He exited the Rollagon and walked over to the nearest. A layer of dust coated the surface. He wiped it away easily with a gloved hand. Beneath, one centimeter thick layers of milky ice were separated by a thin band of dark—a thread-thin black line. Shielding his helmet with both hands he peered into the ice but could see nothing. If there was a caveman or woolly mammoth in there he couldn't see it. At the AI's request he chipped off a chunk and brought it in for analysis.
Ice cores had shown that the ice was truly ancient—a minimum of 2000 MY, and currently the cap was shrinking. It was still uncertain if this indicated a general warming trend or was simply an aberration.
Their fears that the ice beneath the surface hid some unseen trap were unfounded. Beneath the surface here and now it was solid and continuous. The main chasm arced to the east, but a smaller chasm led towards the pole. Confident now in the stability of the ice and of the surface, Sam chose to turn to the north.
As the chasm narrowed, a border free of dunes formed at the foot of the ice. It was clear that a different mechanism was at work here. Perhaps the winds were deflected upward and dumped their loads of snow elsewhere, or perhaps the deposition of sand was underway but was happening at a slower rate than that at which the ice cap was receding. In any event, it was not within Sam's area of expertise. The AI notified him that data collection for the science mission was proceeding satisfactorily.
The chasm arced away from the north to the west. At the most northerly point they halted on the sand at the foot of the northern wall. He suited and went out, at first intent only on touching the ice just for the sake of touching it, but where the ice met the sand it formed a cave-like overhang several healthy meters high and about ten meters deep. It was the same hard blue ice they had seen before. There was no layering.
In a moment of bravado he walked under the overhang and continued in, first ducking, then crawling on hands and knees until he was in as far as the bulky suit allowed. He turned around and lay down on his side.
The overhanging ice, rippled in small shallow waves, framed the sky. The greater chasm walls framed the sides—one was in the modest northern light of day, the other subdued in a reflected pink glow. There, in the middle, was the Rollagon, its size diminished by the picture frame. Incredibly, he felt safe and secure. It was the roof over his head, he was sure. A roof probably hundreds of millions of years old, made of water dating from the origins of the planet. The black sand beneath had almost certainly been at the bottom of the salty sea that had, for a geologically brief time, covered the entire northern hemisphere. These details taken all together he was in one of the oldest places on Mars, and inexplicably he felt home and dry.
He dug into his kit bag for his camera. He knew that the suit was getting it all, but this one was for him. He lowered the lens until his footprints could be seen, adjusted the pan to place the Rollagon slightly to the side, and snapped. He adjusted the frame slightly and snapped what he imagined would be one of the most famous images in all of human exploration.
That done, he lay back and enjoyed the moment.
The magic numbers were 85.875N 30.124W
32
January 2048
Ennui
Coming down from the pole across Vastitas and into Utopia was a chore. The day-after-day sameness of the terrain began to wear on his nerves. The area had nothing to offer but flatness, broken only by small craters, ridges, and dunes of an unremarkable sort. He wondered out loud if he had unknowingly died and was destined to travel this monotonous hell in punishment for some forgotten crime.
The AI responded in deadpan fashion, "To the best of my knowledge and ability to determine, you are alive, but you are probably deserving of such a punishment."
He blanked out the command window, replacing it with a scene of a tropical beach. Some days he refused to leave his bed, spending the time sleeping, drugged beyond care against motion sickness, but not so far gone as to forget to blank the windows of his quarters. The AI was as chatty as he allowed it to be. Some days they did not speak at all. Other days the conversation was about anything but Mars.
"Tourism will never take off on Mars until air-travel is well established," Sam had jested. That topic had been broad enough to allow the AI to spend an entire day and part of the evening explaining to Sam the difficulties that a fledgling air carrier would face.
He had listened intently at first and continued listening only from curiosity, to see how long the AI would talk before it sensed his boredom. It didn't.
March 2048
Hellas Basin
Sam wanted to find the Mars 2 crash site, and so their course down from Isidis took them across Hellas Basin. It was a long trip and not one likely to produce anything new or surprising. Despite the smashed and jumbled terrain, he was bored and he spent much of the time reading and sleeping.
Due in part to politics and in part to the limitations of the technology of the 1960s, the location of the crashed lander had not been established to a high degree of precision. Modern hi-res imagery of the most likely impact site showed only a small crater of indeterminate origin and a number of nearby objects that seemed to contrast appropriately with the terrain, so the whole trip was somewhat speculative. As they climbed up the long and difficult southwest slope out of Hellas, the AI informed Sam of a developing problem.
"Current draw on the right front motor has increased thirty-five percent above normal in the past one hundred kilometers. The motor itself is within design and operating parameters. This is indicative of a problem with wheel bearings. Undoubtedly we will find that the seal has been damaged and that dust has entered."
"Thirty-five is not a lot. Are you sure?"
"I am sure. All other motors are within specification. I have checked the diagnostic sensors. They are functioning correctly."
"So what do you suggest?"
"I suggest we call for help and wait here until bearings can be delivered by a C unit capable of effecting repairs."
"How long do you think that will take?"
