The Far Call

Conclusion. Some animals occasionally sacrifice themselves for their family or herd. Man is the only creature where an individual can advance his whole species by offering his life.

GORDON R. DICKSON

Synopsis:

 It is the early 1980's. After a period of dangerous cutbacks, the space program has been revived in the form of an internationally cooperative six party effort, to take advantage of the 1983 launch window and make a manned, three-year, round- trip spaceflight and landing on Mars. Providing "Marsnauts" (the name is the result of a compromise between the U.S. and Russia) to the three-man crews of the two ships, are the United States: TADELL (TAD) HANSARD; Great Britain: DIRK WELLES; the Pan-European Community of Nations: BERN CALLIEUX; Russia: FEODOR (FEDYA) ASTURNOV; India: BAPTI (BAP) LAL BOSE; and Japan: ANOSHI WANTANABE.

These countries are also represented by diplomatic representatives, known as Deputy Ministers for the Development of Space (Britain: SIR GEOFFREY MAYENCE; Pan-Europe: WALTHER GUENTHER; Russia: SERGEI VARISOV; India: MAHADEV AMBEDKAR; and Japan: MASAHARU TATSUKICHI—plus their U.S. opposite number who goes under the comparative title of Undersecretary for the Development of Space, ex-newsman JEN WYLIE.

As the story begins, the diplomatic representatives have just had lunch with the Marsnauts in their prelaunch quarters, the Operations and Checkout Building, Cape Kennedy. Upon boarding the bus that takes the politicos from the Operations and Checkout Building, JEN uses a phone in the bus to call WARNER (WARN) RETHE, the U.S. Presidential Press Secretary, and asks if he can talk to President PAUL FANZONE about something that is presently concerning TAD HANSARD, who is the senior co-captain of the Mars mission (FEDYA ASTURNOV is the junior co-captain).

TAD is concerned that the load of scientific experiments required of the Marsnauts is too heavy for the safety of the mission, particularly during the first six weeks of the flight. He is trying to get word of this through JEN to the President, so that the six world powers involved can negotiate among themselves and reduce the number of experiments--in which a great deal of national self-interest and pride is concerned

The President, however, cannot talk to JEN at the moment. The best the press secretary can offer is the hope of a chance for JEN to talk with the Chief Executive at the Presidential reception near the spaceport that evening, when FAN-ZONE will be present in person. The President has otherwise avoided appearing on the Cape Kennedy scene, the political situation being delicate since the flight is from U.S. grounds. Technically, JEN is his representative on the scene in all things.

That evening before the reception, JEN's girl friend, ALINDE (LIN) WEST, appears at the hotel where he and the other political representatives are quartered. He must leave her there while he goes to the reception.

At the reception, JEN suggests that TAD talk to FANZONE. But nothing seems to come of it until the reception is over, when he is held back from leaving for several minutes by WARN RETHE, so that FANZONE can talk to him.

FANZONE tells JEN bluntly that as U.S. President he is the last of the six political groups' leaders to suggest a reduction in the experimental work load on the 'nauts. This is because the U.S. already has too large a share in the Mars mission to begin with; and because, from a political standpoint, the mission itself is secondary to the international cooperation necessary to getting the people of the world to fund basic research that will relieve power and food shortages and clean up a disordered (if momentarily peaceful) Earth. FANZONE admits his own interest in space development for its own sake; but says it must take a serving role to politics on Earth, and he must operate from that standpoint.

Blocked of help from the President, JEN approaches BILL WARD, the Mars Launch Director, on the next morning, which is the morning of the launch. BILL admits that NASA is also aware that the experimental work load is dangerously heavy, but says that those who work in the space effort have struggled to keep the program alive, and daren't be the first to risk popular criticism of it now, by offending national pride. BILL cites a time when Kennedy workers were offered the choice of taking ruinous cuts in salary or resigning their jobs; and says the first duty of the workers is to keep the program alive for the sake of future launches, even if it means endangering this one.

Frustrated, JEN sees the shuttle launched, with no change in the work load.

Meanwhile, aboard the shuttle itself, TAD is considering what he must do, now that he has been unable to get help to reduce the work load. He is still turning the matter over in his mind as the shuttle delivers him, ANOSHI, and BAP to Phoenix One, the first of the two ships making the trip, and then goes on to deliver FEDYA, DIRK and BERN to Phoenix Two.

