4

Pandemic

 

Yevgeny swished the water around in the black beaker. “It’s beginning to freeze, I think.”

Will looked at the beaker in Yevgeny’s spacesuited hand. “Well, the air is thirty below zero out here. With the black color, the beaker will stay warmer than that, though. I’m glad you brought the beaker outside. It’s amazing to see liquid water outside on Mars, isn’t it?”

“It sure is! When I did this on the moon it boiled away in an instant.”

“Ah, you guys are just playing,” replied Alexandra.

“Hey, play is an important vehicle for learning!” replied Yevgeny. “You might recall that when I took the beaker of water outside at Shackleton and exposed it to a vacuum, people laughed; but then Igor repeated the experiment in the center of a large temporary shadow and measured how much of the water vapor deposited on the regolith, published a paper about it, and the calculations have been crucial for understanding the formation of the volatile deposits!”

Alexandra said nothing for a moment. Then she pointed. “Can we take a look at the site of the dome?”

“I thought we’d start walking around the new building,” replied Will, pointing to the building that had been finished on the outside.

“Alright,” replied Alexandra, but she didn’t sound very enthusiastic. Will led the Lescovs to the new building. The windows in the top floor were still blocked by metal shutters. “I gather we’ll have the windows you brought installed in a matter of a week or so.”

“Yes, that’s about right,” agreed Alexandra. “You completed the frames already; the windows screw into place in about an hour and they can be sealed with sealant pretty quickly as well. We’ll have to lower the pressure of the lower floor, though, for safety purposes, so no one will be able to stay in their rooms during the work day. But they’ll be plenty safe enough to occupy at night.”

“Do you think we’ll be in the position to make windows ourselves in the next few years?”

Alexandra considered the question a moment. “Possibly. As you know, I don’t want to start another building for at least a year; I want to get this one finished and reconsider our entire approach. We need to come up with new ways to construct buildings here. Part of that means developing ways to make entire parts of buildings inside a pressurized environment, then transport the pieces outside and put them together. It also means manufacturing wall board, window frames, airlocks, and other basic items that we can’t make now or we make too slowly. We’ve learned the basic techniques for making duricrete buildings and I doubt we’ll improve on them, though I am wary about the safety of our construction techniques; we may face a greater danger of losing an astronaut in construction than in a shuttle launch.”

“You’re right, and as you know, I want safety matters thoroughly considered.”

“That’s one reason I want us to consider importing more habitats. The new design, as exemplified in Habitat 4, is quite sophisticated; 339 square meters of space in a single eleven-tonne inflatable. That can easily accommodate eight people, maybe a dozen.”

“But I want to cut our imports as much as possible,” replied Will. “Right now each new personnel slot here at the Outpost requires the import of 4.3 tonnes of equipment and life support systems, plus 0.7 tonnes of consumables per columbiad. Eliminate the habitat and we reduce the mass per person to 3.0 tonnes.”

“I know, I understand that. But with the Swift Shuttle doing the lifting to low Earth orbit, cargo importation is now 2.2 million dollars per tonne; for Columbus 1, it was fifteen million. It’s not that expensive to make and import a habitat any more.”

“But they really aren’t as comfortable as the new buildings,” replied Will. “We’ve lived in both. The habitats have much thinner walls, the fireproof wallpaper keeps peeling off, the floors sag a bit even when they’re heavily reinforced, and they really aren’t as soundproof as one would like.”

“That’s because the habitats have plastic walls and the duricrete buildings have walls of rock! But once we make sheetrock—which will be one of my priorities—they’ll change the character of the habitats drastically. They’ll be much quieter and more solid. I’d like to redesign one of the habitats—1 or 2, probably—and you’ll see what I mean.”

“I look forward to it,” said Will, though he sounded skeptical. They walked over to the bowl-shaped depression thirty-two meters across where the MES’s dome would be erected in the near future. Alexandra asked a few questions. Then she nodded. “Can we go down to the solar power units and the wells?”

“Sure,” replied Will. He led them downhill—north—toward a ravine torn in the landscape by a flood several billion years earlier. Billions. Will contemplated the enormity of the ages of things on Mars while facing toward, and gazing at, the 1.5 kilometer escarpment that rent the northern horizon a dozen kilometers away. The edge of Aurorae Chaos—though they usually called it the Aurorae Valley, it sounded better—was the most impressive sight around the Outpost, and was a constant fascination.