"The replacement bearings exist. In fact two exist and both will be sent. they will take seventy-five days to be delivered and a further six hours to replace. I will assist the unit that will bring the bearings."
"Seventy-five days! I don't want to sit here doing nothing for seventy-five days!"
"It is the safest and best option."
Sam was not pleased with the prospect. "How far is it to the Mars 2 site?"
"Sixty-five kilometers."
"OK, look. Can you drive backwards?"
"Yes, of course." The AI paused, "Are you suggesting that we drive to Mars 2 backwards?"
"Yes I am. NASA engineers employed that work-around on a couple of the early rovers. After all, a bad bearing is just a bad bearing. Try it."
So they did. As far as he could tell their progress was not noticeably affected by the resistance of the faulty wheel, as it appeared to rotate properly even unpowered.
He watched the slow turning of the wheels from the flying bridge. He had never seen a Rollagon in motion from this perspective and it was a revealing experience. He stood, hands gripping the rail, astonished by the massive dust clouds that billowed off the wheels and then quickly dissipated in the thin calm air. Quickly yes, but not before they covered everything they passed, including him. In places the Rollagon ripped the platy surface apart and threw it skyward. It was suddenly easy to believe that the trail that unwound steadily from the wheels over hill and dale was a permanent scar that marred the surface.
"This area is the source of many of the planet-wide dust storms. There is a considerable concentration of fines in Hellas region," offered the AI in response to nothing in particular.
"Hmmmm."
Finally the cold drove him in. He had seen no sign that what was an annoyance was becoming a failure and the AI reported the bearing was no better or no worse. Thereafter, he sat in the command chair, watching. But after a couple more hours the difference in speed between the two wheels
visible from the command window was noticeable, and the track on the injured side was conspicuously different from the other.
"The bearing is getting worse," reported the AI. "Any suggestions?"
"How much farther?"
"Twelve kilometers."
"Is there a possibility of damaging the wheel by dragging it?"
"Not as long as it keeps turning at some reasonable rate compared to the other wheels."
"Put power to it, just enough to keep it turning." He could not see how that could hurt. A bearing was a bearing—once it was worn out it was of no further use.
So for the remainder of that day the Rollagon travelled backwards across the chaotic and dusty surface of Hellas, leaving a track that, had they known, would probably have turned the hair of the Science Committee gray.
At last the AI announced that they were approaching the Mars 2 site. They halted on a slight rise near some boulders. Sam went out for a look, but set aside his curiosity concerning the fate of Mars 2 for a greater concern for the condition of the Rollagon. He stood beside the massive wheel, looking for some sign of cause and effect. To his eyes, the bearing seals looked intact and touching them gave no hint of a problem. He compared the wear on the six wheels. There was noticeable scuffing on the right front. The AI extended an arm and peered closely at Sam, the bearing, and the tires from all angles.
"Well, I hope you like the view here because we are going to be here for a while," Sam said, and went back in and called the Tube. The DO was non-nonplussed.
"It will arrive when it arrives. If the AIs say seventy-five days, who are we to argue? They above all should know."
Mars 2
The next morning they debated the possibility of using the Rollagon to carry out a grid search for the lost lander. "It can't hurt. The bearing is shot. It can't get any more worn out," Sam argued.
"True, but consider this. The initial search area is two hundred square kilometers. The dragging will undoubtedly create a gouge in the surface, much more than a functioning wheel. Imagine the reaction of the Science Committee upon seeing the resulting grid on the surface."
"I get your point. Well, I have time to do a lot of searching on foot. Can you identify the likely sites within a few of klicks of here? That would be a good start."
"I shall do this. The task is complicated, though, by the uncertainties surrounding the incident. How do you know there even was an attempt to land? I have been told that things were kept very much under wraps, so to speak, in those days."
"Yes, that's true, but this is one that was announced in advance and confirmed by other space-faring nations. I think it is out there. Why has there been no search of hi-res imagery? Surely it exists."
"It does, but the target is quite small, the area quite large and the interest level low. No one has ever accessed the latest dub for this area. After all, it has been nearly eighty years and the mission was overshadowed by the buzz over manned landings. I will endeavour to narrow the search."
Several hours later the AI announced that it had four possibles. The closest was five kilometers to the northeast. Sam asked for it to be displayed. A small crater with several nearby light coloured objects was visible among dozens of similarly sized craters. "How big is that crater?"
"Five meters." Sam was dubious. "Show me the others."
The second was nine kilometers to the west and essentially the same, but the third was much more interesting. A small white object could clearly be seen on the edge of a small crater, contrasting with the dark wind tail. About twenty meters away an elongated, light-coloured object could be seen.
"The parachute? That's it, any money!"
"I thought you would find that one intriguing."
"Tomorrow I'm going out for a look. Let's see…twelve klicks to northeast. I can check the first one enroute. Some rough ground. I better take a mini-Hab and consumables. Let's get it right this time."
"Understood."