He and his crew activate Phoenix One. FEDYA and the others do likewise aboard Phoenix Two. They are ready to make their space launch from Earth orbit, into the long coasting orbit around the sun that will bring them into Mars orbit, nine months hence.

Both ships are flanked by two nuclear boosters, each with its own pilot. At the given signal, the boosters fire, and Phoenix One and Two are lifted toward Mars.

The launch completed, the crews of the two ships prepare to dock them end-to-end and put them into a spin that will simulate about half a gravity—Skylab experiments in Earth orbit having proved that some kind of gravity (perhaps a full gravity) is needed if men in space are to remain healthy over a period of time. Since the Mars trip will keep its crews in space for three years (except for short excursions to the Martian surface) some kind of substitute gravity is needed.

Once the ships are docked and spinning, the experiments are set up aboard and the work schedule of the voyage commences. TAD, who as senior captain keeps the log of the voyage, including the work done on it, makes an opportunity to talk to FEDYA alone; he says he has a plan for handling the overloaded schedule, if someone else will just come up with a slight disability—say, a hurt hand.

FEDYA turns up immediately thereafter with a bruised hand, giving TAD an excuse to juggle work schedules. TAD has refused to give FEDYA details of what he intends to do. Actually, he plans to take most of the overload on himself betting that he can last physically until the first six weeks are over and there is a slackening in the work load.

He succeeds during the first few weeks, but must skip his exercise to carry the work load. As a result he goes downhill physically very fast; and he is finally caught by FEDYA and ANOSHI doing what has been his real scheme—faking the log entries to show himself healthier and less overworked than he is. TAD is forced to rest by FEDYA, who calls Kennedy and demands a reduction in the work schedule. BILL WARD (now Mission Director) promises to try, but says it will take time. FEDYA demands immediate action or he will reduce the work load without Kennedy's authority. At this juncture, BILL receives word that a solar flare is on the way. Very heavy, hard radiation will reach the ships in a few hours.

This changes everything. In the case of a solar flare, the two ships are scheduled to abandon all usual activities, button up, separate, and attempt to communicate by LCO (Laser Communications) from ship to ship. They will both be out of touch with Kennedy until the storm subsides.

Both crews take refuge in specially shielded areas of the control rooms, known as "storm cellars." The storm, however, is much worse than expected, the radiation higher, and the LCO system on Phoenix One goes out. After a while the radiation count outside the hull seems to dip into the safety zone, down enough for the crew of Phoenix One to move outside the storm cellar. TAD and the others move out, and trace the LCO trouble to the laser motor mount, which can only be reached by EVA.

TAD insists on going out, immediately. Phoenix Two, with which they are now out of contact, may be in trouble and need help as soon as possible. The radiation count is now theoretically in the safe zone. TAD goes out and finds he needs to replace parts to fix the mirror.

Meanwhile, inside the ship, the storm has diminished to where auxiliary radio contact from Phoenix Two is beginning to come through. Phoenix Two's LCO is unharmed, and she is now back in touch with Kennedy. FEDYA relays to Kennedy word of TAD'S EVA. BILL WARD sends an urgent message that TAD should get back inside at once. The decrease in radiation Phoenix One had observed was only temporary. A "burp" of radiation is following right behind the slope of the first decrease.

BILL WARD starts a check on how much radiation TAD may have received while he was outside. The word comes back that it is high, very possibly lethal. WARD turns away from the LCO screen, stunned Sitting behind him, in the observation booth of the Mission Control Room, is WENDY, TAD'S wife; and now BILL has the job of breaking the news of what has just happened ...

Part 3

XII

Tad came in through Hatch Three to the air lock into the end of the access tube, down the tube and out onto Deck A. In the spacesuit, it was necessary to back onto A Deck through the hatch. When he turned around, he saw Bap a few feet off, holding a radiation counter.

"Get out of that suit as quick as you can, Tad," Bap's voice sounded in his earphones. "We've just got word from Kennedy relayed by radio from Phoenix Two. Something went wrong—it was still hot outside. Strip and we'll get to work on you right away."