Soon they were approaching the ravine, which was about 150 meters from Face Rock. Draped over it was a plastic sheet thirty meters wide and about fifty meters long. Metal or plastic supports supported it from underneath and made little pointed peaks in the plastic every five meters.

Beyond the ravine were three pads of white plastic thirty-five meters square. Each one was occupied by an inflated cylinder thirty meters in diameter, the axes aligned north-south. The half of the cylinder facing the sun was transparent, except for a strip of solar panels running along the part of the cylinder closest to the sun. The half of the cylinder opposite the sun was silvered and reflected light onto the panels, which generated 150 kilowatts of electricity and which provided 150 kilowatts of heat to tubes circulating gas along the backs of the panels.

About one hundred meters to the north and east of the solar power units were the wells. Alexandra pointed to the eastern one. “So, which is which?”

“The eastern one is for oxygen and the northern one is for methane,” replied Will. “The oxygen well goes down four hundred meters and has seven thousand cubic meters of underground storage space; that’s how much water we’ve taken out so far. Right now we can store only three tonnes of oxygen, but with the new equipment on the way that allows higher pressures, we can raise that to twelve tonnes, more as the underground volume grows.”

“Seven thousand cubic meters, and what’s the porosity of the rock?” asked Yevgeny.

“About ten percent, so that’s sixty-three thousand cubic meters of rock—about one hundred eighty thousand tonnes—that we’ve heated to one hundred centigrade. Basically, it’s a sphere forty meters across, four hundred meters beneath the surface. It already has enough heat stored up in the rock to keep the Outpost warm for several months. The methane well is identical, except it’s only 1/3 as big.  We hope, in about five years, to have high pressure storage for one hundred twenty tonnes of oxygen and thirty tonnes of methane, which would be enough for a fully fueled shuttle launch. We’ll may complete a smaller well to store liquid ethylene as well.”

“That’s a long time from now, though,” replied Alexandra. “We’d have to extract how much water from the ground? About one hundred thousand tonnes? Wouldn’t it be easier to build storage tanks?”

“Storage tanks probably are better, but we don’t have the ability to make them yet. Yes, we have to extract ninety thousand tonnes of water at current pressures; maybe only thirty thousand, if we can safely store the gas at high enough pressure. So far the pore-cavities are pretty gas-tight; we can extract 95% of the gas we put in. The hot gas constantly vaporizes the ice in the pore spaces, and the water vapor, which is under pressure, goes into cracks around the cavity and freezes them shut. The computer models suggest we can build up quite a gas-tight ice ball around the cavity.”

“And the solar power units are supplying the heat directly?” asked Yevgeny.

“Yes, we’re circulating either methane or oxygen through the heat exchangers, adding water to make steam, then pumping the mix down in the cavity. The steam helps conduct the heat to the remaining ice because the cold causes the steam to condense and creates a pressure gradient. When we let the pressure out of the well, the zone of liquid water partly flashes to steam and creates a pressure gradient to push the vapor back to the shaft. Two solar power units are hitched to the oxygen well. The heated oxygen also flows through buried PVC pipe to the Outpost to provide it with heat.”

“Poor man’s nukes,” said Alexandra, referring to the solar power units. “But we’re now replacing them with reactors.”

“I’d say ‘supplementing,’ not ‘replacing.’ This is a touchy political matter. The outpost will need over 600 kilowatts of power with thirty-five people living in it. These three SPUs make 450 kilowatts. We’ve got two nukes coming and they’ll make 150 kilowatts each, but they’ll be mobile and will power expeditions except during dust storms, when they’ll be needed here. I wanted more SPUs as well, but the White House vetoed it; they didn’t want to ‘dejustify’ the nuclear power program.”

Yevgeny snorted. “Politics. The SPUs mass half as much, and what are the prices? Ten million versus three hundred million for a reactor?”

“Exactly.” Will shrugged.

Yevgeny pointed at the ravine. “Can we take a look?”

“Sure, there’s a door in the plastic cover.” Will pointed, then led them to the upper end of the ravine. He pulled aside a plastic flap, which was velcroed and tied in place. They stepped in. Immediately a patina of frost formed on the outside of their visors.

“It’ll clear in a minute,” advised Will. “The air under here is twenty centigrade warmer than outside, and it’s saturated with humidity.”

