1
Nuclear Fire
The pale blue jet extending from the solid core nuclear engine shrank in length and intensity, then flickered out. “Delta vee 4,508 meters per second,” announced the terrestrial announcer. “The first firing of an SCN-25 to send a human crew to Mars has been successfully completed.”
In Renfrew Hall, where most of Mars’s twenty-nine adults had gathered for a long lunch and the collective experience of Columbus 5’s trans-Mars insertion, applause and cheers broke out. The image of the solid-core nuclear engine, the Mars Shuttle Apollonaris, and the interplanetary habitats Hellas and Syrtis shrinking against the backdrop of a magnificently blue and white earth lingered on the large screen.
“Chocolate’s on the way!” exclaimed Neal Stroger, a geologist and chocoholic.
“Not to mention the vodka!” added Yevgeny Lescov.
“And Lal’s future wife!” quipped Roger Anderson, slapping Lal Shankaraman on the back. Lal smiled, embarrassed; everyone was asking him how he could marry someone he had never met before.
“And our community grows by two thirds,” added Will Elliott, Commander of Mars Operations, with a smile.
“Well, Érico, the nukes work,” added Roger.
“I never questioned that they would work,” replied Érico. “I just question their wisdom if they ever have to be refueled here. The Swift shuttle has space to fly up two tonnes of hydrogen to low earth orbit instead of eight tonnes of hydrogen and oxygen. It costs four times as much per tonne, but the Commission saves mass and money. But in Mars orbit, we have to replace ten tonnes of hydrogen and oxygen, made from ten tonnes of water extracted from one hundred fifty tonnes of chondritic rock on Phobos, with five tonnes of hydrogen made from forty-five tonnes of water! It makes no sense for us.”
“Getting the automated equipment to make and store enough hydrogen’s a big headache for me, and the oxygen just becomes more orbital pollution,” added Yevgeny, who was in charge of operating the moons.
“Well, this time the SCNs are just boosting the mission and heading back to Earth. If NASA can get the oxygen afterburners funded and tested, it probably is practical using them here as well,” said Will, trying to remain neutral. He was holding his fourteen-month old daughter Elizabeth in his embrace while she slipped into her afternoon nap. His wife, Ethel MacGregor, sat nearby with their son, three and a half year old Marshall, the first child born on the Red Planet. He turned to Tang Enlai, their Chinese exobiologist, and handed him Lizzie; Enlai loved to hold the children. Hands free, Will turned to his attaché—a device about the size of a clipboard which was a combination computer and videophone—and punched in the number to call Pete Theodoulos, Commander of Columbus 5.
“Hello Commander Theodoulos,” he began, recording a formal video message that Pete wouldn’t receive for almost five minutes. “On behalf of the residents of Aurorae Outpost, our hearty congratulations for your successful burn. We see the Elysium and its two Interplanetary Transit Vehicles are on the way as well, and also had a perfect engine burning, though their chemical engines were really burning something! We wish you the best with the rendezvous and reassembly of the Columbus 5 complex, your visit of 2020JB, and for an uneventful flight here. We look forward to seeing you in less than six months. Bye.”
He pushed send. Enlai leaned over. “When do they encounter 2020JB?”
“In mid May, about half way to Mars. The trajectory lines up pretty well and they will actually be able to visit the worldlet for about two weeks before making a mid-course correction and heading our way.”
“Big?” asked Enlai.
“Eight hundred fifty meters per second,” replied Ethel, who had been listening to the conversation.
Enlai nodded. “I have a friend on board. He’s excited, even though 2020JB is only two hundred meters across.”
“It’s a prime candidate for a cycler orbit because its perihelion and aphelion give it a transit time between the planets that is roughly what we want,” noted Ethel. “The trick will be setting up a drill on it to extract water and other gasses, and an ion engine to expel them, and then waiting a decade for the engine to have an effect. Maybe the Commission will do it.”
“This visit will be the test,” agreed Enlai. “It won’t make travel between the planets faster, but it would make it safer.”
“Indeed,” agreed Will. “And it provides more data about Earth-crossing asteroids, which might help protect our home world some day.”
He turned back to his lunch, now cold. About the time he finished it, the reply icon on his attaché lit up. “Thanks, Commander Elliott,” replied Theodoulos. “We can’t wait to see you all. Most of us are planning to come for at least four years, and many of the crew plan to stay a decade or more. We’re practically a colonization flight, you might say. So the excitement is almost unimaginable. We’re on our way to our new home. We appreciate your words of congratulation. Bye.”
Many of the others in the room came over to hear Theodoulos’s response; Will played it a second time. By then, people were beginning to trickle out and return to work.
