SCANNER’S NOTE: This was scanned and proofed from a three part serial in Analog magazine, Aug, Sept, Oct 1973 in summer 2006. The story was re-written, expanded, and published under the same title in book form. There is a horrible text scan of the book out there, but no decent copies afaik. What you are reading is the serialization from the magazine.

I

Outside the doors of the Operations and Checkout Building of the Cape Kennedy Space Center, the heat and light of the Florida midday struck at the six emerging diplomatic representatives with such unyielding natural force that it felt to U.S. Undersecretary Jen Wylie like walking into the solid face of a rock cliff.

“This way, this way…” repeated Bill Ward; the Mars Launch Director was impatiently beckoning them on.

Dazzled by the sunlight, the diplomats could hardly make out their large tour bus, back toward which Bill was now leading them. They crowded into its dimly seen, long shape, like a loaf of bread with its upper half all tinted glass coming down level with the floor of the interior. The self-adjusting, gray coloration of that glass was now so dark in response to the sunlight outside that only indistinct, dim shapes within hinted at seats, attendants and the driver. Crowding each other a little to escape from this blinding furnace of a day, back into a controlled and civilized environment, the five Deputy Ministers, and the one Undersecretary, for the International Development of Space, went one by one into the artificial blast of air from the open bus door and up three steps to the interior. Here, suddenly, everything was reasonable again. The nakedly white sun overhead and the stark contrast of light and shadow in the natural landscape were toned down by the adaptable gray tint of the glass to reasonable sources of original or reflected illumination. The renewal of coolness around them all was like a technological blessing.

Blinking against the sudden darkening of the light, Jen turned to the dim outline of a uniformed figure standing to his left, as he reached the top of the steps.

“Phones?” Jen asked.

“At the back, sir,” the answer came. “To the left of the bar.”

Jen turned down the length of the bus and went toward its rear, his vision adjusting as he went. The ordinary seats on this vehicle had been replaced with heavy lounge chairs that swiveled or slid about to the desires of their users. Most of his fellow diplomats had already seated themselves in these. At the back of the bus, seeing clearly now, Jen shook his head at the white-jacketed man behind the small, semicircular bar and stepped over to the row of three v-phones along the wall at his left. The polished surface of the wall gave him back his image—a thirtyish, tall, gangling body with a lean, bone-plain face above it.

He sat down in the first of these and punched the code for a distance call, the particular White House number he wanted. With the first button touched, a transparent sound baffle slid out from the side of the phone, encompassing himself and chair. With the last button a chime-tone sounded, but the v-screen before him retained its pearl-gray blankness.

“Scrambling,” he said. He took his pocket scrambler from the inside pocket of his borrowed jacket and slipped it into the scrambler slot at the base of the phone. A different chime note sounded.

“Scrambling,” said another voice from the screen; and a second later the pearl-gray dwindled suddenly to a dot and disappeared, to show a trim, middle-aged man in a neat gray office jacket, sitting at a desk. It was United States Presidential Press Secretary Warner Rethe.

“Hi, Jen,” said Warner. “Something extraordinary come up?”

“Can I talk to the President?” Jen asked. “He told me to come directly to him, bypassing State Department in any special case.”

Warner shook his head.

“I don’t see how you can right now, Jen,” Warner said. “He’s on his way to Philadelphia for the William Penn Memorial Dedication. You’ll see him tonight at his reception, as scheduled. But that’s a touchy moment. He won’t want to talk to you then.”

“I see,” said Jen.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Warner Rethe’s oblong face under its balding middle-aged skull looked out at him from the three-dimensional depths of the holographic v-screen with intent interest. “Want to tell me about it?”

“I can,” Jen answered. “But I’d rather talk to Himself. It’s something calling for weight.”

“As I say,” said Warner, “I’m sorry. I don’t quite know how I could get you through to him before tomorrow morning.”

“But that’s almost launch time. That’ll be too late to change things.”

“I’m sorry.”

“All right, then,” said Jen. “It’s the Marsnauts. All of them, but my message was from our own man. Tad Hansard’s upset. He says each country concerned has been fighting so hard for as many experiments of their own people as possible, to be included in the flight plan, that the experiment load’s too heavy now. It’s so heavy it could be a danger to the mission,”

“Well, that sort of infighting’s to be expected,” said Warner.

“Tad says it’s got to the point where the mission as a whole’s in danger,” Jen said. “He told me so just now, at the lunch the Marsnauts just gave us all, at the Operations and Checkout Building.”

“In what way—dangerous?” Warner’s tone was instinctively cautious.

“The experiments are the icing on the cake, Tad says.” Jen had the feeling that he was pushing against a door already closed, and a little desperation leaked into his voice in spite of his determination to be calm. “The important thing is to get to Mars, and back, safely. If the ‘nauts start having to put the experiments to be done along the way ahead of that, it may mean bad trouble up there.”

“I see,” said Warner. He hesitated for a second. “Well, I suppose he knows what he’s talking about. You should tell him, though, we’ve no control over the actions of the representatives of other countries—either their Marsnauts or their Deputy Ministers.”

“He knows that.”

There was a second of silence.

“Yes,” Warner said. “Well, then—I don’t really see what else can be done.”

Jen let a little of his anger out.

“You know damn well what can be done!” he said. “And who can do it!”

“Hm-m-m,” said Warner thoughtfully. “It’s not for me to say, of course—”

“Cut it out, Warn! We’re scrambled, aren’t we? This is Jen! Remember me from my days in the press corps?”

“Not for me to say,” repeated Warner, unchangingly. “What looks simple from a narrow view isn’t always so from the whole spectrum. And a chief executive has to think in terms of the full spectrum, all the time. Sometimes a word can be said at the right moment to get results. Sometimes … it simply isn’t the moment to say the word.”

“Warn,” said Jen, grimly, “I want to talk to the President before tomorrow morning. That’s an official request from me, as our Undersecretary of Science for the Development of Space, to our Chief Executive.”

“Right,” said Warner, calmly. “Of course. I’ll get on it right away and do the best I can.”

Jen sagged in his chair.

“Warn,” he said. “For God’s sake, Warn! It’s the future of six nations—of the whole world—bound up in the success of this supposedly cooperative mission!”

“You know I appreciate that, Jen. So does the President,” said Warner. “Make sure the VIP Message Center can locate you at any time. I’ll call you just as soon as I have some kind of word. Goodbye.”

Warner’s picture disintegrated into a crazy quilt of color which swirled away like water down a drain to a single bright dot in the center of the screen; and left the screen pearl-gray, quiescent.

“Goodbye,” said Jen emptily, to the empty surface before him.

He pulled his own scrambler, put it in his jacket pocket and went back to a seat on the bus.

It had risen on its air cushion some moments since; and was sliding along the asphalt roadpath in the direction of the shuttle launch site. He sat down in one of the three heavy lounge chairs that had been pulled together to form a group. Occupying the chair beside him was Bill Ward, listening with brisk, controlled patience to the Russian Deputy Minister for the Development of Space, Sergei Varisov.

“. .. your brother,” Varisov was saying. “A doctor of veterinary medicine, I understand?”

“Yes,” Bill Ward said, “he’s on the faculty at the University of Minnesota Veterinary School—”

He broke off, standing up as the bus slid imperceptibly to a halt.

“Excuse me,” he said to Varisov, and turned to raise his voice so that it could be heard through the whole of the bus. “I’m afraid this is as close as we can come right now to the shuttlecraft because the area has to be kept clear for last minute checking and the pre-fueling operations. However, we’re close enough so that you can get a good look.”

They were, indeed, quite close. It was the opposite side of the bus that faced the launch pad on which the shuttlecraft stood upright, but the bus itself was so sparsely passengered that Jen could see between the opposite lounge chairs clearly without needing to stand up or move.

The bus had halted at the foot of the ramp leading up to the launch platform holding the shuttlecraft. It was not, of course, simply a smooth, upright, three-stage, spacegoing vehicle as the Saturn rockets had been. Awaiting launch, it rested, as they had .done, in vertical position; but unlike them, it looked like one heavy-bodied small aircraft glued to the back of its identical big brother. The mobile launch structure alongside held both sky-pointing vehicles in a spidery embrace.

“The orbiter will ride piggyback on the booster,” Bill Ward was lecturing the Deputy Ministers, “to about two hundred thousand feet. By this time we’re about three minutes past liftoff. Then separation occurs—”

Someone broke in with a question. His mind still occupied with a confusion of ideas about Tad Hansard’s concern and his own thoughts about shark-remora partnerships, Jen only belatedly recognized the thick voice of the German Deputy Minister for the Development of Space and lost the sense of the question entirely.

“No, the booster lands like any other aircraft—slides in, actually, on its belly skids,” Bill Ward was answering. “Just the same way the orbiter itself does, when it comes back. Both are piloted. Meanwhile, after it separates from the booster, the orbiter proceeds to climb into the parking orbit of the space station …”

Staring out through the light-reducing glass bubble that covered the top half of the bus, Jen felt a strange disbelief. Here, at only a couple of hundred yards from the launch pad, the two parts of the shuttlecraft loomed impossibly large. There was something about them like the eye-tricking size of the huge Vehicle Assembly Building the diplomats had been taken through before lunch. All these structures and machines were too big to be real, too titanic not to be a mock-up by some movie-maker whose only aim was to awe the audience with his film.

Man had gotten out of scale, somehow, with earthside reality. But on the other hand how far was Mars—how far, really? How far in fact was thirty-six million miles, when the Vehicle Assembly Building was only three miles away, when downtown Cocoa Beach was only seventeen miles away? How deep was the ocean of nothingness that was space? Jen shivered, thinking of infinity.

“… we’ve just finished mating the orbiter to the booster,” Bill Ward was saying. “The prelaunch checkout has been going on for some time, a matter of checking innumerable little details …”

… With our own few planets swimming in their orbits, around the many-times greater sun—and this sun a small light lost among far greater suns …

Jen felt a firm grip on his forearm; and saw the face of Varisov only a few inches away, looking at him with concern on the round, aging features. He realized suddenly that he was a little dizzy, that he must have been swaying.

“Are you all right?” Varisov was asking, in a remarkably gentle voice. “You aren’t ill?”

“Ill? No!” Jen pulled himself upright, laughing a little. “Tired … that’s all.”

“Oh, yes. Yes,” said Varisov, letting go of his arm. “It is always tiring, this sort of thing.”

Bill Ward finished speaking and sat down again in the chair from which he had risen earlier. Varisov turned almost eagerly to him.

“Your brother, you were saying,” Varisov said, “is on the faculty of the School of Veterinary Medicine, at this university?”

“Joel—oh yes,” said Bill. “Yes, the last six years.”

“I wonder,” Varisov said. “Do you know if he’s been involved in any work or research on nerve degeneration in animals? I have a dog at home, a small dog—”

“Afraid I don’t know anything about that,” said Bill. “He doesn’t usually tell me much about what he’s doing.”

“It’s not important, of course,” said Varisov. “I hardly see the dog, these days. But to my wife—we only had two children, adult some time since, of course. The older, the boy, was a test pilot. In fact Piotr and Feodor Asturnov, our cosmonaut on this flight, were test pilots together. Not that they were close, you understand, but they knew each other. Unfortunately Piotr’s—a plane my son was testing came apart in the air and he was not able to get out in time.”

“Oh. Sorry,” said Bill, restlessly and uncomfortably, sitting stiffly upright in his seat.

“And his sister, our daughter, is married and lives in New Stalingrad, one of the new towns of Siberia. My wife, so, and this dog—we call him Zechi—are alone most of the time, together; I have to be away so much. Zechi means a great deal to her.”

“Ah … yes,” said Bill, glancing past the Russian’s head at the road still separating them from the landing space where the VTOL—Vertical Takeoff and Landing—aircraft waited to take the Deputy Ministers back to their hotel on Merritt Island.

“Zechi’s hind legs, lately, have been failing him—he’s not a young dog. Ten, twelve years old, I think. Yes,” said Varisov, “twelve years old. When he was young, he was hit by a truck; but he seemed to recover very well. It’s only this last year it’s become harder and harder for him to walk.”

“That’s too bad,” said Bill Ward. “That’s a shame. You’ve had a veterinarian look at him before this?”

“Oh, of course,” said Varisov. “But—so little seems to be known about dogs, in this way. They tell us Zechi is just getting old; and we’re not veterinarians ourselves. We can’t argue. But Zechi got along so well with those back legs all those years… I thought, perhaps, if someone over here was looking into nerve troubles, or whatever causes paralysis like this, in dogs … your brother might have heard of something … ?”

The fingers of Bill Ward’s left hand drummed momentarily on the arm of his chair.

“I can drop him a line. Be glad to,” he said.

“Would you?” said Varisov. “I would appreciate it greatly.”

The bus pulled up-at last at the landing area; and the VTOL plane waiting there took them into its interior, which was hardly less spacious than that of the bus. A moment later, the plane lifted smoothly, elevator-fashion, to about five hundred feet and flew them in to the landing area on top of the Merritt Island hotel that had been taken over by the government for VIP quarters.

Jen Wylie went gratefully to his suite to lie down. But Varisov, as he was heading for his own suite on the floor just below the landing area on the roof, was checked by the Indian Deputy Minister, Ambedkar, and Guenther, their Pan-European opposite number, as he passed through the central lounge area leading to their suites.

II

“Sergei, have you a minute? Stop and have a drink with us,” Walther Guenther called in Russian as Varisov started off toward his own hotel suite.

The Pan-European’s command of the language was fluent enough, but obviously required some effort. Varisov turned and went to join the other two, answering in much more capable German.

“Thanks,” he said. “That’s a pleasant invitation, now that we’re off duty for an hour or two.” He seated himself in one of the heavy, overstuffed green armchairs by a circular table of the lounge area, in this particular hotel floor which had been set aside for the Deputy Ministers. “I believe we’re free until the American President’s reception at eight?”

“I believe, nine p.m.” said Arhi Ambedkar, the Indian Deputy Minister. “There has been some delay in making the arrival of U.S. President Fanzone in time. The official hour of the reception remains, but we are quietly informed to consider nine our hour of beginning.”

It was immediately apparent that Ambedkar’s German was as effortful as Guenther’s Russian. Varisov switched again—this time to French.

“I didn’t know that,” he said.

“We just heard it,” said Ambedkar in excellent French and obvious relief.

“Yes,” said Guenther easily in French himself, “the pilot of the copter that will take us there was just now telling us. What will you have, Sergei?”

“Cognac,” said Varisov, “since we’ve ended up where we have.”

The other two smiled. They are really old men, thought Varisov, studying the brown, round face and the reddish, square one before him while Guenther spoke into the telephone grid on the table beside him, and ordered. I spend most of my time dealing with old men—men my age—and I forget that most of the world is younger. The world is run by old men—necessarily, of course.

“It’s a relief to sit back and relax,” said Guenther, after the order was in. “By the way, I’m a little surprised, I thought Fanzone would have showed up down here before this.”

“He’s somewhat above our class, of course,” said Ambedkar.

“Politically, yes,” said Guenther. The cognac was brought in by the young noncommissioned officer in the U.S. Air Force that served the lounge; and the conversation hesitated until he was gone again.

“Politically, yes,” said Guenther again. “The Chief Executive of a nation like this; and we only Deputy Ministers for the Development of Space.” He smiled. The others smiled. “We won’t talk about political antecedents, our own—or his.”

Varisov chuckled politely. But Ambedkar looked interested.

“There is, indeed, then,” he asked, “some truth to this noise about underworld support having helped him gain the Presidency of the U.S.?”

Guenther waved a large hand. “No, no. I hardly think so, really,” he said. “Not that it’s important. They are all half-gangsters at heart, these Americans. But they never let that stand in the way of business.”

“You might say,” agreed Varisov, sampling the cognac, which had been brought, sensibly, in a snifter glass, “that the U.S. is such a fat dog it doesn’t really mind a few fleas. It would feel lonesome without its gangster element.”

“But,” said Ambedkar, “if gangsterism should be a factor in their political considerations—particularly in regard to this international mission …”

“I think we can ignore anything so minor,” said Guenther. “It’s the obvious elements in Fanzone’s thinking that are worthy of concern. The private agreement was that he would not be here for the actual launch, so as not to disturb the balance of unity at that time. Now, an accident makes him late for his reception the night before. I merely wonder if another accident might not delay him here until the shuttle actually takes off?”

“There would be repercussions,” said Ambedkar.

“Of course,” said Guenther. “But their impact would be lost in the general enthusiasm of the beginning of the flight. We can’t be sure he’s ‘staying until he does, by which time it’d be too late. We’d have an accomplished fact to deal with.”

“We could express our concern over the possibility of something like that happening, before it did,” said Ambedkar.

“That might rather put us on the defensive in later dealings about the mission if he did not stay,” said Guenther. “A problem.”

He looked at Varisov.

“What do you think, Sergei?”

“There’s always cause for concern,” said Varisov, “particularly when dealing with the American mind. Of all such capitalist organs—no offense, my friends—the American mind is the most self-centered and therefore the most unpredictable. But I can’t believe even an American President would risk his country’s image by obviously shouldering the representatives of other nations aside in that fashion.”

“But we should talk about the possibility,” said Guenther.

“Oh yes,” said Varisov. “By all means we should talk about it …”

In his own suite, down the hall from the lounge area, Jen was once more speaking to Warner Rethe over a scrambled circuit.

“The point is,” Jen was saying patiently, “can I see him when he comes in for the reception, tonight?”

“Not a chance,” said Warner. “This is strictly a stage appearance, you ought to know that. The last thing a President can do in a case like this is give the press an excuse to show him being partisan toward you or Tad Hansard. Damn it, Jen, he’s leaning over backward just to avoid any appearance like that. A newspaperman like you ought to understand the angles.”

.“Look,” said Jen, “this does concern everybody on the mission, all the countries, every ‘naut—not just Tad. Tad knows the work schedule’s too heavy with tests, particularly on the outgoing leg—”

“There’s a reason for that; and you know it as well as I do,” said Warner. “The mission’s going to be at its biggest as news during the first few weeks. That’s when we want the ‘nauts reporting they’ve just done this experiment that Hamamuri of Nagasaki wanted done, and that experiment for Muller at Bonn University, and so on …”

“All right. All right,” said Jen, keeping his voice down. “But the point is, there’s too much. There’s not enough reserve time left. Tad’s point is, what if they get up there and have to skip some of the experiments, or some of the tests get bungled because they’re trying to work too fast? All he wants is for the President to drop a word to the Deputy Ministers of the other countries, here—and this late, he’s the only one who can do it—so that everybody concerned agrees to cut their list by one experiment, or two. There’s more potential dynamite in letting them go off this way, than there is in facing the thing now.”

“That’s only Tad’s opinion,” Warner said. “Besides, if he’s so sure that’s the case, why can’t he just handle the paring down of the experiment list once they’re on their way?”

“Man!” said Jen, staring into the screen with Warner’s face printed on it. “Oh, man! When you want a scapegoat you don’t fool around, do you? You just shout out his name, rank, and serial number and wait for him to take three paces forward. Tad’s a Marsnaut. They’re all Marsnauts—not politicians!”

Warner stared back at Jen from the screen without speaking for several seconds. When he did speak, it was as if he had stepped back a couple of paces.

“We’ve all got our job to do, Jen,” he said. “Including me. I’ll tell you what. I’ll talk to the President. That’s all I’ll promise you. I’ll pass the word along to him: But don’t expect anything.”

“No,” said Jen.

“All right, then. Unscramble.” Warner broke the circuit.

Jen sat back in the chair beside his bed, slumping. He felt like someone who had just been punched in the stomach, drained of strength and a little sick. The phone buzzed again. He punched it automatically to on; and a woman’s face appeared in the screen.

“Hi!” it said, affectionately, “if you’d stay off your phone for five minutes, maybe somebody could call in!”

A warm gush of pleasure wiped out the punched feeling.

“Lin!” he said, happily. “Where are you?”

“Here. Downstairs, that is,” Alinde West said. “I was going to come up and just knock on your door; but evidently you’ve got security guards around you, five ranks deep. I told one of them I was your common-law wife; but it didn’t move him. He’s watching me now while I phone you from the lobby.”

“Who is it?” Jen asked. “Gervais? Tall, black man, middle-aged?”

“With a scowl.”

“Let me talk to him.”

There was a short pause; and then the face of Security Department Agent N. Gervais took over the screen.

“Sorry if I’ve been holding up someone I shouldn’t,” Gervais said. He did not look sorry at all. “She said something about being your wife; and according to our records you’re not married.”

“Not exactly, no,” said Jen. “She’s a very old friend, though; and she’s had White House clearance to accompany me before. If you put a call in to Warner Rethe’s office, you ought to find authorization for her to join me.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Wylie.” The screen went blank—but not gray-blank, white-blank with a holding light. Wylie sat waiting for several minutes, thinking that Gervais could at least have put Lin back on while the check was being made. Then Gervais himself appeared again. “Yes sir. There’s White House record of clearance for her. It’s been reactivated on a twenty-four-hour basis. If you want it extended beyond that time, they ask that you call them.”

“Thanks,” said Jen. He felt a sudden sympathy with Gervais, who was a professional. Lin’s visit was a complication to Gervais—a needless complication and increase in the duties of guarding the international representatives attending the launch. “I promise she’ll go directly to my suite up here and directly from it. And I’ll let you know as soon as she leaves the area.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wylie,” said Gervais, with no more emotion than he had shown before. “I’ll have her escorted to you, now.”

One of the agents, a man Jen did not know, brought Lin to the suite. As the door closed behind her, he had his arms already around her. She was good to hold; a tall, chestnut-haired, vibrant woman-shape.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Jen asked her, as he was making them each a Scotch and soda after they had sorted themselves out.

“The magazine sent me down,” she said from the couch where she had seated herself. “My suggestion, of course. I’m going to do a piece on the Marsnauts’ wives—how they adjust their families to the idea that daddy’s going to be gone three years in outer space.”

“There’s not a lot of wives for you to ask,” said Jen. “Feodor Asturnov, the Russian cosmonaut, is a widower. Both Anoshi Wantanabe and the Pan-European ‘naut, Bern Callieux, have wives who decided to stay home with their children and not come for the launch. Bapti Lal Bose, the Indian, isn’t married. That just leaves Dirk’s wife and Tadell Hansard’s.”

“You’ve met them, haven’t you?” Lin asked. “The wives of those two, I mean?”

Jen nodded.

“You’ll like Wendy Hansard I think,” he said. “She looks something like you. She’s the sort of woman you’d kind of expect an astronaut to marry. Dirk’s wife, Ceilly, I don’t know as well. But she seems likable, too. Big, young girl. Sort of more English than Dirk. Blond.”

Lin tossed her own long brown hair.

“Can you help me get to see them tomorrow?” she asked.

“I can try. You shouldn’t have any trouble once the launch is over. Before, there’s no chance, of course. Look—” He came over with the drinks, put them on the table before the couch and sat down, turning urgently to her, “there’s a Presidential reception for all of us to go to this evening; and it’s not the sort of thing where I can get you on the invitation list. But if you think you can wait here, I ought to be back here about eleven—”

“Idiot!” she said, putting her arms around him fondly and nestling up against him. “Of course I’ll be here when you get back—waiting. Why do you think I managed to get myself sent down here?”

Later, Marsnauts and their personal guests went from Operations and Checkout by VTOL aircraft to the landing pad on the roof of the hotel housing the Deputy Ministers. The Reception was held in a private dining room on the ninth floor; and with security guards manning the elevators, they were taken down to it. The Deputy Ministers were already there; and Paul Fanzone, the United States President, was less than ten minutes later in arriving. Jen caught the eye of Warner as the press secretary entered the reception room a few steps behind the stocky, dark-skinned figure of the President: Warner shook his head, briefly.

Jen felt cold. If the shake of Warn’s head meant that the President had turned him down without excuse or explanation … for a crazy second he toyed with the idea of turning in his resignation. Then he recovered into common sense. Far from resigning, he knew that he would fight to hold on to this job if anyone tried to take it away from him. He had no need for anyone to remind him that as a newsman-turned-diplomat he was a paper tiger, but the Mars mission was representational of everything in which he had ever believed, and he wanted to be part of it.

But the reception had gone tinny and hollow on him. He had skipped dinner in order to spend the time with Lin; and that had been real and solid enough. But now, with a glass of champagne in him that had gone directly from his empty stomach to his head, he was back on the quicksand of politics again. Standing with his refilled glass in a corner of the reception room, he had a moment’s disorientation in which all the other people present seemed to be going through some sort of ritual dance, making expected gestures, speaking expected commonplaces, and murmuring expected replies.

In the midst of all this, however, he caught sight of Wendy and Tad Hansard. As he had said to Lin, she and Wendy were alike, physically; and the sight of Wendy was almost like an anchor in reality. Returning from his momentary excursion into bitterness, he was struck with an idea. He moved across the room and found a second to speak quietly in the ear of Tad.

“Got a second?”

Tad, still smiling at the wife of the Air Force general to whom he and Wendy had been talking, turned casually so that he faced Jen. Together they took a step aside from the others.

“What is it?” Tad asked.

“I haven’t had any luck getting through to Fanzone about the experiment schedule,” Jen said. “Why don’t you have a shot at getting him alone, yourself?”

Tad smiled bleakly.

“I don’t know how to talk to Presidents,” he said in his soft, southern voice. “How do you do it?”

“The same way you talk to anyone else.”

“All right,” said Tad. “But I don’t hope for anything. I never made the debating society back in high school or college.”

“It isn’t a debate,” said Jen. “You know your business. You’re the astronaut, the Marsnaut—the man who knows. Just tell it like it is—to the President.”

“I’ve got nothing to lose,” said Tad. “So I’ll try it. But I got a hunch it ain’t a-gonna work.” His tone was light, but the skin around his eyes was drawn tight.

He turned back to the general’s wife and Wendy. Jen faded away until he found another conversational group, this one with Warner Rethe in it. He stuck with the group, hoping to get a second with Warn, alone. But when the conversation dwindled down to a four-headed matter, Warner excused himself and moved away so abruptly that Jen could not follow without making it obvious he was doing just that.

He kept his eye on Warn after that, and made a couple of further attempts to get close to the man. But it became more than obvious that Warn was determined not to be caught with him in any conversational group where Jen could ask him about the President. However, later he caught a glimpse of Fanzone and Tad, momentarily alone. Tad was speaking and the President was listening and nodding.

The reception ended at ten-thirty with a cold buffet supper. Jen found himself eating like a starving man; which, he suddenly decided, he was. With food inside him, optimism and courage returned at once. He was turning over in his head several wild ideas of insisting on talking to Fanzone before the President left, when he felt a tap on his elbow. He turned around, still holding his fork and plate, to look directly into the face of Warn.

“If you’ll step into the back room over there without attracting attention,” Warn said, “he’ll talk to you after everyone else has gone—for a few minutes.”

Warn turned away without waiting for an answer. Jen stood, mechanically cleaning• up the food that was left on his plate, feeling a fierce determination and hope lift in him. Fanzone had been nodding when he talked to Tad. Perhaps Tad had gotten through to him; and this decision to talk to Jen was to get corroboration of what Tad had said. The point might be gained, after all.

Jen did as Warn had said. Twenty minutes later the last of the voices from the reception room dwindled into silence. A moment later Paul Fanzone, followed by Warn, strode into the attached bedroom where Jen had been waiting, sitting in the room’s one armchair. Warn carefully closed the door behind them; and Jen scrambled to his feet.

Fanzone, however, ignored the armchair. He stayed on his feet, halting in the center of the room, as Jen came up to him.

“It’s good of you to see me, Mr. President,” Jen said. “I can’t tell you—”

“Don’t thank me,” said Fanzone. “You’ve got nothing to thank me for.” The swarthiness of his skin, which masked the signs of tiredness well enough from the television cameras, did not hide them in this softly-lighted room as he stood in the flesh a few feet from Jen. Fanzone’s face had sagged slightly even in the six months since Jen had been a temporary press secretary for him. There were little heavinesses of flesh at the corners of his mouth and under his eyes. Almost as tall as Jen, he now seemed shorter than he had been, and his football-player’s shoulders were rounded and humped, making him seem brief of neck and turtle-like in stance. For a man in his early fifties, he still looked good; but not as good as he had six months ago.

Jen gazed at him with an odd feeling of mingled respect and sympathy. Because of Fanzone’s long friendship with Jen’s father, he had known this man who was now President since he himself had been thirteen years old. There was no one Jen admired more. The elder Wylie had become a state governor and then a U.S. senator; but with the money and family behind him to give him almost anything he wanted. Fanzone had made it from nowhere to his present office solely on faith in himself and in what he wanted to do.

“The President,” said Warn, who had come up from the closed door to join them, moving silently over the rug of the room, “only has about five minutes, Jen. This visit was supposed to be purely social.”

“He understands that, Warn,” said Fanzone. He spoke abruptly to Jen. “You’re supposed to be my alter-ego down here, do you remember that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jen. “But this—”

“No buts. You’re standing in for me,” Fanzone said. “That means you’re supposed to say my words and think my thoughts. You’re not some independent liaison between me and the ‘nauts.”

“I realize that too, sir,” said Jen. “But the Mars mission itself is important to the United States; and I thought you’d want—”

He was interrupted by Fanzone’s weary exhalation of breath. The President walked around him and sat down in the armchair, motioning Jen to a seat on the edge of the bed, facing the chair. Jen sat down.

“Look, Jen,” said Fanzone, leaning forward in the chair. “You’re not a diplomat. You’re not a politician. I could have had my pick of either to put in your shoes down here. You notice all the other nations sent experienced diplomats as their Deputy Ministers. Don’t you know why I picked an amateur, an ex-newspaperman?”

“I understood it was because you wanted someone who knew the press and could work with it—”

“All right; that, too,” said Fanzone. “But that was a bonus. The main reason was to put a representative of mine among the Deputy Ministers who was obviously someone none of the others needed to worry about.”

He looked at Jen for a minute.

“If that information bothers you,” he went on, “it shouldn’t. I’m not suggesting you’re not capable. I’m just saying you’re an amateur among professionals—put there deliberately so that the professionals will know they don’t need’ to compete with you—or me.”

“I see,” said Jen. “Well, I knew that. I’m not upset, sir.”

“I expected you to stumble over your feet here a little,” Fanzone went on. “In fact, I wanted you to; just to reassure people like Mayence and Varisov that you weren’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I wanted them to be sure they had a U.S. President who would be absent from the scene; and a U.S. Undersecretary who was obviously no match for them. Do you know why I wanted that?”

“No,” said Jen. “That I don’t know.”

“That’s right. You don’t know; and the reason you don’t is because you’re from our own country,” said Fanzone. “You take everything that’s American about this mission for granted, as a natural right. If you were from Europe or Russia, or any one of the other countries involved here, you’d understand in a second. More than any of the other world communities contributing to this mission, the U.S. has to lean over backward.”

“I don’t understand that, sir,” said Jen. “I really don’t. Why us, in particular?”

“Because we’ve got too big a slice of the mission, already,” Fanzone said.

“I thought that was all settled months ago,” Jen said. “I thought we, and all the other governments, horsetraded until there was no one country that could claim its part was more important than the rest. Here we are, calling them `Marsnauts’ instead of ‘astronauts’, which is our own word for them; a Russian is co-captain with Tad Hansard; and every country’s getting the same amount of test equipment on board and experiment time during the mission …”

“Those are details,” Fanzone said. “Face-saving details. The kind of things that work in the newspapers and newscasts. The real facts still are that we’ve got the big slice of the mission, simply because there was no other way to have it. Only the Russians had a space program comparable to ours; and they’ve been concentrating on other areas of spaceflight than the miniaturization of equipment. At this point in time, it was only by using our particular equipment and techniques that we could squeeze six nations’ worth of wants into a pair of ships on a three-year trip to Mars.”

He stared at Jen.

“You understand? It’s all linked together. Our techniques—therefore our space hardware—therefore our bases, like Kennedy, here. No matter how you divvy up what’s left over after that, the U.S. has the lion’s share of the trip in that much alone.”

“The other nations went along with that situation,” said Jen.

“That’s right,” said Fanzone, grimly. “And the reason they went along with it is the very reason you’re barking up the wrong tree with your complaints about the number of experiments to be run in the first few weeks of the mission. The others went along with it, not for Mars, but for political reasons right here on Earth. You may have gotten your eyes full of stars while you’ve been down here, Jen, so that you didn’t realize that. But you’d better get it straight now—it isn’t the mission that’s the main thing at stake here, it’s international politics; and the mission is just another arena where those politics can be worked.”

Jen looked straight at the older man.

“For us, too?” Jen asked.

Fanzone stared back. As the dark eyes met his own, Jen realized suddenly that the other was boiling inside—and that this was not showing in his speech only because it was not his way to swear at the hired help.

“Try to understand something,” Fanzone said. “This isn’t the politics of the newspaper cartoon, or the election speeches or the musical stage. This is the machinery created by human beings so that communities and cities and nations could work together for everybody’s survival. Do you think I don’t know how much space means, or that the heads of the other governments don’t? Don’t you think I know we need to get out where we can do things like study the sun and come up with fusion power before a new Dark Age sets in? But we don’t just deal with sensible, completely informed people. We deal with the man who won’t believe there’s an energy crisis until his lights go out and he can’t buy gas for his car. We deal with the woman who isn’t interested in pollution until the food she buys poisons her children—or she goes to the supermarket and there’s nothing there for her to buy at all. These are the people who dig their heels in and won’t support doing anything right up to the moment when the trouble becomes personal. Then, they turn right around a hundred and eighty degrees and want to shoot whoever was responsible for nothing being done.”

Jen said nothing. Fanzone looked at him for a long moment, as if waiting, then went on.

“Jen,” he said, “do you remember the history of the space program? It was born out of a competition with Russia to see which nation landed on the Moon first. It nearly died in the Seventies when all it had to justify itself were the actual, real, hard fallout of benefits from its basic research. What brought it back to life the way it is now, was its new symbolism as the spirit of cooperation between nations—to a better future for the common benefit. Getting to Mars won’t butter anyone’s bread, immediately; but the prospect of friendship and cooperation between the large nations and a cutback on defense costs will butter a lot. You understand that much, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jen.

“Then understand the rest of it,” Fanzone said. “The development of space has been as much my dream as anyone’s. If we could have handpicked the time of this launch, politically things might have been easier. But a launch window like this where Earth, Mars and Venus will be all lined up for the mission comes only when the planets make it available. We—all of us in the governments concerned—have had to play our cards as they lay. And in that game, the U.S. isn’t the only one holding a high hand.”

