A Step Beyond (22 page)
N
elson took several steps back from the miniature launch-pad and placed his arms akimbo. The rocket was to enter the caldera of Olympus Mons. It was an awkward-looking contraption. Standard rocket fuels did not burn well in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide, so the rocket had to carry its own oxidizers. The oxygen was contained in two tanks that appeared as if they had been added as an afterthought. They were machine-metal gray, unpainted, and were bound to the rocket by a metal strap. It never did fly well on Earth. But then, the engineers asserted it was not designed for Earth-like conditions. Earth’s gravity was, of course, much greater and its atmosphere much thicker. The rocket was intended for Mars. The engineers pointed to a computer simulation of a near-perfect parabola over Olympus Mons.
Nelson walked to a ridge that was approximately eighty meters from the rocket. He raised his thumb. “She’s ready for launch.”
Carter, who was watching through a pair of high-powered binoculars from inside the lander, typed in the instructions that informed the computer to commence the countdown. The sun was directly overhead. The cameras mounted on the nose of the rocket would require the light of the sun as the rocket descended into the volcano. He watched as Nelson sat down upon the ridge, legs crossed. He was to remain there in the event something went wrong.
“Eight minutes to launch,” the computer announced.
“Here we go,” Carter said. He had the full attention of both crews. Vladimir was watching a wide-screen monitor aboard the
Druzhba
. Unknown to all but himself he was not wearing any clothing. Sipping hot cups of coffee, Dmitri, Tatiana, and Takashi were gathered around a much smaller monitor aboard the
Gagarin
. Dmitri had actually made a bet with Takashi that the rocket would not make it, and Tatiana was furious the two men had reduced the launch to a wager. The winner would receive six ounces of vodka, which was a great prize since vodka was a precious commodity on the planet’s surface. Dr. Endicott was watching from
Liberty
’s galley as he picked at a plate of rehydrated eggs.
“T minus three minutes and counting,” announced the computer.
Carter pulled his goggles down over his eyes. The world around him was black. He flipped the switch to activate the goggles. He was lying on his back looking up at the pink Martian sky. It seemed unusually bright, but then he was looking straight into the sun. He instructed the computer to filter out thirty percent of the light. At his fingertips were the controls for the rocket. In the lower right-hand corner of his goggles, a digitized launch clock was flashing green.
“T minus one minute.”
Although he was fully aware that he was physically removed from the launch, Carter tightened his grip upon the controls. The goggles placed him on top of the rocket, not inside it. His first experience with the simulation had left him exhilarated; his measured physiological response had been much higher than expected. He had roared enthusiastically as the technicians removed the probes from his body. He’d told them that it felt like the rocket had been strapped to his ass. They were startled by his reaction and offered to rewrite the virtual interface, to place him inside the rocket, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“Ten, nine, eight . . .”
He took a deep breath. The Martian sky was deceptively still.
“Liftoff.”
For the first few seconds the sky seemed to shake slightly. And then, without warning, it split apart and flew past him, dissolving into a black void. Stars sprang into view. A light pink vapor was all that remained of the Martian atmosphere. He held on to the control panel as if it were the only thing that kept him from being torn from the rocket. He kept reminding himself that he was on the lander, which was on the planet’s surface, and neither he nor the lander had moved an inch. He could sense the rocket starting to tip. Then, with a great swing, as if someone had lassoed his feet and lifted him off the ground, he was looking straight down into the heart of the volcano. He had the sudden sensation he was about to fall, but when the ground started to rock back and forth, he knew the parachutes had successfully opened.
He adjusted the filter to allow for maximum visibility. At the upper edge of his peripheral vision he could make out the booster stage just before it dwindled into nothingness. The entire rim of the caldera was visible beneath him, and he knew that it would begin to slip out of view in the next thirty seconds. He was descending fast. At a height of twenty-nine kilometers there was not much air for the parachutes. He had to work quickly. He instructed the computer to display his coordinates— the numbers flashed yellow. To his surprise the ship was several hundred meters south of its planned trajectory. He ordered the computer to overlay the navigational grid and project the rocket’s entry point, taking into account wind speed and direction. Thin lines of Martian longitude and latitude appeared superimposed over the mouth of the volcano. A dotted line, originating at his current position, which was represented by a bright yellow circle, curved inward toward the middle of the volcano and terminated dead center of the targeted entry point.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. Some people, as Carter later enlightened reporters, peed in their pants when they got excited; he cursed. The computer had taken into account a shift in winds. He released his grip on the controls. There was nothing for him to do. He rested his head back against the seat cushion and enjoyed the remaining twenty-three seconds of free fall.