Will and Ethel took their kids upstairs to the child care area, then headed for their work stations as well. Will detoured through the greenhouses and Clarke Dome, formerly known as the Mars Dome, a big transparent bubble thirty-two meters in diameter. He looked at the lush greenery inside, then outside at the escarpment, a 1,500 meter high wall of rock that rent the northern horizon a dozen kilometers away. His eyes fell on the hole they were beginning to excavate for the two new biomes, a special combination of habitation and agricultural dome. The Hellas was carrying one biome; the other would leave Earth on an automated cargo vehicle next month and be propelled to Mars at a fairly high velocity by the SCN engine. The “biome” was a brilliant synthesis of ideas by Alexandra Lescov and he couldn’t wait to see how well the two units would work out.
Will headed for his office on the ground level of Habitat 1. The office was carved out of the old Great Room of what was their first inflated structure on Mars, which had sustained Will, Ethel, and their four colleagues for eighteen months. Next to his office was the bridge, which was staffed twenty-four point six hours per sol—on Mars they did not refer to twenty-four hours per day because the “sol” was thirty-nine minutes longer than a terrestrial day. Will looked in the bridge a moment, acknowledged the person there—who began to pack up and leave, since Will was there—then entered his office, sat at his desk, and put his attaché on it. He had received a few messages.
He opened an email from Gregory
Harris. He had to smile when he saw it had an image of Harris’s Beautician’s Certificate. The former Catholic
priest, psychologist, and registered nurse had proved willing to do just about
anything for the Outpost; when Will had mentioned in a television interview
that the Outpost badly needed someone who knew how to cut hair and handle other
related needs, such as curling, dying, depilation, massage, manicures,
pedicures, makeup, and other seemingly trivial matters—matters that had
actually generated criticism of the residents by terrestrial pundits—Harris had
immediately emailed Will and said he’d get the required training. Looking at
the series of certificates that followed the first one, Will could see that
Harris had kept his promise. He hit reply and set the response to be an
audiomail. “Hello Greg! Thank you so much for getting all this beautician’s
training. I think you will be mobbed with people sporting funny haircuts as
soon as you arrive! Actually, Madhu doesn’t do a bad job, but it now takes her
a lot of time, and with Columbus 5 we’ll have over fifty people here, so we’ll
need professional treatment. We are really grateful to you. Bye.”
The second message was from Silvio Diponte, and Will opened it with a mix
of anticipation and trepidation, because the lawyer-accountant-businessman was
proving more innovative than Will had hoped or was ready for. “Hi, Will. As I’m
sure you saw, we had an excellent TMI and are on our way. In the last week,
getting everything ready at Gateway, a lot of people have approached me
privately about their private ambitions for Mars. It would seem that only four
people are really committed to return home in two years because of family; this
is fewer than the official number. On the other hand, because this group has
few couples and a lot of single people, many people who want to stay wonder
whether they can find a spouse on Mars. That’s a matter to consider. Maybe more
arrivals should be taking their cue from Lal.
“In terms of ambitions, I found a crewmember who knows how to run an
old-fashioned loom and who is willing to devote extra time learning our new
fabric weaving, cutting, and sewing unit. I figure a half-time position would
allow us to produce about 200 more garments per year, or four more per person.
That could be a crucial quality of life improvement, especially when you
consider the range of garments we’ll be able to make. Of course, this person
has committed ten hours a month, paid extra from store revenues, not
twenty-five hours a week!
“Another crewmember is willing to commit ten hours a month to the plastic
fabricator; again, a small amount, but a start. The fabricator we’re bringing
can make almost anything out of plastic, including children’s toys. Again, it’s
a quality of life issue, and for me it’s a crucial issue for developing the
store. A third crewmember who has training to use our glass-making equipment
seems willing to do some cash work on the side as well.
“We have several people with crafts training: ceramics, knitting,
embroidery, leatherwork, woodworking. I think you have that information
already, since it’s listed on the lengthy life history everyone had to
complete. I hope some of them can be persuaded to make items for sale as well.
“As for ‘fancies’—that’s what I call the ambitions that are less
practical—we’ve got one crewmember who does landscapes; oil paintings of them,
that is. Apparently he isn’t bad with portraits as well. He’s looking forward
to the challenge of painting Mars and of course he hopes to get some time to do
it. I told him my guess was that he’d have to paint on Sunsols and demonstrate
his talent, as well as earn the right to reduced hours over a year or two. We
also have two novelists—unpublished—a poet, a pianist lacking a piano, a
cellist with a cello—one by Giovanni Verelli, to be exact— a script writer, and
a videographer. You may want to think about giving the latter two some comp
time to exercise their talents on behalf of Mars.