“I realize that, sir,” said Jen.

“But do you, really, in your bones where it counts?” demanded Fanzone. “To say the phrases is one thing, to understand what they mean, something else. Russia’s power reserves in fossil fuels alone have her in strong position for the next twenty years just at a time when our own power crisis is putting us in a straightjacket. Britain’s being overloaded with obsolete industrial machinery has turned out to be a plus for her—she can retool in a jump to a laser technology in her industries at a fraction of what it’ll cost us to convert. Pan-Europe just now holds the balance of power in the economic market, simply by accident of geographical position and its huge, new purchasing power; and India, like China, is a coming giant of the Twenty-first Century. These are just interesting statements to you and other people, Jen; but for me, they’re the specific facts of life I deal with. And I am dealing with them—moving toward an overall world community that’ll be many times closer-knit than the present one, a community in which international social involvement has to follow inevitably behind the economic cooperation of nations, and economic cooperation has no choice but to develop out of present political détentes. Political détentes built on things as fragile as the popular appeal of this Mars mission to the people of half the world.”

He stopped and stared at Jen.

“So,” he said, more slowly, “whether you understand or not, these things are what count at the moment. I’ve just begun to do the job in international politics that I pledged myself to do. I can and will get it done; but it’s the overall job that is going to have to come first—before anything else. That’s why the Mars mission crews are simply going to have to try to make it with more experiments than they ought to be carrying. That’s why I’ve kept, and will go on keeping, personally out of the whole political end of the mission as much as possible, throwing an amateur like you in with experienced old political infighters like Sir Geoffrey Mayence and Varisov.”

He paused. After a second, he spoke again, more gently.

“Varisov, Guenther, Mayence,” he said, “or any one of them, could make this suggestion of yours to their governments, and there’d be some chance their governments would speak up. But it’d have to be one of them who promotes it, not us. Have you tried talking to some of your fellow politicos?”

“No,” said Jen, “but Tad told me he asked the other ‘nauts to talk to their Deputy Ministers about there being too many experiments scheduled. They did and all got a flat no to any change.”

“Well,” said Fanzone, tiredly. He got to his feet. “That should have shown you and Tad how the wind blew. All right, Jen. You understand now, I hope, why I’m no help to you. But even if you don’t understand, it doesn’t make any difference. The mission is going off the way it’s been laid out to go, regardless. Several billion people all around the world don’t give us any choice—any of us.”

He offered his hand to Jen, who had also risen. Jen took it.

“Hang in there,” said Fanzone.

He turned and went out, followed by Warner Rethe. Jen stood and watched them go.

III

Tad and Wendy Hansard lay on the bed in Tad’s quarters of the Operations and Checkout Building. Moonlight coming through the windows along one side of the room made things in the room visible to them, outlining Tad’s lean-muscled frame in contrast to Wendy’s softness of shape. They were calm now. They lay on their backs, side by side, looking at the moonlight-painted ceiling, and talking with little intervals of silence, now and then.

“How much longer until I have to leave?” Wendy asked.

He turned his head and squinted at the clock on the bedside table. The hands stood at a quarter to one.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said. There was one of the little silences, and he added, “To hell with it. You can stay. What are they going to do—fire me?”

“No,” she said. She reached out without looking at him and stroked the side of his naked arm with her fingertips. “It’ll be a long day; and you won’t have any chance to catch up on sleep the first two weeks. They’re right. I’ve got to go.”

There was silence again. She took her fingertips away from his arm.

“Jimmy’s the one who really doesn’t understand,” she said. “The older two have an idea, at least.”

“Idea?” he said. “About what? What Mars is?”

“No,” she said, “about how long you’ll be gone. Tom and Cassy have some idea, at least. Only some idea, of course. Three years is a lifetime, even to them. But they can think ahead and measure it by something. Tom’ll be in his first year of college when you get back. Cassy’ll be a junior in high school. But Jimmy … three years is half the time he’s been on Earth.”

“Little old afterthought, that boy,” said Tad, half to himself.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have had him with a gap like that between him and the other two.”

He sensed, without seeing, that she shook her head on the pillow. “I was happy,” she said.

“Me, too,” admitted Tad. “Guess we’ve spoiled him.”

“If we have, I’m glad,” she said, “now that he’s got to go three years without you. Tom and Cassy had you around those years when they were little.”

Another little silence came and went.

“Sure,” he said. “But it’s always the now that counts.”

They lay there with the moonlight strong upon them; and the hands of the clock at the bedside crawled upwards toward the hour of one a.m., as the eternal moment of the present ate its relentless way into the future.

Some sixty feet away, in his own quarters, cosmonaut Feodor Aleksandrovitch Asturnov, already asleep, dreamed of his dead wife and children. In shadow, his regular, narrow features looked like a bas-relief on an old coin.

They were out on a picnic. They had spread out the picnic things in a meadow that barely sloped for some little distance to the edge of a wide, very shallow river, glinting in the hot summer sunlight, and Maria was afraid that Vanya, being still a baby, would wander down and fall into the river. He tried to reassure her; but then with the older three children he went off into a little woods nearby to look for mushrooms. Somehow they got separated; and, going back to the meadow to look for them, he saw all five of them—Maria and all the children, Vera, Kostya, Iliusha … even the baby—wading in the river.

It was immediately apparent to him that Vanya, as Maria had feared, had wandered into the water; and Maria, with the other children, had gone after him.

“Don’t worry!” Fedya shouted to them now, running toward the river. “It’s all shallow—quite shallow—”

But as he looked, the current of the water seemed to catch them one by one. One by one, they appeared to step off into hidden depths. He saw their heads bob for a moment on the sparkling water, and then they disappeared. And he was still running, running, toward the river …

The anguish and terror of the dream half-woke him. He came to for a moment in the unfamiliar bedroom in the Operations and Checkout Building. For a second he was lost. Then he remembered where he was and why; and that Maria and the children had been dead for over two years now.

“That’s right,” he told himself, “it was a train wreck, not a river.”

Strangely, the correction of his conscious mind comforted him. The dream image of the meadow and the heads bobbing on the water began to fade rapidly. He turned over on his other side and closed his eyes again. In a very few minutes he was deeply asleep and beginning to dream that he had been made sole commander of the Mars mission as the result of a last-minute change in plans. It was necessary, however, for him to fill out a number of forms attesting to the competence of the other five Marsnauts. He wrote rapidly but clearly, finding it a pleasure to put down on paper their high qualifications and his own high opinion of them …

In the hotel on Merritt Island, the angular, aging, six-and-a-halffoot length of Sir Geoffrey Mayence, Her Majesty’s Deputy Minister of Science for the Development of Space lay hard awake. He had not been able even to approach sleep; and, chasing through his brain again and again, were his own words about cross-country running, that day at lunch in the Operations and Checkout Building with the Marsnauts. Remembered, his talk sounded fatuous and egotistic. What had he been doing, talking about cross-country running, nowadays—an old crock like him? A man should outgrow making a fool of himself.

It was his own inflated reaction, of course, to the young men, to the Marsnauts themselves. The very fact of their well-conditioned presence in the room was enough to challenge him into boasting about his own athletic past. Dirk Wellesthe British ‘naut in particular, must have been laughing up his sleeve.

Sir Geoffrey lay rigid, his long bony frame extended diagonally across the king-size bed, and thought of the sleeping pills in his suitcase. Insomnia. Another feebleness of old age. No, by God …

He lay, unmoving; and the slow gears of the iron hours ground their way through the darkness until light began at last to show around the edges of the heavy drapes shielding his bedroom from the dawn.

Launch time was scheduled for eleven a.m. At five-thirty the ‘nauts were awakened by a call on their bedside phones. Tad rolled off the bed and up onto his feet. Fifteen minutes later, shaved if not fully awake, and carrying his two white cartons with morning urine and stool specimens, he joined the other five in the clinic for the last, cursory physical exam.

He did not feel like talking this morning; and as he went through the clinic door, he braced himself against the morning chatter of the others. But they were also quieter than normal. Even Bapti Lal Bose, usually merry, was now sober-faced.

They stood, lay down, got up and ran, all patiently for the benefit of the medical instruments. They donated their blood by way of samples from fingertip and forearm, stared across scant inches of distance into the eyes of the physicians poking and prodding them, and were finally released to get dressed and have breakfast.

To Tad, the orange juice. bacon and scrambled eggs tasted good; but a very small amount of them seemed to fill him up. He was awake now, but not necessarily lighthearted.

“Sleep well?” he asked Fedya, who was sitting across the table from him.

Feodor Asturnov’s regular, calm features smiled a little.

“I think so,” he said. The smile vanished. “I saw you talking to your President, at the reception.”

“Yeah,” said Tad. “But don’t expect any changes.”

“I see,” said Fedya. They were talking English, which was the tongue in which the mission crew was to operate—in which, as a matter of fact, it had been operating for nearly nine months now, since they had all started training together. For the first time in those nine months, Tad found himself wondering if Fedya was this taciturn in his own language; and whether, if they had been speaking in Russian, he would have answered merely, “I see.”

“Sorry,” said Tad. “I gave it all I had. I guess we’re stuck with the full slate of experiments.”

“We can still go on strike,” said Bapti Lal Bose, rediscovering his normal cheerfulness, two chairs down on Fedya’s side of the breakfast table. “A sit-down strike. Put Phoenix One and Phoenix Two into orbit and sit there, going around and around the Earth until they negotiate.”

“All right, Bap,” said Dirk Welles, the British ‘naut. “Strike, it is. We’ll leave the organization and the details up to you.”

“I will take care of it. I!” Bap struck himself on the chest. “All scabs will EVA without suits.”

Fedya had regained his quiet smile, listening to Bap. But now he shook his head.

“We can’t afford even one scab,” he said. The remark was humorous; but his face had gone serious.

“You can’t afford to lose this scab, at least,” said Bern Callieux. “Seeing you others are so ignorant about geology.”

The round-faced young Pan-European ‘naut was so soft-voiced, and his excursions into humor came so seldom, that the other five stared at him for a second before understanding. Then there was a general groan around the table. They had all been forced to sit through hours of classes on rock identification.

“The first boulder I see on Mars, Bern,” promised Anoshi Wantanabe, the Japanese ‘naut, “that’s the one I’m going to pick up and hit you over the head with.”

And the talk around the breakfast table began to sound more like the talk there on other, more ordinary mornings …

Jen came awake suddenly. He saw the face of Lin above him, her long brown hair fallen forward over her bare shoulders and screening their two faces within a small enclosure of privacy.

“I hate to wake you,” she said, her blue eyes looking deeper than usual, here in the shadow of her hair. “You were sleeping so heavily. But you said something about getting going early.”

He grunted.

“What time is it?”

Her face and hair moved back from him. Morning light struck him directly in the eyes.

“It’s just seven-thirty,” she said. “Gotta get up.”

He shoved himself off the bed on the side away from her and swayed to his feet. Stumping on heavy legs that were still clumsy from slumber, he made it to the bathroom and began splashing warm water on his sleep-chilled face. He stopped for a second to call to Lin.

“Phone room service for some coffee for me, will you?” he said. “This is Suite 814A.”

He returned to splashing the water, which drowned the sense of her reply.

Twenty minutes later, dressed and awake by virtue of shower and shaving equipment and all the habits of arising, he sat in an armchair drinking coffee. Lin still lay in bed, her face on the pillow, watching him.

“Coffee?” he asked her.

She shook her head.

“Can you eat one of these sweet rolls?” he asked.

“Not right now,” she said. “I ordered them hoping you’d eat them.”

“Not this early—not this morning,” he said. “I’ll pick up something along the way.” He finished his coffee and put the empty cup down. “Look, you’ve got a press pass, haven’t you? I suppose the magazine got you one.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I’m supposed to be in the VIP stands,” said Jen. “But I had a chance to phone last night. Do you know Barney Winstrom of Southwest Network? They’re a cable TV group.”

“No.”

“Well, he’ll call you here. He’s going out with a large motor van full of video equipment to the parking lot at the press stands at nine. I got you a ride with him so you wouldn’t have to fight the press buses. You’ll be going a little early, but the van’s air-conditioned and has a lounge in it. You’ll be more comfortable that way than anything else I can arrange for you. I’ll try to sneak over from the VIP’s and join you just before the shuttle lifts. All right?”

“All right,” she said. “Don’t forget to set up an interview for me, to talk with the Hansard and Welles wives.”

“I’ve got it in mind,” he said, getting to his feet. “Now … see you later.”

“Take care,” she said, as he went out.

He left the suite, checked in with the security office and got an official car and driver from the VIP pool to take him from the hotel to the Press Center in downtown Merritt Island.

Inside, the building was aswarm with men and women wearing orange press passes; and buses loaded with more of the same were pulling out of the parking lot in back at regular intervals. Jen shouldered his way down the long transverse corridor until he came to the doorway next to the credentials desk. He went in to a long room bisected by an equally long desk; and got the attention of one of the women working at a typewriter behind the counter. She came up to the counter, a thin-faced, black-haired, cheerful young girl.

“Is Wally Rice in his office right now?” Jen asked. “I’m Jen Wylie. Would you ask him if I could see him for just a moment?”

She looked at him brightly, obviously not recognizing the name.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is Mr. Rice’s busiest time—”

“I’m the United States Undersecretary of Science for the Development of Space,” Jen said, softly. “But I’d rather it wasn’t noised about I was here. If you’ll just tell Wally my name, I think he’ll see me. We’ve known each other for some years.”

“Just a minute,” she said. She went off. In a few seconds, she was back, opening the swinging door at one end of the counter. “If you’ll come in …”

Jen went through the door and followed her to a small cubbyhole of a white-walled, white-ceilinged office, within which was a short, heavy, tanned-faced man standing behind a desk.

“Sit down. Take it easy, Wally,” said Jen, as the girl left them. “I’m just sneaking in to ask a personal favor—one I don’t want to go through VIP channels for.”

“You’re looking good,” said Wally. His accent was similar to the southern one of Tad Hansard, gentle against the hard-edged mid-U.S. voice of Jen. They sat down. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to talk to Bill Ward, just for ten or fifteen minutes, this morning,” Jen said. “Don’t jump down my throat, now. I realize he’s Launch Director; but if I could just see him for those few minutes. It’s important—”

“Well, I don’t guess I have to jump down your throat for that,” said Wally. “It might be arranged, if you see him before the shuttle goes. It’s after that, with the Mars birds, he’ll be busy. What’s this all about—something governmental?”

“Yes … and no. Something personal and governmental both,” Jen said. “The personal angle is why I don’t want to go through the VIP machinery. Leaving aside the fact they’d diddle around all morning and end up not getting it done.”

“That’s a fact,” said Wally. “We bail them out from time to time when it’s something on short notice.”

“Do you mind if I don’t tell you, what it’s about, then?”

“Well, I don’t mind,” said Wally. “But Bill Ward’s going to want to know why he has to walk away from his consoles.”

“I suppose …” said Jen, unhappily. “All right. Tell him it’s a matter of scheduling.”

“Just—scheduling?” answered Wally.

“Do I have to say more than that?”

“Maybe not,” Wally nodded. “No, I would guess not. He knows who you are, nowadays?”

“I’m sure he does,” Jen said. “You might work it into the conversation if you think he doesn’t. But kind of mention, too, the fact that I’d just as soon my seeing him didn’t get into the general conversation about this launch.”

“All right. Gotcha,” said Wally, reaching for the telephone. “Where are you going to be? This may take a little while.”

“I’m going across to the Holiday Inn, or wherever I can get in, for breakfast,” Jen said. “From there, I thought I’d go out to the press site a little early. I can leave word out there where I’m sitting—that is, if you’ll give me a press pass.”

“Hum,” said Wally, thoughtfully letting go of the phone. “I didn’t think of that. You’ve got a VIP badge. That and a press pass don’t go together, exactly.”

“One of the reasons I was named Undersecretary was because the President wanted my experience and knowledge with the press.” Jen mentally crossed his fingers. “I think the White House would want me to have a press pass. Want me to call Warner Rethe right now and ask?”

He reached for the phone. Wally shook his head.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. Jen settled back, mentally uncrossing his fingers. “We’d better put ‘White House Press Office’ on it, though.”

He picked up the phone and spoke into it.

“Well,” he said, putting it down. “How’ve you been?” They chatted about things in general until another office girl came in with a press badge already made out. Jen pinned it on his shirt, shook hands with Wally and left.

The Holiday Inn, as he had expected, was jammed and people wanting to eat were standing in line for tables. He thought for a minute. As usual at a launch, a million and a half people had flooded the area. Cars were parked solid on the causeways, and any place that served food would have the same kind of waiting line he had seen at the Holiday Inn. He got back in his car and told the driver to return them to the VIP hotel.

When they got to the hotel, however, he had the driver swing past the VIP motor pool; and it was two-thirds empty of vehicles.

“On second thought, no,” he told the driver, a security man with a thick brown moustache on a young face. “I can’t risk losing you—or being left without wheels. Have you had breakfast?”

“Two hours ago,” said the driver. “Good,” said Jen. “I can skip it.

Take me out to the press stands; and I’ll turn you loose.”

The driver pulled back out into the busy traffic of the street. Jen glanced at his watch. It was nearly a quarter after eight, already. There really had not been any time for breakfast in the first place.

The roads to the Cape Kennedy area were already full. They soon found themselves locked in line behind a camper wagon that was in turn behind a press bus. However, they managed to proceed at twenty miles an hour, until they reached the entrance, the traffic thinned and they picked up speed. It was twenty-five minutes after nine when they finally got to the press site.

Jen thanked the driver and got out. He watched the white sedan with the official seal on its side turn and go, then turned and walked in over the little wooden bridge to the end of the press stands.

The stands were half filled; and the first few rows of correspondents at telephones and typewriters were without empty spaces entirely. Jen came up to the small official building by the end of the stands, mounted three steps and knocked on the door. There was a moment’s wait and then the door opened. A thin, harried-looking man in shirtsleeves looked out.

“I’m Jen Wylie,” Jen said. “I’m expecting a message from Wally Rice, at the Press Center. He said he’d leave word here.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Wylie,” said the thin man. “He said to check back here with me about ten. He ought to have some word for you by then. Where’re you going to be in the stands?”

“I don’t have a seat,” Jen said. “Why don’t you just call me over your PA system? Only don’t use my name—ask for Mr. West.”

“Right, Mr. West. I’ll just make a note of that.” The thin man ducked back inside, closing the door, and Jen started for the stands, then changed his mind and went back across the little bridge to the press parking lot to see if Barney Winstrom’s van with Lin had arrived.

He found it in the most recently arrived row of vehicles and knocked on the door. It opened; and a blast of air-conditioned air chilled his already damp forehead.

“Let him in!” called the voice of Barney from somewhere in the dark interior. The man who had opened the door stood aside and Jen climbed gratefully up the interior steps into the coolness.

Lin was sitting, drinking a beer in the office section of the van with Barney, a cheerful, overweight fifty-year-old. Jen accepted a can of beer, himself; but it was only half-emptied before the sound of the public address system at the press stand reached his ear.

The sound of the air-conditioning and the walls of the van had made the words unintelligible.

But Jen got up and opened the door of the van in time to hear the message repeated.

“… Will Mr. West come to the north corner of the stand, immediately?” the loudspeakers were booming. “Mr. West, wanted at the north end of the stand, immediately.”

Jen put his beer can aside and went. Waiting for him at the corner of the stands was a uniformed guard wearing a general pass with a yellow Vehicle Assembly Building tag on it.

“If you’ll come with me, Mr. Wylie,” said the guard.

They crossed to a NASA sedan that was waiting, and rode over to the four-story section of the VAB that was the Launch Control Center. Inside, an elevator lifted them to the third floor and Jen’s guide took him down a short stretch of narrow hallway to the active firing room.

Inside, the ranks of consoles on the sloping floor marched away down to a level area filled with other ranks of tall metal cabinets. Jen and his guide came up to the console behind which stood Bill Ward, looking over the shoulder of the man seated there, before turning away to talk to two other men in shirtsleeves standing with him. Jen and the guide stood and waited silently.

Bill finished talking and turned abruptly to face Jen.

“Well, Jen?” he said. “You said you wanted to talk to me?” “That’s right,” said Jen.

“All right, come with me,” said Bill.

He strode off with Jen, leaving the guide behind. They went back to the door of the firing room, out of it and down the hall to another door. They stepped into a room which was exactly the size of the firing room they had just left, but empty of consoles and with a wall cutting off most of the level space beyond the slope. In the middle of the nearly empty room was a conference table with straight chairs around it. Bill led Jen to this, and sat down in the end chair of the table, stiffly upright. He motioned Jen into the chair next to him.

“All right,” said Bill briskly across the corner of the table, as soon as Jen was seated. “What sort of scheduling is this supposed to be about?”

IV

The directness of the question took Jen unaware. He had spent too much time recently in the area of political people and their words; he had forgotten this other area of machines and their people—the land of plus and minus, day and night, go or no-go. All at once the pressures of the last few days, the tension, the lack of breakfast and the half a can of beer on his empty stomach piled up on him and made the whole situation seem unreal.

He stared at the strange, empty, sloping-floored room around him, half ready to believe that it was some stage scene mocked up for his bafflement. Even as he looked at the room it seemed to sway and tilt in the fashion of a room in the crazy-house of an amusement park.

“Hold on!” Something caught him strongly by the upper arm and he became aware that Bill Ward was holding him upright in his chair and was talking to him. “What’s the matter, Jen? Are you all right?”

Jen blinked; and got his eyes, the room, and himself once more under control. He straightened up in his chair.

“Yes,” he said, surprised at the huskiness of his own voice. “Skipped breakfast this morning. I guess it really wasn’t the best thing to do…”

“You’re pretty pale,” said Bill, sharply. “You’d better just sit there a minute. Let me get you something.”

“No, no. I’m fine . .” But Bill was already gone.

“Just water!” Jen called after him. There was a minute or two of nothing happening; and then Bill came back with a paper cup half filled with water.

“May be a coffee taste to it,” said Bill, sitting down with him again. “There’s no cups around here. I had to get a cup of coffee from the machine and pour the coffee out to fill it with water from the fountain. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” said Jen. The water flowed down his gullet, a cool finger of feeling that brought him to. He set the cup down. “Where are we? What is this room?”

“One of the firing rooms,” said Bill. “There were four—one never got activated. You still look pretty white. Sure you’re all right?”

“Except for feeling like a damn fool, yes,” said Jen, strongly. “I’m all right. Look, you asked me what scheduling I wanted to talk to you about. It’s the experiment schedule for the ‘nauts.”

“That?” said Bill.

“That,” said Jen. “Tad’s told me the ‘nauts think it’s too much. I talked to the President. I even got Tad to talk to him. Nothing doing. So I came to you.”

Bill sat in silence for a second. “Why me?” he said then, in an emotionless voice.

“It’s politics,” said Jen. The room threatened to sway again; but with determination he kept it solid and real. “It seems every nation involved in this wants the largest share of the mission’s time they can get; and national pride is at stake when it comes to agreeing to cut their share of the schedule. Apparently the President—apparently they all believe that the general public in each of the cooperating nations wouldn’t stand for the experiments being cut—it’s the way they measure their part of the mission.”

“All right,” Bill Ward said, “I say—why come to me with this?”

“You’re the Launch Director.”

“Sure.”

“Well, God damn it!” said Jen. “You’re part of the people who’re putting those boys up there. If their work schedule’s too heavy during the first six weeks, or whatever, you have to know it is so, don’t you? If there’s something that’s going to put them and the mission in danger, you’d want to correct it—”

“Slow down,” said Bill.

Jen quit talking. For a second they were both quiet; and a healing silence gathered in on them from the empty room.

“What do you think we could do?” asked Bill, after a little.

“You could kick up a fuss,” said Jen, but without the explosiveness that had been in his voice a moment before. “If you get word from them that they’re too busy, or too tired, you can tell them to skip part of the experimental work, can’t you?”

“You want the Mission Director for that,” Bill said calmly. “If and when the ‘nauts complain to him he’ll order a revaluation of the situation and take what corrective action seems to be called for.”

“I don’t know the Mission Director,” said Jen. “You do. If you spoke to him, wouldn’t he order a reduction, as long as you and he have to know as well as Tad and the others do—that they’re overscheduled?”

Bill sat back in his chair. He was thick-waisted enough so that he sat stiffly upright, putting his head higher than Jen’s. He glanced briefly at his watch.

“I have to go back to the firing room,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. You’re talking to the wrong man.”

“Is it the truth that you’d want to?” said Jen, as Bill shoved his chair back.

Bill stopped. For a moment his face seemed to signal a coming verbal explosion. Then it relaxed and changed.

“Let me tell you something,” he said in a quiet voice, pulling his chair up to the table again. “Do you know what puts men up into space? Other men and women. And those other men and women have to eat. They’ve got to make mortgage payments and feed their families. There’s got to be a payroll; and the birds don’t pay for themselves like a cash register. What they do is bring in long-term benefits that a high percentage of people can’t connect with their going up in the first place.”

“I know that,” said Jen.

“Do you?” said Bill. “Do you know it in the paycheck area? Were you ever personally given the choice of taking a one-quarter or more cut in your salary at a time when you had shoes to buy for the kids and dental bills to pay? Take it or quit your job. It isn’t a matter of work—most of the people here work long hours when they’re needed, away and beyond what they’re paid for in the first place. But they’ve got to be paid something. And we damn near lost that something, that minimum, a couple of times now.”

“I know that,” said Jen.

“Never mind what you think you know,” Bill said. “Just listen a bit. We damn near lost the payroll about eight years ago. And if we’d lost it entirely, we would have lost the experienced men behind the work going on here today. As it was, we lost a lot of them anyway. People blame it on the push for poverty programs; but if it hadn’t been the poverty programs, it would have been something else. Once the emotional push quits, the people who don’t know basic research and don’t understand it start to make themselves heard. And those who ought to explain it to them are too busy attending to their own affairs. So something like the space program goes down the drain, along with the skills of the people who’ve worked in it eight to twenty years. And everybody suffers.”

“You don’t need to worry now,” said Jen. “You’ve got half the population of the world cheering for you on this mission.”

“Right,” said Bill. “And if they quit cheering, it’s not going to be because of any errors our people made. If we cut that program of experiments while it still looks possible the Marsnauts can handle them without trouble, and one of the cut experiments results in some people here, or India, or anywhere else, dying because certain experimental equipment wasn’t tested—what do you think the newspapers are going to be saying about us, when they start reporting those deaths? Well? You were a newsman to begin with. What do you think?”

Jen sat silent.

“You see,” said Bill, a little more gently, getting to his feet from the chair, “we’re able to make this mission to Mars because the public spotlight is on us again. But the price of being in that spotlight is that everything we do is going to be seen, and remembered—and maybe used against us sometime in the future when the spotlight’s back off. You can be sure we’ll re-examine the experimental schedule if and when the ‘nauts complain about it. But asking them to do it beforehand—and in the face of a political demand for those same experiments—doesn’t make sense.”

He stopped talking. Jen still said nothing, sitting there not knowing quite what to do. He put a hand on Jen’s shoulder.

“Come along with me,” he said. “I’ve got to turn you back over to the security man who brought you.”

Jen stood up numbly. With his hand still on Jen’s shoulder, Bill led him up the bare slope of the room and out the door into the corridor.

“The boys in those ships are just going to have to fight some parts of their battle alone,” Bill said. “It’s a hard thing to say, but it’s only the way things are.”

The guard was waiting for Jen outside the entrance to the occupied firing room.

“Where to, Mr. Wylie?” asked the guard. “Back to the press stand?”

Jen started and came to. He looked at his watch.

“No,” he said. “No. I’m supposed to be over in the VIP area by this time. Better take me there as fast as you can.”

But when they got to the VIP area, he and his guide were directed on to the entrance of the Operations and Checkout Building, where the Deputy Ministers were waiting to watch the Marsnauts board the vehicle that would carry them to the waiting shuttle.

Over a period of time, thought Tad, a spacesuit became familiar, just like everything else. The strangeness that came with it, the first time you had it on, and that everyone who had never worn one imagined was always there, evaporated or was lost somewhere along the way. In the end it was no more than getting taped up and into a football uniform.

Of course, it still took over an hour to get the spacesuits on, even with plenty of help. First came the long underwear with all the sensors wired into it that had to be attached to the skin of the body at various points with a special glue that not even perspiration could loosen. Then, there were tests to make sure the sensors were all working. Then came the climb into the suit itself, and the twisting to get the plug with wires from the underwear sensors into its socket inside the suit. Then more tests to see that everything was working when the suit was plugged in to the recording outlet. Finally, there was the sealing of the suit and walking around in it, the testing to make sure that everything had been done right and nothing had been left undone.

Then you were free to move out to the carryall waiting to transport everyone to the shuttle.

Leading the others, Tad clumped on his heavy, magnetic (if presently inactivated) boot soles down the corridor, into the elevator, out of the elevator, along the ground-level corridor and out into the sudden glare of August Florida sunshine. His helmet’s faceplate darkened automatically. The temperature control of the suit was undoubtedly stepping itself up to keep him cool, though he could feel no sign of it. Out beyond the entrance, by the green glass-topped carryall, was a small knot of people—the Deputy Ministers, provided with headsets and phones so that they could talk to their ‘nauts. Jen was among them, looking somewhat disheveled, as if he hurried to be here. Tad stopped briefly in front of the taller man. Jen, he saw, was not looking good—his face had the stupefied, heavy expression of someone overdue for sleep. His lips moved.

“Good luck,” his voice said over the circuit in Tad’s earphones. The words were overlaid and made almost unintelligible by the voices of all the other diplomatic people talking at once to their own ‘nauts. It was like being on an old-fashioned telephone party line that everyone was trying to use at once. Jen shook Tad’s large-gauntleted hand, peering through the sun-shaded glass of the helmet to see his face.

There was no way to talk privately. Tad raised his eyebrows, interrogatively. Jen shook his head. Tad nodded grimly in acknowledgment of the information and promise of his determination; but the gesture, while successful, was lost in the looseness of the spacesuit. He did not believe that Jen had seen or properly interpreted it.

Someone was tapping Tad on the shoulder. It was time to get into the carryall. He raised his right glove in salute to Jen, turned all in one piece, as you had to do when suited, and went forward and up the steps into the carryall, taking the first large seat to his left.

The other ‘nauts entered, heavy-footed, and went past him to fill the double row of seats on either side of the wide aisle. Fedya, as the co-commander of the mission, sat down in the other front seat, across the aisle from Tad. All were aboard, now. The door to the carryall closed and the vehicle rose on its underjets and slid off down the way to the waiting shuttle.

They had fallen into group silence again; and, isolated in the privacy of his suit, Tad welcomed it. He was conscious of the suit as a second skin. He felt the familiar pressure of the EMU urine collection system front and back about his crotch, the pressure of the shoes against his sole and heel, the weight of his helmet, of the folded fabric pressing on shoulders, arms and thighs, the thickness at his waist and under his arms. But it was a familiar feeling, again like the football uniform—no matter how strange it might feel to someone else. Now, in their suits, all of them in the bus had stepped over the line, and become a different sort of people from all those others on Earth who were waiting and watching. They who were bound for space were set apart by what they did—and by why they were about to do it.

They belonged to Earth, but their business was elsewhere. They were like working sailors. Like deep-sea fishermen. He remembered the age-greened, copper statue at Gloucester, Massachusetts, of the New England fisherman standing with one knee braced against the wheelhouse, the deck canted under him, the eyes beneath his rain hat looking outward and ahead.

He and the others, Tad thought, were like sailors. They must travel out and away. The silence of the suit phones rang in his mind now like the imagined sound of the sea heard when an ocean shell was held to the ear. It was as to the sea he and the others were now going. How did the psalm go? “They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters …”

Jen had managed to break away from the Deputy Ministers. Luckily, the guard and the NASA auto had waited for him.

“Back to the press site,” Jen said, getting in. The car pulled out into the empty road.

As he crossed the wooden bridge to the press stand, the loudspeakers of the little building holding the thin NASA man were announcing that the vehicle carrying the ‘nauts had just reached the shuttle. The big screen in front of the press stand, thirty feet long by ten high, gave a window-like, three dimensional view of the carryall pulling up the ten-degree slope of the brown, concrete launch pad, to halt at the top by the Mobile Launch Tower. Slow-moving because of their suits and therefore more solemn than they might have seemed otherwise, the ‘nauts emerged, one by one, from the vehicle and went to the elevator in the MLT.

All this was happening as Jen walked along the front walkway of the stands, looking up into them to find Lin. He found her at last, about halfway up in the far end section, and climbed up the nearest aisle. She had her arm over an empty, gray-painted metal folding chair beside her. As he came up to her, she took her arm from it.

“Sit down,” she said. “I’ve had a hard time holding this for you.” She looked at him perceptively. “I’ll bet you didn’t get any breakfast after all.”

He shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’ll make up for it at lunch. You’ll be ready for lunch yourself, after the launch?”

“Of course,” she said, lightly. “I always lunch after launch. Did you set up appointments for me with the wives of Tad Hansard and—who’s the British Marsnaut, now—Dirk Welles?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just haven’t had time, yet—” He broke off. She was staring at him.

“Haven’t had time!” she exploded. “I mentioned it to you last night and again this morning! Do you realize I’ve been down here nearly twenty-four hours and as far as the magazine’s concerned I haven’t done a thing?”

“I really am sorry,” Jen said. “But in any case you couldn’t get to see them until later—”

“And what if it turns out I can’t see them this afternoon? What if it turns out I’m going to miss them completely because they’re going off someplace?” She was blazing mad. “Do you think I came down here just for … just for a holiday?”

“I’ll do what I can as soon as I can,” he said. “They’ll be in the VIP stands right now watching like everyone else. There’s no way I can talk to them until after the launch. As soon as I can, I will.”

Lin jerked about, staring straight before her over the rows of heads below, at the large video screen before the stands.

He watched her for a moment, waiting for any answer she might make. But she made none. He looked at the screen himself. The ‘nauts were going up in the Mobile Launch Tower elevator now two by two, and across the catwalk to the shuttle entry hatch, some seven stories above the level of the launch pad. Jen felt empty—a shell of a man, inwardly stripped of energy and muscle, a dull-minded, sweating observer, floating with the too-powerful currents that pushed against him. Lin’s burst of anger had cut away his last illusion of understanding and support for the lonely position in which he had placed himself.

