Mars

EARTH

NEW YORK: Alberto Brumado squinted when the overhead lights were turned on; then his eyes adjusted to the brightness. How much of my life have I spent in television studios? he asked himself. It must be years, many years, if you add up all the minutes and hours.

For the first time in his memory, though, he felt nervous about the impending interview. Not because it was American network television. Not because he would have to face a trio of experienced senior interrogators from the most prestigious newspaper, news magazine, and television network news department in the United States. He had fenced with such before.

The anxiety that rippled through his heart was that the interviewers smelled blood. The death of Dr. Konoye had brought the sharks out, circling, circling what they perceived as a wounded and bleeding Mars Project. There would be no gentility about this interview, no kid gloves. Brumado knew that he was in for a rough ordeal.

The technical crew had been uniformly kind, as usual. The matronly makeup woman smiled and chatted with him as she patted pancake on Brumado’s browned face. While he was still in the barber-type chair, the harried-looking producer had come in. Standing behind him and speaking to Brumado’s reflection in the big wall mirror, she assured him that all he had to do was to be natural, be himself, and the audience “will love you up.” The young assistant producer, younger than his own daughter, had done everything she could to put Brumado at ease. Accustomed to smilingly evasive politicians and brash entertainment stars who hid their anxieties behind banalities, she offered Brumado coffee, soft drinks, even a Bloody Mary. Smiling tensely, he refused everything except water.

Now he was in the studio with the crew hiding behind their cameras and the electrician pinning the cordless microphone to his necktie just under his chin.

The show’s moderator walked onto the brightly lit set, up the carpeted two stops to the chair next to Brumado’s.

Extending a hand, he said, “Please don’t get up, Dr. Brumado. It was good of you to come on such short notice.”

“I want to dispel any doubts that may be in the public’s mind about this unfortunate tragedy,” Brumado replied as the moderator sat down. His microphone was already in place, hardly visible against his dark blue tie. He also wore a minuscule flesh-toned earphone like a hearing aid.

“Good, good,” said the moderator absently, his eyes focused on the notes scrolling across the small display screen cleverly built into the coffee table in front of them so that it could not be seen by the cameras.

The three inquisitors arrived in a group, smiling, chatting among themselves. Two men and a woman whose ebony hair glowed like a steel helmet. Handshakes all around. Brumado thought of a prizefight. Now go to your corners and come out punching.

The floor director scurried in and out of the shadows among the cameras. The big clock beneath the monitor screen clicked down the final seconds, its second hand stopping discernibly at each notch on the dial.

The floor director pointed to the moderator.

“Good morning, and welcome to Face the People. This morning we are fortunate to have with us Dr. Alberto Brumado…”

Brumado could feel his pulse quickening as the moderator introduced the three “distinguished journalists” who would be questioning him.

“At the outset,” the moderator said, turning to face Brumado, “I’d like to ask this basic question: What does the death of Dr. Konoye mean for the Mars Project?”

Brumado slid into his fatherly smile as he always did at interviews. “It will have only a slight effect on the exploration of Mars. The mission was planned from the outset with the knowledge that exploring a distant planet can be dangerous. That is why there are backup members of the team for each scientist and astronaut. The team will be able to continue the exploration of Mars, of course, and even the work on Deimos and Phobos that Dr. Konoye was supposed to do…”

“Are you saying that a man’s death doesn’t matter to you?” the newspaperman interjected, frowning like a gargoyle.

“Of course it matters to me,” Brumado replied. “It matters to all of us, especially to Dr. Konoye’s wife and children. But it will not stop the exploration of Mars and its moons.”

“What went wrong, Dr. Brumado?” asked the woman. She was the TV reporter, dressed in a sleekly stylish red skirt and mannish white blouse.

“Nothing went wrong. Dr. Konoye suffered a stroke. It could have happened in his office in Osaka, I suppose. Or in his home.”

“But it happened on Mars.”

“It happened during an EVA,” observed the magazine man. “Did that contribute to the cerebral hemorrhage? Was being weightless a factor?”

Brumado shook his head. “Weightlessness should have had nothing to do with it. If anything, microgravity is beneficial to the cardiovascular system.”

“How could it be that he was accepted for this hazardous work when he had a cardiovascular problem?”

“He had no cardiovascular problem.”

