Return to Mars (31 page)

The tether seemed to snag from time to time. He had to stop and tug on it to loosen it again. Or perhaps Rodriguez was fiddling with the tension on the line, he thought.

Deeper into the tunnel he went, stepping cautiously, now and then running his gloved hands over the strangely smooth walls.

Fuchida lost track of time as he chipped at the tunnel walls here and there, filling the sample bags that dangled from his harness belt. The tether made it uncomfortable to push forward, attached to his harness at the chest. It had to pass it over his shoulder or around his waist: clumsy, at best.

Then he noticed that the circle of light cast by his helmet lamp showed an indentation off toward the left, a mini-alcove that seemed lighter in color than the rest of the glossy black tunnel walls. Fuchida edged closer to it, leaning slightly into the niche to examine it.

A bubble of lava did this, he thought. The niche was barely big enough for a man to enter. A man not encumbered with a hard suit and bulky backpack, that is. Fuchida stood at the entrance to the narrow niche, peering inside, wondering.

And then he noticed a streak of red, the color of iron rust. Rust? Why here and not elsewhere?

He pushed in closer, squeezing into the narrow opening to inspect the rust spot. Yes, definitely the color of iron rust.

He took a scraper from the tool kit at his waist, nearly fumbling it in his awkwardly gloved fingers. If I drop it I won’t be able to bend down to pick it up, not in this narrow cleft, he realized.

The red stain crumbled at the touch of the scraper. Strange! thought Fuchida. Not like the basalt at all. Could it be … wet? No! Liquid water cannot exist at this low air pressure. But what is the pressure inside the rock? Perhaps …

The red stuff crumbled easily into the sample bag he held beneath it with trembling fingers. It must be iron oxide that is being eroded by water, somehow. Water and iron. Siderophiles! Bacteria that metabolize iron and water!

Fuchida was as certain of it as he was of his own existence. His heart was racing. A colony of iron-eating bacteria living inside the caldera of Olympus Mons! Who knew what else might be found deeper down?

It was only when he sealed up the sample bag and placed it in the plastic box dangling from his belt that he heard the strange rumbling sound. Through the thickness of his helmet it sounded muted, far-off, but still any sound at all this deep in the tunnel was startling.

Fuchida started to back away from the crumbling, rustred cleft. The rumbling sound seemed to grow louder, like the growl of some prowling beast. It was nonsense, of course, but he thought the tunnel walls were shaking slightly, trembling. It’s you who are trembling, foolish man! He admonished himself.

Something in the back of his mind said, Fear is healthy. It is nothing to be ashamed of, if you—

The rusted area of rock dissolved into a burst of exploding steam that lifted Fuchida off his feet and slammed him painfully against the far wall of the lava tube.

FUCHIDA NEARLY BLACKED OUT AS HIS HEAD BANGED AGAINST THE BACK of his helmet. He sagged to the floor of the tunnel, his visor completely fogged, jagged flares of stars flashing in his eyes, his skull thundering with pain.

With a teeth-gritting effort of iron will he kept himself from slipping into unconsciousness. Despite the pounding in his head, he forced himself to stay awake, alert. Do not faint! He commanded himself. Do not allow yourself to take the cowardly way. You must remain awake if you have to remain alive. He felt perspiration heading his forehead, dripping into his eyes, forcing him to blink and squint.

Then a wave of anger swept over him. How stupid you are! He railed at himself. A hydrothermal vent. Water. Liquid water, here on Mars. You should have known. You should have guessed. The heat flow, the rusted iron. There must be siderophiles here, bacteria that metabolize iron and water. They weakened the wall and you scraped enough of it away for the pressure to blow through the wall. You caused a geyser to erupt.

Yes, he agreed with himself. Now that you’ve made the discovery, you must live to report it to the rest of the world.

His visor was still badly fogged. Fuchida groped for the control stud at his wrist that would turn up his suit fans and clear the visor. He thought he found the right keypad and pushed it. Nothing changed. In fact, now that he listened for it, he could not hear the soft buzz of his suit fans at all. Except for his own labored breathing, there was nothing but silence.

Wait. Be calm. Think.

Call Rodriguez. Tell him what’s happened.