Yet, this was the moment to which he had been looking forward. The moment in which he had expected to feel something almost mystic, the larger part of the world’s population concentrated, participating in a single action all together like members of a single family. And, in fact, to a certain extent the feeling was there.

The stage was set. Before them, beyond the stands and the line of video cameras with their telescopic lenses manned by assorted news cameramen, was the grassy apron of land leading to the water up which huge sections for the Apollo series of rockets had been carried by water, to the very doors of the Vehicle Assembly Building. The VAB itself stood to their left, so large that it had been able to handle four of the twenty-seven-story Apollos at once, one in each of its high bays. So big that it tricked the eye, looking like a smaller building much closer than it was. In the other direction, three miles off from the press stand, on the launch pad of LC39, was the shuttle itself.

Above, the relentless Florida sun in August beat on metal, concrete, green scrubland, men and women alike. The mingled voices from the press stands of newspeople speaking into telephones and microphones and to each other hummed like the voice of a wasp hive under the amplified tones of the public address system, explaining what they were seeing on the large video screen.

“… and now, last of all, as senior of the two co-commanders of the mission, Tad Hansard is leaving the elevator and boarding the shuttlecraft …”

From day-brilliance, Tad stepped once more into interior dimness; and once again his faceplate adapted, clearing so that he could see the section of the shuttle in which they would travel. The six gimbaled acceleration couches were arranged three on a side, and the foremost one on the left side was waiting for him. He walked to it, eased himself down into it and plugged his spacesuit’s umbilical into the receptor mounted on the bare metal wall alongside it.

It was like sitting in a circular-walled section of an old-fashioned cargo plane. The shuttle itself was a cargo carrier; and the metal framing and walls of its body were bare; the floor beneath the couches, a corrugated steel plate, broken only by the metal hatch opening in the center and the ladder leading both down to the cargo sections below, and up to the control section overhead where the pilot and copilot of the shuttle would already be in their own acceleration couches, ready to lift.

Everything around Tad—couches, receptors, even the floor plate, was an accessory to the shuttle’s normal interior configuration and could be quickly and easily removed in the case of a flight carrying cargo only to one of the space labs in orbit around the Earth. Like himself, and the other ‘nauts, like the shuttle itself, everything here was utilitarian, replaceable—and expendable.

Anoshi and Bap were talking now over the helmet phone system, joking gently and quietly. Beside him, Fedya was not talking; and Tad did not feel like talking either. Work time was here. They were away from the eyes of the world now, ready to begin their jobs.

A red light lit on the forward section of curved wall facing them.

“Shuttle pilot, here,” said a voice in their earphones. “Steve Janowitz, gentlemen. All ready to lift on schedule in eighteen seconds, seventeen, sixteen …”

The press stands were half empty. As in the days of the Apollo flights, newsmen and news-women had left their metal folding chairs and the shade of the roof above the stand, and swarmed forward to the water’s edge a hundred yards or so beyond the stands. Lin, however, had not moved; and Jen had stayed seated beside her. He was beside her now, his eyes on the shuttle as the countdown proceeded.

Lin glanced at him narrowly out of the corner of her eye; but he was watching only the shuttle. For a moment, something like contrition stirred in her, but she hardened her will against any softening toward Jen. After all, she thought, I’ve got my work to do, too, and my own responsibilities. He’ll have to learn to consider them, too …

“… five,” said the public address system, “four, three, two, one … and we have liftoff!”

Orange flames spurted from the base of the shuttle, shooting out to each side. For a moment the whole spacegoing creature seemed to stand there unmoved above flames—then it began to rise. The flame faded to white fire. Slowly, and then more swiftly, the shuttle lifted into the sky; as the thunder of a giant’s firecrackers reached and rolled over the press stand, making the whole structure shiver under those like Jen and Lin who still sat in it.

The shuttle went swiftly into the cloudless sky and was lost to sight.

The hand of acceleration lay heavily upon Tad and the others as the shuttle lifted—but not so heavily as in the past. Three gravities for the shuttle as opposed to the ten gravities of the old Apollo launches. Tad waited out the pressure that forced him down into his couch, until it finally yielded partway, then ceased altogether. His weight went from him and he floated on the couch. Thirty minutes had gone by and they were now in orbit with the two Mars ships that had been assembled here, away front Earth’s gravity.

“Just about there, gents,” said the voice of the shuttle pilot in their helmets. “Right nice burn we got. Now a little correction …” Ten minutes later, there was a clanging of metal transmitted through the skin of the shuttle as it docked with one of the Mars ships.

“Phoenix Two,” announced the shuttle pilot, in their earphones.

Fedya, Dirk and Bern disconnected their umbilicals, rose and clumped off through the entry hatch of the shuttle that now opened on a docking tube connecting with the entry hatch of the second Mars vessel.

“Now for Phoenix One,” said the pilot. The shuttle undocked and moved off.

Ten minutes more and it was the turn of Anoshi, Bap and Tad to leave their shuttle couches for the tube. It let them through an air lock into the pleasant, white-walled surroundings of the control level—top one of four levels—in the ship that would be their home for the next three years. They checked to make sure the air lock was closed again behind them.

“All clear,” said Tad over his helmet phone to the shuttle pilot.

“All clear. Disengaging,” came the answer.

With a clang heard through the metal bodies, the shuttle undocked from Phoenix One. The three of them moved to their control couches and plugged in their urnbilicals. They began final checkoff.

The seconds counted down toward launch time. Checkoff was completed. From the two ships Tad and Fedya reported to Mission Control that all was ready; and Mission, Control entered the last sixty seconds of countdown to firing—to the actual launch that would lift both ships into a Mars-injection orbit.

“Fifty seconds and counting,” said the headphones in Tad’s helmet, as he lay on the acceleration couch waiting. About him he could feel the huge shape of Phoenix One, thirty-three feet in circumference, two hundred and seventy feet in length with two nuclear booster engines flanking her. “Forty seconds and counting …”

He could feel the ship now as if she was no more than a much more massive spacesuit enclosing him. She was his ship, he and she were identical.

“Thirty seconds, twenty-nine seconds …”

Earth was nothing, now. This was everything. He could not look back at the planet below, he could not even look back at his wife and children in this moment. He could look nowhere but forward, out toward where he was going, like the statue of the Gloucester fisherman peering ahead from under the brim of his rain hat …

“Fifteen … fourteen… thirteen …”

“They that go down to the sea in ships,” he thought again, “and do business upon great waters”—that was written for him and the five others as well as for all those who had ever sailed out of sight of land. It was only a mightier ship he sailed, now, out into a greater ocean.

“Ten … nine … eight…”

He thought, the psalm should read, “They that go out, to the stars in ships, and do business in great spaces—”

“Two … one!”

His gloved finger came down on the backup firing button. A part of what was unseen to him, white fire blared from three great sets of jets; and acceleration jammed him flown, down into his couch, as Phoenix One with its sister ship beside it, lifted outward to the stars.

Synopsis

It is the early 1980’s. After a period of dangerous cutbacks, the space program has been revived in the form of an internationally cooperative six party effort, to take advantage of the 1983 launch window and make a manned, three-year, round-trip spaceflight and landing on Mars. Providing “Marsnauts” (the name is the result of a compromise between the US. and Russia) to the three-man crews of the two ships, are the United States: TADELL (TAD) HANSARD; Great Britain: DIRK WELLES; the Pan-European Community of Nations: BERN CALLIEUX; Russia: FEODOR (FEDYA) ASTURNOV; India: BAPTI (BAP) LAL BOSE; and Japan: ANOSHI WANTANABE.

These countries are also represented by diplomatic representatives, known as Deputy Ministers for the Development of Space (Britain: SIR GEOFFREY MAYENCE; Pan-Europe: WALTHER GUENTHER; Russia: SERGEI VARISOV; India: MAHADEV AMBEDKAR; and Japan: MASAHARU TATSUKICHI—plus their US. opposite number who goes under the comparative title of Undersecretary for the Development of Space, ex-newsman JEN WYLIE.

As the story begins, the diplomatic representatives have just had lunch with the Marsnauts in their prelaunch quarters, the Operations and Checkout Building, Cape Kennedy. Upon boarding the bus that takes the politicos from the Operations and Checkout Building, JEN uses a phone in the bus to call WARNER (WARN) RETHE, the U.S. Presidential Press Secretary, and asks if he can talk to President PAUL FANZONE about something that is presently concerning TAD HANSARD, who is the senior co-captain of the Mars mission (FEDYA ASTURNOV is the junior co-captain).

TAD is concerned that the load of scientific experiments required of the Marsnauts is too heavy for the safety of the mission, particularly during the first six weeks of the flight. He is trying to get word of this through JEN to the President, so that the six world powers involved can negotiate among themselves and reduce the number of experiments—in which a great deal of national self-interest and pride is concerned.

The President, however, cannot talk to JEN at the moment. The best the press secretary can offer is the hope of a chance for JEN to talk with the Chief Executive at the Presidential reception near the spaceport that evening, when FANZONE will be present in person. The President has otherwise avoided appearing on the Cape Kennedy scene, the political situation being delicate since the flight is from U.S. grounds. Technically, JEN is his representative on the scene in all things.

That evening before the reception, JEN’s girl friend, ALINDE (LIN) WEST, appears at the hotel where he and the other political representatives are quartered. He must leave her there while he goes to the reception.

At the reception, JEN suggests that TAD talk to FANZONE. But nothing seems to come of it until the reception is over, when he is held back from leaving for several minutes by WARNRETHE, so that FANZONE can talk to him.

FANZONE tells JEN bluntly that as U.S. President he is the last of the six political groups’ leaders to suggest a reduction in the experimental work load on the ‘nauts. This is because the U.S. already has too large a share in the Mars mission to begin with; and because, from a political standpoint, the mission itself is secondary to the international cooperation necessary to getting the people of the world to fund basic research that will relieve power and food shortages and clean up a disordered (if momentarily peaceful) Earth. FANZONE admits his own interest in space development for its own sake; but says it must take a serving role to politics on Earth, and he must operate from that standpoint.

Blocked of help from the President, JEN approaches BILL WARD, the Mars Launch Director, on the next morning, which is the morning of the launch. BILL admits that NASA is also aware that the experimental work load is dangerously heavy, but says that those who work in the space effort have struggled to keep the program alive, and daren’t be the first to risk popular criticism of it now, by offending national pride. BILL cites a time when Kennedy workers were offered the choice of taking ruinous cuts in salary or resigning their jobs; and says the first duty of the workers is to keep the program alive for the sake of future launches, even if it means endangering this one.

Frustrated, JEN sees the shuttle launched, with no change in the work load.

Meanwhile, aboard the shuttle itself, TAD is considering what he must do, now that he has been unable to get help to reduce the work load. He is still turning the matter over in his mind as the shuttle delivers him, ANOSHI, and BAP to Phoenix One, the first of the two ships making the trip, and then goes on to deliver FEDYA, DIRK and BERN to Phoenix Two.

He and his crew activate Phoenix One. FEDYA and the others do likewise aboard Phoenix Two. They are ready to make their space launch from Earth orbit, into the long coasting orbit around the sun that will bring them into Mars orbit, nine months hence.

Both ships are flanked by two nuclear boosters, each with its own pilot. At the given signal, the boosters fire, and Phoenix One and Two are lifted toward Mars… .

Part 2

V

Twenty-eight minutes later, the pressure of acceleration ceased; and Tad floated lightly in the absence of gravity upon his acceleration couch. On either side of him, Anoshi and Bap would be gravityless as well. A lightness that was from something more than just the lack of gravity seemed to touch Tad. He felt free and in command, at last.

“Phoenix One to booster shuttle pilots,” Tad said into his helmet phone. “Is firing completed?”

“Booster Shuttle One,” said a voice tinged with the accents of the western plains. “Firing completed.”

The free feeling still lifted inside Tad. He pushed it aside. There was no time for that, now.

“Booster Shuttle Two,” added another voice. “Firing completed.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Tad. He reached out a gloved hand and changed channels. “Mission Control. This is Phoenix One. Both booster shuttles have ceased firing.”

“Roger, Phoenix One.” The voice of Mission Control came drawling back at him almost before his last words were uttered. “You’re in injection orbit, right on the button. Phoenix Two’s right there with you. If you want to take a look to starboard there, about ten kilometers out, you ought to be able to catch the sun on her.”

Tad turned his helmet with some little effort to stare out the glass port to his right. For a second he saw nothing but stars against the blackness of airless space. Then there came a slow, bright flash that seemed to burn for about half a second before vanishing. A moment later it was repeated.

“Looks like they’re yawing just a bit, there,” said Tad.

“Nothing to trouble about, Phoenix One,” Mission Control said. “Phoenix Two advised they’re smoothing it out with steering jets. You all ready to say good-bye to your booster shuttles?”

“All ready,” said Tad.

“You have the go-ahead, then, Phoenix One,” said Mission. “Effect separation from booster shuttles.”

“Roger,” said Tad. He returned to the frequency on which he had been talking with the pilots of the two nuclear booster shuttles, strapped one on each side of Phoenix One.

“This is Phoenix One again,” he said. “All ready to separate. Shuttle One and Two, also ready?”

“Shuttle One ready.”

“Shuttle Two ready.”

The answers were immediate.

“Firing release charges,” said Tad. “Three, two, one … fire!” With the last word his gloved finger came down on the button setting off the explosive charges which released the heavy bonds banding Phoenix One to her two booster shuttles. There was a dull thud from what seemed behind them in Phoenix One; and Tad reached up to activate a view of the shuttles on his pilot’s screen, looking back from a sensor camera-eye mounted near the front of the spaceship.

Full in the sunlight, looking as if they were below the underbelly of Phoenix One, the two shuttles appeared to be falling away, separating as they went. A couple of flashes from further off told of the sections of banding, tumbling in the sunlight as they moved away at the higher speed imparted to them by the explosive charges releasing them. The support shuttles themselves were departing from Phoenix only on the small push of steering thrusters. Now, as Tad, Bap and Anoshi watched, each shuttle slowly revolved end-for-end, so that they faced in the opposite direction to which Phoenix One was still facing.

The two had lifted Phoenix One to Mars-injection orbit—that point from which she would now begin her nine-month coast to the next point where she would fire her nuclear engines to fall into a close orbit around Mars. Now they were dwindling in the screen, looking almost tiny. It was jarring to think that with their separation, plus the fuel they had expended, the Mars mission had already spent the greater part of its mass—just for the initial departure from Earth orbit. Tad felt the diminishment almost like a personal loss.

A little over half an hour ago, Phoenix One had weighed approximately one million six hundred thousand pounds. Now, with the departure of the two booster shuttles, that weight was down to six hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. By contrast, at the time Phoenix One reached Mars, she would have lost only an additional twenty-five thousand pounds—down to six hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Life support and consumables plus fuel needed for mid-course correction would be the reason for the twenty-five thousand pounds that would be spent …

Bap was murmuring something incomprehensible, his voice a low tone over the helmet phones.

“What, Bap?” Tad asked, turning his head to look at the other’s couch.

Bap broke off. His helmet was facing out a port at the dwindling booster shuttles.

“What? Sorry, Tad,” he said. “Just remembering something from the Bhagavad-Gita—“The Song Celestial.” In English it goes something like … Today we slew a foe, and we will slay our other enemy tomorrow! Look! Are we not lords…?”

“Hm-m-m,” said Tad. The quotation seemed to have no application to the departure of the shuttles or their present situation. But there was no understanding Bap.

I should learn to keep my thoughts to myself in my head, Bap was thinking, a little ruefully. No point in telling them that what I quoted was part of the speech of the Unheavenly Man, as Krishna delineates him. But it would have made no more sense to Tad and Anoshi if I had. Still, it is true. We are very lordly here with our nuclear engines and our mission plans, close to Earth. But out there close to Mars we will be small and insignificant. No, no point in trying to explain what I meant or felt. To the English anything religious must be immediate and personal …

Not, Bap corrected himself, that Tad is English. But yes, he is, in the sense I use the word. Tad is distorted English, as Dirk over there on Phoenix Two is undistorted English. And the English do not understand such thoughts as I was thinking. Neither the English nor the American English understand. Would Anoshi? Not really; and in that sense, he is tinged with an English sort of color also. Even I am tinged with English, because I am conscious of though rejecting, what it is to be Englished. Truthfully, we are all alike, Tad, Anoshi and I.

Possibly that is part of it. I love Tad—nonsexually, of course—Bap grinned in his helmet. One always has to make that distinction when thinking in English. Why am I thinking in English? Because I am thinking about English—rather, about some quality I call “English.” No, I have a great affection for Tad. Once, long ago, it might have been that we rode to battle on horseback together, swords at our waists. And Anoshi, also. It is not sheer accident that the three swashbucklers among the six of us should find ourselves in one ship. Over in Phoenix Two, they are in common of a different breed and cloth, once one ignores all their national differences. Even Dirk, who is English, is not-English in that sense … I am becoming whirled about with words. The words are losing me among them. I should stop thinking and return my, attention to duty …

Outside, the booster shuttles were now pointing away at an angle from Phoenix One.

“Booster Shuttle One to Phoenix One,” said the phones in the helmets of Bap, Tad and Anoshi, “So long, and good luck.”

“So long, Phoenix One,” said the different voice of the Shuttle Two pilot, “good luck to y’all.”

“Same to you,” said Tad. “So long.”

Bright fire, barely visible in the sunlight of space, spurted from the jets of the two shuttles. They seemed to hang there a moment, not moving; then they began to shrink, at first slowly, then more and more rapidly, until they were suddenly gone.

Somewhere off the starboard of Phoenix One, Tad knew, the two booster shuttles of Phoenix Two would also be retrofiring to head homeward into Earth orbit again.

“Mission Control,” said Tad, punching up the Mission Control frequency on the console before him. “Our booster shuttles have just taken off. We’re now ready to restore Phoenix One to an active status.”

“Roger, Phoenix One,” came back the voice of Mission Control. “We copy that. You’re now going to restore Phoenix One to active status. Your next communication with us will be 1600 hours, according to schedule.”

“Roger,” said Tad. “Copy, 1600 hours. Over and out for now, then.”

“Over and out, Phoenix One,” said Mission Control.

Tad switched back to communication with his two crewmates.

“O.K.,” he said. “Let’s get this ship unbuttoned and back in full operation.”

He sat up on his couch and the other two rose with him. Still in their suits, they turned to the business of bringing the ship around them up to operating conditions.

Primarily, this meant restoring the operational and life-support systems of the ship, which with the exception of the biomedical lab, had been under storage conditions for the last nineteen days, since loading had been completed of the two Mars mission ships which had been constructed in orbit. Chief of these systems was the five-psi nitrogen-oxygen operating atmosphere of those sections of the ship where the three of them would live and operate without suits, closely followed in importance by the thermal control systems and the power distribution systems. Plus all the related mechanical activities of the ship that would enable them to live and work aboard her for three years, until they saw Earth orbit again. In his mind’s eye Tad saw the duties to be done like soldiers standing at attention, waiting to be dealt with.

The three of them raised their couches into control position, and went to work on the consoles before them where primary controls for all the systems were located. One by one, the small red sensing lights began to burn in signal that the systems were up to full operational level. Then, one by one, for the benefit of the ship’s automatic log recorder as well as for their own, each of them went verbally through a checklist of the systems he had brought to full activity.

“… and all systems full on,” said Tad aloud, finally winding up the checklist. “Phoenix One in completely active operating status. All right, let’s start our visual check of the decks.”

He led the others as they got to their feet and headed toward the tube running through the center of all four of the ship’s decks and giving access to each of them. In the absence of gravity, and still in their spacesuits, they bumped somewhat clumsily against each other, opening the door to the access tube and entering it. Tad went first, pulling his way along the tube—in the direction that “down” would be, once Phoenix One and Phoenix Two were docked together and rotated to provide a substitute for gravity until he reached the door opening on B Deck. This was the first deck below A, the control deck they had just left; like A it consisted of a doughnut-shaped space, ‘the outer wall of which was separated from the skin of the ship only by insulation and a network of thermal tubes designed to balance interior temperature between the heat of that side of the ship in direct sunlight and the chill of that side in the shade. The interior wall of B Deck, like that of all the decks, was the wall of the access tube.

“Home,” said Anoshi, cheerfully, when they had all emerged on B Deck. And, in fact, that was what it was.

Unlike A Deck, which was all open space with the control consoles and other equipment spaced about its floor, B Deck was partitioned. Three of the spaces enclosed by partitions were the individual cabins, somewhat more spacious and deserving of their name than the individual “sleeping compartments” in Skylab.

“Look,” said Anoshi. “Nameplates already up on each door. No danger forgetting where you sleep.”

Tad looked. What he saw had not been specified anywhere in the original plans, or part of any of the mockups of B Deck he had encountered back on Earth. A solemn black nameplate had been attached to the door of each cabin—a small, almost impish, touch on the part of those who had finished off the interior of the spaceship. The nameplates were unnecessary. Long ago, the three had decided which cabin would be whose among the three of them. But they were a little bit of human decoration, a going away semi-present from some of the ground workers. He felt the emotion behind the nameplates in spite of himself; and reading the tone behind Anoshi’s words, understood that Anoshi—and undoubtedly Bap as well—felt it, too.

“Well, let’s check them out,” said Tad, to break the spell.

Each stepped into his own cabin, the magnetism of the soleplates on their boots switching on and off with each flexing of instep above it—so that it was a little like walking across a kitchen floor where something sticky had just been spilled. The rooms checked out; and they met again outside them to step together into the wardroom.

The wardroom—dining and recreation quarters alike for the three of them—took up nearly a third of the space on B Deck.

“I’ll check storage and waste compartments,” said Tad. “Meet you down at C Deck.”

He went next door to the small consumables storage compartment where immediate supplies of the food and drink they would consume in the wardroom were packed. The storage compartment checked out, and he moved on to the waste management compartment. The strict utilitarianism of the waste management compartment that had been tested out in Skylab had undergone some improvement here—in looks, if nothing else. But the basics remained. Equipment had to be available for the biomedical monitoring of the three men’s body wastes—although on Phoenix One automatic equipment took over most of the job. In addition there had to be disposal capabilities for a mass of things, from food containers to damaged tools or parts and discarded uniforms, which it was easier to throw away than launder under space conditions. Again, happily, automatic machinery took care of the freezing and dumping of these wastes through a channel leading to an air lock in the unpressurized section aft.

With the waste management compartment checked out, Tad went on down to C Deck and the four different lab and workshop sections that made use of the space there. Anoshi and Bap were still checking the C-Deck equipment, so Tad went on alone to D Deck.

The fourth and final deck was packed solid with stores and equipment. Much of the equipment was that which was connected with the experimental programs to be engaged in by the mission during its first four weeks of coast to Mars, while public interest was still high. Tad looked at the ranked cartons grimly.

These Mars mission vessels had been designed originally to carry double the crew they had now—six men per ship. Now they barely had convenient room for three. Part of the crowding was due to the proliferation of basic research itself—the larger countries, at least, had finally begun to wake up to the need for it, under the demand by their peoples for new technological answers to large natural problems of air, water-and land. But the larger reason for Phoenix One and Phoenix Two being so overloaded with research equipment and problems was political.

Jen Wylie had failed him in getting the list reduced. That left no one to turn to but himself. And Tad had done some tall thinking in the last twenty-four hours. In fact, he had come up with a possible way of saving the men and the mission. Only he would need at least some help—and the only one he could turn to for it was Fedya.

He would talk to Fedya at the first chance. Meanwhile—he shoved the matter from his mind and came back to the immediate job. A quick check took D Deck past inspection—and beyond D was only the Mars biolab, sterilized and sealed at present. From the Mars biolab forward to Control Deck A constituted the so-called “shirtsleeve” area of the ship. Familiar as he was with it from training with the mockups of the individual spaces, Tad could not help feeling a new sensation of being constricted and enclosed. This was the life zone—these four and a half decks—of Phoenix One. Outside of that zone, and its duplicate on Phoenix Two, there was no place where life was possible without a spacesuit between here and the Earth they had just left. Beyond the biolab and the unpressurized section surrounding it there was only the hundred-and-sixty-foot section of the single nuclear shuttle, their main engine, that would not be fired until they had reached Mars and it was time for them to drop into a close orbit around the red planet. Forward of the nuclear shuttle, the life zone plus the unpressurized compartment beyond A Deck holding the unmanned probes and the MEM, the Mars Excursion Module, made up the remaining hundred and ten feet of the spacecraft. In less than fifty-six feet of that hundred and ten, he, Anoshi and Bap would spend most of their next three years living and working.

It was cramped, it was not beautiful—but it was their ship, it was his ship. And he would bring it through. Buoyant, Tad turned and made his way back up the access tube to A Deck where Bap and Anoshi were already waiting for him. The A-Deck chronometer showed 1400 hours exactly.

“Visual check of Phoenix One shows everything A-O.K.,” Tad informed Cape Kennedy. It still seemed a little odd to him to be reporting to Kennedy at this point instead of to Mission Control at Houston NASA. Tad’s experience in space dated back before 1977 when the last and most serious economy cut had reduced the NASA installation at Houston to a shadowy establishment. In theory NASA headquarters was still there. In reality, only a few administrators and a planning division still occupied the few buildings NASA made use of at the once-busy installation. Mission Control for the Mars flight would be at Kennedy throughout the trip.

“Roger. We copy. Visual check Phoenix One, all O.K.”

“So,” said Tad, “unless you can think of a good reason for us not to, we’ll start getting out of our suits now.”

“Hold that desuiting for a moment, will you, Phoenix One?” said Mission Control. The helmet phones fell silent.

“Now,” said Anoshi, “they’ll send us back to run a white glove around the compartments for dust, before desuiting.”

“Not dust,” said Bap. “Gremlins. There is nothing worse than gremlins in your control systems. An EGW—an Extended Gremlin Watch—must be kept in operation at all times—”

“O.K., there, Phoenix One,” said Mission Control, coming suddenly to life again, “you may proceed with the desuiting.”

“Good enough,” said Tad. “Copy. We’ll begin desuiting.”

It was not quite as much of a problem getting out of the spacesuits as it was getting into them; but it was still an awkward and lengthy process that only in theory could be easily performed by the spacesuit wearer, alone. In practice, a good deal of helpful hauling and tugging by extra pairs of hands was welcome. Tad, as spacecraft commander, had the privilege of being the first to be helped out of his suit; after which he helped to free first Anoshi, then Bap.

The emptied spacesuits went into a storage compartment, leaving the men in the undersuits that were designed to match with the many connections and entry points of the spacesuits.

“Go ahead,” Tad told the other two. “I’ll be ready to man the first shift.” Standing orders called for one of the three-man crew to be dressed ready to don his spacesuit at all times. The other two were free to shift to CWG’s, Constant Wear Garments. Bap and Anoshi disappeared down the access tube; and Tad seated himself in his acceleration couch, now in control position, to inform Mission Control that they were now ready to begin docking maneuvers with Phoenix Two.

“Roger. We copy that,” said Mission Control. Have you got position figures of your own yet?”

“In process,” said Tad. He was squinting through the sextant lens of his console at a composite view of the Sun, the North Star and Earth, seen simultaneously through three different sensor eyes on the outside of the ship. His right hand twisted knobs until the three lines intersected at centerpoint on the lens. Then he punched for the onboard computer, lifted his eye from the lens and looked at the computer screen.

“I’m in reference grid cube JN 43721, Kennedy,” said Tad.

“Copy. Grid cube JN 43721. How’s your radar, Phoenix One?” Tad looked at the radar screen with its sweeping line of light and the intersecting blip in the upper right quadrant.

“Fine,” said Tad. “Phoenix Two looks to be not more than sixteen kilometers off.”

“Thanks, Phoenix One. That checks with our data. Stand by for plane, bearing and distance.”

“Standing by,” said Tad.

While he waited, Bap and Anoshi came back up to the Control Deck.

“Say again?” Tad asked, for the sound of their return had obscured some of the figures Mission Control had just begun to give him.

Mission Control repeated itself, giving Tad first the angle to the longitudinal axis of Phoenix One of the plane which enclosed both spacecraft, then the bearing and distance of Phoenix Two from Phoenix One within that plane. Tad reached for the control buttons of the cold gas steering jets used to maneuver his ship. A docking maneuver between the two vessels in space was too chancy to he trusted to any computer.

“All right, Mission Control, I copy,” he said. “Phoenix One to Phoenix Two, if you are holding stationary, I will approach for docking.”

“Holding stationary, Phoenix One,” came back the calm voice of Fedya. “Come ahead.”

Tad’s fingers descended on the controls of the steering thrusters. Out beyond the glass viewing port to his right, the little reflection of Phoenix Two was lost among the lights of uncounted stars. In the ceaseless glare of the Sun, through the airless distance between them, six hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds of Phoenix One tilted, turned, and drifted toward the six hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds of Phoenix Two under the necessity of coming together with a touch so light that it would not have dimpled the bumper of a four-thousand-pound vehicle back on Earth’s surface.

VI

Phoenix Two, seen from Phoenix One, as Phoenix One approached her, was at first only a slightly brighter point of light among the surrounding stars for some minutes, then only a glare-spot for some time more. Not until Phoenix One was finally quite close did she appear to change suddenly from a light-reflection to a spacecraft. Actually, it was as only half of a spacecraft that she appeared in the forward view screen; because, lying nearly bow-on to the approaching Phoenix One, as she now was, her other half was swallowed up in the perfect darkness, that was shadow in airless space, so that she looked as if she had been divided longitudinally by an enormous bandsaw.

The motions of Tad’s fingers on the controls of the steering thrusters were practiced, familiar ones. Still he felt the prickle of sweat on his face and at the back of his ‘neck. He was as conscious of the whole two hundred and seventy feet of craft about him as a man might be of his own car while maneuvering it into a parking place.

He approached Phoenix Two slowly, bow to bow, the great bell-shaped ends of the forward sections, the space probes and their individual MEMs in airless readiness, now creeping toward each other like blind leviathans about to touch in greeting. Beyond the circular metal lip of each of those ends were six feet of the light metal scaffolding enclosing half of the zero-G lab pod and the cryotex tube leading back into the D Deck of each ship. The two scaffoldings must take the impact of meeting; and also they must interlock to hold the two ships together. It would be upon their joined structure that the strain would come when the two ships were rotated around their common central point, where the completed pod would sit, to provide a substitute gravity for the men aboard both crafts.

Twelve meters from dock-point,” Tad said aloud for the benefit of Mission Control, “ten meters … nine … eight …”

Phoenix Two seemed to loom above the viewers of the forward screen, as if she was falling upon her sister ship.

“… three meters … two,” said Tad, “one … docked!

What sounded like an unreasonably loud and prolonged clang rang through both ships. A red signal light, unlit until now, was burning to the right of the console in front of Tad, signaling that the two scaffoldings had locked correctly and were holding.

Tad sat back in his seat with a sigh.

“All O.K., Phoenix Two?” he asked.

“All O.K.,” Fedya’s voice answered.

“Phoenix One to Mission Control,” said Tad. “Docking accomplished. Are we clear to send a man EVA from each ship now to activate outside equipment and secure?”

“We copy docking accomplished,” said Mission Control. “Tad, will you hold off on EVA for the moment? We’d like to run another position check on the two of you now that you’re docked together.”

“Be our guest,” said Tad.

There was a short period of silence from Mission Control.

“All right, Phoenix,” said Mission Control, coming back to life again. “Your position shows no discernible drift as a result of the docking maneuver. You may EVA and activate exterior equipment whenever you’re ready.”

“Roger,” said Tad. He looked to his left, at Anoshi, who nodded. “Anoshi will EVA for Phoenix One.”

“Dirk will EVA for Phoenix Two,” said Fedya’s voice.

“Roger. We copy. Anoshi to EVA Phoenix One, Dirk to EVA Phoenix Two,” Mission Control agreed.

Anoshi got up.

“Back into harness,” he said. He disappeared down the access tube.

Bap touched the button on the communication headband above his ear, cutting off the microphone on the slender arm that curved around to the edge of his mouth.

“Good for you, Tad,” he said softly. “Anoshi wanted to be first man out. Did you know that?”

“No,” said Tad. “Besides, he’s first out because he’s the astronomer here. The cameras are his.” So it was true about Anoshi—he had not known but he had suspected.

A little silence fell. A few minutes later, Anoshi came back out of the access tube, wearing his space suit underwear. He went across to the spacesuit locker and got his suit out. Tad and Bap helped him into it, and fastened to his belt the tools he would need and the film packs for the cameras he would be activating.

“All set,” said Anoshi, over the communication circuit. He went forward to the inner door of the air lock.

The air, lock let him into the airless space containing the Mars Excursion Module and the unmanned planetary probes that would be sent down to Mars. He went forward alongside the two-meter height of the cryoflex tube that would later provide a shirtsleeve conduit to the pressurized section of the zero-gravity pod between the ships and exited through the hatch in the end wall. He found himself among the light metal scaffolding that had joined with the scaffolding from Phoenix Two to dock the two ships together.

There was no spacesuited figure from Phoenix Two in sight yet, so Anoshi turned and walked from the hatch, the magnetic soles of his boots sticking and yielding alternately to the outside surface of the end wall until he came to the edge of the ship’s hull, proper, some twenty feet away. He stepped over the foot-high end-rim of the hull onto the cylindrical metal of the hull itself. Above him all the stars of the universe revolved solemnly as he went from the surface he was on to one at right angles with it. It was like a man stepping around the edge of a box from one flat side to the other.

He walked down the hull.

There were twelve recording star-cameras for him to check out and load, five fixed, three with automatic programmed movements and four which could be manipulated from inside the ship. There was the laser mirror to erect and align; and the solar cell holders to erect for the solar cells experiment. But, as he walked slowly along the ship, Anoshi was thinking only secondarily of these things. Alone, of all the six now between Earth and Mars, he had been ashamed not to be more than he was. He had wanted to be a true astronaut, a cosmonaut; not just a spacegoing scientist.

There were only two real ‘nauts aboard: Tad and Fedya. Anoshi and the other three were merely scientists with ‘naut training. For Bap, Bern and Dirk, this difference did not seem to matter greatly. What counted with them, apparently, was that they were here, on any terms. But Anoshi had wanted more than that; and only a trick of timing had forbidden it to him.

Unlike the other three, he had intended to be a ‘naut—a true ‘naut in the space program of Nippon. But that program had not gotten to the point of developing its own experienced astronauts at the time that this mission was conceived and instigated.