The rim of the volcano disappeared around him. He took a deep breath as he reminded himself that he was not actually in the rocket. The interior of the volcano was cluttered with collapsed craters and long, twisting ridges that looked like veins inside a dissected body. The largest crater, which was also the deepest, was forty-two kilometers across and the one into which he was to drop the glider. The computer highlighted its rim with blue targeting lines. The walls of the volcano had disappeared completely.
The scientific instruments aboard the rocket had already begun their sensing of the volcano’s internal conditions. A gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer was separating elements in the atmosphere and reporting their quantity and type to the satellite overhead. Temperature, air pressure, and humidity data were also being transmitted. Satomura was watching the data intently and was pleased with what he saw.
“Wing extraction initiated,” announced the computer. A pair of wings extended outward from the body of the rocket. The control panel in front of Carter transformed into the instrument panel of a glider. “Parachutes disengaged.”
Carter grinned as the glider plunged downward into the volcano. The first few seconds were the most critical. He had to be careful the glider did not tumble into a spin. He stopped chewing as he pulled back on the yoke. The ground swept out from beneath him, and he was looking at the volcano walls, then the sky. He took the glider as high as it would go. He pushed forward on the yoke and headed for the nearest wall. The upper rim of the volcano was indented by a series of flutes. They blended into a smooth, flat cliff, which descended uninterrupted to the volcano floor.
Carter dipped the glider’s nose to get a better look. The solidified field of volcanic rock that he saw left little doubt in his mind the volcano was extinct. Several days earlier they had performed an analysis of the pumice outside the volcano and had determined it was over two hundred million years old. He picked the glider’s nose back up and attempted to reclaim some of the height he had lost.
The volcano wall was now only a couple of kilometers away. He was beginning to wonder why he hadn’t heard anything from Satomura when the gruff voice of the Japanese scientist burst through the intercom.
“Northeast fifteen degrees,” directed Satomura.
“Roger,” Carter responded as he checked the altimeter. He had descended several hundred meters since the parachutes had been disengaged. The negligible air currents within the volcano did not provide enough lift to maintain a constant altitude.
Individual rocks in the cliff were becoming visible. He checked his radar. He was forty-seven meters from the volcano wall. He decided to continue for another twenty meters before turning. Even with a stereoscopic view, it was difficult to judge the distance to the wall accurately. He ordered the computer to place the radar readout on his heads-up display so that he would not have to keep glancing down at the instrument panel.
“Turn,” Satomura cried out.
Carter chuckled at Satomura’s alarm. A two-dimensional monitor, like the one Satomura was watching, made it difficult to judge distances, and although Satomura did have a separate monitor which displayed the simulated instrument panel, he did not have the benefit of a heads-up display. Under the circumstances, the urgency in his voice was more than understandable. To him it must have appeared as if the glider were only centimeters from crashing into the cliff.
“She’s got plenty of elbow room,” Carter drawled. He fought the urge to demonstrate what a real flesh-and-blood pilot could do. He banked the glider thirty meters from the volcano wall. As the cliff flashed past him, he wondered what had piqued Satomura’s interest. This particular section did not look any different from the others, at least as far as he could tell. But then he knew he did not have an eye for such things. He was heading toward the center of the volcano, searching out the winds, when Satomura instructed him to turn back.
Carter brought the glider around in a wide arc and approached the volcano wall several hundred meters lower than before. The flutes had dissolved into the cliff. The wall could have been a dark sheet of glass. It was cracked and scarred with deep pits. A dark, almost eerie wonder filled Carter. He felt as though he were looking at the ancient remnants of a monument beginning to crumble under its own weight. The wall sloped perceptibly outward from the accumulated debris that had fallen from the cliff overhead. The great volcano was in ruins. He flew in toward the wall to the point indicated by Satomura, then back out again in search of an updraft. He lost altitude with each pass. The craft was too heavy, and its wingspan too short to make a good glider. He managed to fly for nearly two hours before he was forced to enter the crater at the volcano floor. The diameter of the crater was more than half that of the caldera. He could see where the nearest wall had collapsed and lava had flowed down the rim. Satomura instructed him to fly toward the breach. The lava must have come from a vent somewhere outside the crater. He struggled to keep the craft aloft as he made his oblong passes, but there was even less wind here.