“Tomas, I’ve had a little accident.”

No response.

“Rodriguez! Can you hear me?”

Silence.

Slowly, carefully, he flexed both his arms, then his legs. His body ached, but there didn’t seem to be any broken bones. Still the air fans remained silent, and beads of sweat dripped into his eyes.

Blinking, squinting, he saw that the visor was beginning to clear up on its own. The hydrothermal vent must have been a weak one, he thought thankfully. He could hear no more rumbling; the tunnel did not seem to be shaking now.

Almost reluctantly, he wormed his arm up to eye level and held the wrist keyboard close to his visor. The keyboard was blank. Electrical malfunction! Frantically he tapped at the keyboard: nothing. Heater, heat exchanger, air fans, radio—all gone.

I’m a dead man.

Cold panic hit him like a blow to the heart. That’s why you no longer hear the air circulation fans! The suit battery must have been damaged when I slammed against the wall.

Fuchida could hear his pulse thundering in his ears. Calm down! he commanded himself. That’s not so bad. The suit has enough air in it for an hour or more. And it’s insulated very thoroughly; you won’t freeze—not for several hours, at least. You can get by without the cooling fans. For a while.

It was when he tried to stand up that the real fear hit him. His right ankle flared with agony. Broken or badly sprained, Fuchida realized. I can’t stand on it. I can’t get out of here!

Then the irony really struck him. I might be the first man to die of heat prostration on Mars.

The problem is, Rodriguez said to himself, that we only brought one climbing harness and Mitsuo’s wearing it. By the time I go back to the plane, get the other harness and come back here and set it up, he could be dead.

I’ve got to go down there without a tether, without any of the climbing tools that he’s carrying with him.

Shit! Rodriguez shook his head inside his helmet. Can’t leave him. It’s already getting dark and he’d never survive overnight.

On the other hand, there’s a damned good chance that we’ll both die down there.

Double shit.

For long, useless moments he stared down into the dark depths of the caldera, in complete shadow now as the sun crept closer to the distant horizon.

Show no fear, Rodriguez repeated to himself. Not even to yourself. He nodded inside his helmet. Yeah, easy to say. Now get the snakes in my guts to believe it.

Still, he started down, walking slowly, deliberately, gripping the tether hand-over-hand as he descended.

It became totally dark within a few steps of leaving the caldera’s rim. The only light was the patch of glow cast by his helmet lamp, and the dark rock all around him seemed to swallow that up greedily. He planted his booted feet carefully, deliberately, knowing that carbon dioxide from the air was already starting to freeze out on the bitterly cold rock.

Rodriguez cast a glance up at the dimming sky, like a prisoner taking his last desperate look at freedom before entering his dungeon.

At least I can follow the tether, he thought. He moved with ponderous deliberation, worried about slipping on patches of ice. If I get disabled we’re both toast, he told himself. Take it easy. Don’t rush it. Don’t make any mistakes.

Slowly, slowly he descended. By the time the tether led him to the mouth of the lava tube, he could no longer see the scant slice of sky above; it was completely black. If there were stars winking at him up there he could not see them through the tinted visor of his helmet.

He peered into the tunnel. It was like staring into a well of blackness.

“Hey Mitsuo!” he called. “Can you hear me?”

No response. He’s either dead or unconscious, Rodriguez thought.

He’s laying deep down that tunnel someplace and I’ve got to go find him. Or what’s left of him.

He took a deep breath. No fear, he reminded himself.

Down the dark tunnel he plodded, ignoring the fluttering of his innards, paying no attention to the voice in his head that told him he’d gone far enough, the guy’s dead, no sense getting yourself killed down here too so get the hell out, now.

Can’t leave him, Rodriguez shouted silently at the voice. Dead or alive, I can’t leave him down here.

Your funeral, the voice countered.

Yeah, sure. I get back to the base okay without him. What’re they gonna think of me? How’m I—

He saw the slumped form of the biologist, a lump of hard suit and jumbled equipment slumped against one wall of the tunnel.

“Hey, Mitsuo!” he called.

The inert form did not move.

Rodriguez hurried to the biologist and tried to peer into the visor of his helmet. It looked badly fogged.