That was why it was so important that he be out here alone as he was now—he interrupted his thoughts and knelt to check and load the first of the outside cameras. His gloved hands worked clumsily but surely and the loading section of the camera opened, black with shadow, before him. He loaded it, closed it and rose to his feet again. By the time he came back from this mission there would be nothing concerned with the ship that he would not have done. Anything any one of the others was to do aboard, he would find a way to do also, officially or privately. That was his goal and he would see it accomplished.

Moving on to the next camera now, he saw that Phoenix Two had disgorged her own spacesuited figure.

Anoshi finished the cameras and moved on to set up the solar cells in their holder. They made up a square panel standing almost as tall as himself above the hull of the ship. By contrast when—twenty feet farther aft of the cells—he lifted the copper laser mirror into erect position and peeled the protective coating from its carefully polished surface, the mirror stood barely thigh-high and was no more than a square foot in area. Miracle of science, thought Anoshi, fondly, handling it. Tiny, to serve eventually as a target for a coherent light beam all the way from Earth to Mars.

The laser mirror was small, but massive, with its heavy cooling fins at the back. He locked it in upright position and engaged its base with the control housing below it that would enable it to be aligned from within the ship. Then, finished at last, he rose and headed toward the scaffolding and the pod. There, he waited for Dirk to join him.

The scaffolding consisted of two heavy rod-like sections diametrically opposite each other around the circle of the rim of the end-wall of each ship. They held the two vessels a little under ten feet apart; and had been so designed that the rods of matching sections clung magnetically to those of the opposite ship as the vessels had come together. Magnetism and inertia still held them together, but the two ships were merely drifting at the moment. The rods had to be clamped tightly together to take the strain that would come upon them when the two 675,000-pound masses were rotated about their jointure to provide gravity for both ships.

The clamps were built into the rods. Working in silence Dirk and Anoshi pulled them into position and dogged them down by hand. Then, when that was done, they moved to the center of the space between the now locked-together spacecraft and began to seal the two halves of the no-gravity pod that was approached by the cryoflex tubes from each ship.

The sealing was a simple matter on intersandwiching several specially treated layers of the rubbery, fantastically strong cryotex fabric along the lines of jointure. Once these layers were laid in contact, an electric current sent through the fabric from either ship would hold the layers together in a bond more than capable of containing the pressure of the ships’ atmosphere. Shutting off the current would unseal them again when the ships needed to separate. Of course, only one half of the pod would have atmosphere and be connected to the tubes that now made a shirtsleeve passageway from one ship to the other. The other half, beyond its impermeable wall, was to be left airless, enterable only by someone in a spacesuit through a simple hatch in its side.

“Done,” Anoshi announced over the common phone circuit of both ships. “Run the current through the pod fabric, pressurize and you’re all set.”

“Done, indeed,” said Dirk’s voice in the earphones. “Phoenix Two, pay no attention to any unofficial reports from Phoenix One personnel. This is your own co-worker announcing everything A-O.K.”

“We copy,” Tad’s voice said. “Copy,” said Fedya. “Come on back inside, Dirk.”

“I,” said Anoshi, “am returning inside, Phoenix One. My apologies for taking so long; but there was some bystander in a spacesuit that kept getting in my way.”

“Dreadfully crowded out here in space, nowadays,” said Dirk.

They waved to each other and stumped off toward their respective hatches in the end walls of their ships.

By the time Anoshi was back inside A Deck, Tad had started the ships rotating about their common center to provide about half a gravity. “Down” was not actually down, now. Tad, seated at his console, had finished passing the word to Mission Control and was inviting Fedya over for a visit.

“We’re scheduled for a down period now, anyway,” he was saying over the phone circuit. “Come across and spend half an hour with me and a cup of coffee. We’ll go over the schedule together.”

Fedya nodded, looking back at him from the phone screen.

“I’ll be over in five minutes,” he said.

Five minutes later, punctually, the hatch in the ceiling of A Deck, just beside the access tube, opened. Fedya climbed easily down the handholds on the outside of the tube until he reached the deck. He looked around.

“Bap?” he asked. “And Anoshi?”

“In their compartments,” Tad said, getting up from his console. “They’re going to get some sleep.”

“Dirk and Bern are down, also,” said Fedya. He carried a folder of schedule sheets under his arm. Now he held them out. “Do you want to compare these with yours?”

“No,” said Tad. “We can just work with yours. Besides, there’s something else I want to talk to you about, privately.”

He led the way to the access tube. They climbed down to B Deck and went in to take a table in the wardroom by the dispensers. Tad got them both cups of coffee.

“Something else beside the schedule?” Fedya queried gently, when they were seated.

“Not really beside,” said Tad. He looked at Fedya. “Mission knows we’re scheduled too tightly.”

“We can only try,” said Fedya.

“No,” said Tad, “we can do better than that. We can keep the schedule. I’ve got a notion,” said Tad, “Only, I’ll need a lucky break—from one other man. Maybe I should say an unlucky break.”

He looked at the long brown fingers Fedya had wrapped around his coffee container.

“Someone on Phoenix Two,” said Tad, “would have to have a minor accident—to his hand, say. Enough to bar him from working in a spacesuit.

“Not the sort of accident that would slow him down on his share of the duties inside his ship,” said Tad. “Just enough to keep him from going out. To make up for what he can’t do, the man from our ship would do both, now that they’re docked. Meanwhile the man with the bad hand could be picking up the overload of work inside his own ship.”

“And how will the man on the other ship find time to do double duty outside?” Fedya looked closely at him. “This man—yourself?”

Tad nodded.

“Don’t ask me how,” he said grimly. “In fact, don’t ask anything. Forget we had this little talk. But I tell you the program can be kept and completed, if I just have that one bit of help.”

Fedya’s eyes held with his. They sat, looking at each other. That Fedya understood, Tad had no doubt. That he would help, was another question. It was up to him; all up to him, now.

VII

Day Two on the spaceship (Day One being the day of the launch that had ended with the talk between Tad and Fedya and sleep for all six ‘nauts) began according to a clock set at Eastern Standard Time, at six a.m. Tad woke with the feeling that he had had a succession of not too pleasant dreams and a restless night. It was a feeling he had been expecting, however. The first night in no-gravity or an abnormal gravity—and that aboard the ship, imparted by the spinning of the docked vessels, was about one-half normal gravity—tended to disturb sleep patterns. If he adapted according to average human responses charted previously, Tad could expect to get back to sleeping normally in about a week.

He sat up on the edge of his bed and glanced at the bargraphs for Phoenix One on the table beside it.

He was scheduled for S-H/K, Systems Housekeeping, immediately after breakfast; and both Bap and Anoshi were involved likewise in continuing duties until after lunch—at which time they would begin setting up the specific experiments in the various labs of the ship. He got to his feet with some little effort and headed for the waste management room.

He was the first one in to breakfast. Bap and Anoshi had yet to take their turns at getting weighed no-gravity style. Tad inflated the dining pod about their dining area, then stepped through the pod hatch to sit down at his place at the serving table and turned on the vacuum fan. There was a slight murmuring as the fan started to draw air through the filter in the pod wall and from the pod into the particle collector. There were as yet no floating food particles in the air of the pod for the collector to collect; but it was doing its duty nonetheless.

Tad punched for coffee, and a carefully measured amount poured into the container at his place. The bargraph for the day, which he knew by heart, floated before his mind’s eye, as he considered what was to be done before the next sleep period. He found himself beginning to view the upcoming shipboard day with increasing enthusiasm.

The sticky sound of the entrance to the dining pod being unsealed brought his head around. Anoshi was climbing in, followed by Bap, who turned to reseal the pod entrance behind him. They both sat down at the table; and Tad came fully awake, looking at them.

“How’d the sleep go?” he asked.

“Not bad,” said Anoshi. Bap laughed. He was the one wearing spacesuit underwear today.

“I was chased by elephants,” he said. “And the lead elephant was being ridden by our Mission Director, Nick Henning.”

“Did he catch you?” Anoshi asked, punching for a stream of hot tea into his own container.

“I am here to tell the tale,” said Bap, waving his own container before he filled it. He looked around the pod and then at Tad. “Cozy little breakfast nook. I wonder if they had some ulterior motive in penning us up like this for meals, besides the collecting of floating particles of food from the air? The original Spacelab got along without this.”

“And its crew inhaled a lot of stuff over a ninety-day period,” Anoshi said. “Remember all the worry over ‘space pneumonia’ in men—”

“And women,” said Bap.

“—And women who should have been free from virus infections?”

“Of course I remember,” said Bap. “But I am also considering the effect of this enforced intimacy three times every twenty-four hours on the human mind.”

He, like the other two, had been punching for and receiving heated, pre-packaged foodstuffs from the table slots before him; and he was already eating. Now he waved a disposable plastic fork/knife in the air.

“What if I become violent some breakfast and cut your throats?” he said.

“You’d have all the work to do by yourself from then on,” said Tad. He changed to a more serious tone. “You’re going to begin solar observations for flares in your first period after this meal?”

“Right away,” said Bap. “I’ll be using Numbers One and Two remote cameras as telescopes. Maybe I’ll get some good pictures, if there’s anything to take.”

“Kennedy’s due to warn us if a large flare crops up early in the flight, the way they’ve been predicting,” Tad said. “It’d be something if we could spot it as soon as they do—or even before.”

“We will,” Bap said. “I promise we will.”

They finished their breakfast, reduced the pod, and Tad took the scraps of uneaten food, the packaging and the other discardables to the waste management room to be carefully weighed and disposed of. Just as the body wastes of the Marsnauts had to be measured and weighed, so their food and liquid intake had to be measured and recorded with every meal. This was Medical Experiment 122, on the schedule. Then Bap went to his camera telescopes, Anoshi got out the aerosol collector to take a sample of the ship’s air and discover what loose particles were afloat in it, in spite of the meal table pod, and Tad went to Systems/Housekeeping.

This early in the voyage, there were few housekeeping or equipment repairs to be made. Tad covered all four decks of the life zone of the ship within a short time, then went directly to the master log of Phoenix One.

The master log was pretty much what its name implied. It was to Phoenix One what a ship’s log was to an ocean-going vessel, with the complication that Phoenix One’s log (and that of Phoenix Two, for that matter) included not only the commander’s record of the voyage, day by day, but all recordings of data made on that day, which he was able to review on a computer screen before him and correct or amend with a keyboard and a light-pencil. The records of Day One of the mission, launch-day, were now waiting Tad’s attention.

When he had disposed of the log, Tad went out to find Anoshi at work in the C Deck lab space that would be his for his astronomical records. Face bent over the 45-degree-angled viewing plate, Anoshi was studying one of the photos he had evidently just taken of the solar corona. He was too wrapped up in his work to notice Tad; who went on across to the exercise section of C Deck to see Bap there, in full spacesuit, working at the taskboard in Mode C of the experiment dealing with daily physical exercise by each of them.

Mode C was constant physical exercise for twenty minutes wearing a spacesuit. Mode B was similar work without a suit; and Mode A was twenty energetic minutes on an exercycle or jogging treadmill. Space-Lab experience had shown how necessary exercise was to the health of humans away from normal gravity. Though hopefully not absolutely necessary, thought Tad grimly as he watched Bap, remembering his plans if Fedya should decide to cooperate. Bap, engrossed in the heavy work and the uncomfortable spacesuit, did not notice Tad watching any more than had Anoshi.

Tad took the access tube and went up to B Deck. It would be time for lunch in less than half an hour.

The diplomats sat in their hotel watching TV coverage of that day’s mission press conference.

“… Our first piece of information today,” said the NASA official on the TV screen, addressing the press conference, “is that because of Nick Henning’s illness, Bill Ward, here—” he nodded to Bill, sitting upright beside him at the long table cluttered with microphones and closeup camera eyes, “will be taking over as Mission Director. You’ve all met Bill before—”

“Have we?” asked Mahadev Ambedkar.

“You remember,” said Jen Wylie. “Bill Ward was the man who came in after the Marsnauts’ luncheon to take us out to the shuttle launch pad.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mahadev.

He, Jen, Sergei Varisov, and Walther Guenther, the Pan-European Deputy Minister of Science, sat close together in the lounge area of their quarters. They had just finished lunch. Later that afternoon, they were scheduled to hold a conference of their own for the press.

“… absolutely, on schedule.” Bill Ward was already answering a question from the floor. “So far everything has gone exactly as expected. The ships are now docked and the ‘nauts are into their first rest period, according to the schedule. —Yes?”

He nodded, pointing at a different section of the press seats. A thin, dark-haired young man stood up.

“Can you tell us—” his accent was French, “if there are any times when the schedule does not operate? Any holidays, or relaxation periods for the Marsnauts? And if so, when these holidays are on the schedule?”

He sat down again.

“As far as we know, there aren’t any holidays in space,” grunted Bill. There was a small stir and chuckling among the press crowd. “To answer your question, there’s no period that isn’t accounted for on the schedule, from the time the mission was launched to the time of its return to Earth orbit, three years from now. The schedule itself does call for open periods; both to relieve the ‘nauts from routine, and to ensure that any overscheduling gets caught up. There are no such open periods in this first thirty days, however. As you know, this is when communications with the two ships are at their best; and we want to take the maximum advantage of that. —Yes? Next!”

The TV camera moved to focus on another questioner.

“It is like climbing a mountain, I suppose,” said Varisov thoughtfully. “But like climbing a very big mountain, like that one in the Himalayas that is the highest in the world, which to climb with an expedition must take months. There may be days of occasional rest along the route. But any celebration, any vacation, must wait until the full job is done—”

He broke off. Sir Geoffrey Mayence, his face politely expressionless, had just joined them, taking a seat. His eyes moved over them, from Varisov to Guenther, to Mahadev, to Jen and finally back to Varisov again.

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” he said. He looked at Sergei Varisov.

“Not at all,” said the Russian Deputy Minister, reaching out to turn the voice volume down on the TV set.

“That’s good,” said Sir Geoffrey. He glanced again at Jen, then back to Varisov. “Wouldn’t want to be the unwanted guest. We don’t see much of you—ah—Wylie.”

“Sorry,” said Jen. “One of my special duties is to hassle with the press for the Administration. I have to keep running out on errands to do with that.”

“Yes. Well, duty first,” said Sir Geoffrey, with a shrug. “Wouldn’t you say so, Softy?” he went on, turning confidentially to Varisov.

“Oh yes, duty,” said Varisov.

“And old Muddle, here,” said Sir Geoffrey, turning to Mahadev. “You know what duty can be like, I think? You were with Softy, here, and me at the first Pan-European Conference—was that before your time, Tommy?”

“No,” said Guenther, with a small cough. “I was there. I was pretty junior, then, though. The rest of you weren’t likely to notice lower-echelon types like myself.”

“Don’t tell me you were caught up in that business when the French presidential motorcade got routed clear off the road to Liege and came in three hours late?”

“Oh yes,” said Guenther, laughing.

“Where were you when that was going on, Twigs?” asked Varisov, looking interestedly at Sir Geoffrey.

“Twigs was in the bar of the Number One Hotel,” said Mahadev.

“Wasn’t I?” said Sir Geoffrey, almost triumphantly. “I was there from one to nearly four, getting wound like an eight-day clock. I must have had fifteen Manhattans—that bartender there had a special touch with Manhattans. I—oh, leaving us, Wylie?”

“I’ve got a phone call I have to make,” Jen said. “I just remembered it.”

“Ah, well,” said Sir Geoffrey, “see you a bit later on, then.”

He watched Jen move off down the corridor and step into his own suite of rooms. His face changed, became businesslike.

“What’s the latest news you’ve heard?” Varisov was looking at him, keenly.

“Well, now,” said Sir Geoffrey briskly, looking back at him. “Nothing in particular. I’ve been having a small talk with Ceilly Welles, the wife of our ‘naut. You remember her, I’m sure. It seems she was being interviewed by this girl friend of young Wylie’s—the girl friend belongs to some magazine in the States here—and it came up that Wylie had some sort of talk with this Bill Ward who just got pushed up to Mission Director. Talked to him just before the shuttle lifted with the ‘nauts.”

“Why?” asked Mahadev. “Why should the U.S. Undersecretary talk to the Director of our mutual mission?”

“Ward wasn’t Mission Director then, of course,” Sir Geoffrey said. “Only Launch Director.”

“What did they talk about?” Guenther asked.

“Who can tell?” said Sir Geoffrey, blandly. “There’s that topic, though, that both Wylie and Hansard, the U.S. ‘naut, were worked up about. Hansard wanted the experiment schedule cut.”

“I don’t remember any offer by the NASA people to cut their no-gravity experiments in cryogenics,” murmured Guenther.

“The U.S. public would hardly stand for the deletion of that, do you think?” said Mahadev. “There is great popular interest here in the dream of keeping sick or aging relatives in stasis until medical repairs can be effected.”

“No, they’d hardly want to cut those experiments in which their own scientists are concerned, and to which their people as a whole are attracted,” said Sir Geoffrey. “I’d be afraid myself that any cut in the mission experiments would be aimed at the research in which the scientists of our countries are concerned.”

“We would certainly not want to give up any of our necessary research plans merely to favor the Americans,” said Varisov.

“Or in any case?” Sir Geoffrey said, looking at him significantly. Varisov looked back.

“In fact, no,” Varisov said. “In any case, those experiments in which the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is involved are directly concerned with our efforts to feed our people. Not nonsense like the preserving of useless and worn-out citizens, but plant biochemistry that could result in a nitrogen-fixing wheat, to flourish in our northern fields, and feed our people.”

“The solar cell research,” put in Mahadev, “holds the one promise of bringing necessary power to my country’s population. Even if the other powers involved would be agreeable to sacrificing some of their experiments on the mission schedule, we could not agree to the solar cell experiments being halted.” He spread his hands. “Literally, we could not. My government would be out of power in a week, possibly.”

“And I assure you,” said Guenther, “Pan-Europe will not sit quietly under any attempt to curtail our mission experiments into the chemical development of memory and intelligence.”

“Now, now,” said Sir Geoffrey, a little irritably. He was curled up on the base of his spine in his chair, rubbing his chin. “No point in our sitting around making speeches at each other. The point is, what might we do about it?”

“A word to the press,” said Guenther.

“No—no,” said Sir Geoffrey and Varisov at once, so that it was almost like one man talking.

“Never turn the press loose if you can help it,” said Sir Geoffrey. “Couple of lines of poetry about that: You cannot hope to bribe or twist, thank God, the British journalist. But seeing what the man will do, unbribed, there’s no occasion to … And that goes for journalists of all nations. There’s no stopping them, once they’re after something.”

“Also,” said Varisov, “there are repercussions with our home governments to consider.”

“For my part,” said Sir Geoffrey with his eyes half-closed in thought, “I believe I’ll just have a word with some of their people I know in Washington. I’ve already done that; but maybe I didn’t come down quite heavily enough.”

“I may do some talking, myself,” said Varisov.

“Perhaps we should discuss the whole matter right now, in detail,” said Ambedkar, gently.

VIII

The fact that the mission was on Eastern Daylight Time made for coincidences. After the second meal

period of Day Two aboard Phoenix One and Two at just about the time the Deputy Ministers back on Merritt Island were sitting back to sip on coffee following lunch, thousands of miles deep in space, the Marsnauts were finishing their own lunch. Anoshi was scheduled for Systems/Housekeeping. Bap and Tad were due to go to work setting up experiments in the labs, including the atmosphere and null-atmosphere lab sections of the no-gravity pod between the two ships.

During the days just before the ‘nauts had boarded Phoenix One and Phoenix Two, both ships had been on a standby basis as far as internal systems went—with a single exception per ship. The exception in each case was a sealed lab section on C .Deck, within which atmospheric pressure and normal temperature had been maintained for the benefit of the so-called “live” subjects—ranging from field mice down through brine shrimp, fruit flies and flatworms, to simple molds and spores. The seal on this lab had been broken when the lab was opened during their first visual inspection of the ship after the ‘nauts boarded her and brought her up to working order. But the experimental subjects themselves had been left until now in the care of the automatic machinery that had kept them nourished and alive since they had been put aboard by the supply and fitting crews from Kennedy.

Now, Tad and Bap left the majority of the subjects still in the formerly sealed lab. But certain of them were immediately to be transferred—to the plant genetics lab, the biomedical lab and the two sections of the pod. Tad and Bap worked together to set up the plant genetics and the biomedical lab sections; but when it came to the pod, while Bap could reach the inside section through the cryotex tube connecting with it and Phoenix Two, Tad had to suit up and EVA, going outside the ship to enter the airless, cold part of the pod from the hatch opening to space that lay in the perpetual shadow between the two locked-together and revolving ships.

The work was both difficult and clumsy in a spacesuit; but the spores and cultures which Tad carried to the outer pod were contained in trays that even heavy gloves could handle with some dexterity. One by one, Tad fitted these trays into the shelves and racks built into the airless section of the pod, working in the illumination from the pressurized section, showing through the milky, yielding cryotex wall between the two parts. The blurred shadow he saw coming and going beyond that wall as he worked would be Bap, at work there, Tad thought.

—Unless it was Dirk or Fedya from Phoenix Two. Each ship was due to supply some materials and live subjects to the pod experiments. Primarily, it was the U.S. experiments on cryogenics that would be taking up space in the pod compartments. Although both the ‘green-thumb’ paranormal plant-response tests of the English, and the biorhythms experiments of the Japanese, were represented here. In essence, these were experiments which had been pioneered in the Spacelabs. But they would be taking place under different conditions here; in that they were both farther from the sun, and subject to a skidding, sidewards motion—too light to be consciously felt as gravity—that was caused by the two ships wheeling about their joined common center where the pod sections were.

Tad finished his work and left. So far, no one from Phoenix Two had showed up to bring that spacecraft’s trays of experimental materials to the outer pod—which was a little strange. If Tad remembered the bargraphs for Phoenix Two correctly, someone from that ship ought to have been out here at the same time he was.

Tad returned to the inside of Phoenix One, and the air lock. He emerged into A Deck and began desuiting. Anoshi was there, waiting for him, and helped him off with the suit.

“Bap’s over in Phoenix Two,” said Anoshi, as soon as Tad’s helmet was off. “Fedya had an accident with some oxygen tanks top pling over in one of the labs. It seems he’s hurt his left hand.”

Tad and Fedya sat opposite each other at a wardroom table. This time it was the wardroom of Phoenix Two; and it was Tad who had brought the bargraphs that were spread out on its surface. Fedya’s left hand, wrapped in gauze bandaging, rested upon some of these. Bern and Dirk had been with them up until a moment ago. Now, for the first time since Tad had come over from Phoenix One with the bargraphs, he and Fedya were alone. Tad glanced at his hand.

“How bad is it?” he asked, in a low voice.

“As I told you when you first came over,” said Fedya, emotionlessly, “bruised, that’s all.”

Tad nodded.

“All right,” he said, turning to the bargraphs and pushing a sheaf of them across the table to Fedya, who picked them up with his uninjured hand. “Here’s how I think we’d better handle it. One man takes care of the outside section of the pod and all EVA duties for both ships. I’ve juggled the other schedules to spread the work load out as a result of this; and the parts of your own schedule that you won’t be able to do one-handed.”

Fedya studied the bargraphs for several minutes while Tad sat in silence. Then he looked across the table at Tad.

“The work load is all right over here,” he said. “But over on Phoenix One, you’re the one who’s picking up the extra work that I am being relieved of.”

“Not directly,” said Tad.

“No,” said Fedya, “not directly. But it amounts to two hours of work of which I’m relieved, and nearly an hour apiece off the schedules of Bern and Dirk. While over on Phoenix One, you personally pick up four extra hours of duties—and I mean you personally.”

Tad looked grimly at him.

“As Mission Commander,” he said, “I’ve got more independent duties and more free time than anyone else. I’ll be absorbing those four hours into that free time.”

“You know,” said Fedya, “that’s neither true nor possible.”

“It’s possible,” said Tad.

“How?”

Tad sat back in his chair.

“As you told me when I first came over,” he said, coldly. “Your hand’s bruised, that’s all. I won’t ask you about it again.”

Fedya sat for a long second without saying anything.

“All right,” he said, then, “I won’t ask how you plan to make this work. But what makes you think Mission Control will accept it?”

He waved his right hand at the bargraphs and the penciled changes Tad had made upon them.

“They’ll have to,” Tad said. “They’ve got no choice now. Out here, if it really comes down to it, no one can give us orders but ourselves. And if they got excited about it, that would be bad publicity for the mission.”

Fedya nodded slowly.

“But you’ll need help,” he said. “You can’t do all that alone.”

“No help,” said Tad, flatly. “And no discussion.”

He reached out and swept the bargraphs back into a pile in the middle of the table.

“And I have no choice, either?” said Fedya.

“That’s right,” said Tad. He got to his feet, pushing back his chair from the table. “Don’t spend your time thinking about me. You know we’re all overscheduled, here. It may not seem so bad the first week or two. But by the third week, that lack of repair and down time is going to be piling up. You’ll all five be putting in three of four hours more a day than you’re scheduled for. We both know that. I’m just taking on my extra hours now, in accordance with an amendment of the schedules.”

“And a week and a half or two weeks before the rest of us,” said Fedya, softly.

“I tell you, I can absorb most of that extra duty,” said Tad. He still kept his voice pitched low. “I’ll be in better shape than any of you, three weeks from today.”

“You will not,” said Fedya. “And that is something else we both know.”

But, before he could finish speaking, Tad had already turned and left the wardroom. Fedya heard him entering the access tube on his way back through the cryotex lane to Phoenix One. Soberly, Fedya rose, took the bargraphs from the table under his arm and headed toward his own sleeping compartment.

IX

“I just don’t like it,” said Bill Ward.

“Don’t like what part of it?” Nick Henning asked. He was sitting up in the bed of his private hospital room, looking as if his massive coronary attack of sixteen days ago had never occurred, let alone like a man who was four days out of extensive heart surgery. Bill Ward had dropped in to visit him. The private room was a pleasant one, looking east, and the flowers on the windowsill looked crisp and well watered.

“Any part of it,” Bill said, sitting massively upright in the sunlight on the visitor’s chair by the bed, his face more irascible than usual under the skullcap of his close-cropped gray hair. “I didn’t want your job in the first place, damn it!”

“I didn’t stick you with it,” Nick said. “The thought was you were the best bet to keep Tad in line, that’s all.”

“Keep him in line!” Bill made a small convulsive movement as if he wanted to get up and pace around the room, but would not indulge himself. “The fact a man’s a friend doesn’t mean you’re going to have more luck keeping him in line—it means you’re going to have less.” He hesitated. “You don’t know the worst of it. That Undersecretary of Science for the Development of Space—Jen Wylie—came to me the very morning of Day One, before launch. He wanted me to do something personally about the work schedules for the ‘nauts, aboard the ships.”

Nick frowned. They had been keeping him on a strict diet since the ambulance had brought him in; and he had lost weight. The frown made his round face fall into wrinkles that had not shown in earlier days.

“And you’ve never told anyone about this?”

“For God’s sake!” exploded Bill. “Isn’t it enough of a mess already? We know those boys are overscheduled during this first thirty days of the mission. Washington knows it. Every involved government knows it; and we all sit here like the three monkeys, with our paws over our eyes, noses and ears—see no evil, hear no’ evil, tell nobody about the God-damned evil!”

“This is something that falls outside our area,” said Nick.

“That’s what everyone says. What it boils down to is nobody wants to be the one to tell the king the bad news.”

“The king?” Nick stared at Bill.

“You know what I mean—the billions of so-called common people out there who’re treating this thing as if it were a show put on for their benefit and a promise of an end forever to war and trouble and not enough to eat,” said Bill. “Can’t the damn fools see that the same old political backbiting and pully-hauling is going on just the way it always did—only now it’s centered around this mission? Anyway, I almost did what Wylie asked.”

Nick’s eyelids came down to narrow his gaze and his eyes steadied on Bill.

“Good thing you didn’t.”

“Good for who? For Tad—for those others up there?” said Bill. “It’s not good for them.”

“This is something that just happens to be bigger than just an ordinary space mission,” said Nick. “It’s tough on them, being out in the front trench; but they’re just going to have to take it—there’s no way we can help them.”

Bill flashed an angry look at him.

“You know what I mean!” said Nick. He made an effort to hold the tone of his voice down to a reasonable level. “The whole space program’s at stake. It’s been at stake ever since each country involved started loading the mission up with their pet experiments.

Right from the beginning it’s been the choice of giving the mission more than it could handle or face the accusation that NASA was trying to hog the show. That’s still the situation unless the ‘nauts themselves, or someone else, speak up first.”

He stopped speaking. Bill Ward sat scowling and silent.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of sticking the U.S.‘s neck out on this?” Nick said, slowly.

“Not yet,” said Bill, still scowling. “But there was that accident on Day Two to Fedya’s hand. All right, it turned out not to be anything important. But that’s space out there; and things can happen when the men exposed to it get too tired or physically eroded. Remember the two Russian cosmonauts on the Soyuz Mission that reached the ground dead? Dead because of a mechanical error that wouldn’t have been made, if they hadn’t been suffering the effects of being too long in no-gravity without proper drugs or exercise?”

“But you aren’t thinking of doing anything about this situation on your own hook, are you?” persisted Nick.

“Not yet,” muttered Bill. “Not yet.”

Day Twenty-two: Tad woke with a convulsive jerk; and lay in the dark, unable for the moment to remember where he was or what the time was now. His body ached for more sleep, yearned for it like some dessicated desert plant yearning for rain. For the moment he was aware of only two things: that instinct-deep, desperate need for sleep; and the fact that he was disoriented, lost in darkness with nothing to cling to but the grim urgency that had driven him out of the cave of slumber back to wakefulness.

Then it came back to him.

Day Twenty-two: he looked at the illuminated face of the clock on his bedside table and the hands stood at 3500 hours. Eleven p.m. Bap and Anoshi would be asleep by this time, sleeping the heavy, drugged sleep of the exhausted. For him, after a two-hour nap, there were his personal medical tests and the log book to deal with.

He lay still for a few moments in the darkness, gathering his will to rise. At first thought, the effort involved in getting up seemed impossible. He felt like someone chained hand and foot to the bed by fatigue while before him, sensed but invisible, loomed the ever-growing stack of work to be done. Every day he attacked that stack, that mountain, with superhuman efforts; but every day, at the end of the day, it was higher. A little more time had been lost from the overall schedule. One more impossibility had been added to those already required of him. And the next day another would be added.

He shoved the self-defeating image from him. Follow your nose, he told himself. Keep the eyes in close focus on the immediate grindstone. Look at the total of things and you’ll never make it. Besides, for him, the current day was not yet over. He had only allowed himself a two-hour nap while Anoshi and Bap dropped safely off to sleep. There were two more hours of work yet for him, before he could come back to this bed where he was now. Up—he forced himself to throw back the single cover and sit up, swinging his legs, over the edge of the bed. For a second he slumped there; then with another convulsive effort he was on his feet, headed toward the waste management room and the shower.

The shower was beautiful. He stood, leaning and braced against the metal walls of the narrow, upright cubicle, letting its endlessly recycled and filtered four gallons of water beat endlessly down upon his naked body, driving some heat and life into his bones. Bless the water that never quit. To heat it, he was burning ship’s power for a period of time beyond the normal interval, but to hell with that. They had power to spare and he was a piece of machinery that needed an infusion of energy to get it operating. Warmed, at last, to something like working temperature, he staggered out of the cubicle and headed back to his sleeping compartment to dress.

Dressed, he went into the wardroom and dropped down at the dining table, punching for a cup of coffee. Drinking it, he stared with unfocused eyes at the wardroom bulkhead opposite, where the dartboard hung, sprouting the feathered darts from someone’s last game. Now that he was this far back into a waking mode, he did not really know how alert he was. Sometime in the past weeks he had lost his sense of feeling whether he was tired or not. Undoubtedly, he was tired. But all he felt, sitting at the wardroom table, was a sort of leaden brightness. The effective modes for him were no longer awake or asleep; but operative or inoperative.

It was, he thought as he sat drinking the coffee which was pleasant for its heat but no longer much use as a stimulant to him, a question how far Anoshi and Bap had also descended down this road to exhaustion on which he himself was now far advanced. If he could not judge his own condition any more, it was certain that he could not trust himself to judge them. Of course, he had started to bear the work a good week and a half before the gradual accumulation of lost time on a too-crowded schedule had begun to drive them to extra hours of effort. From that, he should be able to count on their still having reserves of energy that he had already squandered. Of course, he would be going to work on the log in a minute, and in the results of their daily physical checks, there should be some clue. But it was hard to be certain …

He would get to work any minute now. But first, one more cup of coffee …

… Ah-hah! Caught you at it, thought Tad, staring at his coffee container. His hand had just automatically reached out and refilled the container from the metered spout under his name on the wardroom wall against which the table faced. Thought you’d con me into sitting here while I drank a third cup, did you, he said to his hand. Well, it won’t work.

Carefully, not spilling a drop, he poured the contents of the cup down between the bars of the drain under the spout, to be metered there also and deducted from the intake total the spout had been adding up for him in the log. He got up and went out of the wardroom.

He took the access tube to A Deck and went to the log console. Dropping heavily into the seat before it, he punched up the Day Twenty-two figures and began his study of them.

The recorded work schedule was by this time strongly at odds with the bargraphs of the projected work schedules aboard Phoenix One; and undoubtedly the same thing was true aboard Phoenix Two where Fedya kept the log. Meal periods had shrunk to as little as fifteen minutes on occasion, and there were no open spaces between duties or experiments where one ‘naut had a few minutes to wait until another could join him for a two-man activity. The Systems/Housekeeping periods were down to no more than five minutes. Finally, to top the matter off, the record showed the whole day running up to half an hour late into the normal beginning of the sleep period between 2100 and 2200 hours.

That much obvious increase of the work load and added use of time could stand in the official record. It was not an impossible situation, on paper—or rather, on the screen of the log here and back at Cape Kennedy. But on the other hand, it was not a true record of the situation, either.

What did not show on the record was the real trouble. For example, all three of them aboard Phoenix One had fallen into the habit of what they called “doing the chores”—rising an hour and a half to two hours early to do any number of things that did not involve use of the recording equipment aboard and which consequently did not show up on the log.

