glanced at a TV set. He kept this under control, but Julia remembered a comment from her father, early on: “Crowns work on the heads beneath them.”
Axelrod was brilliant, but beneath the media blitz he was plainly growing more concerned. He had put up a lot of money and even with his vast holdings could not afford to lose the prize. Within weeks he had to sell trivid rights to make the monthly financial nut. The rather generous astronaut contracts began gnawing at him, because he could not touch the sums the four were already acquiring for interviews and book contracts.
The chancy air of racing fever could not disguise that, after all, this entire gaudy attraction could explode on the launch pad—gone in an instant, leaving behind only graveside tributes and a mountain of debt.
On a chilly evening she found herself sharing a limousine with Axelrod, coming back from a pointless backslapping banquet for Consortium bigwigs, and she pressed him on whether he could truly bring together all the elements before their launch date. “The money alone—”
He grinned. “Ah, my Julia, always worryin’. Any idea how much the Summer Olympics bring in?”
“Uh, a billion?”
“Last ones, five billion—and they last just three weeks!”
“But most of going to Mars is boring, just sitting in a tin can for half a year—”
“Sure, we don’t sell that. We sell danger.”
“The landing?”
“And the launches. Both of ’em, from here and there.”
“Okay, that’s a couple of tight moments—”
“There’s tension building to that, y’know. Will they make it? What’s the aerobraking look like, anyway? That kinda thing.”
“You can’t show much at landing—”
“Sure we can. I’m having a TV mounted just behind the aeroshell so we can see you guys skipping along the top of the air, landing—the works.”
“And TV on the rovers?”
“Of course.”
“How about in our suits?”
Her sarcasm was lost on Axelrod. He arched his eyebrows. “Too hard to fit ’em into the helmet, but we’ll have great little portables. On live feed, right back to the hab, tight beamed to us here, join the Mars Adventurers, you can ride along with the astronauts. Every time they turn a corner, you’re seeing stuff nobody ever saw. Same time as the astronauts see it, too.”
“I’m a little bothered by the whole feel of it.”
“Might I remind you that Stanley of ‘Dr. Livingston, I presume’ was a reporter. He paid for his fare to Africa and into the jungle with stories for a newspaper. One of the polar explorers, the one who got to the South Pole first, Shackleton—he wrote books, gave lectures, even showed the first movies of Antarctica. All to finance his exploration.”
“Okay, that’s history.” She was wearing an evening dress, a sheath that showed too much of her bony clavicles. To argue with a man it helped to wear serious clothes, maybe working coveralls and boots. Here she felt at a disadvantage. “Now, these endorsements—”
“Got my sub-rights people on the job full tilt. We go for the outdoor gear makers, use their stuff on Mars. High-tech companies, they give us first-class stuff, we show you astronauts using their gizmos on Mars, and charge them for the privilege. Logos, brand names—plenty of room here.”
“I don’t like some of them. Athletic shoes? We can’t wear those on Mars.”
“In the habitat you can.”
“Warm clothes—L.L. Bean, Lands’ End, Archivo—those I can see.”