“That gives you some idea of what I’m finding. I’m preparing a survey to
determine how much people are willing to pay for a Mars-made set of clothes.
Getting supply and demand to match each other at a reasonable price could be
quite tricky. It appears that part time paid work will cost me a lot. Bye.”
Will thought about DiPonte’s message and glanced at the work assignments.
Anyone devoting five hours to other tasks had to do so on Satursol or Sunsol.
And many already worked an extra morning or afternoon on the weekend because
the workload was too much for the normal workweek. Will glanced over the
database; the 47 adults who would be on Mars in a few months were scheduled to
do the full time work of 48.8 people when one included the various parenting
leaves that were scheduled. That averaged an extra three hours per week per
person. And every sol, Alexandra Lescov was coming to him with an adjustment to
the construction schedule, which always increased the work expected.
Yet Diponte was determined to establish a store and to promote
manufacture of local goods. Maybe it would work. He hit reply. “Thanks, Silvio,
for the update. I’m very concerned about our work levels here. Maybe I should
remind you that sunrise is at 7 a.m. and work starts at 8. We eat lunch from
12:30 to 1:00 p.m., then return to work until 6:30, when we eat supper. Sunset
is at 7:20, half a sol after sunrise. Some parents end their work at 4:30 or
5:00 to have time with their children during the daylight, but they make up for
the time that evening. Ten hours of work each sol; it’s pretty tiring, and is
possible only because meals are provided and laundry washed robotically.
“Yet a few people have already agreed to work 1.1 full time equivalents. As I look
over Alexandra’s new figures for construction, it appears all the construction
people will be working 1.2 full time equivalents for the first six months here;
in other words, no Satursols off.
“So I have to check the volunteers against the database to make sure they
aren’t overcommitted, and I suggest anyone who volunteers more than five hours
a month needs to find someone to help take some of their regular work,
especially if they’re in fabrication or construction. The plans we have are
looking more and more ambitious all the time.
“I should add that I’m very skeptical that we can manufacture a lot of
consumer goods here and sell them at a price people will accept; the manufacturing
costs are too high and the quality will be too low. A high-quality dress can be
imported from Earth for $1,000; a low-quality garment made here will cost
almost as much. I still need to be convinced, but I’m not opposed either. I
suppose we’ll be able to finalize the economic and quality issues after you
arrive, though. Bye.”
Will had a long list of messages in his inbox, but he indulged himself to
read a personal email before tackling the work-related ones. Dear Will, an
email from his old friend from the moon and from Columbus 1, David Alaoui,
began. I’ve been at Shackleton for a month now looking at the latest
collection of Venus rocks picked up here; a hundred-kilo chunk was just found
in Clavius. They just installed Habitat 8—it would have been your Habitat 5—and
with it Shackleton has a capacity for fifty-six people. They’re very grateful
to Mars for not wanting it, I assure you! The tourist season opens in ten days
and they’re expecting three loads of eight tourists in the next six weeks, which
is more than they’ve ever had in the winter. Last summer, of course, they had
more; I think forty in three months. Everyone complains about tourism, but half
the tourists are university professors in the sciences and they’re quite
interesting, so in one sentence someone might complain about the upcoming
onslaught and in the next sentence they’ll mention fondly someone they met here
last year!
Everyone is always comparing Shackleton Station with Aurorae Outpost. It
was quite striking. Every time one expands, so does the other; the moon is
closer, but Mars has romance, and besides it used to have life on it. There’s a
lot of talk about getting a biome for the moon; but the micrometeoroid problem
and the horizontal sun require a significant redesign. The surface exploration
efforts are always being compared as well; the moon has fewer trails, but more
extensive exploration via hopper.
Anyway, this place is hopping. Sebastian seems to be doing a pretty good
job and is reasonably popular. People tell me he’s gotten over his fetish for
exacting control over the inventory. He says hello to you and apologizes he
hasn’t been in contact for a few months.
In four days I’m catching the Lifter Orientale to Gateway because Project Magellan’s equipment arrives
there in the Guineviere in a few days, now that Columbus 5 has left.