Tad punched the log screen to focus in on the running physical statistics on the three of them aboard. The overwork was showing up as a weight loss for both Anoshi and Bap in the mass experiment

M149. Bap had lost eight pounds and Anoshi five as of Day Twenty-two’s weighings. Neither of those were unreasonable figures. Tad decided to leave them as they presently appeared on the record. Experiment M119 showed some calcium and nitrogen loss by both men; but again it was not so great a loss that it appeared threatening. M107—Negative Pressure—that experiment which required a ‘naut to sit in a device covering him to the waist and fastened there with an airtight seal while air was exhausted below the ambient 5 psig showed some cardiovascular changes that were not good.

Tad drummed his fingers on the lower edge of the console, debating with himself. It was one thing to stick his own neck out; but something entirely different to risk major damage to the other two. How many days were left? Eight, to finish the first thirty-day period; after which the schedule was to be cut almost in half. Risk it with Bap and Anoshi, he decided, for a few days longer. He left the M107 figures as entered.

He went on through the other checkpoints on the two men—heart rate, blood pressure, vectorcardiograms. The true figures on these would pass. The time and motion studies, on the other hand, showed Bap and Anoshi declining again—they had dropped sharply in performance in the last three days. In this case, Tad made slight corrections of the record, improving their marks slightly. So slightly, in fact, that nothing was risked, either way; but enough of a change so that if, for any reason, he wished to improve the record of their performance tomorrow, it would not seem like a sudden change.

He left the log records dealing with Bap and Anoshi, and went to those dealing with himself.

For a moment he sat, merely staring at these. It had been a number of days since he had first begun to believe the evidence of his own physical deterioration as reflected in the records. Each day he corrected them to keep them in the same range as the records of his two crewmates; and each day the correction had become more unbelievable. It was true he was averaging no more than four hours sleep out of the twenty-four and working at least two hours more than the others; but it was hard to credit that difference with causing him to fall apart as the record showed.

Of course, he knew what the real reason was. He had known and figured on it before he ever spoke to Fedya about incapacitating himself. Tad’s plan had been to use Fedya’s injury as an excuse to juggle the work schedules of all six of them so that he himself would pick up a potential extra four hours of activities and each of the rest would have his load lightened by a potential forty-eight minutes apiece. One of the four extra hours Tad would eventually need to put in was to be an hour of activity after Bap and Anoshi were asleep—and he had deliberately thrown his schedule out of phase with theirs to explain why they might wake to find him up and around when they were resting.

But the other three hours he had intended to save by simple cheating—by not doing certain scheduled activities in which he alone was concerned and faking the log records to show them as done. It had been a difficult problem to find three hours of activity that he felt could be omitted without endangering the mission and his crewmates. But he had done it—thanks mainly to the eighty minutes he had saved by completely skipping his daily exercise period.

He could not have done this aboard the Skylab. There, all such exercise required two men—the participator and the observer. But one of the points NASA had yielded on as the experiments piled up for the mission, was the requirement that all exercise be observed. Tad had only needed to place his exercise period at the end of his day’s schedule, after Bap and Anoshi were asleep, and then ignore it completely, except for recording fake evidence of it in the log.

It had been a calculated risk. Early in the period of manned spaceflight, it had been discovered that bodies designed for gravity deteriorated rapidly in a no-gravity situation. A few days without gravity were enough to do noticeable damage. The Skylabs with their complete lack of gravity and long terms of duty by the men aboard them, had come up with an answer to this—heavy and prolonged daily exercise.

The two ships of the Mars mission, docked together and spinning, were not without gravity, even if it was a gravity less than half that of normal. There had been evidence to show that a full gravity might not be what was necessary to keep the human body in normal good condition. Even a light gravity might be able to do it. Tad had gambled on this being so … but there was no denying the evidence he had been forced to correct daily for the last two weeks in the logbook. Even in a light gravity, exercise was necessary. He had deliberately avoided exercise and the effects on his body were piling up.

But there was no going back now, or no changing his plans, even if he had wanted to. With a weary breath, he picked up a light pencil and began to correct his test figures to more healthy-looking ones

“Yes,” said the voice of Bap behind him. “You see, I was right.”

Tad dropped the light pencil and spun about in the chair. He was braced to see Bap and Anoshi; but what he did see was worse. The man with Bap, the one to whom Bap had spoken, was Fedya.

X

“How long has this been going on?” asked Fedya.

“What’re you doing here?” demanded Tad.

Fedya ignored him. He took one long step forward to level with Tad’s chair and looked down at the log imaged on the screen.

“Hold on there—” Tad tried to spin around to face the console; but Fedya pushed him back again and Bap caught him, holding on. “What the hell—”

His voice was thick; and his legs, when he tried to get to his feet against Bap’s holding arms, were without strength. Fedya stood looking past him at the log records for a long moment; then he stepped back and Bap let go of Tad.

“I’m senior—” Tad began. Fedya broke in on him.

“You’re a sick man,” he said. “A seriously worn out and sick man. Bap, take a look at the figures on him in the log.”

Bap stepped past Fedya in his turn. This time, Tad made no attempt to stop the log from being seen. He sat in his chair, glaring at Fedya.

Bap said something softly but emphatically, in a language Tad did not understand. He stepped back from the console and turned to Tad, reaching out to close the fingers of his left hand upon the pulse in Tad’s left wrist and gently lifting one of Tad’s eyelids with the fingers of his right hand. Then he let go of the eyelid; and a moment later took his hand from the pulse.

“Tad,” he said, looking down at Tad and shaking his head. “Tad!” Tad glared up at them like a cornered wild dog.

“Cut it out!” he said, harshly. “You’re not going to do anything. You tell Mission Control about me, and you’ll blow everything wide open.”

Bap looked at Fedya.

“That’s true enough,” Bap said. “But he can’t go on like this.” “No,” said Fedya. His dark eyes were boring into Tad. “So this was the way you thought you could get around the overload of activities? How could you try something so impossible?”

“Go to hell!” said Tad, savagely. “If the gravity had been enough, I’d have been all right. It’s just the lack of exercise that’s got to me.”

Fedya glanced questioningly at Bap, who shrugged with his eyebrows.

“Probably,” said Bap. He looked back at Tad. “Anyway, as the closest thing to a physician on this mission, I’m personally ordering you to bed until further notice.”

“There’re things to be done,” said Tad. “Nobody but me can do them.”

“They can wait ten hours,” said Bap. “Even falsifying that record can wait ten hours.”

“What’ll you tell Mission, when they ask to have it relayed to them tomorrow morning?”

“That they’ll have to wait,” said Fedya. “And meanwhile—” he turned and walked over to seat himself at the command console, “we’ll put them on notice that our activities schedule has to be cut, immediately.”

He flipped the communication switch and pushed the lasercom control buttons.

“This is Phoenix One,” he said into the mike grid of the console before him. “Phoenix One. This is Fedya, calling Mission Control from Phoenix One. Come in, Kennedy.”

The screen before him blurred with color and after a short time lag resolved itself into the features of a thin-faced communications engineer with the ranked consoles of Mission Control behind him.

“This is Mission Control,” he said. “This is Mission Control receiving you loud and clear, Phoenix One. What’s up, Fedya?”

“I want to talk to the Mission Director,” Fedya said. “I must talk to Bill Ward, immediately …”

“… left him there, locked in the closet.” Sir Geoffrey wound up his story and the group about him laughed. One laugh in particular, that of the Princess Malahede, rang clearly across neighboring conversations. It was the kind of laugh that would. Sir Geoffrey winked at her in appreciation. Not a bad figure on the old horse, he thought—and instantly realized that once again he was sailing dangerously near his limit on drinks. It was damned annoying for someone who used to be able to drink all night and the next day without showing it. He would just have to quit for the evening, even though there were at least a couple of more hours to go. Not a bad figure—Lord save the hungry blind!

“But what happened to the man?” asked the dumpy little woman—wife of Bill Ward, the Mission Director.

“Happened? Haven’t any idea,” said Sir Geoffrey. “May still be there in the closet, for all I know.”

More laughter. A man came up and pulled Bill Ward aside, speaking to him in a low voice. Something to do with the mission? Probably not, thought Sir Geoffrey. He began a new story, as Bill Ward beckoned his wife to join him and the man who had just come up; and the three of them disappeared into the crowd.

Bill waited until they were well away from anyone who might overhear, before turning to his wife.

“Nothing desperate,” he said. “But the ‘nauts want to talk to me about something. I’ll have to run back to Mission Control. Can you get a taxi home?”

“Oh, someone will give me a ride,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.” She looked up at his tall, thick-waisted figure concernedly. “Don’t forget you need your sleep.”

“Of course, of course!” Bill said. “Don’t wait up for me, though.”

He turned and walked swiftly off toward the hotel entrance next to the parking lot before she could give him any more good advice. She had fussed over him ever since Nick Henning’s heart attack. He found his car in the parking lot and headed back to the Cape.

It took him nearly forty minutes to get there, in spite of the relatively empty, after-midnight highways. But ten minutes after he had arrived, he had talked to Fedya.

“Where’s Tad?” asked Bill. “Can I talk to him?”

There was a small delay, even at the light speeds of the laser communication beam, before the lips of Fedya’s face in the screen moved, and Fedya’s voice was heard, answering.

“He’s asleep,” said Fedya, “and he has a tranquilizer in him. He can’t talk to you now.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Bill.

“No,” said Fedya. “What more do you need to know? The activity load is too heavy. All of us are worn down by it. Tad was so worn down he was ready to collapse.”

Bill thumbed a pile of log duplicate sheets that had been brought to him while he had been talking.

“According to these, Tad—” he was beginning; when a thought woke in the back of his brain. Quietly, he pushed the sheets aside. “You’re asking Mission Control to cut the experiment list?”

“Yes. They can cut it,” said Fedya. He paused. “Or they can face the fact that certain work will be left undone for lack of time in which to do it.”

“How—” Bill’s voice surprised him by its hoarseness. He cleared his throat and tried again. “How soon do you want an answer?”

“Twenty-four hours,” said Fedya.

“Oh, now look here!” said Bill. “Cutting that list involves checking with various governments—your own for one. You can’t mean twenty-four hours!”

“They can take as much time as they like,” said Fedya. “But starting immediately, on both ships, we will only do what there is time for us to do in a normal day’s work-period.”

“That’s not—” began Bill, and broke off as a paper was pushed into his hand by someone standing nearby. He read it and laughed. He looked back into the screen at Fedya.

“Saved by the bell,” he said. “Guess what? We’ve just got word of a solar flare that’s due to hit you in five hours and thirty-eight minutes. Did you get that?”

“I heard you,” said Fedya. “We copy. A solar flare is due to reach us in five hours and thirty-eight minutes. I assume you mean a flare large enough for us to run the Lasercom tests.”

“Of course,” said Bill. “And running those tests lets you drop everything else, so as to concentrate on them. You’d better get started separating Phoenix One and Phoenix Two, and put as much distance between the two ships as you can. Meanwhile, I’ll pass along your request for a cut in the activities schedule.”

“Good,” said Fedya. “Phoenix Two will speak to you again just before separation to lock communications contact with Phoenix One for the duration of the LCO tests. Over and out.”

“Over and out,” said Bill. The screen went blank. Bill sat back in his chair, gazing at the unlit surface for a long moment before he seemed to shake himself out of his brown study and look about for the person who had handed him the note about the flare.

“Who gave me that?” he asked. “And how bad’s it going to be?”

“I did,” said the communications engineer on duty, Al Ciro, leaning in toward him. “And it’s going to be rough.”

Tad leaped suddenly to full wakefulness out of deep sleep as if someone had shot a cannon off at his bedside. He lay listening, but there was no sound. He felt lightheaded but alert. Only his body was still numb with exhaustion. He forced it up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed … and floated off the bed surface entirely into the air.

There was no gravity.

Phoenix One and Phoenix Two were no longer docked together and rotating.

In that moment he heard it again—the noise that had roused him from sleep. It was the heavy clang of metal against metal, somewhere forward in the ship—it sounded as if it might be on A Deck almost directly over his head.

Tad jerked himself out of the bed; and pulled himself through the gravityless environment to the hatch of the access tube, then along the access tube up to A Deck, and out onto A Deck. He saw Bap and Anoshi manhandling thick metal-sandwich panels into position around the control consoles. As he emerged from the access tube they finished locking the one they held into place against the line of panels already up to the left of the consoles; and Bap saw him.

“Awake, Tad?” Bap said. “I was just coming down to get you. We’ve got a solar flare coming—in fact, it’s already here.”

“A flare?” The information jolted out of Tad all the anger that had been building up in him at not being wakened before this. For a second his mind was full only of the situation that a large solar flare implied. Then his anger returned with a rush. “Why’d you let me sleep this long?”

“We were doing all right without you,” said Anoshi. “The radiation index is already starting to rise; and we’re all buttoned down outside, except for the Lasercom—and that’s matched with the LCO mirror on Phoenix Two.”

“Where is Phoenix Two?” Tad asked.

“Fedya’s moved her a good hundred and forty kilometers off. We’ve both said our last words for the moment to Mission Control. Now, as soon as we get the storm cellar set up, we’ll be all ready to ride it out. You’d better get dressed.”

“Dressed?” Tad recognized suddenly that he was wearing nothing but standard onboard duty clothes. Anoshi and Bap were dressed in the undersuiting that went with their spacesuits, including even biomedical sensors and the semi-bulky EMU urine collection systems about their crotches and waists. He looked at the new panel the two were now picking up—the last one to be put in place to surround the control system. The panels made up a specially protected area which the ‘nauts themselves referred to as “the storm cellar.”

“How soon should we be inside?” Tad asked.

“The next fifteen minutes, to be amply safe,” panted Bap. In no-gravity, the panels lacked normal weight; but their mass and inertia made them problems to handle. “I’ll be back up in ten,” said Tad.

He turned and went hurriedly down the access tube to B Deck. He got into his undersuiting, swallowed a hot cup of coffee in the wardroom, made a hasty visit to the waste disposal room and was back up the access tube and into the storm cellar within the time limit he had given. He entered through the gap where the last panel of the cellar stood ajar; and he pulled it closed into its fitting with the adjoining panel behind him.

Bap and Anoshi were already on their acceleration couches. The spacesuits for all three men were racked beside their consoles. Tad pulled himself over to his own couch and belted himself down on it so that he would not float loose. He was once again clear-headed; but the heavy sleep he had just had had reawakened his appreciation of what bodily tiredness meant. He was like a live mind in a nearly-unconscious carcass.

“How long was I out?” he demanded.

“Nearly six hours,” said Anoshi. “We got word of the flare when Fedya told Mission Control about cutting the activities schedule; about an hour after Bap put you to bed.”

“And Fedya took Phoenix Two off? We’re still holding course?” Tad asked.

“Right. Right on both counts,” said Anoshi.

“How intense a flare?”

“The forecast Kennedy gave us was upwards of twelve thousand BeV at Earthpoint,” said Anoshi. “That should push it right up near the end of our scale.”

He pointed at Phoenix One’s outside counter. Twelve thousand billion electron volts was more than three-quarters of the way up its line of measurement. Right now the needle hung just above the bottom pin.

“Are we all buttoned up?” Tad said. “Did you get the live subjects from the labs into the safety room?”

“All of them, including the plants from the atmosphere section of the pod. All the films out of the outside cameras—everything. Relax, Tad,” said Bap, cheerfully. “Everything’s done. We didn’t miss your presence at all.”

“You hope!” snapped Tad. He was still fighting his exhaustion-deadened body; and Bap’s usual humor irritated instead of amusing him. He turned to the communications section of his console and punched buttons to call Phoenix Two on the LCO.

Color swirled and became the face of Fedya. It was clear and sharp; but then it should be. To the laser beam carrying it between the outside copper mirror on Phoenix Two to the duplicate mirror on Phoenix One, a hundred and forty kilometers was no distance at all compared to the work it would finally be called on to do, maintaining communications between Cape Kennedy and the mission, once it was arrived at Mars. Theoretically, even the billions of electron volts—the storm of proton and electron particles thrown off by the solar flare following its first burst of electromagnetic radiation—should not disturb it, at this short distance. But that was one of the matters that the mission was about to test. Both ships had aligned their outside laser mirrors on each other, putting them out of contact with Earth—except for radio communication; and radio communication, even with the more powerful equipment aboard Phoenix One, which was to do the long-range tests once the mission reached Mars orbit.

“Fedya?” said Tad, the second Fedya’s face was identifiable. “You did talk to Kennedy about cutting the schedule?”

“I spoke to Bill Ward,” Fedya answered. “I told him that in any case, we could none of us do more than there was time to do in the normal waking hours, from now on.”

“Good,” said Tad. His mind jumped to another problem. “About the log—”

“I said nothing.”

“Good. You had a last word with Mission Control before realigning your LCO mirror?”

“Yes,” said Fedya. “I called them to say we’d reached our distance of one-forty klicks from you; and that we would open communication again as soon as the particle storm was safely past its peak. Estimate is, that should be at least fifteen hours from the time of my last transmission to them.”

“All right,” said Tad. “How’s everybody over there?”

“Just lovely,” said the voice of Dirk, before Fedya could answer. “Snug as bugs in our storm cellar here.”

Fedya smiled a little.

“You too?” he asked Tad.

“Affirmative,” said Tad. “We’ll leave the communications channel open for metering purposes. Feel free to talk to us at any time.”

“We will,” said Fedya. “Over and not out.”

“Over and not out to you,” said Tad.

Fedya’s face moved away from view of the screen on Phoenix Two, which now showed a portion of storm cellar paneling and the paneling overhead of A Deck. Tad leaned back on his couch against the pull of the strap.

“Maybe I’ll take a nap,” he said, “as long as there’s nothing more we can do right now. Yes, I think I’ll … take …”

And he began to dream almost immediately, that Phoenix One had reached Mars. She was buried deep in sand; and the sand, despite all they could do, was finding small cracks and fissures in her hull, through which it came, silently and inexorably trickling into the ship …

There was no sound to the solar storm, raging through the vacuum about the ship, and even through the ship itself. There was no sound, vibration, color or apparent motion. There was only the needle climbing on the BeV meter. It climbed slowly to twelve thousand million electron volts … and continued upward while the three in the storm cellar of Phoenix One watched, and waited, and waited some more; occasionally talking back and forth with Phoenix Two.

“Look—” said Anoshi, finally.

He was pointing at the BeV meter. The other two looked. It took a second to make sure that they were not seeing simply what they hoped to see.

“It’s backed off, all right,” Tad said. “Just barely. But it’s backed off. Phoenix Two—”

He turned to the communications mike and the screen of the LCO. But the view of the panels and ceiling enclosing the command area of their sister ship was no longer showing on the screen. Instead, the screen showed a slowly drifting and changing pattern of random colors.

“Now what?” muttered Tad. His fingers went to the controls of the LCO, while he repeated himself into the mike grid. “Phoenix Two. Phoenix Two. Come in, please. Phoenix One calling Phoenix Two. Do you read me, Phoenix Two? Do you read me? Phoenix Two, this is Phoenix One. Come in, Phoenix Two …”

The colors continued to drift, unresolved. Tad reached out and turned the gain up on the console speaker; but all that resulted was a louder rush of background static.

“Either their LCO’s out, or ours is,” said Anoshi.

“Shouldn’t go like that,” said Tad, under his breath.

“What?” Anoshi asked.

“I said—” Tad raised his voice, harshly, “it shouldn’t go like that—in just a short time, and so completely out.”

He turned and flipped back the cover of the recording strip on the LCO, pulling out a long tongue of paper with five parallel lines running lengthwise on it—running steadily until, some eight inches from where Tad’s hand grasped it, the straight lines broke into a wild up-and-down marking that continued back into the recorder.

“Went out suddenly, a little over three minutes ago,” Tad said. He looked at the others. “Were either of you watching the screen then?”

Bap and Anoshi both shook their heads, watching him.

“Well, it must be our unit,” Tad said. “Either that, or Phoenix Two is deliberately transmitting nonsense. Now why would our LCO hold up beautifully all through the storm and then go on the blink the minute the storm started to back off’?”

He looked at the BeV meter. The needle was now perceptibly down from the high peg against which it had been resting. Bap glanced up at the ship’s chronometer, high on the console.

“The storm was stronger than they forecast,” Bap said, “but it’s slackening off before they forecast it. We should have an hour or more of heavy particle bombardment to wait out yet.”

“As long as the storm fades, I’m not going to ask why,” said Tad; and was startled for a second by the near-anger in his voice. Get hold of yourself he said, internally. You’re becoming as touchy as nitroglycerine. —Becoming? Or have you been like this these last couple of weeks and been too tired to realize how you were acting with Bap and Anoshi?

However, there was no spare time for emotional self-examination now. The point to concentrate on was that the LCO was malfunctioning. He looked once more at the BeV meter. There was a red line near the bottom of its scale; and a blue line below that. Once the indicator needle fell below the blue at the bottom of the scale, it would be safe for a man in a spacesuit to engage in EVA—extravehicular activity—outside the ship.

“As soon as we get below the red,” he told the other two, “we can check everything right up to the point where the system goes out through the hull to the positioning controls of the mirror. Meanwhile, we can at least check the console part of the system. And I suppose we might try the radio—just for luck.”

He reached out as he finished speaking; and keyed in the radio system to the mike and the speaker. But at the first touch of the volume control, the torrent of static that poured in on their ears ruled out any possibility of communication by radio with Phoenix Two.

“Long shot,” he said; and made himself grin at Anoshi and Bap. “All right, give me a hand at getting the front panel of this console off and we’ll start checking the LCO.”

They went to work. But that part of the system which was checkable within the area of the storm cellar was relatively easy to check; and it was not long before they had proved that there was no malfunction in the system as far as they could reach it. They replaced the front panel of the console and Tad looked at the BeV meter. Its needle was already below the red line.

“Dropping beautifully,” said Tad, getting to his feet. “All right, let’s break out of this storm cellar and check the system as far as we can the rest of the way inside.”

Bap and Anoshi also rose. But Anoshi was frowning at the BeV meter.

“I agree with you,” said Bap, although Anoshi had not said anything. “It’s not what they told us to expect—the storm dropping off this soon and this fast.”

Tad felt the sudden gorge of his earlier irritation and rage boil up automatically, like a sour vomit taste in his throat.

“Have you got some suggestion for checking on the situation?” he asked Bap. “We can’t raise Phoenix Two, let alone Mission Control.”

Bap merely frowned slightly, his dark brows joining in a single black line above his fatigue-darkened eyes, apparently more puzzled than provoked by Tad’s words and the edge in Tad’s voice.

“We could sit tight for a few more hours,” he said. “Phoenix Two was the one who moved off from us. All we have to do is wait and she’ll be rejoining us, if the storm’s down and all communications are out.”

“And if she’s in trouble on her own?” Tad demanded. “What if she’s in worse trouble than we are; and needs us to contact her and get word back to Mission Control?”

He did not wait for Bap to answer, but walked directly to the last panel that had been put in place to seal the storm cellar. He broke the seal loose and pushed the panel back, stepping into the open part of A Deck.

“All right,” he said, heading for the access panel that would allow them to begin tracing the LCO system beyond the area that had been enclosed by the storm cellar. “Somewhere along here we’ll find the malfunction.”

XI

However, when they got the last access plate off, the LCO wiring checked O.K. right up to the inner skin of the bird.

“That’s it,” said Tad, disconnecting the leads from the test unit and putting the access plate back, fist-thumping it into its own tension-held position. “It’s had to be in the positioning motor unit for the mirror outside, then, just the way I said. The storm was heavy enough to knock out any outside electronic components.”

“The positioning drive is shielded,” said Bap. “That whole housing below the mirror is shielded.”

“Not enough,” said Tad. “Not enough by a damn sight. Or maybe you think we overlooked something inside; and the trouble’s not out there after all?”

He stared at Bap. Bap’s dark face was honed now by tiredness to the sharpness of an axe blade chipped out of gray flint. There was no more humor left in him. Anoshi was equally pared down, and silently watching them both.

“I mentioned the shielding, only,” Bap said. “Of course, it must be outside.”

“Right then,” said Tad, his voice back to an impersonal note. He turned and led the way toward the central ladder tube; and they went up the metal rungs to the Control Deck again. Tad checked the needle on the radiation graph. It was down now, on a good thirty-degree slope of fall; still above the blue line by an inch or so, but plunging.

“All right,” said Tad. He checked the radio; but only the mindless blare of static roared from the control console speaker. “I’ll EVA and have a look at the trouble outside where it lives.”

“We’re not in the blue, yet,” said Bap. “And there’s Mission Control to consider—we should check with them before an EVA.”

Tad looked at him again.

“No,” put in Anoshi. “Until the storm dies down there’s no reaching Mission Control on the radio. And maybe Phoenix Two’s had the same trouble. Without a radio she can’t reach us—or Mission. At least we have a chance of reaching Mission by radio in a day or two—even if the LCO’s are out for good, for both of us. We could lose Phoenix Two, meanwhile.”

“All right,” said Bap, still standing, looking back at Tad. “But you’re the commander. I’ll go—or Anoshi.”

“I’m the commander. I’m going,” said Tad.

He headed toward the ladder tube.

“We’re not in the blue yet,” Bap said.

“I heard you the first time you said that,” Tad answered without stopping, without turning. “By the time I’m suited up and ready, it’ll be down. That’s a classic curve for flare activity, there on the graph. Tell you what, though—” he had to turn to face the other two as he began to back down the ladder, “the sensor eyes are working all right. Keep the picture on by Hatch Three. I’ll wait to go out until you tell me we’re under the blue line. O.K.?”

“O.K. Real fine,” said Bap. “I’ll keep the picture lit by Hatch Three and advise you when we’re under the blue line.”

“Right,” said Tad. “And keep a radio and LCO watch in case Phoenix Two or Mission comes back in again.”

“Will do,” said Anoshi.

Tad went on down the ladder, out of sight of the two still on the Control Deck.

Over in Phoenix Two, a check of the Laser Communications System was also in progress; but with different results.

“There could be trouble outside,” Bern said.

Fedya merely shook his head. They were in the Control Area of Phoenix Two and while the other two stood behind him, Fedya was seated at the test board of the LCO.

“Not likely,” said Dirk. “We’d have trouble lights somewhere. It’s got to be the LCO over on Phoenix One.”

Fedya’s long, thin fingers drummed thoughtfully on the edge of the test board. Of the three on Phoenix Two, he showed his fatigue the least. Above his white coverall collar his grave, handsome face looked not so much tired as remote and considering, as if this was only another theoretical problem to be worked out on the finite squares of the chessboard.

“No radio,” he said, turning the speaker sound up momentarily with its roar of static. “No LCO with One.” He turned the speaker sound down again. “Very well. Let us see if we can make contact with Mission Control. Contact will prove our LCO is operational; and we can get word about One to Control.”

He looked up at Dirk.

“Dirk,” he said. “You stay on the radio and try to raise Phoenix One that way, while I work the LCO into contact with Kennedy.”

Tad was sweating by the time he was sealed into his spacesuit by the Hatch Three air lock on the bottom deck; and the suit temperature controls went automatically to work to dry him off; so that he felt hot and chilled at the same time—a feverish sort of feeling.

He remembered suddenly that he should have had Anoshi follow him down to check him out in the suit before he went EVA. He had not thought of it; and evidently it had not occurred to Anoshi, either. It was not really necessary; but the fact they had both forgotten was another symptom of the bone-tiredness that was afflicting them all when it should not—that, and the sweat he had worked up getting suited, were both warning signals from their body systems. That was one of the bad effects of fatigue—it not only impaired judgment and put your temper on hair-trigger, it walled you off from the people around you. You could not spare the energy to remember that they were as worn out, as mistake-prone, as you were; and everything they did wrong irritated you …

Tad suddenly realized he had been standing by Hatch Three for some little time, holding the test kit he would take outside to check the LCO. He spoke into his suit phone.

“Bap? You’ve got me on screen, haven’t you?”

“On screen. Right,” came back Bap’s voice.

“What’s the matter? Are we still above the blue line on the graph?”

There was a little silence before Bap answered.

“No. Just below, now. But the curve’s flattening out a bit. I wanted to give you a bit of margin below the blue line.”

“Never mind margin. The line is below the blue?”

“Below the blue. Right.”

“Then I’m going out,” said Tad. “Light up the outside sensor eye from Hatch Three, if you can; and keep me in sight. I’ll stay on tether.”

“Sorry, Tad. Hatch Three sensor not responding. Maybe you better keep talking and we’ll record.”

“Roger,” said Tad. “I’ve already got the inner air lock door open on Hatch Three … I’m in the air lock now and the inner door is closing. Evacuation of air lock … Do you read me?”

“Read you fine,” Bap’s voice said. “And we copy that.”

“All right,” said Tad. “Outer air lock door now opening. I’m on my way out, tether behind me… all the way out, now. I’m pulling extra length of the tether out so I’ll have plenty of line to let me reach the mirror.”

“O.K. Copying,” said Bap.

“I’m going to stop this conducted tour for a minute or two,” Tad said, panting. “Running out of breath. I’ll get back to chatting with you in a few minutes when I start down along the hull toward the mirror.”

He fell silent, pulling out the last of the tether-cable that not only tied him securely to Hatch Three and the ship, but also contained his main primary air and phone lines. Damned mess, he thought, sweating inside his helmet. His magnetic shoe soles practically welded him to the skin of the spacecraft. His chances of getting separated from the ship were one in a million. So much easier if he had come out here untethered, simply with backpack oxygen for what would not be more than twenty or thirty minutes work…

“Give us a word, Tad.” It was Bap’s voice sounding in his helmet. “Just so we know you’re still with us.”

“I’m here. Hold on. Talk to you shortly …” Tad said.

He gathered up his tether and began the clumsy shuffle down along the hull toward the small, upright, square shape of the LCO mirror, outlined by stars alone. He was in darkness—Bap had changed the attitude of Phoenix One enough to put the slanted bulk of the ship between him and the sun; and so give him that much extra protection against radiation.

All right, thought Tad, good enough. Play it safe if you like, Bap. The only problem might be uncovering the mirror mount and testing out its positioning motor’s components in the dark. But he had the work light at his waist. Try it, he thought, anyway.

“All right,” he said aloud over his phone to the two inside the ship. “I’ve reached the mirror. Now I’ll see about getting the cover off the motor mount.”

“Reading you fine and clear,” answered Bap’s voice. “We copy that–you’re going to take off the motor mount cover, now.”

“Going to try,” muttered Tad Tensing his leg muscles, he pullet himself and the clumsy suit about him down on its knees before the motor mount. He switched on his belt light. The motor mount cover with its four recessed bolts appeared just before him.

He got the socket wrench from his tool belt and went to work to loosen the bolts.

“Talk,” said Bap in his ear phones. “Talk to us in here, Tad.’

“Sorry …” Tad said, short-winded. “Too much, out here to do. Let you know. Soon as I get–something done.”

He worked on. Eventually he got the bolts loosened and the coves off. Inside was the neat tangle of components and connections. He opened the test kit he had brought and his gloved fingers clumsily picked up the leads, one, then the other, and pulled them out to attach to the motor components.

“I’ve got the motor mount cover off,” he said aloud, suddenly remembering Bap. “I’m starting to test now.”

“We copy that,” said Bap.

Time went by.

“Some news here for you,” said Bap’s voice, unexpectedly. “Phoenix Two’s getting through to us a little on radio. Lots of static, but every so often they come through clear. I’ve been talking back to them on our radio, telling them about our LCO trouble, but they don’t seem to read me too well.”

“How’re their communications?” asked Tad, working away.

“Say again?” Bap asked.

“How’s the LCO over on Two? Did it go out like ours did?”

“Negative,” said Bap. “They’re all right. They’re trying to make LCO hookup back with Mission Control. As I say, I’ve been trying to tell them what’s happened to ours, but they aren’t reading me too well—don’t think they’ve got it, yet.”

“Keep trying,” said Tad. “Roger,” answered Bap.

Tad went on testing.

“There’s an AJK4191 out here,” he said, “and both AJK6OL’s acted like they were out at first, but they’re both responding, now. It’s the signal amplification that’s gone out. The motor was getting the messages but it couldn’t do anything with them. —Also an M84B connector, also an AJK4123 are out. Check stores, will you, and make sure we’ve got replacements?”

“Roger. Will do,” said Bap. “I copy, search stores for an. AJK4191, M84B connector, and an AJK4123. Anoshi’s going to check. I’m still. trying to get our story told over the radio to Two.”

“O.K.” Tad straightened up his cramped knees, rising erect in his suit, held by the soles of his feet firmly to the hull of the spacecraft. “I’ll hold here while Anoshi looks at stores. Let me know what he finds.”

“Roger,” said Bap. “How are you feeling?”

“Like twenty hours more sleep,” answered Tad. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just hang here and take it easy until Anoshi gets back with the word on those replacements.”

“You do that,” said Bap. “The next voice you hear will be Anoshi’s.”

The suit phone went silent. Tad hung there weightless, letting himself float in his suit, anchored by the magnetic soles. He was so weary he felt empty inside; but just for the moment not having to do anything was infinitely pleasurable; and on the heels of such pleasure came something like a moment of sanity.

He felt ashamed of the way he had undoubtedly been chewing on Bap and Anoshi. It might have been unconscious reaction to fatigue on his part, but it had been hard on the other two men, nonetheless. Actually, he admitted to himself now, he had been indulging himself, like the selfish head of a family who says, “I’m important. I can take my temper out on you because I’m important. But you can’t take your temper out on me.”

I’ve got to quit this, he told himself now, or we’ll never finish the trip.

And Mission Control, he thought, had better trim that priority list on the experiments; or I’ll do it for them. We can’t take it. None of us can take it.

—And no reason we should. We’re out here now and when you get right down to it, we’re the men who go and do. We listen to them when we’re on the ground We do everything they say. But out here, we’re like fish in the water while they’re back there on dry land. In the long run we’ve got to tell ourselves what’s best for us to do.

He thought of the fact that they were all alike, in a way—all six of them in the two ships. Never mind the fact they all came from different cultures, different languages. Out here that was so damn small—that kind of difference. Out here it was like the hunting party in strange territory—really strange territory. And they were all here because they wanted to be here—really wanted to be here. Not just like someone who thinks it’d be something special to go out into space.

That’s why we’re all alike here, Tad thought, and all of us so different from those back there. We’ve got to be different if we’re going to live. And they’ve got to be different back there, because they’ve never come out here to know what it’s really like.

Tad hung in his suit and lifted his faceplate to the stars.

