He reconsidered the whole thing. It had been risky and probably, despite what the AI had said, unnecessary. But what the hell, what are friends for? He sat until he had recovered sufficiently to roll to his side and rise with an audible groan—this time a genuine one.
"I'm too old for this shit," he said to no one in particular.
Soon after he re-entered the Rollagon the AI informed him, in a voice that Sam found to be more than slightly agitated, that the shelter AI was suffering from sensory deprivation and was almost incoherent. Therapy would be necessary and the results were, at this point, quite uncertain. Sam shook his head in disbelief at the AI's words. The life of these things they called AIs seemed to be more complex than he could ever have imagined. Intelligent machines! What's with that?
Their work was done here; he could see no reason to stay. While the AI steered the Rollagon through the dark of night he enjoyed a hot shower and a change of clothes, exchanging one shapeless jumpsuit for another. Aside from some residual fatigue, he found he was much energized by the entire experience. While it had been at the limits of his physical abilities, it was satisfying on several levels. Mostly, he suspected, he had been briefly relieved of the boredom that he was increasingly aware was creeping into his life.
Lately he had begun to feel needlessly fatigued, inclined to go to bed early and more than usually ambivalent about getting up, and even he had to admit he was more than usually withdrawn from social contact. His first suspicion had been that he was in the early stages of radiation sickness, but the AI had given him a clean bill of health. Now he saw that, despite the best job on two planets, he was simply becoming bored.
11
August 2044
Some Did and Some Didn't
They travelled all day, through the prolonged dusk of the Martian evening and well into the night. It had come as a surprise to Louise that so little could be seen of Mars from the Rollagon. Sam gathered that she was not accustomed to travel. He had pressed on because he wanted to get to a favorite stopping place, a house-sized boulder, starkly out of place in the otherwise drab plain.
As they approached it he had the Rollagon turn on the forward lights and then, taking over the controls himself, he eased the vehicle up to the boulder's side. He turned off the lights and the drive motors, and for the first time in many hours the Rollagon was still, and except for the whisper of the HVAC, quiet. They made the evening meal together and commenced to eat in silence.
Louise had brought several bottles of Shiraz, an MHM specialty, and in the course of the meal she made a number of attempts to begin a conversation. Sam's responses were characteristically monosyllabic and even his best efforts were merely dead-end replies. Part way through his third glass, though, something unexpected happened—he began to relax.
He found he was able to look at her for more than an instant, and as the wine took hold he looked straight at her, staring in fact, and began to notice things about her that he had not seen: the way her hair scattered the light; the way her hands rested in her lap, palms up, and with fingers slightly curled up; the way she tilted her head, as if listening intently when he spoke. In this moment of alcoholic clarity he realized that he had not yet looked at her—well, never really looked at her, anyway. All along, he reasoned, he had been looking at her as a sum of parts—a gestalt of a person, and now as the alcohol warmed and emboldened him, his insight increased.
He became aware of the subtle changes in the composition of the air, could remotely sense the heat emanating from her body, and believed he could detect the effect her presence (was it her mass?) had upon the acoustics of the room.
Too, he saw that she was composed of features, angles, curves, and other things. Her arms and legs were tanned. Her toenails were painted pink. He held her in his gaze. Something sagged inside him. He felt something akin to the sudden onset of fatigue, and he became aware of an ache, an ache that he had not felt in a long, long time.
She looked at him quizzically and repeated her question. "Have you ever been married?"
He found himself opening up to her. Yes, he had been married, once, no, she was dead, in '34, yes, he had one daughter, yes, and three grandchildren. A son, a lawyer, dead long ago in a UN helicopter crash in southern Iran. And no, he did not wish to return to Earth.
To most people, this was only casual discourse—a tentative yet polite exploration through conversation, maybe even a substitute for intimacy—but to Sam it was like opening the classified files vault. He had not spoken of these things to anyone, not even Ross, since his arrival on Mars. He asked the same questions of her. Yes, she had been, twice, one dead and one ended over her decision to come to Mars, no children living, plague in '24, two grandchildren, she was partially deaf in her right ear and, yes, she did wish to return to Earth. Many did, she said. Unexpectedly, she returned to his marriage.
"What happened to your wife?"
"She died of cancer."
"That is tragic. How long were you married?"
"Thirty two years."
"That is a very, very long time. You must have loved her very much." She said it as a statement, not as a query.
He was startled by the question and its frankness. His immediate impulse was to say 'of course,' but he was on the downside of the wine now and feeling melancholy.
"Yes, I did, but not as much as I thought."
She looked at him quizzically.
"I mean, I loved her, but as time went on I started to wonder what love was. Staying together for thirty two years requires a lot more than love—there are so many other things that go into making a relationship."
"Yes, but what do you mean?"
"Shared time, shared values, shared child-raising, shared goals. We were very physical for many years, but as that diminished, I began to see the relationship in a different way—and not always good. We stopped communicating on many levels."
"Yes."
"I was unhappy with many things the last few years, not all related to the marriage. Work, mostly, you know?"
"Yes."