"Hot?" said Tad. He felt a little emptiness just behind his breastbone and noticed neither of the other men was coming forward to help him off with his suit. "How hot? How hot am I now?" He began to struggle out of the spacesuit.

"Don't know what it was outside," Bap said. He looked at the counter in his hand and hesitated. "Hard to say about you. It's jumping around. Say . . . a hundred and eighty rem; probably most of that in your suit."

Tad got the helmet off and heard the soft buzzing of the radiation counter. He climbed out of the suit and dropped it at his feet, then stripped off everything else.

"Right," said Bap. "Now, down to the shower."

Tad preceded him down to the waste management room.

"I contaminate this," he said half-jokingly as he stepped inside, "and you two may have to go dirty the rest of the mission."

"We can dump the water," said Bap. "Anyway, we'll see. Scrub off as much as you can."

Tad closed the shower door and turned on the water. He stayed under it until there was a knock on the door and he heard Bap's voice calling him. He stepped out and put on the fresh onboard suit Bap had waiting for him.

"Now the tough part," said Bap.

His voice was light; but Tad's fully alarmed senses caught something different in the way he spoke; an almost-gentleness that alarmed Tad even more. He did not have to ask what the tough part was. They had all been fully informed about procedures in case of radiation poisoning of any of them—whether from space or from some accident with the big nuclear engines in the shuttle that was to be their main drive once they reached Mars.

He went ahead of Bap down to the infirmary and stretched out on a table there. A mass of clustered, red-filled tubes stood in a cradle beside the table. It was fresh, whole blood—thank God that recent improvements in flash freezing and cryogenic storage made it possible for the spacecraft to carry supplies of fresh blood with them in the frozen state. Bap had probably started it quick-thawing with the deep-heaters before Tad had stepped out of the access tube onto the floor of A Deck.

Bap was looming above him, dressed now in special protective smock, mask and gloves; because now the time had come when he would actually have to touch Tad's body, itself undoubtedly radiating and dangerous. The wearing of the protective clothing was laid down strictly in the operating procedure, but still it made Bap look uncomfortably alien and unfamiliar. Tad felt the small pricking of needles as Bap hooked him up to the apparatus that would flush his present contaminated blood from his body and replace it with the clean blood. Other needle pricks followed; and Tad felt the anxiety quieting in him. Bap must have given him some sort of tranquilizer, among other chemicals. A drowsiness approached him. He closed his eyes. The hard surface of the table beneath him felt almost soft ...

He drifted back to wakefulness to find himself lying on the bed in his own sleeping compartment, with Bap standing beside him holding a hypodermic needle—putting it away on the bedside table, in fact. Tad had a vague memory of being helped back here from the infirmary compartment, some time since. He felt filled with lassitude, but otherwise very good—perhaps the hypodermic needle he had just seen had something to do with that.

"How am I?" he asked Bap.

"You're starting to be safe to touch," Bap smiled.

Tad came further up the slope of wakefulness into an area of concern. "How's the ship?" he asked. "What's been happening?"

"Our LCO's still out," said Bap. "We've been talking to Phoenix Two by radio; and they've been talking to Mission Control. Both ships got hit a lot harder by the storm than we thought. All sorts of systems are knocked out on both of us. We're all working to get things going again."

Tad rose on one elbow.

"I've got to get up," he said. Bap pushed him back down. "No," said Bap. "You're supposed to rest."

"At least get me a phone hookup down here, then," said Tad. "Patch me in with the communications system so I can talk to Fedya. I want to know what's going on."

"All right," said Bap. "We can do that much, I suppose."

He went out of the compartment. Some ten minutes later, the intercom unit by Tad's bed buzzed. He propped his pillow up against the bulkhead at the head of his bed and sat up against it. He leaned over to snap on the phone; and Anoshi's face took shape in its screen.

"We've got Fedya on the radio for you," said Anoshi. "Hang on, there . . ."

The hiss and crackle of static moved in over his voice. Anoshi's face stayed on the screen, but Fedya's voice came through.

"Tad?"

"It's me," said Tad. "Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you all right. Can you understand me?"

"You're a little blurred by static," Tad said. "But not enough to matter. Why haven't you gbt Phoenix Two back with us by this time?"

