Mars (43 page)

Jamie shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

The meteorologist pulled a keyboard to his lap and flicked his stubby fingers over it. Jamie saw the display screen of the computer in front of him go blank for a moment, then show a full-color map of Mars made from a montage of photos taken from orbit.

Toshima muttered something in Japanese and the screen suddenly sprouted a weather map superimposed on the photo montage. Jamie recognized the symbols for a cold front, high and low pressure systems, and the irregular lopsided loops of isobars.

“That is the situation at this moment,” Toshima said. “And here is the computer’s forecast for tonight”—the symbols shifted slightly; the numbers representing temperatures plummeted by a hundred or more—“and tomorrow at noon, our time.” Again the front advanced slightly. The temperatures shot upward. At their latitude they even rose above freezing.

A hint of pride crept into Toshima’s voice as he added, “I can even show the wind speeds and directions for much of the planet.”

“How?” Jamie asked, as vector arrows speckled the map. They showed the direction of the winds; the number of flags on their tails denoted the wind speed.

“The network of remote observation stations that has been placed around the planet,” Toshima replied. “And, of course, the balloons.”

The meteorology balloons were brilliantly simple, little more than long narrow tubes of exquisitely thin, tough Mylar filled with hydrogen. They were released as needed from the orbiting spacecraft, dropped into the Martian atmosphere in their tiny capsules, and inflated automatically when they reached the proper altitude. They floated across the landscape like improbable giant white cigarettes.

Dangling below each balloon was a “snake,” a long thin metal pipe that contained sensing instruments, a radio, batteries, and a heater to protect the equipment against the cold.

By day the balloons wafted high in the Martian atmosphere, sampling the temperature (low), pressure (lower),
humidity (lower still), and chemical composition of the air. The altitude at which any individual balloon flew was governed by the amount of hydrogen filling its long narrow cigarette shape. The daytime winds carried them across the red landscape like dandelion puffs.

At night, when the temperatures became so frigid that even the hydrogen inside the balloons began to condense, they all sank toward the ground like a chorus of ballerinas daintily curtsying. The “snakes” of instruments actually touched the ground and faithfully transmitted data on the surface conditions through the night as the balloons bobbed in the dark winds, barely buoyant enough to hover safety above the rock-strewn ground.

Not every balloon survived. While most drifted across the face of Mars for days on end, descending tiredly each night and rising again when the morning sunlight warmed them, some drooped too far and were torn by rocks. Some became snagged on mountainsides. One disappeared in the vast sunken crater of Hellas Planitia and could not be found even with the best cameras aboard the surveillance satellites orbiting Mars.

But most of the balloons carried on silently, effortlessly, living with the Martian day/night cycle and faithfully reporting on the environment from pole to pole.

“As you can see,” Toshima said, with a barely perceptible nod toward the display screen, “the weather situation here in the northern hemisphere is quite stable, quite dull.”

“Summertime pattern,” Jamie muttered.

Toshima was pleased that the geologist understood at least that much about the Martian climate. Even in the southern hemisphere, where it was winter, the weather was also calm, disturbances weak. No major dust storms, not even a decent cyclonic flow to study and learn from.

“Can we zero in on Tithonium?” Jamie asked as he studied the meteorology screen.

“Yes, of course,” said Toshima.

The twisted gash of the great rift valley seemed to rush up at Jamie until Tithonium Chasma and its southerly companion, Ius Chasma, filled the screen. For a moment Jamie ignored the meteorological symbols superimposed on the picture; he saw only the miles-high cliffs and the vast slumping
landslides that partially filled in small areas of the huge canyon.

“There is an anomaly here,” Toshima said.

The meteorologist had pulled his stool close to Jamie’s chair. Their heads were practically touching as they examined the screen, Jamie looking at the gigantic handiwork of ancient fractures in the crust, Toshima examining the meteorological data with narrowed eyes.

“An anomaly?”

“I should have recognized it days ago, but with so much data coming in now …”He made a little shrug that was both an apology and an excuse. “We are even tracking the discarded parachutes from our landing vehicles as the surface winds blow them across the ground.”