“All right,” said Anoshi’s voice in his helmet. “Tad, we’ve got the replacements. I’ve brought them to Hatch Three. You want to come back and get them? Or how about my going out and putting them in?”

Tad heard him; but his mind held the words off from registering for just a moment longer while he looked at the stars. He would answer in a second; but just for the moment, he wanted to finish his look and his thought.

Oh, you beautiful, he said silently to their lights all around him, oh, you damn beautiful, beautiful, universe …

In the first screen at Mission Control, Al Ciro, the Mission Communications Engineer, was watching the image of Fedya. It was a little wavery, but recognizable; and the voice that came through was only slightly mush-mouthed by uncertain beam linkage.

“… had it over the radio, finally, from Bap,” Fedya was saying.

“You mean now?” It was Bill

Ward, pushed in beside the Communications Engineer. “You mean Tad went out there as soon as their meter went under the blue line?” Bill jerked his head aside to speak to one of the engineers standing about. “Get me an estimate on that.” He turned back to the screen. “When did you hear, there on Two?”

There was the short wait as Bill’s words, even at light-speeds, traveled the great distance to Phoenix Two.

“Radio contact has been bad until just now,” Fedya said. “Evidently Bap was trying to tell me all along that their LCO motor control had been knocked out by the storm; but I didn’t understand him until now. Evidently Tad went out as soon as their BeV showed it was safe to do so.”

“And he’s been out since? Get on that radio!” Ward said. “Call Phoenix One and tell Bap to get Tad back in there. There was a burp of increased flare activity only twenty minutes or so behind the trough of that first dip in radiation. Get on it!”

Bill stopped speaking. Before Fedya could answer, the engineer Bill had asked a moment before for an estimate came back with a piece of paper. Bill snatched it, glanced at it; and stepped back from the screen toward the outskirts of those standing nearby.

He looked up at the glass observation booth at the back of the Mission Control room, then around him until his eyes fell on Al Ciro. He reached out, hooked his finger in Al’s shirt pocket and drew Al to him.

“That’s Wendy Hansard up there, isn’t it?” he muttered. “What did you say before you came down here, just now?”

“I? Nothing,” said Al. “Just that I’d find out what was going on and come back up to tell her.” He stared at Bill Ward. “What is it?”

“Oh, Christ!” said Bill. “Christ!”

Grimacing, he stared at the paper in his hand, scratching at his chin with one finger, briefly and furiously.

“She would be here!” Bill said. “This, of all times!” He looked at Al.

Al stared.

“Outside the ship? You mean he’ll have been burned by that flare burp?” Al asked. “Bad?”

“Bad,” said Bill. He stared at Al for a second. “Very bad. If he’s been out there the way it sounds …”

His voice trailed off. He glanced back up at the booth.

“And there’s Wendy!” he said. “And Christ, Christ, I’ve got to go talk to her. I’ve got to tell her—that just while she was standing here, waiting to hear about him…”

He stopped speaking. His big hands fell limply to his sides, one of them still holding the paper.

The Far Call

Conclusion. Some animals occasionally sacrifice themselves for their family or herd. Man is the only creature where an individual can advance his whole species by offering his life.

GORDON R. DICKSON

Synopsis:

It is the early 1980’s. After a period of dangerous cutbacks, the space program has been revived in the form of an internationally cooperative six party effort, to take advantage of the 1983 launch window and make a manned, three-year, round-trip spaceflight and landing on Mars. Providing “Marsnauts” (the name is the result of a compromise between the U.S. and Russia) to the three-man crews of the two ships, are the United States: TADELL (TAD) HANSARD; Great Britain: DIRK WELLES; the Pan-European Community of Nations: BERN CALLIEUX; Russia: FEODOR (FEDYA) ASTURNOV; India: BAPTI (BAP) LAL BOSE; and Japan: ANOSHI WANTANABE.

These countries are also represented by diplomatic representatives, known as Deputy Ministers for the Development of Space (Britain: SIR GEOFFREY MAYENCE; Pan-Europe: WALTHER GUENTHER; Russia: SERGEI VARISOV; India: MAHADEV AMBEDKAR; and Japan: MASAHARU TATSUKICHI—plus their U.S. opposite number who goes under the comparative title of Undersecretary for the Development of Space, ex-newsman JEN WYLIE.

As the story begins, the diplomatic representatives have just had lunch with the Marsnauts in their prelaunch quarters, the Operations and Checkout Building, Cape Kennedy. Upon boarding the bus that takes the politicos from the Operations and Checkout Building, JEN uses a phone in the bus to call WARNER (WARN) RETHE, the U.S. Presidential Press Secretary, and asks if he can talk to President PAUL FANZONE about something that is presently concerning TAD HANSARD, who is the senior co-captain of the Mars mission (FEDYA ASTURNOV is the junior co-captain).

TAD is concerned that the load of scientific experiments required of the Marsnauts is too heavy for the safety of the mission, particularly during the first six weeks of the flight. He is trying to get word of this through JEN to the President, so that the six world powers involved can negotiate among themselves and reduce the number of experiments—in which a great deal of national self-interest and pride is concerned

The President, however, cannot talk to JEN at the moment. The best the press secretary can offer is the hope of a chance for JEN to talk with the Chief Executive at the Presidential reception near the spaceport that evening, when FANZONE will be present in person. The President has otherwise avoided appearing on the Cape Kennedy scene, the political situation being delicate since the flight is from U.S. grounds. Technically, JEN is his representative on the scene in all things.

That evening before the reception, JEN’s girl friend, ALINDE (LIN) WEST, appears at the hotel where he and the other political representatives are quartered. He must leave her there while he goes to the reception.

At the reception, JEN suggests that TAD talk to FANZONE. But nothing seems to come of it until the reception is over, when he is held back from leaving for several minutes by WARN RETHE, so that FANZONE can talk to him.

FANZONE tells JEN bluntly that as U.S. President he is the last of the six political groups’ leaders to suggest a reduction in the experimental work load on the ‘nauts. This is because the U.S. already has too large a share in the Mars mission to begin with; and because, from a political standpoint, the mission itself is secondary to the international cooperation necessary to getting the people of the world to fund basic research that will relieve power and food shortages and clean up a disordered (if momentarily peaceful) Earth. FANZONE admits his own interest in space development for its own sake; but says it must take a serving role to politics on Earth, and he must operate from that standpoint.

Blocked of help from the President, JEN approaches BILL WARD, the Mars Launch Director, on the next morning, which is the morning of the launch. BILL admits that NASA is also aware that the experimental work load is dangerously heavy, but says that those who work in the space effort have struggled to keep the program alive, and daren’t be the first to risk popular criticism of it now, by offending national pride. BILL cites a time when Kennedy workers were offered the choice of taking ruinous cuts in salary or resigning their jobs; and says the first duty of the workers is to keep the program alive for the sake of future launches, even if it means endangering this one.

Frustrated, JEN sees the shuttle launched, with no change in the work load.

Meanwhile, aboard the shuttle itself, TAD is considering what he must do, now that he has been unable to get help to reduce the work load. He is still turning the matter over in his mind as the shuttle delivers him, ANOSHI, and BAP to Phoenix One, the first of the two ships making the trip, and then goes on to deliver FEDYA, DIRK and BERN to Phoenix Two.

He and his crew activate Phoenix One. FEDYA and the others do likewise aboard Phoenix Two. They are ready to make their space launch from Earth orbit, into the long coasting orbit around the sun that will bring them into Mars orbit, nine months hence.

Both ships are flanked by two nuclear boosters, each with its own pilot. At the given signal, the boosters fire, and Phoenix One and Two are lifted toward Mars.

The launch completed, the crews of the two ships prepare to dock them end-to-end and put them into a spin that will simulate about half a gravity—Skylab experiments in Earth orbit having proved that some kind of gravity (perhaps a full gravity) is needed if men in space are to remain healthy over a period of time. Since the Mars trip will keep its crews in space for three years (except for short excursions to the Martian surface) some kind of substitute gravity is needed.

Once the ships are docked and spinning, the experiments are set up aboard and the work schedule of the voyage commences. TAD, who as senior captain keeps the log of the voyage, including the work done on it, makes an opportunity to talk to FEDYA alone; he says he has a plan for handling the overloaded schedule, if someone else will just come up with a slight disability—say, a hurt hand.

FEDYA turns up immediately thereafter with a bruised hand, giving TAD an excuse to juggle work schedules. TAD has refused to give FEDYA details of what he intends to do. Actually, he plans to take most of the overload on himself betting that he can last physically until the first six weeks are over and there is a slackening in the work load.

He succeeds during the first few weeks, but must skip his exercise to carry the work load. As a result he goes downhill physically very fast; and he is finally caught by FEDYA and ANOSHI doing what has been his real scheme—faking the log entries to show himself healthier and less overworked than he is. TAD is forced to rest by FEDYA, who calls Kennedy and demands a reduction in the work schedule. BILL WARD (now Mission Director) promises to try, but says it will take time. FEDYA demands immediate action or he will reduce the work load without Kennedy’s authority. At this juncture, BILL receives word that a solar flare is on the way. Very heavy, hard radiation will reach the ships in a few hours.

This changes everything. In the case of a solar flare, the two ships are scheduled to abandon all usual activities, button up, separate, and attempt to communicate by LCO (Laser Communications) from ship to ship. They will both be out of touch with Kennedy until the storm subsides.

Both crews take refuge in specially shielded areas of the control rooms, known as “storm cellars.” The storm, however, is much worse than expected, the radiation higher, and the LCO system on Phoenix One goes out. After a while the radiation count outside the hull seems to dip into the safety zone, down enough for the crew of Phoenix One to move outside the storm cellar. TAD and the others move out, and trace the LCO trouble to the laser motor mount, which can only be reached by EVA.

TAD insists on going out, immediately. Phoenix Two, with which they are now out of contact, may be in trouble and need help as soon as possible. The radiation count is now theoretically in the safe zone. TAD goes out and finds he needs to replace parts to fix the mirror.

Meanwhile, inside the ship, the storm has diminished to where auxiliary radio contact from Phoenix Two is beginning to come through. Phoenix Two’s LCO is unharmed, and she is now back in touch with Kennedy. FEDYA relays to Kennedy word of TAD’S EVA. BILL WARD sends an urgent message that TAD should get back inside at once. The decrease in radiation Phoenix One had observed was only temporary. A “burp” of radiation is following right behind the slope of the first decrease.

BILL WARD starts a check on how much radiation TAD may have received while he was outside. The word comes back that it is high, very possibly lethal. WARD turns away from the LCO screen, stunned Sitting behind him, in the observation booth of the Mission Control Room, is WENDY, TAD’S wife; and now BILL has the job of breaking the news of what has just happened …

Part 3

XII

Tad came in through Hatch Three to the air lock into the end of the access tube, down the tube and out onto Deck A. In the spacesuit, it was necessary to back onto A Deck through the hatch. When he turned around, he saw Bap a few feet off, holding a radiation counter.

“Get out of that suit as quick as you can, Tad,” Bap’s voice sounded in his earphones. “We’ve just got word from Kennedy relayed by radio from Phoenix Two. Something went wrong—it was still hot outside. Strip and we’ll get to work on you right away.”

“Hot?” said Tad. He felt a little emptiness just behind his breastbone and noticed neither of the other men was coming forward to help him off with his suit. “How hot? How hot am I now?” He began to struggle out of the spacesuit.

“Don’t know what it was outside,” Bap said. He looked at the counter in his hand and hesitated. “Hard to say about you. It’s jumping around. Say … a hundred and eighty rem; probably most of that in your suit.”

Tad got the helmet off and heard the soft buzzing of the radiation counter. He climbed out of the suit and dropped it at his feet, then stripped off everything else.

“Right,” said Bap. “Now, down to the shower.”

Tad preceded him down to the waste management room.

“I contaminate this,” he said half-jokingly as he stepped inside, “and you two may have to go dirty the rest of the mission.”

“We can dump the water,” said Bap. “Anyway, we’ll see. Scrub off as much as you can.”

Tad closed the shower door and turned on the water. He stayed under it until there was a knock on the door and he heard Bap’s voice calling him. He stepped out and put on the fresh onboard suit Bap had waiting for him.

“Now the tough part,” said Bap.

His voice was light; but Tad’s fully alarmed senses caught something different in the way he spoke; an almost-gentleness that alarmed Tad even more. He did not have to ask what the tough part was. They had all been fully informed about procedures in case of radiation poisoning of any of them—whether from space or from some accident with the big nuclear engines in the shuttle that was to be their main drive once they reached Mars.

He went ahead of Bap down to the infirmary and stretched out on a table there. A mass of clustered, red-filled tubes stood in a cradle beside the table. It was fresh, whole blood—thank God that recent improvements in flash freezing and cryogenic storage made it possible for the spacecraft to carry supplies of fresh blood with them in the frozen state. Bap had probably started it quick-thawing with the deep-heaters before Tad had stepped out of the access tube onto the floor of A Deck.

Bap was looming above him, dressed now in special protective smock, mask and gloves; because now the time had come when he would actually have to touch Tad’s body, itself undoubtedly radiating and dangerous. The wearing of the protective clothing was laid down strictly in the operating procedure, but still it made Bap look uncomfortably alien and unfamiliar. Tad felt the small pricking of needles as Bap hooked him up to the apparatus that would flush his present contaminated blood from his body and replace it with the clean blood. Other needle pricks followed; and Tad felt the anxiety quieting in him. Bap must have given him some sort of tranquilizer, among other chemicals. A drowsiness approached him. He closed his eyes. The hard surface of the table beneath him felt almost soft …

He drifted back to wakefulness to find himself lying on the bed in his own sleeping compartment, with Bap standing beside him holding a hypodermic needle—putting it away on the bedside table, in fact. Tad had a vague memory of being helped back here from the infirmary compartment, some time since. He felt filled with lassitude, but otherwise very good—perhaps the hypodermic needle he had just seen had something to do with that.

“How am I?” he asked Bap.

“You’re starting to be safe to touch,” Bap smiled.

Tad came further up the slope of wakefulness into an area of concern. “How’s the ship?” he asked. “What’s been happening?”

“Our LCO’s still out,” said Bap. “We’ve been talking to Phoenix Two by radio; and they’ve been talking to Mission Control. Both ships got hit a lot harder by the storm than we thought. All sorts of systems are knocked out on both of us. We’re all working to get things going again.”

Tad rose on one elbow.

“I’ve got to get up,” he said. Bap pushed him back down. “No,” said Bap. “You’re supposed to rest.”

“At least get me a phone hookup down here, then,” said Tad. “Patch me in with the communications system so I can talk to Fedya. I want to know what’s going on.”

“All right,” said Bap. “We can do that much, I suppose.”

He went out of the compartment. Some ten minutes later, the intercom unit by Tad’s bed buzzed. He propped his pillow up against the bulkhead at the head of his bed and sat up against it. He leaned over to snap on the phone; and Anoshi’s face took shape in its screen.

“We’ve got Fedya on the radio for you,” said Anoshi. “Hang on, there …”

The hiss and crackle of static moved in over his voice. Anoshi’s face stayed on the screen, but Fedya’s voice came through.

“Tad?”

“It’s me,” said Tad. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you all right. Can you understand me?”

“You’re a little blurred by static,” Tad said. “But not enough to matter. Why haven’t you gbt Phoenix Two back with us by this time?”

“The storm …” a louder rush of static did, at that moment, wash out Fedya’s words. “… control systems are out all over the ship. Our maneuvering thrusters are not responding properly. I was afraid we couldn’t control any docking attempt. We have trouble enough right now without smashing the two ships together and damaging them. We don’t even want to risk approaching you too closely.”

“Maybe we can dock with you holding still, then,” Tad said.

“Anoshi tells me your control systems on Phoenix One are also unreliable,” said Fedya.

The lips of Anoshi’s image moved on the intercom screen beside the bed.

“That’s right, Tad,” Anoshi said.

“What’s holding up getting them fixed—here as well as on Phoenix Two?”

“The extent of the damage.” Fedya’s voice cut across Anoshi’s; as Anoshi started to speak, then stopped. “And the shortage of repair parts.”

Tad stared at the screen.

“Say again?”

“I said—the shortage of repair parts,” Fedya’s voice answered. “Both here and on Phoenix One. We do have undamaged parts and equipment to substitute; but not as much as we thought. Apparently certain sections of both ships that were originally planned to hold reserve equipment and spare parts have been devoted instead to the loading of equipment required for the experiments. Either that, or the loading list is in error.”

Tad swung his legs abruptly over the edge of the bed and sat up facing the screen without benefit of pillow.

“You mean they sent us out with not enough supplies and equipment for repair on either ship?”

“Not necessarily,” said Fedya. “What was sent was probably considered adequate. But they didn’t foresee such extensive damage to both ships at the same time.”

“That’s not the point!” said Tad. “The point is, if I understand you, in order to get more experimental stuff on board, they shaved the repair margin too thin. Is that the situation, or isn’t it?”

“You could say it that way,” said Fedya.

“Have you talked to Mission Control about this?”

“I gave them a brief report,” Fedya said. “I was waiting until I had definite information on what we were short, before I went into the matter more deeply with them.”

“You’ve still got your LCO working?” Tad demanded.

“Voice only. The picture is out. But I’ve been in voice contact with Mission Control, ever since we realigned the Phoenix Two’s mirror with them after losing contact with Phoenix One.”

“Patch me through to Bill Ward,” said Tad.

Both Fedya and Anoshi spoke at once; so that neither one was understandable. The face of Anoshi moved out of the bedside screen and that of Bap replaced it.

“Tad,” said Bap, “you’re in no shape to be talking to anyone.”

“Yes, I am,” said Tad. “I feel fine. Fedya, patch me through to Mission Control.”

The picture on the screen vanished. The sound of several voices speaking at once tangled together and then went silent. Tad half stood up from his bed, thinking he would go up to A Deck in person and force the issue. Then he sat back down again. They would not deliberately keep him from speaking to Mission Control.

Sure enough, after several minutes, the screen lit up again with Anoshi’s face and the speaker of the intercom hissed with radio static.

“All right, Tad,” said Anoshi. “We’re through to Mission Control for you.”

He stopped speaking; and a voice came through the static that Tad recognized.

“Tad?” it said. “Tad, Wendy’s here. She’s been here at Mission Control since we heard about you.”

“Wendy?” said Tad. He leaned convulsively toward the intercom. “Bill? That’s you, Bill Ward, isn’t it?”

“It’s me,” said Bill’s voice. “Just a second—Wendy—”

“Tad!” It was Wendy’s voice. “Wendy, what’re you doing there? Where are the kids?”

“At home. They’re all right. Tad, how are you?”

“I’m fine!” he said. “Fine! I don’t feel a bit different from usual. Look, don’t you hang around Mission Control. There’s no need to.”

“All right. Tad, honey, there’s a doctor here who wants to talk to you.”

“Wendy—” Tad was beginning; but another voice was already speaking to him.

“Tad? This is Kim—Kim Sung. Can you hear me all right?”

“Read you fine, Doctor,” said Tad, impatiently. Dr. Kim Sung was one of the NASA physicians. “What is it?”

“I’d like you to answer some questions, Tad. How do you feel at the moment?”

“Fine, Doctor.”

“Any nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea?”

“No—I told you.”

“How about earlier? Did you have any upsets like that earlier, Tad?”

“After I came in and Bap pumped all the blood out of me and shot me full of someone else’s blood and a lot of chemicals,” said Tad. “I was a little nauseated, yes, and felt bad. But that all went away some time ago. Look, Doc, don’t let Wendy get away there, or Bill Ward. I’ve got things to talk about with them, and things to do.”

“I think you’d better take it easy for the present, Tad,” said Kim Sung. “How’s your appetite?”

“I’m not too hungry—but then I just woke up,” said Tad. “Honest, Doc, I’m fine. Got my hair still on my head, and everything.”

“Tell me, when you first came in from being ouiside and exposed to the solar storm, did you feel at all warm or feverish …”

The questioning went on. Gradually, it began to register upon Tad that he was not going to be given the chance to talk over the repairs situation with Bill Ward, after all. And not merely that; as the medical voice continued evoking answers from him, his concern for the mission began to move back in his mind and give way to a more personal attention. That touch of immediate emotion that had been like a small, cold finger touching be hind his breastbone when Bap had first told him he had been exposed to the solar storm, now returned. It returned; and this time it lingered.

XIII

The press conference was held in the same hotel where the Deputy Ministers of Science of the countries cooperating in the mission were still quartered—including Jen Wylie. No place else was large enough for it except the enlarged press stands out at the Cape, itself; and it was unwieldy to move all the newspeople out there just to speak to and with them.

The fact of the matter was, Jen had noticed, that the press corps in the Cape area, instead of declining in numbers after the launch, had grown as the feature writers moved in. Now, in addition, there had been a sudden added influx of men and women with orange press badges, as word escaped of the solar storm, the damage to the two spacecraft and Tad’s accident.

The ballroom was equipped with high balconies at the back, overlooking the floor where folding chairs had been set up for the attending newspeople. These balconies gave an opportunity to seat a few groups of non-newspeople who were nevertheless concerned or interested in the news conference. One of these groups was made up of the Deputy Ministers, and they were all there.

“Shame about that young man of yours,” said Sir Geoffrey, gruffly, sitting down next to Jen. He was obviously referring to Tad.

Jen nodded.

“Yes,” he said. He felt that he ought to find something more to answer with; but no more words came to him. He gave up and leaned forward to see the Mission Control people filing onto the platform at the far end of the room and taking seats behind the long table there. There were five of them, one brown-faced and oriental-looking; but the only one Jen recognized was the upright, bulky shape of Bill Ward, who seated himself in the center.

There was a moment of fiddling with the pencil microphones among the water glasses on the table in front of the five; and then Bill Ward cleared his throat.

“All right,” he said; and his amplified voice boomed out through the room. “We might as well get started here. I’m going to give you a short statement to begin with, then we can have questions.”

He cleared his throat again, and glanced down at some papers he had spread out before him on the table.

“At twenty-three hundred hours, twenty-six minutes of Day Twenty-two of the Mars mission,” he read, “Mission Control received from Spacelab Two a prediction of a strong solar flare, which prediction was communicated to the Mars mission spacecraft with the information that the mission had approximately five hours in which to undock and separate the spacecraft in order that experiment S082, a test of laser communication between the ships during a solar storm, could be performed—”

He coughed, interrupting himself; and then went on.

“The two spacecraft,” he said, “accordingly undocked and separated a distance of one hundred and forty kilometers, while the crews aboard both ships erected the protective panels to create the so-called storm cellar described in Experiment M199. The estimate of the duration of their stay in the storm cellar was placed by Mission Control at approximately fifteen hours, during which time, because of the alignment of their LCO mirrors on each other, neither craft was in communication with Mission Control.”

He paused and took a sip of water from a glass before him.

“At approximately seventeen hundred hours, forty-one minutes of Day Twenty-three,” he continued, “the crew of Phoenix One observed that their LCO was no longer communicating with Phoenix Two. They checked for malfunction within the area of the storm cellar and found nothing. At this time, the meter reading the external radiation of the solar storm, was beginning to show an apparent reduction in that radiation. The meter showed a continuing reduction; and at the point where it showed that all danger was passed for the Marsnauts in moving around within the spacecraft, the crew of Phoenix One left their storm cellar and traced the malfunctioning LCO system to the point at which it went through the hull to the drive unit that positioned the laser mirror outside the ship.

“It was evident that the malfunction was outside the ship, rather than inside. Radio communication being still impossible under the solar storm conditions, and Senior Mission Commander Tadell Hansard, fearing that the LCO on Phoenix Two might also be malfunctioning, decided on an EVA to inspect the drive unit and the mirror outside the hull.

“He accordingly suited up and made the EVA, unaware that radiation outside the ship was still at danger levels. The force of the solar storm had been greater than predicted; and, in fact, great enough to overload Phoenix One’s radiation meter, with the result that it had falsely showed the radiation reducing more rapidly than was actually the case.

“As a result, Colonel Hansard suffered a presently unknown degree of radiation poisoning. Luckily, the LCO of Phoenix Two had not been affected by the solar storm; and finding herself out of contact with Phoenix One by that means, Phoenix Two contacted Mission Control by LCO and Phoenix One by radio—the storm having decreased enough to make this possible. As a result, she was able to convey a warning about the dangerous level of radiation into which Colonel Hansard had EVA’ed; and as soon as Colonel Hansard returned to the interior of Phoenix One, his crewmates took steps to decontaminate him and offset the effects of the radiation.

“He is now resting comfortably, according to our last word from Phoenix One. However, both ships have suffered extensive damage to their electronic control systems as a result of the unexpected severity of the solar storm; and the crews of both ships are busy checking systems and putting them back into operation.”

Bill ceased talking, shuffled his papers together and looked out at the crowd.

“Copies of this release are available on tables at the back of the room,” he said. “Now, let’s get to the question period.”

A woman was standing in the front row before he had quite finished speaking. Behind her, several other people who had been a second too slow sat down again.

“There is speculation—” her voice was so thin it was barely audible up on the balcony where Jen was, and then a seeking microphone picked her up and the rest of her words blasted from the wall speakers, “that the U.S. Marsnaut, Tadell Hansard, has actually received a lethal amount of radiation. Could you tell us if that is indeed the fact?”

She sat down again. Bill bent his head toward the oriental-featured man on his right.

“Kim? Do you want to take that?” he said. Jen’s lagging memory supplied the full name of the man addressed. Dr. Kim Sung, one of the NASA physicians. Kim Sung was leaning toward his own pencil mike.

“I’m afraid we have no idea how much radiation Tad received,” Kim said. “We have no means of knowing what the radiation was outside Phoenix One at the time he was exposed; and we would have no way of determining the extent of the damage to him, physically, otherwise, at this time. I might say, though, that to assume that any dose of radiation poisoning is necessarily a lethal one, could be to fall into pretty serious error.”

Several other newspeople were now on their feet; but the woman in the front row persisted.

“But you would not completely rule out the possibility that he had received a lethal dose of radiation, Doctor?”

“In the absence of sufficient facts, all possibilities have to be considered, certainly,” said Kim. “But we aren’t spending a great deal of our time on that particular one.”

“Next,” said Bill Ward firmly, as the woman opened her mouth again. She sat down. A man several rows back with a European accent Jen could not pin down, found himself chosen by Bill’s pointing finger.

“Have you any idea of the extent of the damage to the two spacecraft, sir?” he called. “And if so—”

“No. No knowledge whatsoever, yet,” said Bill. His finger moved on. “Sorry to cut you off. But we’ve got a large group here and we’d better limit it to a single question apiece. Next!”

“Would you tell us,” another woman said, “if radiation damage to electronic systems alone would be enough to permanently disable a spacecraft like Phoenix One or Phoenix Two?”

“Jim?” Bill turned his head, passing the question along to a balding, round-faced man on his right.

“Theoretically,” James Howell, Systems Engineer for the mission answered her, “if enough systems were knocked out at once aboard her, one of the Phoenix craft could be completely disabled. However, she would remain disabled only until her crew could repair the damage and replace the necessary parts to get her working again, which is what the crews of Phoenix One and Two tell us they are presently doing.”

“Next!” said Bill.

“Assuming Tad Hansard is seriously ill from the radiation—or worse,” asked a black-skinned, turbaned man standing among the rows of seats away to the right side of the room, “how will this hamper the continuance of the mission?”

“The mission,” said Bill Ward, “is already redundant in the fact that it consists of two identical ships, each of which is capable of making the mission by itself. If Tad’s going to be laid up for a while, of course, that will require some readjustment of work schedules aboard at least Phoenix One, and possibly aboard both ships.”

“Can you tell us,” said yet another woman, “if it is correct that the crews of Phoenix One and Two had already requested a readjustment of the experiment priorities, before the present emergency happened?”

“The matter had come up for discussion, yes,” said Bill, harshly. “Both the ‘nauts and Mission Control are constantly evaluating and re-evaluating the elements of the mission for maximum performance. But, of course, anything like this has to take a back seat now to the larger matter of getting the spacecraft back to full performance. Next!”

“Assuming the death of Colonel Hansard as a result of this radiation poisoning—” began a man near the front.

Jen felt a sudden wave of nausea. It came on him so suddenly that it was almost as sharp as an unexpected pain. He clutched reflexively at the arm of the chair in which he sat, pushed himself to his feet and stumbled unsteadily back through a curtain and a door beyond into the silence of the wide, carpeted corridor that lay at the back of the balconies.

He was aware abruptly that someone had followed him. Surprisingly, it was Sir Geoffrey, and the tall old man had a grip on his elbow, steadying him.

“Little shaky, there?” muttered Sir Geoffrey, not unkindly, in his ear. “You need a drink. Come along …”

He steered Jen down the corridor with a clutch that was surprisingly powerful for someone of his visible age. They entered an elevator, went down to the second-floor lobby, and from there into a large dim bar with overstuffed furniture and one waitress. Sir Geoffrey piloted Jen to a booth against a wall opposite the bar and pushed him into a seat there, sitting down opposite him. The waitress came over.

“What would you like?” she asked.

“What’s the specialty of the house?” Sir Geoffrey asked her.

“The special drink?” she said. “The Shamrock. That’s the name of this bar—the Shamrock Lounge.”

“Shamrock? Irish whiskey, isn’t it? All right,” said Sir Geoffrey. “Bring him one.”

“Nothing for you?” she asked.

“No. I—well, damn it, give me one, too.”

“Two Shamrocks,” she said, and went off.

“Always order the specialty,” said Sir Geoffrey, looking across the table at Jen. “Get more for your money; and the chances are better than even the drink’ll be made right, too.”

Jen felt he ought to say something; but the effort was too much. “That’s right,” said Sir Geoffrey, encouragingly, “you just sit there. As soon as you get a drink or two into you, you’ll feel better. Alcohol, coffee and iodine—cure anything in the world, one of the three.”

There was a little pause. The waitress came back with the two cocktail glasses, green liquid lapping at their rims, and set them down, carefully, in front of Jen and the other man.

“Drink it, now,” said Sir Geoffrey when the waitress had gone. “Pour it down, if you’re up to that. Most irritating thing in the world, buy somebody a drink to help their nerves and they sit there and play with it. Women do that, a lot. Here, I’ll show you how.”

He drank from his own cocktail glass. Jen reached out and lifted the one in front of him to his lips. In the moment before he sipped at it, he thought he could not drink anything. Then it was in his mouth, and the taste was mint-like and not unpleasant.

“That’s better,” said Sir Geoffrey. “Let it hit bottom now, and you’re halfway back to health. Upset about Tad, weren’t you? You shouldn’t be in this kind of work. Bloody amateur—oh, I know that’s what your government wanted to prop up in the shoes you’re wearing, but it’s sickening all the same. Waitress! Two more.”

“No, one’s plenty—” Jen was beginning, but the waitress was already giving the order to the bartender.

“What you’ve got to face,” said Sir Geoffrey, “is that somebody’s always bound to get hurt in things like this. That’s the way international politics is. That’s why you need professionals. You think we’ve been somewhat rough on you, I suppose—myself and Guenther, and Mahadev, and the rest. But it’s just too messy, trying to absorb a beginner into the situation. Beginners are God’s curse; and we’ve all had to endure them from the top down until we’re soul-sick about it. Amateurs do everything wrong—ah, thank you, dear. Drink up the second one now, Wylie. Just like you did the first.”

Jen was, in fact, beginning to feel—if not better—anesthetized to a small extent. He picked up the second drink.

“What you’ve got to understand, for your own sake,” Sir Geoffrey was saying, “is that there’s always a mess. Always. You’ve got to learn to just let it happen—”

“And to hell with everybody, I suppose?” said Jen. He was a little surprised to hear himself say it. The first drink was already beginning to work on him.

“Not to hell with everybody!” said Sir Geoffrey, irritated. “To hell with the situation and anyone who is so tangled up with it he can’t get loose. You’re just a piece of machinery, if you’re good at this work. You don’t smash yourself on the first problem that comes along; you keep yourself whole so you can be used again—and again. Otherwise, the business does go to the bloody amateurs; and if they’d been able to handle it, they’d never have developed professionals to handle it for them in the first place!”

“That mission,” said Jen, a little thickly—and was surprised to see that his second cocktail glass was empty. Sir Geoffrey was already wagging a long forefinger in signal to the bartender. “That mission was sabotaged before the Marsnauts ever got into the shuttle and left the ground.”

“True, no doubt at all,” said Sir Geoffrey. “And you knew it and did nothing about it. Nothing that made any difference, that is.”

“Yes,” said Jen, sickening again inside at the thought of Tad Hansard.

“And you’re not going to do anything now or later, take my word for it. Outside of the fact they’d find you guilty of violating your own National Security Act and Espionage Law and lock you up for fifteen years—people in our positions just don’t meddle in that sort of business,” said Sir Geoffrey. “Now drink up, brace up to the facts of life, and let’s get back to that balcony before the press conference ends and anyone notices we’ve been gone—anyone important, I mean to say. Our fellow workers in the vineyard don’t count.”

Fedya stood in his spacesuit on the hull of Phoenix Two. Half a kilometer away, the lighted part of the hull of Phoenix One looked like a lopsided rectangle in the illumination of the raw sunlight. A wire from a spool clamped to the hull of Phoenix Two by her Hatch Three led to Fedya’s belt; and an individual propulsion pack was strapped to the shoulders of his suit.

Keeping his eye on the reflection of the distant spacecraft hull, he rose on his toes, flexing his boot-soles to cut off their magnetic attraction to the metal of the hull beneath them, and sprang outward from the ship. It felt as if nothing had happened. There was no sensation of movement; but then, extending his legs, he found no solid surface with them, and, turning, he saw the hull of Phoenix Two now something like his own length from him.

He turned back to locate the hull of Phoenix One with his eyes, raised his gloved hand to the chest of his suit and activated the propulsion pack.

Cold gasses spurted from the two thrusters at the tips of the twin arms extending from the pack. Still, there was no feeling of movement toward Phoenix One; but when he looked back again, he saw Phoenix Two visibly shrinking as he watched, the bright, thin line of the wire from the slowly unreeling spool at his waist in a catenary curve between himself and the ship he had just left. He turned back to concentrate on the lighted section of the hull of Phoenix One, toward which he flew.

For some time, it was hard to see any change in it. But gradually he became aware that the rectangle was apparently growing out toward his right and shrinking in to his left. He was headed off at an angle that would take him past the other spacecraft on his right, unless he corrected.

He corrected, gradually adding pressure to his right thruster until the rectangle ceased to grow in the manner it had been growing.