“The man died of a stroke!”

“But there was no history of a medical problem. He was thoroughly examined and tested, just as all the other mission crew were. He went through years of training and medical examinations without the slightest hint of a problem. He was only forty-two years old. Even his family medical records show no evidence of cardiovascular disease.”

“Then how do you explain the stroke?”

“No one can explain it. It happened. It is unfortunate. Very sad.”

“But you won’t stop the mission or change its operation in any way?”

Brumado smiled again, this time to hide his growing anger. “To begin with, I have no official capacity in the Mars Project. I am merely an advisor.”

“Come on now! You’re known all over the world as the soul of the Mars Project.”

“I am not involved in the day-to-day operation of the project. Nor do I have any official position. My influence ended, really, when the spacecraft left for Mars.”

“Do you mean to tell us that if you went to the mission controllers in Houston…”

“Kaliningrad,” Brumado corrected.

“Wherever—if you went to them and advised them to shut down the project and get those people back home to safety, they wouldn’t listen to you?”

“I would hope not. If I gave them that kind of advice, I would hope that they would be wise enough to ignore it.”

“You’re not concerned about the safety of those men and women on Mars?”

Brumado hesitated just a fraction of a second, enough to remind himself not to let them lead him into statements he did not wish to make.

“You must remember that what has happened was not an accident, not a failure of a piece of equipment or even a shortcoming of our planning. The man suffered a stroke. He was a hundred million kilometers from Earth when it happened, but it would have been the same if it had happened in his bed.”

Turning to look squarely into the camera that had its red light lit, Brumado went on, “Should we stop the exploration of Mars because a man has died? Did Americans stop expanding westward because people died on the frontier? Did the exploration of the world stop because some ships were sunk? If we stopped reaching outward for fear of danger we would still be squatting in caves, groveling every time it thunders outside.”

The moderator gave a big smile and said, “We’ll continue right after this important message.”

The overhead lights dimmed. Brumado reached for the glass of water on the coffee table.

“Good timing. It’s going very well,” said the moderator. “Keep it up.”

The second segment of the show was much like the first: the interviewers almost accusative, Brumado defending the Mars Project against their unsubtle insinuations of insensitivity or outright incompetence.

“And despite what’s happened,” hammered the newspaper gargoyle, “you really don’t accept the idea that it’s too dangerous out there for human beings?”

Brumado played his trump card. “One of those human beings is my daughter. If I thought she was in an unacceptably dangerous situation, I would do everything in my power to bring all the exploration team back to safety, believe me.”

At the next commercial break the moderator asked, “Okay, we’ve got four minutes for a wrap-up. Is there anything we haven’t covered that we ought to?”

Brumado replied mildly, “We have not said a word yet about what has been discovered on Mars so far.”

“Okay. Fair enough.” The moderator glanced at the three interviewers. They nodded without much enthusiasm.

The floor director pointed at the moderator and the red light on the camera aimed at him winked on again. Before he could open his mouth, though, the newspaper reporter jumped in: “What I’d like to know is, just what are we getting out of this mission? Have the scientists found anything on Mars that’s worth five hundred billion dollars?”

Brumado put on his smile again. “That number is a considerable exaggeration of this mission’s cost. And, of course, the costs are being shared by more than two dozen nations; the United States is not bearing the burden alone.”

“Yes, but…”

“We have made significant discoveries on Mars.” Brumado overrode him. “Very significant discoveries. The landing teams have been on the ground there for little more than a week, and already they have found water — the elixir of life.”

“Buried underground, frozen,” said the television newswoman.

“But no signs of life itself,” the magazine reporter said.

“Not yet.”

“You expect to find life on Mars?”

“I am more optimistic now than I was a week ago,” Brumado said, his smile genuine now. “It would seem that there are extensive areas of permafrost. And according to the very latest report from the geologist who has trekked out to the Valles Marineris — the Grand Canyon of Mars — there are mists in the air each morning. That means moisture. And down at the bottom of that valley the temperatures may be considerably warmer than elsewhere. Life may exist there.”

The newspaperman fixed Brumado with a glittering eye. “Now let’s face it—you need to find life on Mars to justify this enormously expensive program. You’ve got to be optimistic, don’t you?”

“I want the program to continue, of course. What this first mission has discovered is already more than enough to justify the next mission.”