“What’s the anomaly?” Jamie asked.

“Only two of the balloons have flown over this section of the Grand Canyon,” Toshima said, tracing a fingertip across the image of Tithonium on the screen. “They both reported much higher temperatures in the air than our metsat gives us.”

Jamie looked at him. “The meteorological satellite tells you the temperatures in the canyon are
lower
than the balloon instruments reported?”

“Correct,” said Toshima.

“What kinds of sensors do they use?”

“Infrared detectors on the metsat, of course. That is the only way to obtain temperature data remotely. The balloons carry a variety of thermometers. They measure temperature directly.”

“And the balloons say the air down in the canyon is warmer than the satellite data.”

Toshima nodded, eyes closed, almost a little bow.

“Any other anomalies?”

He made a thin smile. “I had thought that the humidity data was unusable. It seemed to me that the sensors had saturated.”

“Saturated?”

“They hit the top of their scale and jammed there for as long as they were in the canyon—a few hours, as it turned out. We have no way to control their direction or speed, you understand.”

“Yes, I know.”

Toshima looked away from Jamie, toward the image on the screen. “Now that you have reported seeing mists in the canyon, however, I think I can explain what is happening.”

Jamie waited for him to continue.

“The humidity sensors are calibrated for the very minor humidity we have expected on Mars. If the balloons passed through the mists you reported, then they encountered a much higher humidity than the sensors were equipped to handle. The sensors became saturated.”

“Okay, that sounds right.”

“On the other hand, we have the matter of the temperature differences.” Toshima smiled broadly. “Consider: the metsat infrared sensors are not seeing deeply into the canyon when the mists are there. The sensors see the mist and report its temperature.”

Jamie understood. “And if the mist is made of ice crystals …”

“Or even water droplets,” Toshima picked up, “it would appear much cooler to the infrared sensors than the air below the mist.”

“The mists act as a kind of blanket, insulating the warm air at the bottom of the canyon!”

“Exactly. Yet the radar aboard the metsat penetrates the mist as if it were not there and gives us a true reading of the depth of the canyon. Until you reported the mists I had no idea they existed.”

“So the balloons gave you a truer temperature reading than the satellites did,” Jamie said, feeling the thrill of understanding tingling through his body.

“That is how I interpret the data,” Toshima replied, grinning now with all his teeth.

“Okay, let’s pump the geological data into this display,” Jamie urged. He found it difficult to sit still, he was getting so excited.

Toshima pecked away at the keyboard, still on his lap.

“What are you seeking?” he asked.

“Heat,” said Jamie. “Something’s making that canyon warmer than the plains surrounding it. Warmer than we had any right to expect. Maybe it’s heat welling up from the planet’s interior.”

“Ah! Hot springs, perhaps. Or a volcano.”

“Nothing so dramatic as a volcano,” Jamie said, eagerly
watching the screen, waiting for the geological data to appear.

“There are very massive volcanoes on Mars,” Toshima muttered, his fingers working the keyboard.

“A thousand kilometers away from Tithonium. And they’ve been dead cold for millions of years. Billions, maybe.”

Toshima half whispered, “Now,” and ostentatiously pressed the
ENTER
key with his stubby forefinger.

A thin train of bright red symbols sprang onto the screen.

“Can we back away from this close-up and see the region between our base and the canyon’s rim?” Jamie asked.

“Of course,” said Toshima.

There they were, the real-time readings from the sensors Jamie had planted on the ground during his traverse with Vosnesensky. The symbols formed a single track from their domed base to the Noctis Labyrinthus badlands, then out to the edge of Tithonium, and finally back to the base. Each cluster of sensors included heat-flow instruments. On Earth such sensors measured the heat welling up toward the surface from the molten magma deep below the crust.

“Not a helluva lot, is it?” Jamie muttered, straining his eyes at the tiny red numerals as if he could make them come alive by just staring hard enough.

Toshima said nothing. He sat with his hands folded politely on his lap.

“The planet’s colder than a frozen potato,” Jamie grumbled. “There’s not enough heat coming up from its core to warm a cup of tea.”