The visors began to clear immediately and they could see the ice: almost ten thousand tonnes of it, stretching as a great, flat sheet to the front of the storage area. “We store up the water and release it into here every two or three sols, making a temporary lake a few centimeters thick. It freezes in less than a sol. At the far end it’s eight meters thick.”

“And thawing underneath?” asked Alexandra.

Will nodded. “Yes, there’s about a meter of liquid water at the far end. The sunlight penetrates the ice and warms the ground, and the ice traps the heat. When this storage area has a hundred thousand tonnes of water in it—we can expand this storage enough to accommodate that much—the estimate is that two thirds of the water will be liquid and covered by at least five meters of ice. We can oxygenate the water and introduce bacteria and algae, then eventually fish.”

“Cool,” replied Yevgeny. “The bigger the lake, the more efficient it becomes at trapping solar heat.”

“Exactly.”

They stared at the expanse of ice for another minute, then turned and headed out. Will closed up the plastic door tightly. Yevgeny pointed to the cliff side of Boat Rock, which ran westward from Face Rock. “Say, Will. Could we spray a couple tonnes of water on the side of Boat Rock some time? I’d like to simulate a snowfield. We could study the rate of evaporation into the air and the quantity of liquid water flowing underneath the snow pack.”

“Have you seen a proposal to do that? It’s on the website somewhere. We’re interested in doing it, but no one has had the time, and now we have plenty of water.”

“I’ll take a look.”

“It should be quite useful. It’s one of. . .  of . . .  of.. .” Will paused and tried to control an impending sneeze. He had never sneezed in a spacesuit before and he struggled to remember how he could stop it. “Ah—” And he did stop the sneeze, mostly; his lungs heaved, but nothing came out.

“What was that?” asked Alexandra, alarmed.

“A sneeze. I stopped it, though. As I was saying, the snowfield experiment is on the agenda. Now that we have thirty-three adults, we can do so much more.”

“But it means we have to spend a lot more human resources maintaining the Outpost,” noted Yevgeny.

“More people; but a smaller percentage of the total staff,” replied Alexandra.

“Not necessarily. In order to reduce imports, we’re doing more for ourselves, and that takes more people. Running the Outpost takes forty percent of our human resources.” Will paused, suddenly distracted by his nose. It was doing something he hadn’t experienced in years; seven years, to be exact. “Oh my God, my nose is running.”

“What?” replied Alexandra.

“I have a runny nose. And there’s nothing I can do about it, in a space suit.”

“Better head for the Outpost fast,” replied Yevgeny. “Alexandra and I will be fine out here. I want to get up to the top of Boat Rock.”

“Alright. Bye.” Will turned and began to walk back to the Outpost. Stuff began to drip out of his nose and run down his face; he could taste it in his mouth. He automatically raised his hand to wipe his nose, even though the helmet made that totally impossible. He began to run to the nearest airlock.

Once inside, he pulled off his helmet as fast as he could. His nose was not pouring, but the mucus was very liquid—like water—and flowed quickly. He looked around. The nearest box of facial tissue was one hundred million fifty million kilometers away. But there was toilet paper. Still wearing his suit, he headed for the nearest bathroom and blew his nose.

It was still running; it was not just something triggered by the sneeze. Come to think of it, Will had had a very slight sore throat that morning, and had felt a bit tired. He reached up and felt the skin near his throat; he had slightly swollen glands. He headed straight to sickbay in Habitat 2.

Once he entered the sickbay he heard the crying of a baby. It was Sam; Eve was examining him, and Madhu was watching. Will stuck his head in and looked.

“Can I help you?” asked Eve. “Well, no, I can’t right now. Sam’s got a fever.”

“It’s the virus or whatever that Columbus 4 brought. I have a runny nose.”

“Will, come in here.” It was Shinji’s voice, coming from another room. Will walked to the next door; Shinji rose from the bed and sat up. “I’ve got it, too,” said Shinji. “It’s a strange infection. Three different patients and they all have slightly different symptoms.”

“And some of us have had no exposure to germs for quite a while.”

“No, not true. You have bacteria in your gut and on your teeth, and your immune system keeps them under control. Your immune system is not debilitated.”

“But does that mean this won’t be serious?”

“I wouldn’t say that! It could be.”