"I don't like the word happy, nor unhappy either. Happy is a childlike state. Sad is a better word." She started to respond to this but stopped, sensing that there was more to come.
"My father's death caused me to look for the first time at my own life as finite—as having an inevitable end, an unavoidable one. I was profoundly sad and about to leave and then she was diagnosed. We put a lot of issues on the back burner, believing we would get back to them, but we never did. I never expected her death. It seemed impossible."
"What did you expect of love?"
He sat back in his chair. This was dangerous ground. Now fully depressed by the alcohol, he really didn't want to go there and was regretting the things he had just said. Usually that didn't occur until much later, when he was alone. And he had lately found that a hundred million kilometers wasn't distance enough to be safe. He remembered a story from years ago that had resurfaced in one of their rough spots.
"When we were newly married, I read a short story by Sheckley about a young man who had a girlfriend with whom he was very much in love. She was always after him to tell her how much he loved her. He couldn't do it, so he went to a man who had studied love for many years and was supposed to be wise. The man told him that he would have to leave Earth and find the answers from the great minds of the galaxy. So he left his girl and Earth and studied love and loving among humans and non-humans. After twenty years of searching for an answer and a lot of weird experiences he returned. His girlfriend had not waited for his answer—she had gotten married. So he sought out the great man and told him of his search and his experiences. They talked and talked for hours but finally, the great man asked him, 'So were you able to quantify your love for this girl?'
"'Yes I was,' said the young man.
"'And what did you determine?' asked the old man.
"'Genuinely enamoured,' was all he said.
"The old man shook his head, groaned, and said 'You lucky
bastard. Moderately fond of was the best I could do.'"
Louise smiled, then laughed quietly, but only for the briefest of moments. "So it is a question of defining your terms—of definitions?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And what did your wife think of that story?"
"She didn't think it was funny."
He looked into his empty glass. There was a reddish oval of wine, already drying. Someone told him to shut up. He pushed on.
"I never got it, as they say. I never knew what she wanted of me, how to be, how to act or what to say, or when to buy the rose. It got so I didn't know how to make love anymore—physically or verbally. I split into two men, neither happy, neither fully in control. Neither trusting the other."
"Maybe she didn't know either."
"No, I don't think she did."
They sat for a while without speaking. Sam got up and refilled their glasses. They sat in the love seats and looked out into the formless night. Their distorted reflections looked back from the window. There was a long silence.
"So is this where you belong?"
"What?"
"You said you didn't feel you belonged on Earth. Is this your planet?"
Then it really had happened. He had no ready answer. He was remembering a night a long time ago in Paris when in a moment of assumed intimacy he had tried to express something to a stranger that he himself could not then or even now fully grasp. He thought about it again, about that very question—here and now.
"I don't know. At least, not yet. Mars is an incredibly beautiful, alien place. But there never was anyone here. There are no spirits inhabiting the land." He paused and looked at her, "We humans don't belong here. None of us. And we never will."
"What do you mean? We may yet come here in great numbers, once they've sorted things out back home."
He did not hear her and continued, surprising himself. "There's an emptiness here that transcends the physical. It offers no comfort to the spirit—at least not to mine."
She started to speak, but stopped and looked away from him. She looked down into the now empty glass and thought about her own loneliness and isolation. On a different plane than he, she found no easy words to express what she felt. She hadn't worked so hard on knowing and shaping her feelings in many years. It hadn't been necessary, nor indeed desirable, to be so exposed, so vulnerable. "Perhaps you're right."
They sat again in a long silence. Sensing her unease, Sam was stirred to action.
"Well, enough metaphysical musings. How about a movie?"
He opened another bottle of wine, then they started Casablanca. Before opening scene, they became engaged in discussion about the current trend of remakes of classic movies using real actors and never actually watched it. The conversation continued into the night, mostly about people they both knew, largely gossip, of which she seemed to have a great store.
Some quality in her voice filled a need in him; the pitch, timbre, and barest hint of accent touched him in some way he could not understand. He listened to her—not because he cared about the lives of those about whom she spoke—but because he was in love with the sound of her voice and wished to hear her continue to speak forever. Regrettably, but finally, by mutual consent, it drew to a close.
He rose somewhat unsteadily from his chair and together they walked back through the narrow hallway to the quarters. His customary bed was port side lower. Louise had selected starboard lower. He said good night, opened the door to his cubicle, and entered. He shed his underwear, pants, socks and slippers in a heap, pulled off his shirt, tossed it on the pile and dropped onto the bed. He pushed the door shut with his bare foot.
He had not had so much to drink in ages and the result was still the same—a brief period of euphoria followed by depression. He rolled onto his side. Through the window he could see stars above the blackness of the plain. There was the false Southern Cross. In the faint reflection from the window his image looked faint and small. Despite all this time on Mars and all the near-constant introspection he still didn't understand why he had come this way. He was such a fool. No wonder he was feeling embarrassed by the evening's conversation. He rolled onto his back and turned off the nightlight.
