Ian Sales: The Eye with Which the Universe Beholds Itself

It feels great, Houston. You know, I landed here, but it won’t count for me until I get to put my boot on the surface, and maybe leave a print like Buzz did on the Moon. It won’t last as long here, though—a dust storm will wipe it away in week or two. Over.

And now another twenty-seven minutes for his words to cross interplanetary space to Earth, and Houston’s reply to fly back. But at least he mentioned Buzz Aldrin, at least he let Houston know that the Face is real.

So what’s it like on Mars, Discovery? Everybody here wants to know. I got all the guys, I got the press, I got the guys in the back room, they all want to know. Over.

Okay, I’m looking out the window. In front of the MM the ground is kind of flat and sandy, with small scattered rocks. It’s orangey-red, not the sort of colour you see back on Earth. I look up to the horizon and I can see a mesa about three miles away. And off to my right—that’s pretty much due north of my position—I can see another mesa. The sky is pale, a sort of pinkish colour at the horizon, probably from the dust, but it turns black real quick as you lift your eyes up.

He steps back and sits down on the APS. He knows he’s not doing the landscape justice. Its desolation, the rocks steeped in loneliness, the distant banded hills, the ridges and chaotic terrain… He knows the terminology but he’s all too aware they’re insufficient, just jargon, incapable of communicating the sense of the Martian surface.

You be careful there, Discovery. You’re a long way from home. We really want to see Mars for ourselves, so take lots of photographs. And we got someone here wants to speak to you. Over.

Copy that. We’ve completed the Surface Checklist, so I’m about to get ready for my first EVA. Over.

It isn’t going to take him half an hour to get ready for EVA—he already has his spacesuit on, though it isn’t pressurised. He needs only to put on his EVA gloves and MEVA, clip his PLSS to his back, and then swap connectors from the MM’s air supply to the backpack’s. But he waits because he wants to hear from Judy before he exits the MM. He raises a gloved finger to the picture of her on the control panel and presses it gently against the photographic paper. He thinks about how he’s going to handle the EVA. At least he doesn’t have to worry about television—they don’t have the bandwidth to send live pictures back, so he has only a Hasselblad 500 EL and a Maurer 16mm DAC.

Hi, Bradley. Everyone here is really excited you landed on Mars safely. I’m excited too. I know you’ve trained for this so long, and I know you’re going to make us all proud. Be careful for me, darling, and come home safely. Over.

Judy [pause] Judy, I’ll be fine here. You keep safe for me. Don’t let anyone make you do something if you don’t want to do it. I’ll be thinking of you all the time here. On Mars. I’ll speak to you again after my first EVA. Over.

Elliott switches the O 2from cabin to off, unplugs the connectors from the front of his spacesuit, and then plugs in the hoses from the PLSS. He backs into the PLSS, manages to get the straps over his shoulder and snaps the buckles into place. He fits the MEVA to his helmet, and then pulls on and locks his EVA gloves. After dumping the air in the cabin, he bends over and rotates the latch handle. The hatch pops off its seal and swings open. Turning about, he struggles down onto his knees and then crawls backwards out onto the MM’s porch. He can’t bend his knees much in the A7LB, the Martian atmosphere is only 0.087 psi but it might as well be vacuum. He shuffles back until his boots hang over the ladder fixed to the forward landing gear strut. He’s practiced this move a dozen times back on Earth, on a full-mock-up of the MM and in the Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory, but he’s glad it’s only 0.376 G here on Mars. Firmly gripping the railing to either side, he hops back onto the first rung of the ladder.

Moments later, he’s on the bottom rung. He stops and looks down. It’s only thirty inches to the Martian soil, but this damned spacesuit is heavy and he’s already warm from the exertion. He pushes himself off backward, and time seems to slow as he falls towards the red sand. He’s looking down, the neckring of his helmet blocking his view of his feet, and he can see the ground drifting closer and closer and closer—

He hits the dirt. There’s a billow of orange dust around his boots. Some of it settles on his legs, the rest blows away.

Mankind has just ventured from his home, and there’s a whole new world here for us to explore. Let’s treat it with respect.

Fine words, Discovery.

I had three months to think of them while we were flying here, Endeavour.

[laughter] I guess I remember that, Discovery.

He moves forward from the MM, describing his surroundings for the folks back on Earth and wishing he had the vocabulary to truly capture the essence of this place. At first sight, Cydonia could be some place on the Colorado Plateau, Monument Valley perhaps, a high desert with mesas and off to his left hills sculpted by millions of years of dust storms set amid broken terrain. But it’s also dead, completely lifeless, as if some red poison had settled over the land and killed everything which grew. The ground beneath his feet is hard red rock with a light dusting of red sand. He stamps a foot and watches dust billow out. It travels only a short distance to either side, an inch or two, and then falls fast to the ground. A wisp of red catches a breeze and ghosts off to his left, twisting and writhing before dissipating to nothing.

It’s hard work. His spacesuit is heavy, the journey here has weakened him, and he has to fight the A7LB’s pressurised bladder with every step. There’s not much give in his knees, but he can move his hips and ankles, and he’s forced to make small straight-legged skips to move forward, rocking from side to side with each step.

About twenty feet from the MM, he stops. He tries to calm his breathing, he doesn’t want to trigger the voice-activated microphone. The Face is about three miles away, just over the horizon, but he can see its upper reaches and though he’s seeing it from the side and at lower level, it still doesn’t look natural. There’s weathering, he can see that now, the tip of the nose is broken and there are cracks on its sides. The ridges which form the lips are broken and a short length is missing completely. He wonders if he hasn’t fallen prey to pariedolia himself.

Then he turns around and looks at the MM, crouched in the middle of this desert, its gold skirt smeared with red dust, streaks of orange across the silver planes of its face, and beyond it the D&M Pyramid. And, by God, it looks like a goddamn pyramid. The edges are blurred, the top has collapsed a little, but it looks no more natural than the pyramids of Egypt.

Rested, he heads back to the MM. He jumps up onto the lowest rung of the ladder—it’s a struggle, no doubt it was easier on the Moon—and then hops up each rung until he can reach the insulation blanket covering the MRV. He rips it free, pulls off the operating tapes and, lanyard in hand, hops back down the ladder to the surface. Backing away from the MM, he gives the lanyard a yank, and then holds it taut as the Mars Roving Vehicle folds out from its bay, its rear wheels lowering into position and locking, then the front wheels. He shuffles about the vehicle removing pins and cables, then lifts up the seat and footrest.

He steps back and gazes at the MRV. He’s done enough for his first EVA, he thinks. Tiredness eats at his bones, his muscles burn, and he can barely bend his fingers in his gloves. It’s going to be a fight to get back into the MM, and he best do it now while he’s got a chance of succeeding. The mission plan has him out here for another hour, but he’s cutting it short.