The Amazonis is already
there; the speculation that it was given a name applicable to either Mars or
Venus seems to be correct. As I suppose you know, the two interplanetary
habitations have undergone pretty extensive modification, with oxygen tanks and
engines added to the bottom above the heat shield and liquid methane tanks
replacing one of the upper housing areas, thereby converting the ITV into a
powered vehicle. We’ve got eight tonnes of water wrapped around the living
quarters as well to shield us from radiation. In addition, an automated cargo
vehicle is hauling two Samandar sunwings, six telerobotic rovers designed for
operation on the Venus surface, and four Phoenix mini-airplanes to shuttle back
and forth between the sunwings and the surface, since the sunwings have to stay
pretty high in the Venus atmosphere. The sunwings have sample recovery shuttles
built into them that will manufacture the return fuel from internal hydrogen
and atmospheric carbon dioxide, just like the Mars shuttles.
As you can imagine, this mission’s very exciting; Europe’s first sponsorship of a staffed interplanetary mission. If this works, people are asking whether Mercury is next! My wife’s not thrilled by two years of absence and no planetary surface we can escape to, but the technology’s well established. It worked for the six of us on Mars, so it should work fine for four us in Venus orbit. We’ll see in eleven months. Bye.
Will hit reply and wrote a quick note back to his friend. Thanks for
the news! I’ll have to give you an update some other time. Right now, I’m going
crazy balancing all the different demands on our time. We’re growing from
almost thirty to almost fifty, but our science is expanding much less because
we’re acquiring more pressurized space that requires lots of maintenance and
we’re getting more services. It’s rather frustrating. But I’m delighted for
you. The second human being to land on Mars will be the commander of the first
crew to set up a Venus orbital station. I hope the station grows, flourishes,
and becomes permanent; we have to study Earth’s sister world much more if we
can be sure Earth avoids the same fate. Congratulations, Daoud. I’m really
delighted for you. Bye.
Will turned to his extensive work. For an hour he read accumulated emails about personnel allocation; an office of three people in Houston made most of the decisions and negotiated the general work arrangements as well as they could, but often the people on Mars wanted to talk to Will before completing the negotiations. That consumed hours of his time when allocations were being modified, especially when a new crew arrived at Mars; it meant that the workforce expanded and new positions had to be filled, creating opportunities for promotion of the crew with seniority. No matter how large the Outpost grew, however, there was never enough staff; the quantity of possible exploration, science, and research on ecology and materials was infinite.
So he send videomails to staff about their requests, approving a few, suggesting modifications to others, offering meetings in other cases; and every case he copied Human Resources, for the allocation of human resources on Mars had huge effects on the support teams scattered across the Earth. Rangers and conestogas, their six- and eight wheeled surface vehicles, were built and maintained in Detroit; inflatable structures, Saskatoon; agricultural and ecological systems, Seville; buildings constructed of local materials, Moscow; geology exploration in Houston, Berlin, Moscow, and Tokyo; exobiology, Palo Alto; the ITVs, San Diego; the Mars shuttles, Denver and Turin. Coordinating the entire unwieldy symphony was Douglas Morgan, former astronaut and Senator, head of the Mars Commission in Houston.
By three p.m. Will had managed to complete most of his administrative tasks, so he forced himself to turn away from the remainder. He went for a quick walk to relax and smooth the transition to his other, more scientific occupation. He passed through Clarke Dome and briefly stopped to talk to Therese Deschanel, their environmentalist, who was in charge of all ecology and agriculture while Lisa Kok was on maternity leave. She was adding another layer of Martian regolith—reg, they usually called it—to the soil that had been developed in one of the agricultural plots there, building up their supply for the sol when they would need it in the new biome. From there he entered the lower floor of Joseph Hall, which was divided into a garage area and a manufacturing area. He waved to Ethel, who was running the sheetrock fabrication unit, and they chatted briefly. Then he turned around and walked back to Habitat 1 and entered the control room for the Prospectors, or telerobotically operated rovers, which occupied the other side of the main floor. For the last three and a half hours before supper he ran a rover in Deuteronilus Mensae, rolling from rock to rock, taking samples, placing a sensor against the surface to measure its mineral content, excavating a small trench in an ancient sand dune. They had eight Prospectors scattered across the surface of the planet and six people running them part time. Every two or three months a sunwing—a solar-powered aircraft—left the Outpost, visited two or three Prospectors, recovered their sample canisters, and dropped new ones. They recovered a tonne of samples per year from the machines and used them to explore many areas where no geologist had yet been able to set foot. One Prospector, in two years, had rolled almost three hundred kilometers across the Martian surface.
Supper was boisterous; the news that Columbus 5 was on its way was mixed with the exciting announcement that Lisa Kok had gone to the sick bay to have her baby. Many left early and headed for the Great Room in Habitat 2 to join Karol Havlicek, the future father, and wait for any news. Will and Ethel, however, had other responsibilities; they took their kids upstairs to get ready for bed. While Ethel put Lizzie to bed, Will gave Marshall a bath.