"The storm . . ." a louder rush of static did, at that moment, wash out Fedya's words. ". . . control systems are out all over the ship. Our maneuvering thrusters are not responding properly. I was afraid we couldn't control any docking attempt. We have trouble enough right now without smashing the two ships together and damaging them. We don't even want to risk approaching you too closely."

"Maybe we can dock with you holding still, then," Tad said.

"Anoshi tells me your control systems on Phoenix One are also unreliable," said Fedya.

The lips of Anoshi's image moved on the intercom screen beside the bed.

"That's right, Tad," Anoshi said.

"What's holding up getting them fixed--here as well as on Phoenix Two?"

"The extent of the damage." Fedya's voice cut across Anoshi's; as Anoshi started to speak, then stopped. "And the shortage of repair parts."

Tad stared at the screen.

"Say again?"

"I said—the shortage of repair parts," Fedya's voice answered. "Both here and on Phoenix One. We do have undamaged parts and equipment to substitute; but not as much as we thought. Apparently certain sections of both ships that were originally planned to hold reserve equipment and spare parts have been devoted instead to the loading of equipment required for the experiments. Either that, or the loading list is in error."

Tad swung his legs abruptly over the edge of the bed and sat up facing the screen without benefit of pillow.

"You mean they sent us out with not enough supplies and equipment for repair on either ship?"

"Not necessarily," said Fedya. "What was sent was probably considered adequate. But they didn't foresee such extensive damage to both ships at the same time."

"That's not the point!" said Tad. "The point is, if I understand you, in order to get more experimental stuff on board, they shaved the repair margin too thin. Is that the situation, or isn't it?"

"You could say it that way," said Fedya.

"Have you talked to Mission Control about this?"

"I gave them a brief report," Fedya said. "I was waiting until I had definite information on what we were short, before I went into the matter more deeply with them."

"You've still got your LCO working?" Tad demanded.

"Voice only. The picture is out. But I've been in voice contact with Mission Control, ever since we realigned the Phoenix Two's mirror with them after losing contact with Phoenix One."

"Patch me through to Bill Ward," said Tad.

Both Fedya and Anoshi spoke at once; so that neither one was understandable. The face of Anoshi moved out of the bedside screen and that of Bap replaced it.

"Tad," said Bap, "you're in no shape to be talking to anyone."

"Yes, I am," said Tad. "I feel fine. Fedya, patch me through to Mission Control."

The picture on the screen vanished. The sound of several voices speaking at once tangled together and then went silent. Tad half stood up from his bed, thinking he would go up to A Deck in person and force the issue. Then he sat back down again. They would not deliberately keep him from speaking to Mission Control.

Sure enough, after several minutes, the screen lit up again with Anoshi's face and the speaker of the intercom hissed with radio static.

"All right, Tad," said Anoshi. "We're through to Mission Control for you."

He stopped speaking; and a voice came through the static that Tad recognized.

"Tad?" it said. "Tad, Wendy's here. She's been here at Mission Control since we heard about you."

"Wendy?" said Tad. He leaned convulsively toward the intercom. "Bill? That's you, Bill Ward, isn't it?"

"It's me," said Bill's voice. "Just a second—Wendy—"

"Tad!" It was Wendy's voice. "Wendy, what're you doing there? Where are the kids?"

"At home. They're all right. Tad, how are you?"

"I'm fine!" he said. "Fine! I don't feel a bit different from usual. Look, don't you hang around Mission Control. There's no need to."

"All right. Tad, honey, there's a doctor here who wants to talk to you."

"Wendy—" Tad was beginning; but another voice was already speaking to him.

"Tad? This is Kim—Kim Sung. Can you hear me all right?"

"Read you fine, Doctor," said Tad, impatiently. Dr. Kim Sung was one of the NASA physicians. "What is it?"

"I'd like you to answer some questions, Tad. How do you feel at the moment?"

"Fine, Doctor."

"Any nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea?"

"No—I told you."

"How about earlier? Did you have any upsets like that earlier, Tad?"

