Although they had trained in the Devon Island arctic base, there it was only the cold you had to defend against. A wrap of wool across the face had protected Shackleton, Amundsen, Peary and the other crazy pole seekers of a century ago. And their technology had been barely sufficient to shield them against even the one peril. Plenty of frozen bodies at both ends of the Earth. With the new fabrics—warm, lightweight, basically self-regulating to release excess moisture—you really only had to be careful for your nose and lungs.
Not until Everest were the twin threats of cold and airlessness combined. The lethal zone, they called the upper reaches of the mountain, where even the best prepared ventured at extreme risk, losing brain cells to anoxia and becoming weaker by the day. This whole planet is a lethal zone.
Sitting here in the hab, a mug of tea in her hand, in comfortable sweats, it seemed safe enough. But they never forgot that outside Mars waited, implacably hostile. Not a bad place, just not one tailored for humans.
Sometimes, in her dreams, she imagined there was something, an unseen terror, lurking just outside her door. If she stepped out unprepared, she would be lost. Rationally, she knew it was just anxiety over having to be constantly prepared that gave her the dreams—but the afterimage remained.
Living on Mars was really more like living in the wet ocean, ironically, than at dry and cold Devon Island. That joint NASA/Mars Society facility had been built just about the turn of the millennium to prepare for a manned mission to Mars. There they were drilled into the habit of always suiting up by the numbers before going outside, going through an internal checklist of necessary gear. This amused the permanently Earthbound staff, some of whom had become quite cold-tolerant, and dashed between buildings in indoor wear.
But Julia had never become accustomed to that first great shock of cold air when she went outside. Ironically, on Mars, so much colder than the arctic, they never felt it. You’d have to be suicidal, or crazy, to step outside without a pressure suit and helmet. Best estimates were that you could survive less than thirty seconds.
So, on cold, dry Mars, like divers they checked and rechecked air tanks and connectors, heaters and sensors—their own and those of the ever-present buddy.
And they watched each other’s backs. Always. And so they had survived a year and a half.
The liftoff test came after two days of hard labor.
They had been burning methane with oxygen in the rovers for over 500 days. But that was with carbon dioxide to keep the reaction heat down, acting like an inert buffer much as nitrogen did in the air of Earth. The ERV boosters would burn at a far higher temperature. The many engineering tests said the system would withstand that, but those were all done in comfortable labs on Earth. The test ERV had not been sitting on cold, dusty Mars for four years. And did not involve a system that had ruptured on landing. Or one that Raoul had labored month after month to fix. His extensive labors had hampered the exploration, casting a shadow over their long months here.
They’d debated doing just an engine test, maybe even a partial pressurization.
“Maybe we should just warm it up this time,” said Marc.
“You mean do the test in steps?” Raoul looked worn and tired from the accumulated tension.
“So why do test at all?” Viktor’s voice had an edge that they all knew by now meant he was keeping his feelings under control. “It works, it doesn’t work. We should find out as soon as possible.”
“It might be safer,” said Marc.
“Partial test is only useful if it doesn’t work.” Viktor’s finger jabbed the air, though careful not to point at anyone. He needed to express himself but had learned to not irk others at the same time.
Marc said, “If you lift off and come down wrong, maybe the wind blows you some—”
“Weather is calm. And I know how to fly straight up.”
Marc nodded. Julia said carefully, “The logic seems compelling.”
“Yeah, if we test-fire it too many times we risk other problems,” said Raoul. “Can’t beat the devil.”
The men looked at each other. Somehow this had turned into a minor challenge-response between the three, leaving her out of it. At times like this, when the technical expertise was wholly outside her realm, they treated her like Mrs. Viktor.
“We go for it?” Viktor insisted.
The others nodded.
A warning call from Raoul made her crouch down.
They had decided to limit this test at ten percent of max liftoff, enough to see if anything blew a pipe. Just in case, it would have only Raoul and Viktor aboard. Viktor could run the subsystems fine from his couch. Julia also suspected he and Raoul didn’t want any distractions.
She and Marc took shelter a few hundred meters away, ready to help if something horrible happened. The stubby Return Vehicle stood with its chem systems detached and gear dragged away, looking a bit naked against pink soil as thoroughly trod as Central Park in Manhattan, but with more litter.
She and Marc had nothing to do but pace to discharge all their adrenaline. The damned cold came through her boots as always and she stamped them to keep the circulation going. Even the best of insulation and boot heaters couldn’t keep the chill from penetrating through the soles. It was early morning, so they would have a full day of sunlight to make repairs. If necessary.
She seldom came out this early into the biting hard cold left over from the night. Quickly enough they had learned the pains of even standing in shadow, much less of Martian night—skin stuck to boot tabs, frostbite straight through the insulation. Raoul’s limp resulted from severely frostbitten toes after hours of making repairs in the shadow of the Return Vehicle.
He had said he hadn’t noticed the chill. That meant he got involved tinkering and shut off those alarms in his mind. They were all focused, semiobsessive types, big on getting details right, or else they would never have been chosen to come.
She closed her eyes, trying to relax. They were about to land on Mars for the second and last time, after a trip of only a few meters or so, think of it that way.
Such odd ways of taking each moment, relieving it of its obvious heart-thudding qualities, had sustained her through the launch from Earth and their aerobraking. Months of tedious mission protocols and psychological seminars had given her many oblique skills.
“Ready,” she heard Raoul through the suit comm. “Starting the pumps.”
Viktor responded with pressure readings, flow rates. She saw a thin fog form beneath the rocket nozzle, like the vapors that sometimes leaked from the soil as the sun first struck it.
More cross talk between the pilots. Their close camaraderie had been so intensive the past few days that she and Marc felt like invisible nonentities, mere “field science” witnesses to the unblinking concentration of the “mission techs,” as the terminology went. Then Raoul said, almost in a whisper, “Let’s lift.”
A fog blossomed at the Return Vehicle base. No gantry here, nothing to restrain it: the conical ship teetered a bit, then rose.
“Nice throttling!” Marc called.
“Wheeeee!” Julia cheered.
The ship rose twenty meters, hung—then started falling. A big plume rushed out the side of the ship.
Crump! came to her through the thin atmosphere.
A panel blew away, tumbling. The ship fell, caught itself, fell another few meters—and smacked down.