“Need to take her down,” he said.
“Five more minutes,” Satomura demanded.
“Not possible.”
The ground was moving quickly now. A glance at the altimeter revealed that he was eleven meters above the surface. He knew there was a clearing to the east, but the boulder he had seen from overhead was now much larger and blocked his view of the site he had selected. He searched for another clearing. There was none close enough. The boulder was too high for him to fly over, and he wasn’t certain he could fly around it. But then he had no other choice. He banked the glider hard. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the ground was only centimeters from his wingtip. He pulled out of the turn. As the glider leveled out, the outer edge of the clearing came into view. He banked toward the clearing. The touchdown was perfect. His first reaction was to pull off his helmet and open the cockpit to breathe the fresh air. But he knew that was impossible. He could remove his goggles, but he did not want to. He wanted to remain inside Olympus Mons. He wanted to stride majestically across the surface and leave the first man-made footprints in the sand. In the background voices were talking to him, congratulating him. Reluctantly, he pulled off his goggles. The dark red volcanic rocks were instantaneously replaced with sterile white paneling and multicolored computer screens.
“T
en minutes remaining,” Carter said as he adjusted Nelson’s life-support pack. They were both fully suited. The computer screen was flashing the checklist items one by one, pausing at each item until Nelson ordered it to proceed. The astronauts had been prebreathing pure oxygen for the past two hours. The gas had the unintended side effect of a mild stimulant; it intensified their thoughts and actions and infused them with a sense of well-being. The purge of nitrogen molecules from their bloodstream was nearly complete.
Endicott was looking down from a screen above.
“Seismic amplifier,” Nelson sounded. His voice could have been computer-generated.
“Check,” Carter replied. “Mass spectrometer.” “Check.”
“Heat-flow probe.” “Check.”
“Time-base generator.”
“Check.”
“Data recorder.”
“Check.”
“UV spectrometer.”
“Check.”
“Core sampler.”
“Check.”
“Food supply,” Nelson said.
“Containers A and B, NAS-SPEC 5601 and 5607, attached.”
“Air pressure.”
“Looking good,” Carter said. He was savoring a stick of gum as he scanned the gauges. He would have to swallow the gum before the day was out. They were about to undertake a twoday EVA to Olympus Mons and would not be able to remove their helmets until they pressurized the life-support tent.
A message indicating that the prebreathing was completed flashed across the monitor. They made a final check of their space suits. Satisfied, Nelson instructed the computer to open the outside portal. Light from the morning sun poured in. They shaded their eyes with their hands as they stood at the edge of the portal, admiring the salmon pink horizon. It was a perfect day for an expedition.
Using a rope and pulley to control the descent, Nelson lowered a supply chest to the ground within a container that slid down the parallel sidepieces of the ladder. Carter unloaded the container and carried the chest to the rover. It took half an hour to lower four chests. The rover was an open-air vehicle that looked like the lunar buggy of the Apollo days, but was considerably larger. It had six titanium wire-mesh wheels, two in front, four in back. The wheels were coated with silicon rubber for traction. The seats resembled lawn chairs, and situated between them, accessible to either astronaut, was a joysticklike hand controller that served as a steering device. An assortment of scientific devices protruded from the frame. There was a high-definition camera situated above the communication relay unit at the front of the rover, which transmitted real-time images to the other astronauts and to the television networks on Earth. Above the halogen headlights were two digital cameras used for stereoscopic imaging. The rover had two antennae. The high-gain employed a directional beam that had to be pointed at a satellite to be effective, and was usually used only when the rover was parked. Its sixty-six-centimeter parabolic reflector looked like an inverted umbrella. The low-gain, which looked like a tin can on a stick, provided blanket coverage of the sky, and could be used at any time. A radar dome was perched on top of the two oxygen tanks at the rear of the vehicle.