“How did the infection get here? How could it keep people sick on the flight for six months?”

“Some germs can lay dormant for months or years. Dr. Tang was suffering from a reinfection or a second outbreak. That can happen, also.” Shinji waved at Will’s spacesuit. “I can’t examine you with that on. Go change, then come back. Here.” He reached over and grabbed a sterilized piece of cloth. “Use this as an handkerchief. We won’t be making facial tissue for a while. Bring the cloth back when it’s dirty; there’s a hamper for the medical wash outside. We’ll wash it thoroughly and sterilize it again.”

“Thanks.” Will took the cloth and wiped his nose. He walked back to the men’s spacesuit donning area and changed into his clothes, then returned. On his way back he received an email on his attaché indicating that Mission Control was hard at work on the medical issue. No doubt someone had picked up the conversation on one of the Outpost’s many microphones in public places. When Will returned to sick bay he noted that the microphone light in both of the examining rooms was red, indicating that Mission Control was listening. The video light was green; they weren’t watching, though every room in the Outpost had microphones and cameras, and their output was being taped and stored on Embarcadero in case of an emergency.

Shinji examined Will quickly, then called in Eve, then Martha arrived. She had treated everyone on the flight out and confirmed the symptoms. Everything suggested a virus, which meant antibiotics were of no use. Instead, the symptoms had to be treated. Will got medication to reduce any fever he developed and dry up his runny nose. And of course they took blood.

“What will this do to Ethel and the other pregnant women?” he asked, toward the end of his visit.

“This is potentially very dangerous for pregnancy,” replied Eve. “I’ve already sent all three of them voice messages to come in for examination immediately. It’s potentially dangerous for Marshall as well; Ethel’s bringing him in.”

“I think he was sick this morning, come to think of it,” noted Will. “The kids here get sick so rarely, we really haven’t watched him closely. But this morning he seemed tired.”

“I spoke to Ethel two sols ago about the danger,” continued Eve. “After Martha and I conferred about the outbreak on Columbus 4. This is a variant of the flu virus, but it is not the standard Manila 3C virus that dominated the flu season on Earth last winter. And it seems to have mutated on the flight out, which is very unusual; it may be because of the heavy medication the crew took to fight the first outbreak, a few weeks after leaving Earth. Only the toughest bugs survived.”

“We should have used heavier doses,” said Martha, shaking her head.

“It’s too late now,” replied Shinji. “We have a potential epidemic on our hands and we have to get it under control right away.”

-------------------------------

Supper that evening was a rather subdued affair. Four adults had runny noses and two stayed in their quarters because of mild fevers. The pregnant women all stayed away as well, either because they already were infected or because they wanted to avoid infection. Sam remained in sick bay with his mother at his side. Marshall was quite feverish as well by then, but was resting in his own bed. Will had time to come to supper, but only quickly.

“How’s Marshall?” asked Lisa Kok, worried.

“So far, he’s just got a typical childhood sickness, and Ethel and I just have fairly typical colds. Sam’s got a fever of 39.5, though; that’s 103 Fahrenheit, which is pretty high. Fortunately the anti-fever medication has knocked it down.”

“Do they have all the medications they need?” asked Alexandra.

“Yes, the sick bay is extremely well equipped. That’s not the problem, and neither are the doctors. They know what they’re doing, and there are several specialists on Earth advising them as well. The worry is the immune systems; they may not be ready to deal with something like this.”

“It raises the issue of the inhabitability of this place again,” grumbled Yevgeny.

“And the wisdom of having children here,” added Michiko.

“I don’t agree,” replied Will. His voice rose; he no doubt sounded a bit defensive. “God forbid, that we feel we have to import all of the Earth’s illnesses to make this place habitable! But we do need to import more vaccines or mild forms of some of these illnesses. Life is never easy. We still don’t know what happened to Paul Renfrew and we probably will never know. We still don’t know what’s happening with Madhu’s lungs; the spots are still there, but they don’t seem to be cancerous. We don’t know whether exposure to Martian dust or the radiation levels have anything to do with the lesions. The new MRI equipment and software on its way will make incredibly detailed images, but they still may not solve the mystery.”

“Life is still better here than it is in many places in rural India,” added Lal. “Our health challenges are different, that’s all.”

“If this were the eighteenth century instead of the twenty-first, half of us would be dead by now,” added Charles Vickers.