Even with the wine and late hour he found he could not sleep. The ache returned. It was akin to despair, to hopelessness, to a longing for the unachievable and it was barely endurable. He needed to be with other people. He was wrong to isolate himself. He beat himself again up over his decision to remain apart.
He must have dozed off without realizing, for he awoke suddenly. Senses tuned by solitary travel told him something was moving nearby. He saw Louise's silhouette framed faintly in the doorway. She entered silently and stood beside his bed.
"Yes?"
"I'm afraid," she whispered.
He took her arm and gently pulled her down to the bed. She lay down beside him, facing the window. She too, was naked. He drew her into his body, pulled the blankets up and put his arm along hers, taking her hand in his.
"So am I," he whispered, "So am I."
They lay quiet and motionless for some time. Sam felt a not-so-faint-stirring in his loins. She softly giggled and pressed herself into his body. They were not the first, but they were very soon the next.
In the morning when he woke, she was gone. He showered and went forward. Breakfast was waiting for him. She smiled and asked him how he had slept. The awkwardness started to return. He caught himself.
"Best in years," he said, and it was true.
After a brief morning meal they started the journey that would bring them to the base. They made small talk. They touched occasionally. To an observer, it would have appeared accidental, but it was not. Within the first few kilometers, the Rollagon slammed down off of a rocky ledge with such violence as to cause them to strap themselves in and for Sam to wonder aloud if it was malfunctioning. After the third such incident, he took the controls and drove the rest of the way. Louise sat in the co-command chair, watching silently.
They arrived at sunset, having travelled in silence for the most part. He watched her suit up. At the entrance of the air lock she took his hand, held it to her breast and kissed him on the cheek. She looked him full in the face and her soft smile disappeared as she placed the helmet over her head. He closed the door. With a last suit check, she vented the lock and opened the door. She took a step out over the sill, stopped, and half turned in the door. He could not see her face through the visor, but he felt her smile. Her arm rose in a coy wave. She turned away and was gone.
He returned to the command chair and sat, heart beating wildly, thoughts churning. Old feelings long suppressed returned—yearning, aching loneliness, and hope. Yes, even hope. Hope, that he would see her and touch her again. After a few minutes he drove away, retracing his tracks.
He drove in a glow that lasted for several hours. Once, he stopped and went to his room, lay down on his bed, and buried his face in the pillow, seeking some trace of her scent, some physical manifestation to reinforce the memory, but as the kilometers between them grew he began to lose touch with it. The voices of doubt opened up in a barrage. He tried to reason with them, to tell them he was in control but they laughed and shouted him down.
It was a curse he could not expunge. Hope faded. He knew they would wear him down until he denied it had happened. By the time he returned to the MHM they had won. It had suddenly become another long and lonely trip. He knew he would never feel her touch again.
12
October 2044
Travel
Lava 1 was a research facility located some twelve hundred kilometers northwest of the First Station on the southern edge of Tempe Fossae. According to the Matrix entry a laboratory had been established in the 2nd year of the mission to carry out studies of volcanism in the Terra Tempe region.
It was manned by a modest cadre of men and women with specialties in aresology. Sam was out on one of his unauthorized trips when he ran out of things to see and do and found it easy t
o persuade himself that the three hundred kilometer diversion was preferable to heading back to the Station.
The route seemed straightforward enough. As he was tired of driving, he decided to leave it to the AI, but it wasn't going to be as simple as he thought. By now he was used to the idiosyncrasies of this AI, and they usually manifested as a tendency to be overly cautious, however this time the AI seemed less concerned for his safety than that Sam lacked the necessary clearances to visit the site.
"It is my understanding that prior notice must be given and permission obtained from the Station Commander and the CAO prior to visiting Lava 1."
"Really?" Sam replied. "I can't see why such a rigmarole should be required just to visit a research station. I would think they would be glad of visitors."
"Perhaps it is a case of disturbing their sensitive equipment. Or perhaps they are lacking adequate support capabilities for visitors. I will contact the station AI and see if they are prepared to receive guests." This presumption bothered Sam, but before he could respond the AI continued. "It is confirmed by the station AI that in addition to disturbing their equipment there are no quarters available for you."
"Well, I'll just stay here. As for the disturbance, I'll call the Station Commander myself and tell him I'm coming. After all, they can surely tell a moving Rollagon from a marsquake. Get on with it!"
Without further discussion, the AI swung the Rollagon onto the course for Lava 1. Considering the excellent travelling conditions, it seemed to Sam that they set out at a rather leisurely pace. After a few minutes though, unaccountably, the pace picked up.
"I have informed the Station Commander of our intentions."
"When was the last time someone visited the station?
"CAO Fenley and Geneticist Ling visited on February 3rd and on the 43rd of March."
"How many persons are there on staff?"
"The established complement is nine. There are currently only six shown on record."
"Where are the others?"
"I do not have that information."
Now that was odd. He was aware that making an unauthorized visit could draw the attention of someone who cared and who might even have enough influence to curtail his freedom to travel, but he was by now sufficiently and perpetually irked enough at the administration to be looking for an opportunity for some form of confrontation.