He traveled on in apparent motionlessness through space. There was no pull at all that he could feel from the wire attached to the heavy belt around him. He noticed abruptly that the rectangle was once again changing. Now it was narrowing—narrowing rather rapidly, so he must be getting close to Phoenix One. Getting close and sliding away at an angle above it. He corrected again.

The rectangle broadened once more. He was now close enough to see, within its lit area, the erect shape of the copper LCO mirror and a corner of Phoenix One’s Hatch Three.

Fedya was correcting constantly now, as he zeroed in on the other spacecraft. His target was no longer just the hull itself, but that same Hatch Three. Playing with the controls of his propulsion pack, he drifted toward it. Abruptly, he found the need to decelerate was upon him. The hull and the hatch were growing in size swiftly before him. He rotated the handle on his chest that turned the nozzles of the thrusters about a hundred and eighty degrees, and opened their valves full.

Once more, there were moments in which it seemed that what he had done was having no effect whatsoever. The hull continued to swell toward him; and he drew up his feet instinctively to take the shock of a hard landing. But then, the swelling slowed, slowed … and he awoke suddenly, only a few meters from his destination to discover that he had now reversed his movement; and was in fact drifting back, away from Phoenix One.

He cut the valves off completely, reversed the nozzles of the thrusters again; and with weak jets of gas began to work his way back toward the hull. It was a good five minutes more, however, before his feet at last touched down and the magnetics of his boot soles gripped the hull.

He clumped over to Hatch Three and the bit which had been welded beside the hatch to secure the end of the wire he had carried over from Phoenix Two. As he was detaching it from his belt and securing it, the cover of Hatch Three opened; and, moving as ponderously as some medieval armored knight, another spacesuited figure emerged to help him tie down the wire to the bit, and connect it to the end of another wire waiting there, before following him back down inside Phoenix One.

The manner of the other figure’s movement identified the man within its suit. It was Anoshi. At another time there would have been something cheerful said between the two of them over the suit phones as they met. Now, however, they went in silence together back inside the ship, through the air lock at the end of its access tube and on to A Deck where they removed their suits.

Desuited, finally, Fedya turned to face not only Anoshi, but Bap and Tad. Tad was not even sitting down. He was standing by his control console. Fedya went over to him and gripped his hand.

“How are you feeling?” Fedya asked.

“Fine,” said Tad. “I’m feeling up to anything and just fine.”

Fedya smiled at him. But Tad was not looking fine. He was looking … different. There was no greatly visible change, but his face seemed more bony and pale than Fedya had ever seen it before. For a moment, Fedya was baffled as to why it gave that impression. Tad had worn his hair cut short always, so that the difference was not remarkable; but his hairline had gone back and scalp was showing under what remained. Also, there was a sense of strain about Tad, a tension, as if he were trying to be polite at a social occasion when flu, or a bad cold, was making him long to be home in bed.

XIV

Tad was not fine. This was the second day now since the return of the nausea and the general feeling of malaise that he had felt a little after Bap had changed his blood, when he had first come back into the ship after being exposed to the radiation. Now, as then, he was determined to hide the way he felt; but it was hard to tell how well he was succeeding. The ‘nauts had lived together too closely, too long, to be easily fooled by any one of their number.

Fedya, Tad saw, certainly suspected. And Fedya was a problem, since he represented what Tad feared most—that Mission Control might take Tad’s official command of the mission away from him.

From the moment he had returned inside the ship after being exposed to the solar storm, he had not forced his authority upon the others; and neither Bap nor Anoshi, at least, had challenged the fact that he still had it.

Fedya, however, as junior co-commander of the mission might just be the one who would challenge that authority—with the result that Tad might lose it. Only, he could not afford to lose it. He trusted none of the others to take the necessary action with respect to himself, when the time came. And the time would come soon now. He turned from Fedya to Anoshi.

“Connected?” he asked.

Anoshi nodded.

“We’re tied in by direct line now with the Phoenix Two LCO,” Anoshi said. He glanced at Fedya. “I take it for granted Phoenix Two had the other end of the wire already spliced to its LCO?”

“It’s spliced in,” said Fedya. “Why don’t you call Mission Control and say we’re ready here any time Bill Ward is ready?”

“I’ll do that,” said Tad.

He turned about and sat down at his control console. It was a little strange after these several days of always going to the radio for outside communication, to be punching the buttons of the LCO as if the copper mirror outside the hull of Phoenix One were still capable of being aligned properly. It almost seemed as if the picture and the voice that was now coming in over the wire to the LCO of Phoenix One ought to have some noticeably different quality. But the image of Al Ciro’s face and the sound of his voice that the console produced was the same as it had been in past days before the solar storm.

“Phoenix One and Two calling Mission Control,” said Tad into the mike grid. “Do you read me?”

Al’s lips moved on the screen and Tad heard his voice answering. “Read you perfectly,” he said. “You did get the two craft wired together, then?”

“Fedya just did,” said Tad. “So now we can shift supplies between ships without docking.” He was about to say more but a wave of nausea stopped him. “I’ll … pass you over to Fedya.” He got up, stepping away from the console so that he stood with his face turned away from the others, waiting for the feeling of sickness to pass.

“Hello, Al,” he heard Fedya saying behind him. “I’m on Phoenix One. Any time Bill Ward is ready to talk to us, we’re available.”

“He’ll be with you in a moment, Fedya. He’s on the phone at the moment … here he comes, now.”

Al’s face moved off to one side of the screen and the face of Bill Ward replaced it.

“Hello, Phoenix One and Two,” said Bill. “Look, we’ve gone over the data on both ships that you’ve been feeding us during the last few days. As far as we understand, it boils down to this—”

He paused and glanced down as if at some papers below the frame of vision of the screen.

“Both ships are operable after a fashion; but both ships have suffered extensive damage to their electronic systems—particularly their control systems—as a result of radiation from the solar storm. Some of the damage can be repaired by pooling spare parts from both ships. But among the important systems which can’t be repaired, are the LCO of Phoenix One, and the main engines of the shuttle module of Phoenix Two, of which only two out of five will fire. Also, you don’t expect to be able to repair your attitude controls well enough to redock the two craft together. Am I right?”

“Yes,” said Fedya.

Tad had conquered the twinge of nausea that had distracted him. He turned and came back to stand behind Fedya, looking into the screen and visible therefore to Bill Ward back at Mission Control. A flicker of Bill’s eyelids a moment later, could have betrayed the fact that Bill had noticed his reappearance; but the Mission Director made no comment about it.

“All right,” Bill went on. “It seems to us that the possibilities add up like this. There’re two practical choices. One, both craft can continue on the mission together coasting to orbit around Mars.

However, with only two main engines on her shuttle module, Phoenix Two will not be able to depart Mars orbit; so at the time of departure all personnel will have to shift themselves and necessary supplies aboard Phoenix One, to return in a single ship.”

He paused, glancing out of the screen at them.

“Go on,” said Tad, harshly.

“Two,” continued Bill, after the time lag had brought Tad’s words to him. “We’ll compute retrofire figures now for Phoenix One; and the crews of both ships will move aboard her, abandoning Phoenix Two. Phoenix One then fires to an Earth-reinjection orbit, aborting the mission.”

He paused again.

“That’s pretty much what we’d figured out for ourselves,” said Fedya.

“I suppose,” said Bill, a little grimly. “Very well, here it is, then. There’s a lot of public interest back here in seeing the mission completed; and I don’t have to guess what you all would prefer to do. But here at Mission Control we have to think in terms of a whole space program, not just one mission. Frankly, we’d be tempted to risk your continuing on toward Mars if it weren’t for two things. One, you’ve got a man aboard who needs medical attention. And two, you aren’t able to redock the ships together. We found out with the Spacelabs how important some sort of substitute gravity is for the human body in space for any length of time; and you’ve got most of three years yet to go. Exercises may help, but we don’t want to count on them on a mission like this. So—I’m sorry, gentlemen—but the decision of Mission Control is that the present situation calls for an abort. If you’ll start making ready to have everyone aboard Phoenix One at firing time, we’ll start working up the figures for your burn to an injection orbit that will bring you to rendezvous with Earth in about thirteen days.”

He paused again. But this time only for a second, before proceeding.

“How soon do you think you can be ready to fire Phoenix One?” he asked.

Fedya started to speak, but Tad put a hand on Fedya’s shoulder.

“Hold it a minute,” said Tad.

He moved forward, pushing Fedya lightly aside; and the other man moved, vacating the seat in front of the console. Tad sat down.

“Bill,” he said, “it’s not going to be that easy. Phoenix One isn’t going to be able to make it back to Earth orbit without some help from Phoenix Two while she’s firing.”

The pause between speech and answer, imposed by the distance between them, delayed Bill’s visible reaction to these words. When he did react, it was with a sudden stiffening of his features. His lips moved.

“Can’t?” he said, finally. “Why not?”

“Phoenix One,” said Tad, “can’t make it without Phoenix Two to tell her how to get there because when I was EVA on duty about a week and a half ago, I was checking the control leads from the mission module to the shuttle module. I’d gone in through Hatch Four; and I took the shielding off the leads for the check. The shielding floated away and I was so woozy from lack of sleep that I forgot all about the chance of a solar storm and didn’t make a hard enough try to catch it. So those connections went unshielded during the storm. I sneaked down and checked them yesterday before I was supposed to be up and around; and while all five engines on the shuttle module here on Phoenix One still respond to controls, there’s just one deficiency. The steering engine—the movable jet in the center of the fixed ones—won’t lock in position during a burn. If we have to burn those engines, that steering nozzle is going to creep out of proper alignment and we’ll curve off course.

“That means that the only safe way to get Phoenix One back to Earth orbit isn’t with one long burn, but with a number of small burns, each one corrected for the creeping of the steering nozzle on the previous burn until a correct velocity and direction can be built up.”

He paused and took a breath.

“You see what it means,” he said. “We may need five or six burns. Mission Control will have to figure a fresh position for Phoenix One after each burn and give a corrected figure for the next burn. And the only way that information for each new burn can reach Phoenix One, is through the LCO on Phoenix Two and then from Phoenix Two by radio to Phoenix One.”

Bill sat motionless in the screen—for a longer time than the delay in transmission alone would have required. When he did speak again, his voice came heavily on their ears, saying only what was in all their minds.

“Phoenix Two can’t fire to an Earth reinjection orbit with only two shuttle engines.”

“That’s right,” said Tad. “You’ll need one man aboard her when Phoenix One is firing, to relay information from Mission Control … me.”

Bill’s face stared at him from the screen. Behind Tad, none of the others said anything; but there was a feeling of negation from them that he could feel like a static discharge against the short hairs remaining at the back of his head.

“You’re sick,” said Bill, after a moment. “You’re not fit—even if we were considering something like that.”

“I’m fit enough,” said Tad. “But I’m the most expendable. I got a real dose during that storm. But there’s more than that. There’s a gamble to it. I’m a real spacecraft pilot—the only one on board besides Fedya. I can fire those two shuttle engines into as close to an Earth-injection orbit as possible. Maybe close enough so that some support shuttles can come out and find me, in time. Nobody else but Fedya could make the most of that chance; and you’ll want him in Phoenix One to see that the majority of the crew gets home safely—particularly with that unreliable steering engine.”

Bill still sat, staring out from the screen at them. Finally he sat forward.

“I can’t agree to anything like that,” he said.

“Of course you can’t,” said Tad. “But go back and talk it over there at Mission Control. Then let us know. I’m not worried. There’s only one way you can decide; because you’ve got an obligation to save as many of the mission crew as you can: So, talk it over and decide. Only, don’t take too long. I’m in fine shape now, as I say, but I may not last forever.”

He stopped speaking. Bill, however, still stayed where he was. “Over and out,” said Tad.

Bill stirred himself.

“Over and out,” he echoed heavily.

The screen went blank. Tad leaned back in his console seat, slumping a little.

“You are a liar,” said the voice of Bap behind him. “You feel much worse than you pretend, Tad.”

“Go to hell,” said Tad gently, without turning around. For a moment, geared up by his talk with Bill, he had forgotten how his body felt. But now the feeling of malaise came back on him. He closed his eyes, letting the sickness run loose about his body and limbs. “Go to hell, all of you. It’s on the ground, they’ll decide; and, as I said, they’ve got no choice.”

“All the same,” said Anoshi. “I’m going to check on that steering motor, right now; and see if it’s crippled the way you say.”

“Go ahead,” said Tad. “You’ll find it to be as I said. But look if you want. It won’t make any difference.”

The phone rang in the darkness.

For a moment Jen merely lay on his bed listening to it. He had been dreaming—about what he could not remember, some sort of semi-unpleasant dream of struggling with some duty in which other people would not cooperate—and for a moment, still wrapped in the shreds of the dream, he confused the sound of the phone with the imaginary situation he had just left.

Then he came fully awake and reached out for the instrument through the dark, fumbling for the on button, finally finding and punching it.

The screen sprang to colorful life and the image on it resolved into the face of Bill Ward.

“Mr. Wylie?” Bill said, squinting on the screen. “Have I reached Mr. Wylie? I can’t see any image.” “You’ve reached me,” said Jen, thickly. He struggled up on one elbow and punched on the bedside table light.

“There you are,” said Bill. “I’m sorry to call you at four a.m. like this, but I’ve just been having a talk with the ‘nauts on the LCO to Phoenix Two; and after that a long talk with our NASA people. They think I ought to talk directly to the President, myself, privately—and without anyone knowing that I’ve seen him. They don’t trust the regular channels for getting in touch with him, and neither do I—”

He looked earnestly out of the screen into Jen’s face.

“I didn’t know who to go to but you,” Bill said.

XV

The motors of the Vertical Takeoff and Landing Craft muttered on a bass note that set Jen’s ears ringing, as the plane slowly sank level, and in a straight line like an elevator, from two thousand feet to the landing pad behind the White House. Rain drummed on the plane window beside Jen. The sky to the east was beginning to lighten with dawn.

They touched down and the door opened. Filing out, he and Bill were met by Warner Rethe, ducking under an umbrella held by somebody who was undoubtedly a White House security man.

“Come on!” said Warn.

He led the way at a trot to a side door of a building that might or might not have been a part of the White House structure—it was impossible to tell in the dark that was intensified by the glare of lights about the landing pad. A moment later they were indoors, walking down a narrow, but thickly carpeted, corridor.

The room they came into at last, two floors up, was a large and luxuriously furnished office. The President was on his feet, there, pacing up and down the room.

“Come in. Sit down.” Fanzone pointed them to chairs as they came in. Jen and Warn took seats near Bill Ward.

“Listen, now,” said Fanzone, turning to Bill Ward abruptly. “You did the right thing—when I say you, I mean all of you down there at the Cape. You did the right thing to come to me quietly this way. We can’t let anyone know that the story you’ve told me came to me, alone, first. Let anyone who wants to guess as much as he wants. The point is, he mustn’t know for certain. I want you and Jen here to go back to Florida, immediately. Warn?”

“Sir?”

“Is there still a plane out there for them to go back in?” “It’s standing by,” said Warn. “Good. Now, Bill, I want you to talk to the Marsnauts—privately. You can do that, can’t you?”

“There’s no way anyone can intercept laser communication,” Bill said. “It’s not like radio.”

“Then talk to them. Don’t tell them you’ve seen me, or talked to me. Just say you passed the matter on to your superiors in the Space Agency; and what you’ve got to tell them isn’t official, it’s just your own conclusions after passing the word along. Tell them they’ve got to wait until the governments participating in the Mars mission are at least notified; and they may have to wait for some agreement among them. Tell them we’ll do our best to get an answer to them right away; but they have to expect it’ll be three or four days at least before that answer comes. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bill. “Only—” “Never mind anything else,” Fanzone said. “You do it, just as I said. And you, Jen!”

“Yes, sir?” said Jen.

“You’re going to need some more authority than you’ve had up until now,” Fanzone said. “I want you, as soon as you get back, to do two things. One, is to get the Deputy Ministers of Science for the various other countries together with you and say that I asked you, personally, to speak to them privately, and brief them on the whole situation. Then do it—don’t hold back any information about the ‘nauts or the mission; but don’t ‘ hint that anything more has happened between you and me, except that I called you early this morning and asked you to talk to them. You can do that?”

“Yes,” said Jen.

“The second thing I want you to do is after—note, after you’ve given the complete story to the Deputy Ministers and they’ve had an hour or two to contact their governments—hold a press conference. You can handle a press conference on your own, of course? Can’t he, Warn?”

“Yes, sir. He can,” Warn said.

“Again, you tell the press nothing about the White House in connection with this, except that it was suggested you were the one to break the news to the world, as our government’s formal representative on the spot. You tell them what there is to tell about the ‘nauts and their situation, except what you’ve been told not to tell. Warn will call you shortly after you’re back down in Florida, and let you know what we don’t want given to the press right now. That’s all—except after both the Deputy Ministers’ meeting and the press conference, you call Warn on scramble circuit and give him a report of what the reactions were. Is all that understood, now?” “Yes, Mr. President,” said Jen.

“Fine. Warn, take them back to their plane, now.” The three other men rose and started to the door. “And, Warn—”

“Yes, sir?” Warn stopped and turned.

“As soon as they’re off, get back up here,” said Fanzone. “We’re going to have to throw today’s schedule into the wastebasket and make up one that’s altogether different.”

Bill Ward sat hunched before the LCO screen, talking to Tad, out on Phoenix One.

“The foreign representatives—those Deputy Ministers of Science—got briefed this morning by Jen Wylie,” Bill said. “Wylie also had a press conference for the newspeople to pass the word to them, after lunch. So things are moving.”

“Just so they keep moving,” said Tad. “You said three or four days?”

“Yes. Maybe quicker, though.” “It needs to be quicker,” said Tad. He no longer had any hair visible on his head as Bill viewed him in the LCO screen; and his face seemed to have fallen in until he had almost a skull-like look that the bald head reinforced.

“By the way,” said Bill. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” said Tad. “I’m just fine.”

Jen Wylie sat in the sitting room of his hotel suite with copies of nearly a dozen newspapers in various languages, spread out on the rug in front of his chair. He had done his best; but the headlines, as usual, had gone for the worst.

DISASTER HITS MARS MISSION read the one next to his right toe. SPACECRAFT BOTH FAIL, read the next nearest one … and so on from around the world in various tongues.

Maybe in its own way, it was a good thing—this jumping to announce tragedy. Then, if they managed to save five of the six ‘nauts …

But no matter what course events took, sooner or later would come the witch-hunters, looking for Tad or someone else to blame for the failure of artificially high hopes.

Masaharu Tatsukichi, the Japanese Deputy Minister of Science, sat talking to Anoshi. All the Deputy Ministers had asked to speak to the ‘nauts from their own country; and although on Phoenix One and Two they were still busy transferring repair parts, short interviews had been set up. Guenther had already talked to Bern, and Mahadev to Bap.

“Regrettable,” said M’asaharu to Anoshi, now, “that such high hopes should end in tragedy.”

“Regrettable for all,” replied Anoshi.

“Of course,” said Masaharu, “but I have been aware of your own strong desire to accomplish the completed mission; and so I offer my sympathy on a personal level.”

“I deeply appreciate,” said Anoshi. “Personal regrets, however, are nothing when weighed in the balance against the greater loss …”

Varisov spoke to Fedya.

“… All that can be done on both ships is being done, then?” Varisov asked.

“Yes,” said Fedya.

Varisov leaned forward to examine Fedya’s image in the screen more closely; and his tone gentled.

“My boy,” he said, “you look thin. Quite thin and pale. You haven’t been exposed to anything like radiation yourself, have you?”

“No,” said Fedya. “I am only tired. As we all are …”

Tad floated half-asleep in a sort of fog of discomfort. He was too exhausted to stay awake but physically too miserable to fall completely into slumber. Vague thoughts and half-dreams chased themselves through his head. Most of the repairs that could be made on the two ships had been made. This was already the fourth day since he had last spoken to Bill Ward; and still there was no word from Mission Control to go ahead. Jen, whom he had spoken to last when the Deputy Ministers were all being allowed to speak to the Marsnaut of their own nationality, had fumbled, answering Tad’s direct question as to why there should be any delay at all.

“… Each government wants to make sure it doesn’t lose face,” Jen had said. “Each wants to make sure it isn’t putting itself in a position where the others can blame or attack it in any way—”

“What happened to us had nothing to do with governments!” Tad snapped. “It was an overloaded schedule and a solar storm!”

“I know,” said Jen, unhappily, “but the first instinct of political thinking when an emergency comes up is that you try to do nothing, for fear of doing the wrong thing. You sit back and let somebody else make the first mistake …”

But, thought Tad, drifting in his mist of discomfort, Phoenix One and Two could not wait forever. He, for one, could not wait; and even the ships, themselves … something else could break down on either one or both of them as a result of the primary damage from the storm; and not even Phoenix One would be able to make it back

He roused to recognize the figure of Bap, which had loomed up in the darkness by his bed. Bap was smiling and carrying a syringe.

“Something new the docs down at Mission Control just suggested to keep you perky,” Bap said.

“What is it …” Tad started to ask; but Bap was already giving him the shot and it really did not matter. Whatever it was, it worked quickly. The needle had hardly been withdrawn from his arm before the sickness trembling all through his body and limbs began to diminish. The feeling of malaise faded; and his overwhelming tiredness claimed him.

“Working,” he mumbled to Bap, who still stood by the bed, “working fine. That’s good. I’ll need my rest.”

“Yes, you will,” said Bap.

Bap continued to stand by the bed until Tad’s breathing became slow and deep. Then he went back out and up the access tube to A Deck. Anoshi was there, with Fedya, Dirk and Bern.

“He’s asleep,” Bap said, as he came out of the access tube hatch. “It’s fairly short-action, though. He shouldn’t be out more than three or four hours.”

“Good,” said Fedya. “I’ll get going, then.”

He started to get into his spacesuit, which was waiting on the deck. Dirk and Bern helped him into it.

“What if Mission Control just delays in giving you the figures for our first burn?” Bap asked.

“Then you’ll make the first burn on our own figures,” Fedya said, “and I say that to you as an order, since I’m in command, now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bap. But the smile that went with his words, faded almost immediately. Bern and Dirk were fitting on Fedya’s helmet now. As soon as they were done and had stepped back, Bap held out his hand.

The gloved hand of Fedya took and shook it. They did not say any thing. Turning slowly and clumsily about in a near circle, Fedya shook hands in turn with Anoshi, Bern and Dirk. Then he turned and left them, pulling himself into the access tube and along the tube to the air lock at the end of it leading to Hatch Three.

He emerged from Hatch Three into the unchanging lights and dark of space. The propulsion pack was already in place on his shoulders; but this time he would not have to rely on it alone to cross the void between him and Phoenix Two. He reached for a meter-long tether connected to the tool belt around the waist of his suit, and clipped the metal loop at the free end of it over the wire that now connected the two ships. Pushing off from the hull of Phoenix One, he activated the propulsion pack and slid along the line of the wire toward the other spacecraft.

At the far end, he detached his tether. He reached to release the wire where it was wound around the bit on the hull of Phoenix Two, then changed his mind. With the inertia of Phoenix Two to hold it in place, the first thrust of the Phoenix One engines would snap the wire like a thread. He went down alone into the A Deck of Phoenix Two and took off his suit.

He sat down at his control console and sent a call on the LCO to Mission Control.

“There’s been a slight change in plans, here,” Fedya said to Al Ciro, who answered. “We can’t wait any longer to start Phoenix toward Earth; and we will start with our own figures for the first burn unless we get others from you in four hours’ time.”

“Just a minute!” said Al. “This is all over my head. Bill Ward’s at home. Let me get him here to talk to you.”

Fedya shook his head.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. “We’re not asking Mission Control for permission to move. We’re telling Mission Control that we are moving. We’ll be following the plan outlined by Tad in which one man stays aboard Phoenix Two to handle transmission of data to Phoenix One, while the other five travel in Phoenix One. The only change will be in the places of the pilots. Tad will pilot Phoenix One. I will stay aboard Phoenix Two.”

“Wait,” said Al. “Phoenix Two, wait. Let me talk to Tad.”

“You cannot talk to Tad,” said Fedya. “He’s resting before the work of bringing Phoenix One in. In any case, he is no longer in command of the mission. Because of his illness, he has been relieved of his command; and I, as second officer, have taken over.”

Al stared out of the screen at Fedya.

“I’ll get Bill Ward,” he said, finally.

“By all means,” said Fedya. “Get anyone you like. But also get us the figures for the first burn in four hours or we will proceed on our own.”

XVI

Tad woke from the deepest sleep he had had in some days to find Bap shaking him.

“What is it?” he asked, thickly.

“I’m sorry, Tad,” said Bap, “but you’ll have to get up now. Fedya’s taken command of the mission and he’s staying aboard Phoenix Two, alone. You and I, and Anoshi, Dirk, and Bern are all here on Phoenix One.”

Tad stared up at him blearily. “Taken …” he muttered. “No, he can’t.”

“He has, though,” said Bap. “He left this tape for you. Listen.”

Bap reached out and pushed the playback button at the base of the phone by Tad’s bed. There was a second of silence; and then Fedya’s voice, speaking in the room.

“Forgive me, Tad,” it said. “You did very well at hiding the way you’ve been feeling; but we all know you too well. It was plain that you are less strong and more sick than you wished us to think. But time is running out without the go-ahead from Mission Control and we—both of us, you and I—have to think of the mission first and the chance of saving the larger part of the crews. It’s true that handling Phoenix One down through a series of burns needs a man with your experience. But in a pinch, Anoshi or one of the others could at least attempt it, and probably get close enough to Earth orbit to be found by shuttles sent out to find you. But what if you were alone on Phoenix Two, and your illness got to the point where you could not transmit the necessary information from Mission Control on to Phoenix One?”

There was a pause in the tape. The Fedya’s voice took up again.

“You see, Tad,” he said, “the mission cannot afford to have anyone but a well man on the LCO of Phoenix Two. Forgive me, as I say—and believe me. I would not have taken this from you for any lesser reason than the good of the greatest number.”

“Damn his eyes!” mumbled Tad. Then, slowly he shook his head. “No, I take that back. It’s true. He wouldn’t have, either.”

“Wouldn’t have what?” asked Bap, looking down at him with strange curiosity.

“Get me upstairs. Get me to A Deck,” said Tad, trying to stand up. Bap caught his arm and helped him to his feet. “I suspected something like this might happen. Has Mission Control given us the word to go and the first burn figures?”

“Yes,” said Bap, helping him out of the room and through the hatch into the access tube. “Fedya told them that if we didn’t have burn figures from them in four hours, we’d go on our own figures. They just sent their figures through.

There’s a permanent patch from the Phoenix Two LCO to its radio. We pick up everything that Mission Control sends him, by voice, as well as what Fedya says to us …”

All the time Bap was talking, he was assisting and guiding Tad up the tube and out onto A Deck. Tad dropped at last heavily into his usual seat, the acceleration couch in its chair position before the control console.

He leaned toward the console, lifted his hand toward its controls, then dropped it again, leaning back in his seat.

“Bap,” he said. “I need something. You must have some kind of stimulant among those drugs of yours.”

“You don’t want anything like that,” said Bap. “It’d give you a lift for a short while, but then you’d feel even worse.”

“Get it for me,” Tad said.

“Tad, listen to me—”

“Get it for me,” repeated Tad. “I’m no good this way. Give me something to get my motor started turning over; and maybe I can keep it going, myself.”

Bap turned and went oil. He came back with a little yellow pill and a glass of water. Tad washed the pill down his throat and lay back, panting.

After a few minutes, his panting slowed and, with an effort, he sat up to the controls again. He punched communications.

“Fedya—” he said. “Phoenix One to Phoenix Two.”

“I’m right here, Tad,” Fedya’s voice came back immediately. “And, as I said to you on the tape. Forgive me.”

“Nothing,” said Tad, rubbing the back of his hand across his dry lips. “You did the right thing. You and I know why it’s really right. I wouldn’t have lasted. Bap said Mission Control had already sent through the burn figures.”

“You’ve got them on printout in the console before you,” Fedya said.

Tad looked down and punched for course data printout. A tongue of paper darkened with figures marched slowly out of the -slot into his hands. He tore it off and studied it. After a few minutes he raised his head. He was sitting a little straighter now as the stimulant took hold; and his eyes were brighter.

“Fedya,” he said, “let me talk to Mission Control.”

“We’re right here, too, Phoenix One,” answered Bill Ward’s voice after a short pause. “Fedya has us patched in on his radio to you.”

“Is this all there is to the first burn?” Tad asked. “These figures?”

“That’s right,” said Bill. “Fedya’s got his own set, of course, for all the burn he can get at once, since he’s only going to have one chance to get as much course change and velocity as he can before those two motors burn out. But what we thought would be best for Phoenix One would be to space out a number of small burns at first, to see if we couldn’t figure out some kind of pattern to the way that steering engine of yours will creep. If we can figure out a pattern, then we can try to allow for it in the later burns at the same time as we’re trying to straighten out your course.”

“Good.” Tad nodded.

“Let us know how it feels to you while the burn’s on.”

“Right,” said Tad.

“Then let us know when you’re ready to go,” said Bill. “We’ll give you a firing time and an update of the figures to that moment.”

“Let’s get settled here, first,” said Tad. He turned to look around at the other four men. “Bap and Anoshi, you’d better take your seats in couch position. Dirk, Bern—you two had better head down to B Deck and take a bed apiece, there. This isn’t going to be much of a burn; but there’s no point in taking chances.”

Bern and Dirk disappeared into the access tube as Anoshi and Bap took their control seats, laying them back into the couch position.

“How about it, down on B Deck,” said Tad after a couple of minutes. “Are you both tucked in, down there?”

“Tucked in nicely, Mother,” said Dirk.

“I am in,” said Bern.

“All right, Mission Control,” said Tad. “We’re ready here for-that firing time, now, and that update of the figures.”

He reached out to press the printout button, and a new piece of paper worked its way out from the slot into his hand.

“Firing time five minutes,” said the speaker on the console in a Mission Control voice. “Four -minutes, fifty-nine seconds and counting … four minutes, fifty seconds and counting … four minutes, forty seconds …”

Tad was punching the information from the latest printout into his engine controls.

“… One minute,” said the speaker. “. . Fifty-nine seconds … fifty-eight seconds …”

Tad completed his preparations. “All set, Mission Control,” he said.

“… Three … two … one … Fire!”

“Fire!” echoed Tad, pressing the firing button. Aboard Phoenix One vibration and sudden weight took them all for the first time since she had been lifted from Earth orbit by the two auxiliary shuttles that later parted from her.

But this was only a lesser and shorter version of the three-gravity thrust that the spacecraft had felt at that time. The firing was over, it seemed to Tad, almost before it had begun. But he had felt—he was positive he had felt—the direction of the change of angle of thrust as the steering motor crept off course even in that short time. He began checking his instruments eagerly, to see what they could tell him about the error which the steering jet’s movement must have caused.

“Phoenix Two! Phoenix Two, this is Mission Control!” the radio speaker was saying. “Fedya, we were in communication all through that firing period and we’re in communication now as far as we can tell. Come in, Fedya!”

“Phoenix Two,” said Fedya’s voice. “We’re in communication.”

“What happened, Phoenix Two? Didn’t you fire? If you’d moved we’d be out of communication now until the LCO could realign between us.”

“No,” said Fedya; arid Tad stopped checking his instruments, abruptly, to listen. “I didn’t fire. There seems to be some malfunction in the controls. It doesn’t look serious. I’ll get down and check it. I can fuel any time, of course.”

“We’ll give you an update on your own figures, to the next firing time of Phoenix One,” said Mission Control. “Let us know about that malfunction as soon as you establish what it is.”

“Will do,” said Fedya.

“Good. Phoenix One. Phoenix One, this is Mission Control. How did the burn go with you?”

“Fine,” said Tad. “There was a creep, all right. I’ll let you know as soon as I get what information I have on it. When’s our next firing time?”

“As soon as we pinpoint your present position,” said Mission Control, “and decide on the details of the next burn. Estimate, twelve to sixteen hours. Without the LCO on Phoenix Two alongside you, we’re going to have to hunt for you.”

“Good hunting,” said Tad.

He leaned back on the acceleration couch exhaustedly. He had meant to make some more energetic answer, perhaps some joke about little black sheep who had lost their way; but he did not have the energy. The effect of the yellow pill was wearing off.

“You understand,” said Vassily Zacharin, “we must ask for a thorough examination and explanation of this.”

Vassily Zacharin was the Soviet Ambassador to the United States of America. He and Varisov sat now in the office of Paul Fanzone; and Paul Fanzone himself, sitting behind his desk with Warn Rethe standing behind him, nodded agreeably.

“I do understand,” said Fanzone, gently. “Of course. I’ve had calls made on me today by several representatives of the other powers involved with us in this space effort. Of course it’s a great shock to us all, that a mission that meant so much to the world should find itself frustrated in this tragic way.”

“It’s true, Mr. President,” said Vassily, “that we are very concerned with the failure of the Mars mission itself. But more important to my government and the Soviet peoples is an answer to the question of why Feodor Aleksandrovitch Asturnov should be the one of six Marsnauts to give his life that the others may live.”

“He hasn’t given it yet,” said Fanzone, a little dryly.

“We understand,” said Vassily, “that the chances of his bringing Phoenix Two close enough to Earth to be found and rescued are so small as to hardly be worth computing. You understand me, Mr. President, Feodor Aleksandrovitch is a brave man and we do not doubt that he would hesitate to offer to help his comrades even at the cost of his almost certain death. It is simply that we understand your Marsnaut Tadell Hansard first informed Mission Control that he was to be the one to stay on Phoenix Two, since he was already dying from a lethal exposure to radiation—”

“Tadell Hansard isn’t dead yet, either,” said Fanzone. “And our doctors say no one will know whether he had a lethal dose or not until they get him back here and examine him.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Vassily. “It is expected that physicians wish to make absolutely certain before making any pronouncement. But your doctors, like ours, like those of the rest of the world, can hardly avoid interpreting the information of Colonel Hansard’s steady deterioration as pointing to anything but one overwhelming probability. In short, few people qualified to interpret the symptoms doubt that he is a dying man. The question therefore arises in the minds of the people of the world—not just in the Soviet Republics—why a dying man is being brought back to Earth, while a completely well man throws his life away in the dying man’s place.”