“No thermal flow in the canyon?”

Unconsciously kneading both thighs in frustration Jamie replied, “That’s just it: we don’t have any instruments down on the canyon floor. That may be the one place where some heat actually is flowing up out of the core, but we don’t have any sensors down there to check it out!”

Toshima bowed his head slightly, this time to show understanding. “I see. We must put sensors on the canyon floor if we hope to understand what forms the mists.”

“Not just sensors,” Jamie said, his voice urgent. “We’ve got to get down there ourselves. Somehow, we’ve got to get a team down on the floor of that canyon.”

•   •   •

Li Chengdu smiled thinly at the trio of images on his screen. This was such an important decision that all three project directors wanted to discuss it with him.

I can thank Waterman for this, Dr. Li said to himself. If it were not for him everything would be going according to plan.

“… we have therefore instructed the mission controllers,” the somber-faced Russian director was saying, “to prepare a plan for a traverse of the Tithonium Chasma region, including—if possible—a direct examination of the floor of the canyon. Since it will take a minimum of two weeks to put such a plan into effect …”

He’s done it, Dr. Li thought as he listened with only half his attention to the Russian’s droning voice. Waterman has gotten them to shatter the mission schedule completely and agree to a traverse of Tithonium.

The expedition commander eyed the other two project directors as the Russian continued his formal instructions. The Japanese director was trying his best to look impassive, but Li could detect a gleam of pleased excitement in his dark eyes. The American, veteran of Washington’s political knife fights, had a benign little smile playing across his fleshy, florid face.

“… Father DiNardo will chair the ad hoc committee that will prepare the traverse plan. Dr. Brumado will attend the committee meetings as an ex officio member …”

The Russian droned on and on, like an old Orthodox priest reciting some inflexible ritual.

How they must have connived! Li thought. The American Vice-President has agreed to this change in the mission plan, obviously. Brumado must have swayed her somehow. She is no longer seeking to destroy Waterman; somehow Brumado has made the two of them allies. The man is a miracle worker.

A traverse into Tithonium Chasma. We’ll have to tear up the final four weeks’ worth of the schedule and reorient everything for this. I’ll have to curtail Patel’s excursion to Pavonis Mons. The poor man will be apoplectic. He has spent half his life preparing to survey Pavonis Mons. That
will have to be scratched now; we won’t have the time or the resources to devote to it.

Even the work here in orbit will have to be redirected to support the Tithonium excursion. O’Hara will be especially upset—he has not been very secretive about his hopes that the American politicians would send him down to the surface to replace Waterman.

No chance of that now. Somehow Waterman has become the true leader of the ground team. He has stolen the lightning from the gods. He is even overshadowing me now.

Yet Li kept on smiling placidly at the images of the three project directors on his screen.

A traverse to the floor of the Grand Canyon! His scientist’s mind was thrilled by the possibilities. Warmth and moisture. Perhaps life. Life! What a finding that would be. It would mark a new epoch in history.

Still the political side of his mind worried about the difficulties of changing the schedule, the dangers of moving so boldly into new territory, the risks that always haunted every step into the unknown.

Waterman, he thought. If it were not for him everything would be going smoothly and safely according to plan.

Li’s smile broadened slightly. How dull that would be! Besides, if anything goes wrong he will take the brunt of the blame, not me.

N
EW YORK
: Edith sat tensely on the edge of the upholstered chair. Howard Francis’s apartment was much smaller than she had expected, little more than a studio. The so-called bedroom was nothing more than an ell in the one room, mirrored to make it seem larger. The kitchenette was an alcove with a sink, a microwave oven, and some cabinets.

The network vice-president was sprawled nonchalantly on the sofa, shoes off, tie gone, head lolling back, eyes half closed as he watched the big TV screen. The television set was the largest piece of furniture in the place.

Through the half-closed curtains of the apartment’s only window Edith could see the darkened windows of the network news building. She felt nervous not only because the tape playing on the TV could determine the future of her career; she worried that her boss had insisted on looking at the tape here in his apartment rather than across the street at his office.