“That’s true,” replied Yevgeny. “But this isn’t the eighteenth century, and we’ve chosen to come here.”

“I’m very sorry I exposed everyone to the virus,” said Tang. “I feel great sadness. But there really were no noticeable symptoms until I sneezed. Looking back on the first sol here, I realize I felt a bit tired and had a sore throat. But I was also overwhelmed by the excitement of arriving, and I experienced three different environmental control systems in twenty-four hours: the ITV, the shuttle, and the Outpost. I attributed the sore throat to the changes in temperature and humidity that resulted.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Dr. Tang,” replied Will. “Because you weren’t the only person to arrive sick. At least one other person on Columbus 4 has stopped at sickbay for antihistamines.”

“We need to pull together on this one,” replied Yevgeny. “Commander, how many people are affected so far?”

“Seven adults,” replied Will. “Five of whom can’t use a spacesuit. By tomorrow it’ll probably be all seven. We’ll have to rearrange work schedules so that those who can work inside will be able to free up those who can go outside.”

“You can count on me, Commander,” exclaimed Tang. “If my government complains I’m doing anything other than biology, I’ll email them personally and explain it. This is a potential emergency.”

“It is a potential emergency,” agreed Will. “Half this Outpost could be in bed in a few sols. Shinji Nagatani is sick, so we have one less physician to treat the ill. Eve could get sick from this as well. Martha got it on the flight out, so she should be alright.”

“We’ll pick up the slack,” replied Yevgeny.

----------------------

By noon the next sol, Will’s words had a ring of prophecy to them. All fifteen of the adults who had been on Mars before Columbus 4 had arrived were feeling sick. Half were staying in their rooms. Ethel and Marshall both stayed in bed, which meant Will had little free time after taking care of them.

“You should see the headlines!” growled Roger. He stepped across the hall from his apartment to visit Will. He had left the doors open so he could hear Madhu and Sam if they called. “The cheaper tabloids are referring to the ‘Mars Plague.’ A few are saying this is a mutated virus because of Martian or space conditions and that it’ll wipe out humanity if it is every transmitted back to Earth. A few extremists are saying we have to be quarantined permanently or even cut off.”

Will shrugged. “There will always be strange fanatics! Don’t forget that before I was appointed Commander here two years ago, there was a persistent group of kooks who insisted that Shinji, Ethel, and I had been killed to keep secret the fact that no one was really sent to Mars. I guess my tv appearances have knocked the wind out of their arguments.”

“I know, there are still people who maintain no one has gone to the moon yet, even if about five hundred people have visited there since, including a Saudi prince and a U.S. senator. I know there are kooks out there who maintain all your t.v. appearances are really by a look-a-like, and that the Mars Commission is a fancy cover for a bunch of guys with expensive villas in Tahiti. But this is different, Will. You need to pay attention to it. It’s a mainstream rumor and a mainstream tendency.”

“I’m sure it’ll be nipped in the bud by the public information folks.”

“I hope so. I think you need to go on television.”

“Looking like this! How persuasive will I be.”

“Then get your nose dried up and borrow some makeup. I sense a public relations mess. This could dampen enthusiasm and cost us a few hundred million.”

Will looked at Roger. “This is unusual of you, too, Roger; you don’t usually smell public relations problems.”

“I hate public relations. It’s a giant con job on the public. But everyone does it and it has rules. And you’re good at it. If you weren’t so photogenic and articulate, Mars would have half as many people right now. The Mars Commission doesn’t know what it has with you in charge here. I wish I could do what you can, but I can’t.”

“Okay. Thank you for your compliment. I’ll look into the situation.”

“Good. I know I compliment you pretty rarely; I’m not that kind of guy. But thank you for what you do here, and you have to do something now.”

----------------------

Roger helped watch Ethel and Marshall as well as Sam and Madhu and Will got on the videophone, mostly from the easy chair in his small living room where he could rest easily. He called Morgan. The Director of the Mars Commission said he should talk to NASA’s staff in the Office of Public Information, since Morgan had no jurisdiction over them. He called them and they said he should talk to Morgan, since they had jurisdiction over U.S. media only and could not plan an international media strategy. Morgan then recommended he contact the European and Japanese space agencies as well to coordinate media work in those countries. Then an email arrived from NASA’s Office of Public Information saying they would coordinate everything after all, and that he should not talk to anyone else, including Morgan. As he stared at his screen and wondered what to do, videomails arrived from France and Japan with suggestions. Disgusted and tired, Will called Heather Kimball, head of the Mars Exploration Society, for help to untangle the bureaucracy, then took a nap in the chair. At that point Érico, the least ill of the fifteen of them, went to the great room and brought back soup for everyone. “They just took Rosa to sick bay,” he reported. “Her fever spiked up, so they’re giving her an intravenous solution.”

