Geoffrey Landis - Mars Crossing

Ryan was dubious. “I suppose it’s possible. Might adhere too tightly, though.”

“I’ll try it.” Chamlong stood up. “If I knock some of the ice free, the reading will change, and at least then we’ll know what the problem is. If not—well, if not, we’ll have to think of something else.”

Ryan nodded. “Okay, sounds good. At least it’s a plan, anyway.”

He would remember that phrase, later. “Sounds good.”

Ryan toggled over to an exterior camera—still working line, after sitting useless for almost seven years—and watched Chamlong bend over and select a rough volcanic stone about the size of a brick. He picked it up, walked to the first of the booster tanks, and then moved around behind the tank to where the heat exchanger was.

“It’s hard to get in close enough to see very much, but I think I see some ice,” Cham’s voice said over the radio link. “You ready in there?”

“I’ve got my eye on the gauge.”

Steadying himself with one hand against the tank, Chamlong gave it a light tap with the rock.

The gauge hadn’t moved. “Nothing,” he reported.

“Okay. I’m going to try a little harder.”

Chamlong drew back the rock and gave the side of the aluminum manifold a solid thump. A snowstorm of white burst out of the interior, settled on the ground, and then quickly evaporated in the dry air.

The gauge jumped, overshot, and settled down. 22.8 tons. Perfect!

“You did it,” Ryan said.

“All right! Okay, let’s try the other one.” Chamlong went to the second tank.

There was a thump, and ice broke free. The needle jumped and pinned itself against the high end of the gauge. A moment later there was a shuddering that he could feel from inside the spacecraft, and then Ryan heard Cham saying “Oh, shit!” over the radio. He looked at the view from the external camera but could see nothing—the entire outside view was blanked out in billowing white. Red warning lights started to come on in the cabin—overpressure, flow-rate monitor, temperature alert.

“Shit!” he said. “Cham! Are you all right?” There was no answer. He jumped out of the chair and out the hatch. He ignored the ladder and jumped down into the sand, raising a plume of dust that momentarily obscured his vision. “Chamlong! Report!”

Through the haze of cloud and dust, a torrent of liquid oxygen was jetting out of a broken pipe. It was insanely beautiful, a foaming fountain that glistened in the most delicate shade of pale blue. The pipe was waving back and forth, spraying the precious liquid over the spacecraft, and he could see the panels bowing as they encountered the sudden shock of liquid oxygen at a temperature of a hundred and eighty degrees below zero. He heard a bang—it must have been incredibly loud to be audible in the near vacuum of the Martian ambient—and on the other side of the ship, he could see that the second oxygen feed pipe had also burst. Both tanks were venting now, liquid oxygen foaming and bubbling like a torrent of blue champagne flowing across the sand, freezing and boiling at the same time.

There had been ice in the valves, oh yes. But the ice had masked a worse problem.

“Chamlong!” Ryan waded into the cloud of mist, and the faceplate of his helmet frosted over instantly. Blinded, he hit his emergency locator beacon and staggered back. “Chamlong, where are you!” He fumbled with his suit controls, overriding all of the thermal regulation to push the heat up to maximum, and then he waded back into the mist. Flakes of white, flush-frozen liquid oxygen, swirled around him, sparkling like fireflies in the sun. The yellow-and-black striped spacesuit had been deliberately designed to be easy to spot. It couldn’t possibly be hard to find him.

It was already far too late.

John Radkowski’s personal trainer, a woman named Alicia, loped beside him at an effortless jog as he sweated and clumped. She made it look so easy, but then, he figured that this was her job. “Concentrate on your breathing,” she said. “Let your arms swing freely. Deep breaths. In, out. Loosen up. That’s better.”

The dusty grass felt like rubber under his feet. It always did.

Alicia never sweated, never even breathed hard. She was running backward in front of him now, doing stretching exercises with her arms as she ran, and having no difficulty keeping the pace. Her breasts bobbed tantalizingly, the two breasts out of phase, but he figured that keeping him excited was part of her job as well. It was probably why she was running backward like that in front of him. If he didn’t like it, there were plenty of other trainers he could have chosen.

“Looks like you’re about warmed up,” she said. “Ready to do some running?”

“Ready,” he said. Actually, he felt fat, clumsy, and out of breath, but there was little point in saying that.

“Great. Here’s the trail. See you after your run.”

“Sure thing, beautiful.”

Alicia curved around and headed back, and he went on into the savanna.

It was low grass, yellow in the sunlight. In the distance a huge, solitary acacia tree stretched fractal fingers into the sky. He could see a series of gentle uphills terraced ahead of him. Not too bad. The African sun was bright but gave no warmth on his body, and the air was breezeless. He looked around and behind him.

Emerging out of the forest from a break just a few feet away from the spot he had started from, the lioness stretched, yawned, and then stretched again. The yawn revealed enormous teeth. She roared, a deep rumbling cough that tingled deep in his belly. Then she looked up, eyeing him speculatively, and began to pad after him.

The appearance of the lioness sent a thrill of adrenaline through him that nearly erased his tiredness. There was, of course, nowhere to hide. The hills ahead of him looked impossibly far away. It would be an endurance contest. He wouldn’t want to sprint too early. He kept up his pace, remembering to breath regularly. Uphill, slightly, but there was a level spot at the top of the rise.

Behind him, the lioness started into an easy lope. Her eyes glowed yellow-gold with an interior light. She wasn’t sweating, either.

No point in looking behind him. He concentrated on his breathing, on his rhythm, on staying loose. He felt good.

On the patch of level ground the lioness broke into a run, and he picked up his pace to keep her from gaining too much. He could hear her footsteps, hear her beginning to pant from exertion. This was what running was for, he thought. Man against beast, the original, pure competition. Uphill again, now, and the lioness behind him slowed to a walk. He couldn’t maintain the pace, either, and slowed down as well. Then another stretch of level ground, and they both began to run.

Then the lioness roared, and he knew that the final lap was on him. Sprint like nothing you’ve ever done, or you’ll be caught. He pushed himself, trying for new records. A minute of this, two, and he thought he was going to burst. Surely he couldn’t take any more. A hundred more feet. Fifty.

A distant bell rang in his ears, and he slowed down to a stop. Behind him, the lioness slowed as well. When he looked back, Alicia had come up beside him.

“Don’t stop, you need a cool-down. Keep moving, keep moving.”

“Right.”

“That’s better,” she said. “Pretty good time. You sustained an average of 320 watts for almost ten minutes there. Watch your form on the sprints, you’re going to turn an ankle if you’re sloppy.”

“Got it,” he said. “Turn an ankle. Bad.”

“Okay, then,” she said. “Good workout. See you in two days?”

He doubted he would see her in two days—now that they were on Mars, he would probably be too busy to keep up his exercise routine—but there was no point in saying that, either. “It’s a date, beautiful.”