“Dad, why does Roger insult Érico all the time?” Marshall asked, as he was putting on his pajamas.
“He doesn’t really insult him. I don’t know how to explain it. . . . Roger and Érico are good friends because they’ve done a lot of things together, but they see the world very differently. Roger doesn’t like the way Érico sees the world, so he teases him about it.”
“Kind of like how Sammie always hits me.”
“Well, Sam’s just three years old, remember. But maybe he’s learning a little bit from his dad. You must always be kind to Sam, Marshall. The two of you will always be good friends, especially when you’re a little older.”
“I don’t like Sammie, he’s always hitting me.”
“He’s just trying to be friendly in his own way, dear.” Will helped pull on Marshall’s pajama top, then led him from the bathroom across their small living room to Marshall’s small—two by four meter—bedroom. Lizzie had a room of similar size, while Will and Ethel shared a three by four meter bedroom on the other side of the four by four meter living room from the children’s bedrooms. They sat on Marshall’s bed to say prayers.
“Who’s gonna start?” asked Will.
“You. Where’s mom?”
“She’s still getting Lizzie to sleep. Okay, I’ll say a prayer first.” Will closed his eyes and recited a common, short Bahá'í prayer: Is there any remover of difficulties save God? Say: praised be God! He is God! All are His servants, and all abide by His bidding.
Marshall’s lips moved slightly while his father recited; it was a prayer he knew as well. It was his turn; he was tired and said one very short: O God! Make my heart pure, like unto a pearl. Then he added “Your turn.”
Will nodded, but just then Ethel stepped into the room. She sat on the bed as well. “Mom, will you say your prayer?”
“Let’s not interrupt daddy, okay.”
Marshall nodded, so Will recited a longer prayer: Say: God sufficeth all things above all things, and nothing in the heavens or the earth but God sufficeth. Verily, He is in Himself the Knower, the Sustainer, the Omnipotent.
“Now, mom?’ asked Marshall.
“Alright,” Ethel replied. She paused to make sure she remembered: Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen.
Marshall nodded, satisfied. “That’s one you have to learn some sol,” Will said.
“Mom, why don’t you say Bahá'í prayers?”
Ethel paused. “Because I don’t know them. I’m a Christian, remember, not a Bahá'í.”
“That’s right. But why aren’t you a Bahá'í, like dad and me?”
Ethel was startled by the question. They had been praying with Marshall at bedtime for almost a year, now, and he had learned two or three short Bahá'í prayers. He had never said he was a Bahá'í, however. “Well, dear, I don’t know what to say,” she finally said. “I haven’t studied the prayers, the way you have.”
That seemed to satisfy him. Marshall bowed his head; it was his turn. O God, my God! Unite the hearts of Thy servants, and reveal to them Thy great purpose. May they follow Thy commandments and abide in Thy law. Help them, O God, in their endeavor, and grant them strength to serve Thee. O God! Leave them not to themselves, but guide their steps b y the light of Thy knowledge, and cheer their hearts by Thy love. Verily, Thou art their helper and their Lord.”
Will smiled. “Very good! You remembered the whole thing from last night!” He leaned over and kissed his son. “Now, let’s read three stories, and no more, okay?”
Marshall nodded and yawned; they weren’t going to get a fight from him that night. Will read one, then Ethel, and half way through the third the little boy was sound asleep. Will and Ethel tiptoed out. “I’m sorry he put you on the spot like that. He’s now got four prayers memorized, so naturally he’s asking.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I suppose if I were more Christian I would be upset. But the kids have to have some sort of moral upbringing, and a spiritual upbringing is probably good as well. And besides, your morality and spirituality seem pretty sound.”
“Your Presbyterian grandmother would approve?”
“Once she got over the initial shock, yes. And so do I.” Ethel kissed him. He smiled and kissed her back.
“I should probably go down to sick bay for a while and see how things are going.”
Ethel nodded. “Yes, the Commander needs to make an appearance. I’ll sit and watch some tv. But don’t stay too long, even if you go to your office.”
Will looked at his watch. It was 8:30. “I’ll get back by ten, how’s that.”
“Okay,” she agreed. She knew he couldn’t stay; it was his restlessness as well as his duties. They kissed, then he hurried out.
She turned to the television; they had a large screen tv on the living room wall and her favorite show had been downloaded by the Outpost’s computers earlier in the sol. But first she looked into Lizzie’s room to make sure the little girl was sleeping, then checked on Marshall. She spotted her son’s book of Bahá'í prayers. She picked it up and sat in the living room to read some; the show could wait.