“How many months pregnant?” asked Roger.

“Three,” replied Will, worried. “I’m surprised they didn’t tell me.”

“Have you checked your email?” asked Érico.

“No.”

“It should be there; Eve told me she was sending you written reports.”

“I’ll check. She called Ethel when I was on the phone to Earth and said she was coming over to check everyone here, right after lunch. I’ll ask her then.”

“By the way, two more people report mild reinfections,” added Érico. “This bug is coming back around to hit the Columbus 4 folks again. When I visited Shinji—he’s now staying in bed, too—he said Charles and Alexandra have slight runny noses this sol. Oh, that reminds me. At lunch, Louise said she planned to devote time to making facial tissue tomorrow. She doesn’t know how to run the equipment, but will figure it out.”

“I’ll talk to her,” said Ethel, who was listening from her bed in the next room. “I don’t want her to break anything!”

They continued to chat quietly over lunch; no one had much energy. Then Eve showed up, making her daily rounds to visit the sick. She updated Will. In the last twenty-four hours the situation had grown steadily worse, but not dangerously so. Will found himself encouraging her, rather than the other way around.

Will called Yevgeny and put him in charge of Mars surface operations temporarily, so he could focus on the publicity matters and get some sleep. Then he made another round of calls to find out whether anyone felt anything had to be done about the public relations situation. Some said, reluctantly, yes; others said, don’t be ridiculous, this is not a problem, ignore it and it’ll go away. Will was not able to serve as a bridge for people millions of kilometers from him, yet less than a kilometer from each other. He took another nap, then finally crawled in bed to get some serious sleep.

He was awakened at 3 a.m. by a phone call from Eve. “Will, I have some bad news. Rosa just lost her baby.”

“What!” Will sat up in bed. “How’s this possible! The baby was healthy, right?”

“Yes, as far as we knew. But her fever shot up very fast and we were not able to pull it down fast enough. She just had a miscarriage. Of course, the miscarriage might have had nothing to do with the fever. We’ll never be sure.”

That reminded him of what he had said earlier in the sol. “I know. Life is still uncertain and can be harsh. Poor Rosa; she was so looking forward to the baby! I’ll try to get down after breakfast to express my deepest condolences.”

“She’s resting now; this was a terrible shock. Thank God she’s young. That’ll help. How are Ethel and Marshall?”

“They’re asleep right here in bed with me, and they seem to be doing fine. Thanks for asking.”

“You’re welcome. See you tomorrow.”

The line clicked shut. Will rolled over and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t. He was too saddened. He finally got back to sleep, but when he awakened a few hours later he ached from exhaustion, had a fever, and felt lousy. But he had to get at least some of his duties done.

At least he didn’t have to go down to get breakfast for everyone. Dr. Tang appeared pushing a cart loaded with all sorts of goodies. He knocked on their door and when Will answered, he was surprised.

“Good morning! What’s this?”

“Breakfast. It occurred to me that when everyone is sick, food should go to them. And perhaps it is a bit of your personal example rubbing off on me.”

“You are very kind, Enlai. Very kind indeed. Bring it in.”

Enlai rolled the cart into the family’s small living room. Will and Ethel’s bedroom door was in the right-hand wall; Marshall’s bedroom door was to the left. Straight ahead, the room had one small window in the meter-thick duricrete walls. It faced east and offered a view of the Outpost; at the moment sunlight streamed in and landed on a red-flowered geranium in a pot that sat on a dining table. The living room also had a couch that could seat three, three chairs that were pulled under the table, a high chair, and a large screen television hanging on one wall. A small table held an attaché, which served as a videophone.

Ethel came out of bed in her nightgown and sat to eat. Marshall came and sat in his high chair. Enlai poured tea for her and dished out plates of food. He had brought a plate of food for Marshall.