“Another five hundred billion?”

“Nowhere near that amount. Most of the costs of development and facilities construction have already been paid. The second expedition will cost a fraction of the first. In fact, follow-on missions will amortize the costs we have already incurred and give us more value for the money we have already invested.”

“And on that note,” the moderator said, leaning forward between Brumado and the reporter, “we must take our leave. We’ve run out of time. I want to thank…”

Brumado leaned back in his chair and relaxed. Later he would review a tape of the show, but at the moment he felt he had gotten his points across well enough.

And they never once brought up the subject of the American Indian and his effect on the political situation here in the States. We can thank Konoye for that. He did not die in vain.

The overhead lights went off and Brumado allowed the electrician to remove his microphone. The three reporters made a few obligatory smiles and noises, then swiftly headed toward the small bar that had been set up at the rear of the studio.

“You’ve earned a drink,” the moderator said to Brumado.

“Thank you. I could use one.”

Brumado intended to use these informal few minutes to educate his interrogators. Without their knowing it, hundreds of media reporters had been subtly proselytized by him during social occasions such as this.

There was a younger woman already talking with the reporters, a pert blonde who had an outdoor, all-American look to her. She introduced herself as Edie Elgin, a newcomer to the New York scene — and a personal friend of James Waterman.

Brumado’s internal defenses flared at Waterman’s name.

“How is he?” Edith asked. “They haven’t let me talk to him since he landed on Mars.”

“You are a reporter?” Brumado asked.

Edith smiled her best Texas smile. “I’m a consultant with the news department. To tell the truth, Dr. Brumado, I’m looking for a job.”

“You knew Dr. Waterman in Houston?”

“We were very close friends. And now they won’t even let me talk to him.”

Her smile warmed Brumado, melted his suspicions. “You don’t want to interview him for the media?”

“I just want to talk with him for a few minutes, to see if he’s okay and… well, to see if he still…” Edith let her voice dwindle into silence.

The mission administrators can’t hold the man incommunicado, Brumado told himself. He smiled back at Edith. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh, thank you! You’re the kindest sweetest man in the whole Mars Project!”

WASHINGTON: Alberto Brumado liked the idea that a pretty young woman considered him kind and sweet. And influential. But he did not truly believe that he was a Very Important Person. “There are no indispensable men,” he had often said. “If I had not led the effort for the Mars Project, someone else would have.”

Yet both the Japanese and Soviet project directors easily agreed to come to Washington to meet with their American counterpart and Dr. Brumado—not only because they had an urgent problem to discuss, but because they actually desired to save Brumado from another long intercontinental flight. Hypersonic aircraft could cross half the globe in two hours, but the human passengers they carried suffered from jet lag all the same. The Russian and Japanese project directors decided, simultaneously and independently, to save their revered mentor from such fatigue.

Fresh from his television interview in New York, Brumado flew to Washington to meet them at the office of the American project director, in the old NASA headquarters building on Independence Avenue. As government offices go, it was not much: a room large enough to house an oblong conference table butted against a broad mahogany desk like the long arm of a T. The walls were covered with maps and photos of Mars and other photographs of rocket boosters lifting off on tails of flame and smoke. Behind the director’s desk was a table covered with more personal photos showing the director with the high and mighty: presidents, ministers, even television personalities.

The American director of the Mars Project had once been an excellent engineer, many years ago. Now he was an excellent politician, crafty in the ways and means of surviving in the Washington jungle and keeping the lifeblood of money pumping into his project. He did not look like the archetypical “faceless bureaucrat,” however. He wore utterly comfortable snakeskin cowboy boots below his rumpled gray business suit and a conservative blue tie. His fleshy face was florid, his hair thick and still fiery red despite the streaks of gray running through it. Behind rimless glasses his eyes gleamed with fervor; he still cared about what he was doing. Mars was not a program to him, it was a life’s work.

“I ’preciate your coming here to my humble domain,” he said to the others, with the trace of a south Texas twang in his gravelly voice that even years of testifying before Congress had not quite erased.

He was leaning back precariously in his chair on one side of the conference table, boots on the table and tie loosened from his collar. Brumado sat beside him. The Russian and Japanese project directors sat primly on the other side of the table.