Sam's departure was delayed by a windstorm that whipped the fines, of which there was an overabundance, into a fog. He had seen dust storms, but this was the grand-daddy of them all. At their location it was confined to the ground level, in the way of an Arctic blizzard that created whiteout conditions at the surface on what was an otherwise sunny day. Meanwhile, thousands of kilometers from Hellas, the clouds of dust on their way around the planet reached to the highest extent of the atmosphere. He was anxious, but there was time. Lots of time.
A week later the winds abated and in the rosy light of dawn Sam set out from the Rollagon, wheeled cart in tow, carrying sufficient supplies for five days. The terrain varied from ejecta to tumbled and smashed bedrock to large esker-like mounds and gullies, but the slope was always upwards. The going was tough, and within the first kilometer was he was well winded and being urged by the suit to take it easy. He had grown soft from months of sitting in the command chair.
He sat and looked about. From this spot he could look back down and see the Rollagon starkly white against the ochre backdrop. On impulse he waved a hand half-halfheartedly at the Rollagon.
"Hello, Sam. How are things going?"
"Fine, just fine. Just a bit winded."
"Yes, so I see. You have lots of time."
"Yeah, thanks."
He continued on. The second possible turned out to be where a crater had punched through into a light coloured bedrock and the light objects nearby were just wind scoured ejecta. He took a few images, replenished his O2 and continued on.
About 6pm he came upon a rise from which he was sure could see the target area. It was still three kilometers away. It had been a hard day and he decided to use the remaining daylight to make camp.
The mini-Hab inflated as per the book. He entered the airlock, cleaned up and stripped off as per the instructions, and entered the Hab. It smelled strongly of plastek and blood, but the air recycler and the heater were working. It was warm and dry. He prepared a hearty meal of M&C and fell asleep watching the last of the light turn dark.
The next day he awoke at sunrise, ate a protein bar, and packed up. By nine he was underway. The land was hilly and rough and the jumbled rocks made pulling the cart difficult. He was tempted to leave it and make a recce, but common sense prevailed. Whatever was over the rise would wait. At noon, he climbed the last hill. There was the Mars 2 lander, apparently intact. He descended in a rush, tripping over rocks and feet in his haste.
It rested at a precarious angle on the lip of a small crater—the greatest fear of all mission planners being realized here. The four petals had deployed as programmed, and with a few more degrees of slope or less substantial soil it would have toppled over, but then its luck had run out.
He circled slowly, taking images from every quadrant. He had read the available material on this lander, one of two such types, and was familiar with the physical characteristics. They had been pre-programmed to carry out the landing but had the misfortune to arrive during a major dust storm. Official reports said there had been a hard crash.
He crawled up to the side taking care not to disturb the soil on the crater lip. The antennas were mere stubs; something had broken them off. He took more pictures. In the crater was the tethered mini-rover that was to deploy to take soil samples. He climbed down to the floor. The rover was poised with its arm upraised, ready to stab. All around were small holes in the soil, now filled with dust but unmistakably artificial. It had landed, deployed, carried out its mission, and then been unable to report back to its orbiter.
The broken antennas were the cause of that, no doubt. He lay flat to take a shot looking past the mini-rover up to the lander. That done, he clambered up the far side of the crater and set off towards the parachute.
It was not far away. The cords were badly frayed, but they held it securely to a large boulder. The panels flapped listlessly in an otherwise undetectable wind.
He tried to imagine what had happened. If the wind had shifted to blow the chute towards the lander, the cords could easily have become
tangled in the antennas, and with the antennas gone its fate would surely have been sealed.
"Murphy, you son of a bitch," Sam cursed out loud. He took images of the parachute from all angles and paced it off to confirm his hypothesis.
That done and the mystery solved he pitched his tent. He discussed the results with the AI while lying on the floor, looking at the distorted image of the lander through the plastek. The AI reviewed the pictures and concurred with his conclusion. There was little else left to be done.
"Perhaps we should tell the Tube. They may want to forward this information to the Russians. Patch me through."
In a few seconds Sam was speaking to the DO. "I really doubt, old boy, if anyone cares back on Earth. Our Russian friends probably wouldn't appreciate us recalling their past failures, even if you are correct that it was just bad luck. Good engineering overcomes bad luck. Things are tenuous enough as they are."
"I think you're wrong. If nothing else it solves a mystery. There were so many early failures and this was not a failure."
"Well, that may be, but I am just the messenger. I'll leave a note for the CAO. It will be up to him. He is awfully touchy about such things. Call if you have anything else of interest, though, always glad to hear from the lads in the field." The static noise of the now clear comm line was loud in Sam's ears.
***
Seventy-five days from the initial call a C-type appeared in the command window, arm upraised in greeting. They had tracked the progress of the bearings from the time it left the Tube until its arrival.
As it travelled across nearly half the planet the package, containing two bearings, two seals, and a low temperature lubricant, had been handed off from B to C to B and finally to the C unit that ultimately met them deep in Hellas.
"Well, let's get to it," Sam said.
"Removal of the bearings can proceed, but installation is dependent upon the weather conditions."
"Well, let's get that much done."
Sam suited and went outside. The C unit was in the process of placing air bags under the forward section of the Rollagon. He reached out to assist in unfolding one of the bags when he was stopped by a familiar voice.