Joe Haldeman: Marsbound

“The climber has a pilot?”

“No, just an attendant. What’s to pilot?” He smiled, metal teeth. “I’m the pilot of the John Carter of Mars , this time out.”

“Wow. You’ve done it before?”

He nodded. “Twice as pilot, once as copilot, there and back.” He looked out over the ocean. “This’ll be the last one. I’m staying on Mars.”

“The whole five years?”

He shook his head. “Staying.”

“For… forever?”

“If I live forever.” He squatted down and picked up a flat stone and spun it out over the water. It skipped once. The iguana blinked at it. “I have to stay on either Earth or Mars. I’m sort of maxed out on radiation.”

“God, I’d stay on Earth.” Was he crazy? “I mean, if I was worried about radiation.”

“It’s not so bad on Mars, underground,” he said, and tried another stone. It just sank. “Go up to the surface once a week. And those limits are for people who want to have children. I don’t.”

“Me, neither,” I said, and he was tactful enough not to press for details. “That’s why you’re so protected? I mean the white stuff?”

“No, more thinking about sunburn than hard radiation.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, what there was of it. It had obviously just been mowed, down to about a quarter inch except for a trim Mohawk. “I haven’t had a tan since I was… just a little older than you?”

“Nineteen,” I said, adding six weeks.

“Yeah, twenty-one. That’s when I joined the Space Force. They don’t encourage tans.”

That was interesting. “I didn’t know the military was in on the Mars Project.” Officially, anyhow.

“They aren’t.” He eased himself down, stiffly, to sit on the rocks. “I quit after five years. It was all air flying. One suborbital, big deal. My tour was up, and this sounded more interesting.”

“But you only get to do it three or four times?”

“There’s that,” he admitted, and threw a pebble at the iguana, missing by a mile. “They’re way too conservative. I’m trying to change their minds.”

“You couldn’t do that better here on Earth?” I sat down next to him.

“Well, yes and no. Right now, if I stay there, I’ll be the only pilot on Mars, in case something goes wrong and they need one.” He threw another pebble at the lizard and missed by even more. “Can’t throw worth a shit since I went to space.”

I took aim and missed the creature only by inches. It glared at me for a long second and slid into the water.

“Not bad for a girl.”

I decided he was joking, but you couldn’t tell from his expression. “I’ve heard that spaceflight can be hard on the muscles.”

“It is. Even though you exercise every day, you get weaker. I’m weak as a kitten in all this gravity.”

Inanely, I said, “I left my cat behind. In Florida.”

“How old was it? Is it.”

“Nine.” Half my age; I hadn’t thought of that.

He nodded. “Not too old.”

“Yeah, but she won’t be my cat when we get back.”

“Might be. They’re funny creatures.” He rubbed his fingers as if they hurt. “So you’re out of school?”

I shook my head no. “Going to start university by VR in September. Maryland.”

“That’ll be interesting. Odd.” He laughed. “I partied through my first year; almost flunked out. Guess you won’t have to worry about that.”

“There aren’t any parties on Mars? I’m disappointed.”

“Oh, you have people, you have parties. Not too wild. You can’t exactly send out for pizza and crack a keg of beer.”

I had a sudden empty feeling, not hunger for pizza. I tried to push it away. “What do you do for fun? Go out exploring?”

“Yeah, I do that, go up and collect rocks. I’m a geologist by training, before I became a flyboy. Areologist now.”

I knew about that; Ares is Greek for Mars. “Ever discover anything new?”

“Sure, almost every time. But it’s like being a kid in a candy store, or it would be if you could find a store where they kept bringing in new candy. It’s not hard to find stuff that’s never been classified. You into geology?”

“No, more like English and history. I had to take Earth and planet science, but it wasn’t my… favorite.” My only C besides calculus, actually.

“You might learn to like it, once you have a new planet to explore.” He wiggled a pebble out of the sand and looked at it, purple. Scratched it with his thumbnail. “Funny color for lava.” He tossed it away. “I could show you around if you like. Mars.”

Good grief, I thought, is the pilot hitting on me? Over thirty? “I don’t want to be a bother. Just go out by myself and wander around.”

“Nobody goes out alone,” he said, suddenly serious. “Something goes wrong, you could be dead in a minute.” He shrugged. “No ‘could’ about it, really. Mars is more dangerous than space, outer space. The air’s so thin it might as well be a vacuum, for breathing.”

“Yeah.” It’s not like I’d never seen a movie. “And then the sand-storms?”

“Well, they don’t exactly sneak up on you. The main danger is getting careless. You’ve got ground and sky and gravity. It feels safer than space. But it’s not.” He looked at his watch and got up slowly. “Better get on with my exercise. See you tomorrow.” He plodded off, obviously feeling the gravity.

I didn’t ask whether he wanted company. Interesting guy, but we were going to be stuck in a room together for six months, and would see plenty of each other.

I didn’t really feel like company at all. Maybe I could put up with the iguana. I picked my way out to the farthest place I could stand without getting my feet too wet, and watched the swirling, crashing water.

On the way back to the hotel, I ran into Paul again. He was sitting alone in the shade of a thatched-roof patio outside a shabby bar called the Yacht Club, drinking a draft beer that looked good. I sat down with him but asked for a Coke, out of a vague concern that Dad might come by. Drinking with a man, oh my. I didn’t know the legal age, either; if I was carded, he’d find out I wasn’t really quite nineteen.

It was a short date, anyhow. We’d just exchanged “where you from?” formalities when his cell pinged and he had to go off to the Elevator office. I did learn that he was from New Jersey but didn’t have time to ask about Mafia connections or how to breathe carbon monoxide.

It was not a pleasant place to sit alone and wonder what the hell I was doing. My friends back home were about evenly divided between being jealous and wondering whether I’d lost my mind, and I was leaning toward the latter group. The Coke tasted weird, too. Maybe it was drugged, and when I slumped unconscious they would drag me into the hold of a yacht and smuggle me off to Singapore for a rewarding career in white slavery. Or maybe it was made with sugar instead of corn syrup. I left it, just to be on the safe side, and went on to the hotel.

Speaking of Coke, that’s what we weren’t having for dinner, no matter how much Card and I might have liked it. Or a pizza or hamburger or even a cold can of beans. Of course it was going to be fancy, the last real family meal for six years.

“Fancy” in the Galápagos was not exactly Park Avenue fancy. They don’t serve up the iguanas, fortunately, but there wasn’t much you’d find on a normal menu.

The hotel restaurant, La Casa Dolores, served mostly Ecuadorian food, which was not a surprise. I had picadillo, a Cuban dish that sounded like hamburger over rice, and pretty much was, although it tasted strange, like Mexican but with a lot of lemon juice and a touch of soap. Mother said that taste came from a parsleylike herb, cilantro. I trust they won’t be growing it on Mars. Or maybe it’s their only green vegetable.