“This makes me feel better already,” said Ethel.

“That makes my sol. Commander, I hope you are getting better?”

“Slowly. I didn’t sleep well last night, unfortunately.” He turned to Ethel. “How’s Marshall’s fever?”

“It’s half a degree Centigrade lower. I think the worst may have past.”

“I hope so.”

“So do I,” added Enlai. “I have to go across the hall to Roger and Madhu’s to serve them as well. Then I’ll stop back for seconds, then head for Érico and Carmen’s. I can stop back then, also.”

“You are immensely kind, Enlai. Immensely,” said Ethel.

“I am at your service, my friend.” Enlai smiled warmly; he was genuinely trying to be of assistance.

“Check back with us after you visit to Érico and Carmen; not before,” replied Will.

“That’s what I’ll do, then.” Enlai turned and pushed the cart out of the apartment.

“That’s really sweet of him,” said Ethel.

“Yes, it is,” agreed Will, still a bit surprised by the visit.

He drank coffee, ate a good breakfast, and took his medications. Overall, they made him feel a bit better. The virus was hitting him like a very severe cold, but perhaps the worst was past for him as well. It was hard to tell. He washed, shaved, dressed, and headed for the sick bay to see Rosa Stroger. Neal was with her.

“I had to come down to say how immensely saddened I am,” Will said, putting his hand on Rosa’s shoulder. “After I got the call last night, I barely slept. I was in too much grief for you. I’m comforted only because I know you are young and strong and can try again.”

“Thank you, Will,” Rosa said, in a voice that was surprisingly weak. “Yes, I’ll pull through this.”

“Good; we’re expecting it! Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh, no, nothing. And you’re sick anyway.”

“I have a slightly delicate suggestion. Would you like a memorial service of some sort for the lost baby? It might help bring closure for everyone.”

Rosa smiled. “Yes, Will, that would be lovely! I think it’d help.”

“Then get well, because we can’t hold it until your health is recovering. I’ll talk to Madhu and Roger; they usually help me in planning devotional services. It’ll help.”

“Oh, yes, it will,” agreed Neal. “Thank you, Will.”

They chatted several more minutes, then Will headed out. He felt well enough to make a quick tour of the Outpost, so he did. In the industrial area he encountered Irina Lesz busily making paper.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Facial tissue; you requested it.”

He looked at the roll, then felt it. “It feels more like toilet paper.”

“Well, that’s what it really is. We don’t have equipment or guidelines for making facial tissue, just toilet tissue. But I tried it out; its absorbancy is pretty good.”

“Good. I guess it’s better than nothing.”

“I hope so. The big problem is a lack of plant matter to make tissue from. We might manage a hundred sheets per person.”

“That’ll supplement the cloth handkerchiefs. Thank you, Irina.”

“I’m glad I can do something to help! The bug had me wiped out for a week with a fever on the flight out. Of course, my nose never ran then.”

Will thanked her again and continued to walk slowly around the Outpost. About the time he returned to his apartment his attaché buzzed with a message from Earth. He walked to his office—he hadn’t been in it for two sols—to listen and watch in privacy.

It was Heather Kimball. “I got your message yesterday, Will, and I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve asked Louisa Turner to send you a videomessage about what she can do to help you, not only with publicity, but with office management on Earth. She’s worked for NASA’s Office of Public Information and for Hill and Knowlton, the big public relations firm, in their Washington operation. She has published a book about her lobbying days in Washington. She’s basically made enough money at different times to retire early—she’s only 52, too—and she’s looking for a project that can also be a cause. She loves space exploration and is a real fan of Mars. We were talking the other day and when I mentioned the possibility of her working for you, she was fascinated by the possibilities. You may have some trouble with her working a bit independently, but it probably will be worth it in the end. This is not some experienced secretary; this is an experienced leader. And Will, you can trust her. That’s something I’m sure of. She’s not going to work secretly for someone else and she’s not going to leak stuff. She’s discrete. If you don’t hear from her in twenty-four hours, let me know. Bye.”

Will immediately sent a videomail back, thanking her profusely for the contact. He didn’t have long to wait. Two hours later, Louisa Turner sent him a message.