“I can’t really answer that question any better than anyone else, including yourselves,” said Fanzone. “Your Marsnaut has told us that he took over command from Tad Hansard and made the change of ships between the two of them on his own authority. We have the tape of his telling Mission Control so; and I believe you’ve heard it played. Presumably you understand one of your own nationals better than we do. Perhaps you can tell me why he did it.”

“We have no idea, of course, Mr. President,” said Vassily, the even tenor of his voice almost monotonously unchanging. “We only point out that the question exists; and that since it was the Marsnaut of your country that was favored at the expense of ours, we would like to be satisfied that the urgency to discover an explanation—a thoroughly impartial explanation, without partisanship toward any member of the mission—burns as strongly in the minds of your people as it does in ours.” “You can be certain of that,” said Fanzone. “We would very much like to know why Colonel Asturnov deposed the established senior commander of the mission without authority. Also, why he took matters into his own hands, even to the point of threatening to risk the lives of other members of the mission on a burn from incomplete data, unless Mission Control gave him the complete data.”

Vassily paused.

“I’m sure, Mr. President,” he said after a second, “you do not mean to imply some sort of accusation against Colonel Asturnov?”

“Of course not,” said Fanzone. “We are just, like your government and people, very desirous of finding out just what caused things to happen as they have. I think all of the world’s people who supplied ‘nauts to this mission have a common interest in that.”

“I agree with you,” said Vassily, inclining his head.

“Then we’ll all look forward to getting the Phoenix One and Two back, so we can satisfy our interest,” said Fanzone, briskly.

“Yes indeed, Mr. President. You’ve been most kind. If you’ll excuse us, then?” Vassily raised his eyebrows.

“Very good of you and Deputy Minister Varisov to come and see us,” said Fanzone, rising behind the desk. Vassily and Varisov were also on their feet.

“I will be informing my government immediately about your equal interest in this matter,” said Vassily.

“Thank you. Good afternoon,” said Fanzone.

“Good afternoon, Mr. President.” The two men went out. Fanzone, still standing, turned and looked at Warn Rethe, who came forward.

“Now the rock-throwing starts,” said Fanzone. “The public is hungry, Warn. Not just our public, but the public all over the world. The hope they all had for the mission as a symbol of world cooperation was just too damn high. Someone’s going to have to be hung at high noon for this, or governments all over the world are going to be shaken up. Any idea who could fill the role of scapegoat, Warn?”

“No, sir,” said Warn. He looked at Fanzone curiously, and added, “Do you?”

“Of course,” said Fanzone, grimly. “The ‘nauts, themselves. Nothing or no one else is big enough now to feed the wolves.”

“Phoenix One, ready for your fourth burn?” asked Mission Control.

“Ready,” said Tad, coming awake in the control seat with a snap. Now, after three burns and more than six days, he had become conditioned to the sound of the voice of Mission Control over the speaker. Since that first burn he had not needed again the stimulant he had demanded that Bap supply him. At the word that a burn was imminent, his body chemistry leaped by itself into high gear, depressing for the moment actual vomiting and diarrhea, but the feelings of nausea and spasm and the half-unreal sensation of waking dreams made him doubt at times that he was actually seated at the control console on the Phoenix One. There were times when he could have sworn he was back at home, doing some painting on the house, or at the beach with Wendy and the children.

“Phoenix Two, how about you?” Mission Control was demanding. “Are you ready to fire this time?”

“I am afraid not,” Fedya’s voice said. Six days plus had separated the two spacecraft enough so that a little static washed out his words, now and then. “I haven’t been able to track down the trouble, yet; but I should find it soon. I’m not going away, Mission Control. I will have my chance to fire, later.”

“Better sooner than later, Phoenix Two,” said Mission Control. “See if you can’t find it before next firing. Phoenix One, have you got your figures for the burn?”

“I’ll read them back to you,” said Tad. Since the first burn when Phoenix One had still been in wired connection with Phoenix Two, a printout of the burn figures had been impossible. The only way they could be transmitted to Tad was for Mission Control to read them to him orally over the radio patch from Phoenix Two; and the only check on the accuracy of their transmission was to have Tad read them back.

He began to read.

XVII

“Well, Phoenix One,” said Mission Control, “I think we may have some good news for you.”

Tad woke with a start—came back from some strange delirious dream, the details of which evaporated even as he tried to remember them.

“What—” he started to say; but the word was only a dry husk of a sound in his throat. He tried to clear his throat, but it would not clear. A hand offered him a cup of water and he took it gratefully. It was Anoshi standing over him and offering him the water. There was always one of the others with him on A Deck, now, when he was at the control console.

The water moistened his throat, and he could speak aloud.

“What day is this?” he asked Anoshi. “How many burns so far?”

“Tenth day,” Anoshi said. “Seventh burn coming up.”

“Did you hear me, Phoenix One?” Mission Control said. Relayed from the now-distant Phoenix Two, the radio was thin and scratchy with static. “I was saying we may have some good news for you, after all.”

“I hear you,” said Tad to the mike grid. “What is it?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re getting close. We’re starting to pick up that radio signal of yours. We can’t understand you on radio, yet, but we’re beginning to bring you in. We’ll be talking directly to you, soon as we can get a real directional fix on you.” Mission Control paused. “That’s one thing. The other thing is, we think we’ve got the pattern of that creep in your steering motor figured out; so we can correct for it in the next burn. If we’re right, it won’t take more than one or two more burns to bring you home.”

Tad nodded. It did not occur to him to answer, until Anoshi leaned forward to the mike grid.

“That’s wonderful, Mission Control,” said Anoshi, “you’re wonderful.”

“Thank you, Phoenix One. The compliment is returned—is this someone else speaking?”

“This is Anoshi, Tad just had a frog in his throat for a minute.” “I’m all right now, Mission Control,” said Tad. “You’ve got some burn figures for us, then?”

“That’s right,” said Mission Control. “Got them for Phoenix Two, as well. You’re going to go this time, aren’t you, Phoenix Two?”

There was a definite pause now, before radio waves brought Fedya’s answer to the speaker of the console on Phoenix One, and Fedya’s voice, like Mission Control’s, was now dimmed by distance and static.

“Is this my last chance, Mission Control?”

“Either your last, or your next-to-last, Phoenix Two.”

“Do not worry, then,” said Fedya. “This time I’ll fire.”

“All right, then, Phoenix One and Two. Here’s your data …”

Jen punched out a number on the phone with great energy. “Hello,” he said, when he got it, “Barney Winstrom, please. Yes, would you page him? I’ll hold.”

“Jen,” said Lin, behind him, “are you sure you want to do this?” “Very sure,” said Jen. “I should have done something like this a long time ago. I would have if I’d been thinking straight. I can blow this thing wide open.”

“But are you sure you need to?” Lin said. “You can’t be positive that there’s any plan to blame everything on the mission crews—”

“Barney?” said Jen into the telephone. “Jen. Look, I want you to do something for me. But first, will you answer a question for me?”

“Glad to, if I can,” Barney frowned a little in the phone screen. “What’s the question?”

“If you had to make a bet on who’s going to catch the largest share of official blame, once they start investigating the accidents on the Mars mission, who would you bet would be the goats?” said Jen.

“From the sounds in the woodwork, already,” said Barney, “the ‘nauts, themselves.” Barney peered forward on the screen, as if trying to see around Jen to Lin. “Understand, that’s not what I think. I’m just giving you a reading on what I hear, and smell in the wind. There’s been too much fuss all around the world for this to happen without someone having to take the blame.”

“You see,” said Jen, glancing over his shoulder at Lin, “it doesn’t take planning—just a few voices going for the same target. Look, Barney,” he transferred his gaze back to the phone screen, “I’m going to hold a press conference. Just like I did by Presidential request, right after word came of what the radiation had done to Tad and the ships. But I’m doing this one on my own hook; so I’m calling it for two hours from now so they won’t have time to stop me. And I don’t want to announce it officially for the same reason. Would you get on the phone and start spreading the word to the newspeople?”

“What’s the subject? And where’ll the conference be?”

“Subject’s a secret,” said Jen. “And it’ll be held in that ballroom at the official hotel where I’m staying—you know the one with the balconies they’ve kept for press conferences. It’ll be held there—” Jen glanced at his watch, “at three o’clock sharp, whether there’s anything else going on in that room then or not. If necessary, I’ll just walk to the stage and take over the mike. Will you spread the word for me; now?”

Barney gazed at him.

“How do you feel?” Barney asked.

“Better than I’ve felt in days.” “All right,” said Barney. “It can’t hurt me, anyway. I’ll just pass on the rumor I heard.”

“Fine. So long,” said Jen.

“See you there,” said Barney, and punched off.

Jen punched a new set of numbers on the phone.

“Merritt Island Hotel, manager’s office,” said the face of a young man appearing on the screen. “Oh, Mr. Wylie.”

“Could I speak to the manager?” “Yes, sir. One moment.”

The screen went blank for a moment, then sprang into color with the image of a gray-haired, smiling woman.

“Yes, Mr. Wylie?”

“It looks as if I’m going to have to call a press conference on short notice,” Jen said. “Do you know if that ballroom of yours is available?”

“Let me see …” She glanced aside. “Yes, Mr. Wylie, it is. Any special requirements?”

“No. Just have the doors unlocked as soon as possible,” said Jen. “I’ve set the time at three o’clock—this afternoon.”

“Three? That soon?”

“Any problem about it?”

“Why … no. No, Mr. Wylie. None at all.”

“Good. Thank you,” said Jen; and punched off.

He straightened up from the phone and got to his feet, to find Lin already on her feet, looking at him strangely.

“Now,” he said, before she could speak, “I need a lawyer; and I don’t know any down here. Did you know any lawyers back when your father was stationed here at Patrick Air Force Base?”

“Lawyer?” Lin looked puzzled. “Not really. We always used someone Dad knew in the Adjutant General’s department when we had legal questions to ask.”

“That’s no good,” said Jen. “A military lawyer won’t help me. I need someone locally who’s not afraid of tangling with the Federal government.”

“Oh,” said Lin. “Tom Haley. He’s a friend of Dad’s. A civilian lawyer.”

“Not afraid—”

“Tom Haley likes tangling with the Federal government, or anyone else,” said Lin firmly.

“Will you call him and introduce me?”

“I … can, of course,” said Lin. “But what are you going to tell him? What are you going to tell those newspeople at the press conference?”

“The truth about the mission and whose fault it is things went wrong, and how they can prove for themselves I’m telling the truth. Once I do that, of course, I’m going to find myself under Federal arrest, for violation of the National Security Act and Espionage Law. I’ll need a lawyer.”

She looked at him a long moment, then walked past him to the phone.

“I’ll get Tom on the line,” she said.

Jen, Lin, and Tom Haley—a tall, powerful, cheerful man with white hair cut to a one-inch stubble—came into the ballroom just before three p.m., and walked down the side of the room to the speakers’ stand with its long table and pencil microphones. The ranks of folding chairs that filled the expanse of ballroom floor had only a sprinkling of people in them; but more were coming in.

“Well, well,” said Tern Haley, looking them over, “not much of a gathering to hear a man accuse the leading governments of the world. Are you sure you’re going to need me, Jen? I could have stayed at my office and got partway caught up on my work.”

“There may not be many of them here,” said Jen, “but the ones that are here have large ears; and their papers or stations or networks have large mouths. I’ll need you all right.”

He went toward the center of the table.

“Aren’t you going to wait?” Lin asked. “There’s a stream of people in every aisle, still coming in.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Jen. Then, abruptly, he started toward the chair at the center of the table. “No. See that gray-haired woman coming down the side aisle? She’s the day manager of the hotel. Tom, will you try to stall her as long as you can?”

Tom turned, followed by Lin, and went toward that end of the platform that met the bottom of the side aisle Jen had indicated. Jen seated himself at the table, tapped the pencil microphone before him to make sure it was working, and spoke.

“Sorry to start while some of you are still coming in,” he said. “But my time may be limited. As most of you may know, I’m Jen Wylie, U.S. Undersecretary of Science for the Development of Space; and a former newsman myself.”

Out of the corner his eye could see that the hotel manager had reached the edge of the platform and was faced there by Tom and Lin, who were arguing with her.

“What I have to say won’t take long in any case,” he said, “because I’m not going to give you information so much as put you on the track of finding it for yourselves. As you know, the two spacecraft of the Mars mission have been disabled by a solar storm—Mission Control is trying to bring at least one of them back to Earth orbit right now. Also, Tad Hansard, one of the Marsnauts, has suffered some had effects from radiation during the solar storm. Very soon now, investigations will be started into what factors were involved in the failure of the mission.”

The manager was up on one corner of the stage, now, but her way was still being barred by Tom and Lin. Behind the manager, were a heavy middle-aged man wearing the uniform of a hotel guard and one of the Federal security men assigned to the Deputy Ministers, in civilian suit, coming down the aisle.

“There may be some voices raised to suggest that the cause of failure lay in the Marsnauts, themselves,” he went on, rapidly. “In connection with that I want to suggest that you investigate the following possible chain of events. That the publics of the various nations and national groups involved in this mission competed against each other for the time and effort that the ‘nauts would have to spare for scientific experimentation and testing on the mission. That the result of this competition was that the Marsnauts were given an experimental schedule too heavy for them to handle in the time available. That the ‘nauts tried to handle this impossible work load, regardless, with the result that fatigue from overwork caused errors of judgment that led directly to the radiation damage to Tad Hansard and both ships.

“Finally, I would like you to investigate the fact that storage space aboard both ships intended for spare parts and equipment, now become necessary since the radiation storm both ships encountered, has in some cases been preempted for equipment belonging to the area of the experimental schedule. So that right at this moment both ships now lack repair facilities which should have been aboard them.

“The necessary information to check this is already in your hands, and in the hands of the public you inform. I suggest you check the bargraphs of the Marsnauts’ schedules to establish whether the work required of them could reasonably be accomplished in the overall time available, unless all activities aboard the ship were miraculously free of any delay and time loss. I ask you to examine the reports so far released, of events on both Phoenix One and Two; and decide for yourselves and your readers whether it was the demands of the mission or the Marsnauts who are responsible for the failures. And now—” said Jen, hastily pushing back his chair, “I must go.”

He rose and left by the far end of the stage, just as the security agent he had recognized pushed past a determined Lin and strode toward him. He leaped down into an aisle and ran toward the entrance to the ballroom.

To his surprise he made it. Looking back, he saw that the security agent had been entangled in a crowd of newspeople apparently eager to question him—and who in the process had trapped him to a standstill. Lin and Tom, now ignored, were coming up the other aisle, where a little earlier, the manager had gone down.

Jen ducked out the ballroom entrance and waited. After a minute or two, Lin and Tom came out and saw him.

“Better move while you can,” said Tom.

They left the hotel for Tom’s car, which was parked in the hotel parking lot outside.

“Where to?” the lawyer asked as they slipped out into the traffic of the street.

“Let’s go back to my motel and think,” said Lin. She looked at Jen. “We should have thought about it before you got up to talk.”

But Jen was supremely happy.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “They’ll catch up with me sooner or later. But meanwhile I might as well enjoy life.”

“You’d better simmer down,” said Lin.

“That’s not bad advice,” said Tom. His car was the largest model air-cushion vehicle being made for private use, and he slid it through the traffic with absent-minded skill. “Everyone who’s come after you so far hasn’t had any arrest powers. When someone like that actually shows up, though, all Lin and I are going to be able to do for you is advise you to go quietly.”

They came finally to the motel. The phone within was ringing as they pulled into the driveway beside the unit. Lin opened the door on her side of the car as Tom stopped the vehicle, and she ran into the motel room.

They followed and heard her talking to someone at the far end of the line.

“Yes, I’ll be right out,” she was saying. She punched off and turned to them. “Barney calling about Mission Control. They finally figured out the creeping of that steering engine on Phoenix One. The last burn-put the ship right where they expected her to be. One more will bring them in—and they can talk directly to Tad by radio, now, without going through the LCO to Phoenix Two!”

“Thank God,” said Jen.

“I’m going out there right away.” Lin headed toward the door. “They just might give me an interview.

“I’ll go with you—” Jen checked and looked back at Tom Haley. “That’s right, you won’t be able to go in with us. Wait, you can wear my press pass.”

“I’ve got a press vehicle pass for our car and passengers,” said Lin. “Unless they stop him inside the Flight Control building, he’ll be all right.”

“Do you want to go?” Jen asked him.

“I like to see things through,” said Tom. “And as soon as word gets around you’re there, somebody’ll be tapping on your shoulder inside of fifteen minutes. I’ll stick with you until dinner time.”

“Good,” said Jen.

They took Lin’s rented car. The roads to the Cape were almost deserted in the brilliant, late afternoon sunlight. As Lin had said, the guard on the gate did not question Tom; and they pulled into the parking lot beside the Flight Control building. Inside, on the main floor, they hurried past another guard who as talking on the telephone in the lobby tnd did not see them pass.

The elevator took them up to the floor where the Flight Control Room was. But there was a third guard on duty at the door of the room and this time not only Tom, but Lin, was stopped.

“I’ll try to get someone to phone security for Tom,” said Jen, going in alone. Lin stayed with Tom.

Jen went into the glassed-in observation room, at the back of the sloping floor with its rows of consoles. Wendy Hansard was at one of them, apparently having just finished talking to Tad. A speaker inside the observation room sounded with Tad’s voice, over a background of light static.

“… give me a time check.”

His voice sounded in Jen’s ears as heavy, blurred and slow—like the voice of a man under drugs or just awakened.

“Time is four minutes, thirty-seven seconds to burn,” answered a Mission Control voice. “four thirty-six … four thirty-five … four thirty-four …”

“Copy,” said Tad’s voice. “O.K. Our time checks. You’ve got a perceptible disk, seen from here.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Mission Control. “Are you all set with the figures for the final burn?”

“All set. All ready here. Just waiting it out,” said Tad’s voice, slowly.

“Phoenix Two, how about you?” asked Mission Control. The light sound of static ceased, but there was no other response. “Phoenix Two. Come in, Phoenix Two. We’re not reading you.”

There was a faint murmur that swelled up clearly and loudly, suddenly, with no static to be heard at all.

“…said that the LCO here seems to be fading in and out on transmission for me,” said Fedya’s voice. “Can you read me now, Mission Control? Can you read me?”

“Roger. We read you now, Phoenix Two. We read you clear and loud,” said Mission Control. “You were out there for a few minutes again, then you faded back in all of a sudden. Is your reception of us or of Phoenix One fading likewise?”

“No. No fade from you. I’m receiving Phoenix One now through you. Too much static on radio direct from Tad, now,” said Fedya. “Let me know if I fade out again.”

“Are you set for burn, Phoenix Two? Have you got your figures?”

“I have the figures. Thank you, Mission Control.”

“Will you make the burn this time, all right, do you think?” There was a movement beside Jen, and he glanced aside briefly to see Tom, now with a badge, slip into the room beside him and stand listening. “If we lose contact with you through the LCO, we won’t be able to keep updating your burn figures. You’ve got to go, this time.”

“I intend to go,” said the voice of Fedya. “Never mind me, Mission Control. Concentrate on getting Phoenix One home safe.”

“What is it?” Tom asked Jen. For no readily obvious reason, he spoke in a whisper. “That business about his going?”

“He’s been having trouble getting the two working engines he’s got to burn at all,” Jen said. “He hasn’t been able to fire at the same time as Phoenix One on any of the burns since the two ships were together—”

He broke off. Mission Control was talking to Tad, again.

“… Two shuttles,” Mission Control was saying. “One will stand off when they meet you. The other will come close enough to get a line to your Number Three Hatch. We’ll send a pilot across to bring Phoenix One in the rest of the way to orbit; and all of you will transfer over to the shuttle. Understood?”

“Understood,” said Tad. “How soon after we finish burn should we rendezvous?”

“The shuttle should meet you in four hours and ten minutes after you finish your burn,” Mission Control said. “That’s provided you end up where you’re supposed to. The shuttles are already on the way to that point, as we told you earlier today.”

“Copy,” said Tad. “Four hours, ten minutes after end burn.”

His voice was slowing down even more as he talked. Like a phonograph record slowing down.

“Tad,” said Mission Control. “Tad, why don’t you let Anoshi or one of the others take over for this last burn? It’s all cut and dried, now.”

“Hell with that …” Tad’s voice slurred drunkenly. “Took her out—bring ‘er back … Fedya!”

“I’m listening, Tad.” Fedya’s voice over the LCO was so clear, alert and free of background noise in comparison to Tad’s that Jen almost started. It was almost as if Fedya had spoken behind Jen and Tom in the observation room.

“Good hunting, partner.”

“Thank you … partner,” said Fedya. “And I wish… .”

His voice faded once more, suddenly, into nothingness.

“Fedya?” said Tad, after a moment.

There was no answer.

“Phoenix Two’s LCO is malfunctioning,” Mission Control said.

“We don’t receive Fedya either, Tad.”

Tad’s voice muttered something unintelligible.

“One minute and counting,” said Mission Control. “Ready for countdown, Phoenix One, Phoenix-Two? Fifty-six seconds … fifty-five … fifty-four…”

“You mean—” Tom Haley was whispering again in Jen’s ear, “the other spaceship hasn’t even started to come toward Earth?”

“Yes,” said Jen. He was hardly listening. His attention was all on Wendy, standing by the console with her back turned to Jen’s end of the room. Her arms were at her side, and her hands were clenched. There was no other sign of tension about her. Someone else came into the observation room behind Jen and Tom, but neither of them turned to look.

“Twenty seconds …” Mission Control was counting.

“GOOD LUCK, PHOENIX ONE,” said the voice of Fedya, suddenly loud in the observation room, drowning out the voice of Mission Control’s counting.

“Six seconds … five seconds,” said Mission Control. “Four … three … two … one… fire!”

A sudden roar of static erupted from the speaker, and was tuned down to silence. It was silent in the observation room. No one moved down in the Control Room proper. Jen and Tom waited, breathing shallow breaths.

Finally, after a long time, the speaker came to life again with the faint background wash of static Jen had heard originally.

“Phoenix One,” said Mission Control. “Come in, Phoenix One.”

“Read you, Mission Control,” answered Tad’s voice suddenly. “All over. Burn went fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Roger, Phoenix One,” said Mission Control. “You are on target. Repeat, you are on target. We’re just getting confirmation on that by the ATM in Skylab Two. Congratulations. The shuttles will be with you soon.”

“Thanks to you, Mission Control,” said Tad. “I thank you, we all thank you …”

“Phoenix Two?” said Mission Control. “Phoenix Two, come in. This is Mission Control calling Phoenix Two. Do you read me, Phoenix Two?”

“I read you, Mission Control.” Fedya’s voice swelled up in volume suddenly from the speaker. “Great good work, Tad. My congratulations to all of you.”

“Salute to you, Fedya,” said Tad.

“Phoenix Two, this is Mission Control. Did you accomplish burn? Repeat, did you accomplish burn this time.”

“I am sorry, Mission Control,” said Fedya. “Very sorry. No, I did not burn. But then I was not trying. Forgive me for keeping you in the dark this long; but I wanted to leave your minds free to concentrate on getting Phoenix One home safely. I never intended to use the figures you gave me.”

“Phoenix Two? Hello, Phoenix Two. We’re reading you; but don’t understand. Did you say you didn’t intend to burn at any time? What about the malfunction of your two engines?”

“There was none,” said Fedya. “As I say, Mission Control, forgive me. If I had told you the truth to begin with, you would have wanted to argue with me. I did not want argument, particularly useless argument once my mind was made up.”

“Phoenix Two, I don’t understand—” Mission Control’s voice suddenly broke off and changed to another voice familiar to Jen.

“Phoenix Two, this is Bill Ward. Fedya, what are you talking about? Have you been deliberately choosing to keep Phoenix Two as she is? Why, in God’s name?”

“Leave him alone.” It was Tad’s voice suddenly, breaking in. “We started out to go to Mars, Bill. If one man wants to complete that mission, he’s got a right to. Anyway, what’re you going to do about it?”

“But …” began Bill; and stopped again.

“Please, Bill,” said Fedya. “No arguments. We all know that the mission has to be completed, if there are to be more missions after this one. This spacecraft is a small capsule of all our efforts since time began; and someone has to see it safely to its destination. If it weren’t me, it would have been one of the others—Dirk, Bern, Anoshi, Bap. One of us would have stayed with Phoenix Two.”

“Hey,” said Tad, thickly, “don’t forget me, you damned mutineer.” “I don’t forget you, Tad,” said Fedya. “But it had to be a well man. One who could stay alive until Mars is reached, and even after. Someone who could keep records and even maintain as many of the experiments as possible, so that the data will be there when the next ships come. I know … I know what I did in taking this away from you, Tad. But we agreed, all the rest of us agreed, that it had to be done.”

“Sure,” said Tad. “Sure. If I’d been in shape to think straight I’d have realized that earlier, myself.”

He stopped talking. There was no sound.

“Fedya?” Tad said. “Fedya, you still reading me? … Fedya?”

“Phoenix Two, come in,” said Bill Ward. “Phoenix Two, this is Mission Control. We do not read you. Phoenix Two, we’ve lost your transmission. Come in, Phoenix Two. Phoenix Two, come in …”

He continued talking. There was no answer.

Whoever had come into the observation room a little while ago, stepped forward. He was a stocky young man with blond hair and a slow Southern accent.

“Undersecretary of Science, Mr. Jen Wylie?” He was holding out a wallet, opened to show a card within bearing his photograph and several lines of information. “FBI, Mr. Wylie. You are under arrest, sir, on an open charge. Please come with me.”

XVIII

“You’ll find,” said the U.S. marshal behind the desk at the St. Petersburg, Florida office, “everything that was in your pockets at the time you entered legal custody, is in this envelope. And if you’ll just read and sign this last form…”

Jen, seated across from him, tore open the pink envelope and dumped change, watch, minicorder and cardcase onto the desk top. He scooped the items into the pocket of his new civilian clothes and took up the form.

“What’s this?” he said.

“Just your statement that you have no immediate complaints about your treatment while under sentence. It’s not a blanket release for the government, of course. You have up to six months to file charges against any officials or personnel whom you believe acted to you in an indecent, inhumane or illegal manner while you were under their authority.”

“They were good enough,” said Jen. He scrawled his signature.

“Very nice of you to say so, Mr. Wylie.” The guard took it.

Jen grinned at him.

“Got my ‘Mr.’ back, have I?” he asked. “Nine months of being called by your first name can get you out of the habit.”

“Yes, sir,” said the marshal. “I can believe it. I understand there’s quite a movement on now for Retraining Centers personnel to be more formal and polite with federal custodees.”

“Good,” said Jen. “But prison’s prison, no matter what you do about it.” He opened the card case and saw it was empty. “My social security card?”

The marshal slid it across the desk to him. It was the same plastic card he had carried for years, but it was now a soft dove-gray in color, instead of its original white.

“Colored,” said Jen, picking it up.

“Sorry, Mr. Wylie,” said the marshal. “I understand there’s a bill before the Congress to give you a complete pardon. But as long as your sentence was only commuted …”

“Don’t let it worry you,” said Jen. “As far as I’m concerned that gray is a battle award, for a wound taken honorably in the course of duty.”

“Yes, sir,” said the marshal.

“Tell me one thing, though,” said Jen, as he got up and started to leave. “Do all departing Federal prisoners get the same polite treatment as this—or am I an exception?”

“All of them. Of course, Mr. Wylie,” said the marshal. He stood up and offered his hand, across the desk.

Jen looked at it for a second. “What the hell!” he said; and shook hands. “Goodbye.” “Goodbye, Mr. Wylie.”

Jen turned and went out through the door into a busy, people-filled corridor. A glowing arrow pointed the way to his right. He followed it past the doors of more offices and out eventually into a parking lot, where a blue car was waiting for him. Standing beside the car was the tall, stooping figure of Sir Geoffrey, with Lin. Lin ran into Jen’s arms.

“Where are we going?” asked Jen, when they were all back in the car once more; and Lin, at the wheel, had swung it out of the parking lot up onto the highway. They hummed northward.

“Back to Merritt Island,” said Lin. “There’s a small celebration there, planned to mark your getting Out. No—” she added soothingly, as Jen stiffened, “nothing large. Just a couple of the ‘nauts and Bill Ward, and some others. A couple of handfuls of people only.”

“Good,” said Jen, settling back. “Nine months quiets you down a bit. I don’t think I could take brass bands right away. Anyway, the big thing isn’t me. It’s Fedya riding Phoenix Two, alive, all the way to Mars, the way he has; and the fact that what he’s done, and Tad’s death, and all the rest, did more for the future of people in space than anything.”

“Get the papers, did you?” said Sir Geoffrey from the back seat.

“Oh, yes,” said Jen. “Not at first—but the last three months I’ve been able to follow it all. Radio signals from Fedya’s body sensors that could tell us he was still alive and active; the popular reaction all over the world; the blame for the mission’s trouble getting pinned where it belonged, on politics as usual—”

He swiveled his car seat about to look at Sir Geoffrey, who was occupying the back couch of the vehicle, knees in the air.

“No offense in your case.”

“Why not?” said Sir Geoffrey, cheerfully. “It was a good system. Politics as usual helped build the Earth. I was all for it, once. Not ashamed of the fact. But outside the Earth, evidently it’s a clog, not a benefit. Right. Scrap it then. I have, and not ashamed of that, either.”

“Geoff,” said Lin, “was our strong right arm in getting your sentence commuted this early, Jen. He was the man who knew just what strings to pull and what buttons to push, and when.”

“That so?” said Jen, staring at Sir Geoffrey. “What did the British government think of that sort of activity on your part?”

“Oh Lord,” said Sir Geoffrey, “I’m retired. I quit right after that press conference of yours. Don’t know why I didn’t do it years ago. I can drink all I want now, whenever I want. Odd thing, I used to fear I’d end up one of these boozy old men that everybody slides away from at parties. But not at all. After a bit I just get sleepy and doze off. Don’t even snore, they tell me.”

He looked at Jen triumphantly. “What do you think of that?” “Amazing.”

“Ah, well,” said Sir Geoffrey, “only a natural talent, I suppose. But then, I’ve never been ,what you might call the average, ordinary sort of man.”

“The celebration at. Merritt Island’s for Fedya, too,” said Lin. Jen swiveled his chair back to face her. She sat in profile, her hands on the curving-bar that rimmed the upper part of the half-wheel. Beyond her profile, the high acoustical wall guarding the concrete highway was momentarily a blur of black color, warning of a housing area behind it, where quiet was required.

“They’re not putting me in the same bag with Fedya!” said Jen. “No, no. Not really,” said Lin. “It’s just the two occasions come at the same time. You’re free, and Fedya reached Mars ten days ago. If he’s following the schedule they calculate for him, he’s due to land on the surface, today.”

“All that distance…” said Jen, half to himself, his eyes unfocusing on the concrete wall’s blackness, like the darkness of airless space between the starpoints, spanning from the highway on Earth to the crater-dust of the Martian soil. “All that distance …”

In his spacesuit, Fedya moved slowly but continuously. He had redoubled his exercising the past three months. He had even set up in the wardroom on B Deck the “squirrel cage,” as the emergency centrifuge wheel was called; and spent two of his daily waking hours under its simulation of gravity. But the slowly debilitating effects of no-gravity had continued to weaken him.

But in the total absence of gravity, patience and a minimal amount of strength could accomplish a great deal. For seven months now, Fedya had done all he was capable of doing in the way of maintaining the original work and records schedule of the mission. His records, his log, were complete and up to date. Now, it was time to do something for himself.

With Phoenix Two now in orbit about Mars, he had worked the Mars Excursion Module out of its storage compartment in the airless forward section of Phoenix Two; and readied it for a landing on the alien world below. Now, he entered it; and a few touches on the position thrusters separated it from its mother craft.

The onboard computer of Phoenix Two had given him the figures he needed. He retrofired the MEM’s descent stage rocket motor for the descent; and fell toward the surface. As they came close, the protective shroud and a portion of the heat shield was jettisoned—the latter an automatic action to allow use Of the ascent stage of the MEM as an abort vehicle, unnecessary here since Fedya did not intend to return to Phoenix Two.

Close to the Mars surface now, it seemed to swell away on all sides below him like the cratered surface of some larger moon—Fedya used the descent stage motor again, for braking. His descent slowed, slowed, until he was finally hovering, just above the surface. Then he went down.

The jar of landing was small. Fedya sat where he was at the controls, wrapped in silence. The weariness that dragged him down into apathy, urged him to stay where he was, comfortably seated, waiting for the final slowdown of his body into death that was not far off, now. But he had not come all this way to be found still encased in a vehicle, some yards above the Martian soil.

With great effort, he put himself into motion. It was an even slower business here, where he had the gravity of Mars to make his work heavy; but he struggled, and rested, and struggled again.

Eventually, he was out of the MEM, and down its metal ladder to the Mars surface, carrying the few items he had determined to bring with him. One of these was the United Nations Flag, which he set up on the rubbled ground, together with smaller flags of the six national areas who had combined in the Mars mission. With the colors of the artificially stiffened flag standing out in the light of the distance-shrunken sun, he turned to put up the locator beacon that would be activated by those who came after him, searching for this spot where he had landed, within the area where he had written in the log he would set down.

These two items out of the way he was free. He began at last to assemble the framework he had designed and built aboard the Phoenix Two during the last two months. When it was done, it showed itself as a sort of standing support—half chair, half crutches. He had positioned it facing the sun; and when he backed into it, and relaxed, it held him facing the light.

He hung in his support. It was not uncomfortable, in Mars light gravity; and now that he gave way, at last, he could feel that the end, for him, was very close. He sighed a little with satisfaction.

The mission had reached Mars. Man had reached Mars. Here he was, and here he would be when those who would come after arrived to find him. They would find him here as he was now—waiting, upon his feet.

I am the first Martian, he thought, with slow whimsicality.

Far above him, in orbit, Phoenix Two faithfully continued to rebroadcast to Earth the radio signal relayed to it from the MEM and to the MEM from the sensors in Fedya’s underclothing beneath the spacesuit. The body signals were growing weaker. Very soon, they would stop entirely.

Meanwhile, Phoenix Two continued to fall endlessly about her, following her long coast from Earth. Even after the signals from the ground had long ceased she would continue to orbit, rushing through space above the red planet, glinting in the light from the far-off sun, and waiting.

Waiting for the other men and women who would come before too long now. Who must come, since there was now no other choice. Because for human beings it had always been that way. The road led always forward; and there was no turning back.

Table of Contents

Part 2

Part 3