“Mitsuo,” he shouted. “You okay?” It sounded idiotic the moment the words left his lips.

But Fuchida suddenly reached up and gripped his shoulders.

“You’re alive!”

Still no answer. His radio’s out, Rodriguez finally realized. And the air’s too thin to carry my voice.

He touched his helmet against Fuchida’s. “Hey, man, what happened?”

“Battery,” the biologist replied, his voice muffled but understandable. “Battery not working. And my ankle. Can’t walk.”

“Jesus! Can you stand up if I prop you?”

“I don’t know. My air fans are down. I’m afraid to move; I don’t want to generate any extra body heat.”

Shit, said Rodriguez to himself. Am I gonna have to carry him all the way up to the surface?

Sitting there trapped like a stupid schoolboy on his first exploration of a cave, Fuchida wished he had paid more attention to his Buddhist instructors. This would be a good time to meditate, to reach for inner peace and attain a calm alpha state. Or was it beta state?

With his suit fans inoperative, the circulation of air inside the heavily insulated hard suit was almost nonexistent. Heat generated by his body could not be transferred to the heat exchanger in the backpack; the temperature inside the suit was climbing steadily.

Worse, it was more and more difficult to get the carbon dioxide he exhaled out of the suit and breathable air into it. He could choke to death on his own fumes.

The answer was to he as still as possible, not to move, not even to blink. Be calm. Achieve nothingness. Do not stir. Wait. Wait for help.

Rodriguez will come for me, he told himself. Tomas won’t leave me here to die. He’ll come for me.

Will he come in time? Fuchida tried to shut the possibility of death out of his thoughts, but he knew that it was the ultimate inevitability.

The hell of it is, I’m certain I have a bag full of siderophiles! I’ll be famous. Posthumously.

Then he saw the bobbing light of a helmet lamp approaching. He nearly blubbered with relief. Rodriguez appeared, a lumbering robotlike creature in the bulky hard suit. To Fuchida he looked sweeter than an angel.

Once Rodriguez realized that he had to touch helmets to be heard, he asked, “How in the hell did you get yourself banged up like this?”

“Hydrothermal vent,” Fuchida replied. “It knocked me clear across the tunnel.”

Rodriguez gave a low whistle. “Old Faithful strikes on Mars.”

Fuchida tried to laugh; what came out was a shaky giggle.

“Can you move? Get up?”

“I think so …” Slowly, with Rodriguez lifting from beneath his armpits, Fuchida got to his feet. He took a deep breath, then coughed. When he tried to put some weight on his bad ankle he nearly collapsed.

“Take it easy, buddy. Lean on me. We got to get you back to the plane before you choke to death.”

Jamie hovered over Trudy Hall, who was sitting at the comm console now. Dezhurova had insisted that she would stay on duty, but Jamie had ordered her to get up and have something to eat.

He was grateful when she obeyed. She was obviously reluctant about it, but she did what Jamie commanded.

“You should take a rest, too, mate,” Vijay told him. She had carried a tray of dinner into the comm center for him.

“When they’re back safely in the plane,” Jamie said. “Then we can all call it a day.”

“How long has it been?” Vijay asked.

Glancing at the digital clock above the main comm screen, Jamie said, “More than an hour since Rodriguez started down after him.”

Dex Trumball was driving slowly through the inky blackness of the Martian night.

“Supper’s on the table,” Craig called out. “Come on and eat it or I’ll throw it to th’ hawgs.”

“Why don’t we keep on going, Wiley?” Trumball asked over his shoulder.

” ‘Cause we don’t want to break our cotton-pickin’ necks, that’s why. Shut ‘er down for the night, Dex.”

“Aw, come on, Wiley. Just a few klicks more.”

“Now,” Craig said, with iron in his tone.

With a sigh, Trumball leaned on the brake pedals and brought the rover to a slow, smooth stop.

Once he had shut down the drive motors and come back to the table between the bunks, Dex sank down on the edge of his bunk and stared for a few moments at the tray of prepackaged dinner.

“I know what you’re up to, y’know,” Craig said, sitting on the edge of his own bunk, on the other side of the folding table.