“Good sol, Dr. Elliott. I am a bit embarrassed to send you this videomessage, but Heather insisted. I understand you’re looking for someone who can help run an office for you here on earth. The person has to be devoted to Mars, loyal to you, and very experienced, since communication has a large time delay built into it. Presumably you need someone who is well organized as well. I may be the sort of person you need. I’ll attach my c.v. I know public relations and I have a lot of contacts in Washington. My contacts in Paris and other places are not as good, but I can work on that; besides, what you need is someone who can talk to people live, which you can’t do, and who can make contacts or explore options, then refer the information back to you.

“If you are interested, I’d love to talk to you further. We’ll have to discuss salary and benefits, of course, and I’ll need at least one full-time assistant. I don’t know what the Mars Commission has agreed to give you. That may be an issue as well. Let me know. Goodbye.”

Will smiled. She was perfectly dressed, articulate, she knew how to state her qualifications without pushing them, and she had guessed his needs quite well. She seemed eminently suited for the job. But the Mars Commission would be a problem; they were not looking for someone so high-powered. They had approved his hiring an administrative assistant to handle such matters as inventory and his Commander’s correspondence on Earth, including fan mail.

He hit reply. “Good morning, Ms. Turner; or can I call you Louisa? Feel free to call me Will, it’s just easier. I have authorization from the Mars Commission to hire someone who could ably serve as the assistant you need. The person is supposed to answer fan mail, for example, and screen communications that come to me. The person is also expected to handle communications on behalf of the Borough of Aurorae—our civic authority up here—however, and that may be the way we can get you hired, because that person will have to handle complicated documents, including legal documents connected with the sale of land. I have asked for the administrative assistant position to be split and one part upgraded to office manager, and I think Dr. Morgan will go along. He has given a preliminary okay.

“Perhaps we could start with a small project to see how well we work together. I need advice with a public relations matter. As you know, we have a flu-like virus raging up here. Last night Rosa Stroger had a miscarriage as a result. This virus is causing all sorts of uncertainty about human exploration of Mars. But no one will give me direction how to respond or permission to do so, and the matter has gotten caught in the administrative limbo between NASA and the Mars Commission. I think at this point I should set up a series of interviews by myself and leave it at that; let them complain that I took over the publicity effort. I hesitate to do it simply because I’m not experienced at drawing up the talking points and the other support advice I have gotten from OPI in the past. I suspect, however, that you can help. Are you interested? Let me know. Good bye.”

Will sent the message from his living room, then crawled back into bed with Ethel and Marshall. The boy was definitely feeling better that sol, and his fever was lower. Ethel, however, was very worried about the baby and was watching her fever closely.

They watched some television and napped. Then Will’s attaché beeped. Seventy minutes had passed. It was Louisa Turner. He headed back to the living room to listen.

“Will, please do call me Louisa, or even Lulu. That’s what my friends call me. I’ve attached talking points for you. They’re the obvious ones that occur to me. Actually, I’m not sure you really need them, except maybe as a crutch. Will Elliott, you are a natural spokesman. You exude confidence. You have a relaxed, articulate presence. I suspect you have very good instincts. But the talking points, I’m sure, can help.

“Now, who to talk to? I’ve seen you speak to reporters in the past and bypass the public information people when they call you. OPI doesn’t like the situation, but it does happen. This is the time to do that, especially when no one is sure who is in charge. I have two friends who owe me favors; I can call them and ask them to make a few calls to a few reporters, suggesting they contact you. Of course, we’ll have to leak a contact address to a few people, and that will be a problem. It would probably be best to leak it via Heather so no one could trace the leak back to me; that would kill any plan to hire me pretty fast! Let me know what you think. Bye.”

No direct answer whether she’d work on the project; she started to work on it instead. Will opened the talking points document attached. She had thought of some excellent questions and very powerful responses to them. He immediately found himself editing them a bit, adding a few ideas of his own, changing some of the language to fit his speaking style—though she hadn’t done bad at capturing his approach and words. In ten minutes it was obvious that Louisa was going to work. He finally attached the revised talking points to a response.

“Louisa, I made a few changes to the talking points. I needed the basic draft; it stimulated a lot of thinking. You did an excellent job. I am impressed. Yes, send these to your contacts and let them call me. I will handle other questions as well, of course. I can talk to a dozen folks in the next two sols, and at least half should be outside the U.S.

Thank you very much for this favor. Let’s explore this option further. Bye.”

 

© 2004 Robert H. Stockman

 

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