Neither was smiling; both wore carefully tailored business suits with neatly knotted ties; but there the similarities ended. The Russian was bald, sallow faced, lean, and unhappy. He reminded Brumado of a melancholy movie actor from his youth who always portrayed йmigrйs pining for Mother Russia. The Japanese was a compact bundle of barely suppressed energy, his dark eyes darting everywhere, his fingers drumming nervously on the tabletop.

“As y’all know,” said the American, his chins on his chest as he picked up a single sheet of paper from the table in front of him, “we have something of a problem with the ever-loving, blue-eyed Vice-President of the United States.”

“I believe I should say at the outset,” the Russian interjected, “that serious objections have been raised in the Soviet Federation about the wisdom of committing to a second expedition so soon.”

The Japanese said rapidly, “The death of Professor Konoye has not dimmed Japan’s enthusiasm for further missions. If anything, my people feel we must press on to honor his memory.”

The ex-Texan glanced at Brumado, then at his fellow directors across the table. “Let’s get one thing straight here: How do you all feel about the next mission?”

“I am in favor of it, of course,” the Russian answered immediately. “I would go myself if they would allow me!”

The Japanese grinned. “Yes, of course.”

“As I see it,” Brumado said gently, “we have a sacred trust. Project Mars must not end as Project Apollo did. We must continue the exploration of the planet and its moons.”

The American pushed his chair back. It screeched against the uncarpeted floor. “Okay,” he said as he lumbered to his feet. “We’re agreed as to what we want. Now we’ve got t’ figure out how to get it.” He walked around his desk and, bending down slowly, opened a panel and took out four glasses and a bottle of Kentucky sour mash. “Fuel for thought,” he said, a bright grin spreading across his ruddy face.

Three hours later the bottle sat empty on the conference table and Brumado, who had hardly touched the one glass poured for him, was summarizing: “The Vice-President told me personally that she is willing to make a statement supporting the further exploration of Mars if we can get Dr. Waterman to make a statement supporting her candidacy.”

“Better get her statement in writing,” said the American, grumpily. “And get it down on paper before you let the Indian open his mouth.”

“I’m not certain that Dr. Waterman would be willing to make such a statement,” Brumado admitted.

“Then you’ll have to convince him. Use your powers of persuasion. I’d do it myself,” the former Texan said, “but if anybody up on the Hill found out about it they’d pin my balls to the wall and the Mars Project would go down the toilet in half a minute.”

The Japanese turned to the Russian. “What would be the reaction of the Soviet Federation if the United States makes a strong statement of support for further missions?”

The Russian shrugged elaborately. “With both the U.S.A. and Japan lined up in favor, I think the forces of enlightenment in Moscow would gain enough strength to override the objections of the obstructionists.”

The American hiked a shaggy eyebrow. “Does that mean yea or nay?”

They all burst into laughter. “Yes,” said the Russian. “Positively yes.”

Then all three of the project directors fixed their eyes on Brumado.

“It’s up to you, then, Alberto old pal,” said the American. “None of us can do it. You’ve got to convince this redskin that he’s got to support the Vice-President.”

“I hope he will,” said Brumado.

“It’s either that or the program ends when they return to Earth.”

Brumado nodded his agreement. Then, “Has Waterman been kept from taking personal messages? Is he being held incommunicado while he is on Mars?”

The three project directors glanced uneasily at one another. The Russian said, “Once the American government refused to release his interview tape we assumed that he was not to have any contact with the media.”

“Far as I know,” said the American, “he hasn’t squawked. Hasn’t even asked to send any personal messages, I don’t think.”

“No personal communications at all?” Brumado asked. “Not to his family, his friends?”

The Russian shrugged. “Apparently no one has tried to reach him, nor has he attempted to call anyone.”

“Not even his parents?”

“Apparently not.”

“Why do you ask?” said the Japanese director.

Brumado replied, “I ran into a young woman who says she is a friend of Waterman’s, and she has been denied permission to speak with him.”

The American leaned back in his chair again. “I don’t see why she can’t make a tape, like everybody else’s friends and relatives are doing. Then Waterman can decide if he wants to answer her or not. That’s the way we’ve been handling personal messages, what with the time lag and the busy schedule those guys have down on the surface of the planet.”

“That makes sense,” Brumado said, “I will tell her that.”