"After I came in and Bap pumped all the blood out of me and shot me full of someone else's blood and a lot of chemicals," said Tad. "I was a little nauseated, yes, and felt bad. But that all went away some time ago. Look, Doc, don't let Wendy get away there, or Bill Ward. I've got things to talk about with them, and things to do."

"I think you'd better take it easy for the present, Tad," said Kim Sung. "How's your appetite?"

"I'm not too hungry—but then I just woke up," said Tad. "Honest, Doc, I'm fine. Got my hair still on my head, and everything."

"Tell me, when you first came in from being ouiside and exposed to the solar storm, did you feel at all warm or feverish . . ."

The questioning went on. Gradually, it began to register upon Tad that he was not going to be given the chance to talk over the repairs situation with Bill Ward, after all. And not merely that; as the medical voice continued evoking answers from him, his concern for the mission began to move back in his mind and give way to a more personal attention. That touch of immediate emotion that had been like a small, cold finger touching be hind his breastbone when Bap had first told him he had been exposed to the solar storm, now returned. It returned; and this time it lingered.

XIII

The press conference was held in the same hotel where the Deputy Ministers of Science of the countries cooperating in the mission were still quartered—including Jen Wylie. No place else was large enough for it except the enlarged press stands out at the Cape, itself; and it was unwieldy to move all the newspeople out there just to speak to and with them.

The fact of the matter was, Jen had noticed, that the press corps in the Cape area, instead of declining in numbers after the launch, had grown as the feature writers moved in. Now, in addition, there had been a sudden added influx of men and women with orange press badges, as word escaped of the solar storm, the damage to the two spacecraft and Tad's accident.

The ballroom was equipped with high balconies at the back, overlooking the floor where folding chairs had been set up for the attending newspeople. These balconies gave an opportunity to seat a few groups of non-newspeople who were nevertheless concerned or interested in the news conference. One of these groups was made up of the Deputy Ministers, and they were all there.

"Shame about that young man of yours," said Sir Geoffrey, gruffly, sitting down next to Jen. He was obviously referring to Tad.

Jen nodded.

"Yes," he said. He felt that he ought to find something more to answer with; but no more words came to him. He gave up and leaned forward to see the Mission Control people filing onto the platform at the far end of the room and taking seats behind the long table there. There were five of them, one brown-faced and oriental-looking; but the only one Jen recognized was the upright, bulky shape of Bill Ward, who seated himself in the center.

There was a moment of fiddling with the pencil microphones among the water glasses on the table in front of the five; and then Bill Ward cleared his throat.

"All right," he said; and his amplified voice boomed out through the room. "We might as well get started here. I'm going to give you a short statement to begin with, then we can have questions."

He cleared his throat again, and glanced down at some papers he had spread out before him on the table.

"At twenty-three hundred hours, twenty-six minutes of Day Twenty-two of the Mars mission," he read, "Mission Control received from Spacelab Two a prediction of a strong solar flare, which prediction was communicated to the Mars mission spacecraft with the information that the mission had approximately five hours in which to undock and separate the spacecraft in order that experiment S082, a test of laser communication between the ships during a solar storm, could be performed—"

He coughed, interrupting himself; and then went on.

"The two spacecraft," he said, "accordingly undocked and separated a distance of one hundred and forty kilometers, while the crews aboard both ships erected the protective panels to create the so-called storm cellar described in Experiment M199. The estimate of the duration of their stay in the storm cellar was placed by Mission Control at approximately fifteen hours, during which time, because of the alignment of their LCO mirrors on each other, neither craft was in communication with Mission Control."

He paused and took a sip of water from a glass before him.

"At approximately seventeen hundred hours, forty-one minutes of Day Twenty-three," he continued, "the crew of Phoenix One observed that their LCO was no longer communicating with Phoenix Two. They checked for malfunction within the area of the storm cellar and found nothing. At this time, the meter reading the external radiation of the solar storm, was beginning to show an apparent reduction in that radiation. The meter showed a continuing reduction; and at the point where it showed that all danger was passed for the Marsnauts in moving around within the spacecraft, the crew of Phoenix One left their storm cellar and traced the malfunctioning LCO system to the point at which it went through the hull to the drive unit that positioned the laser mirror outside the ship.

"It was evident that the malfunction was outside the ship, rather than inside. Radio communication being still impossible under the solar storm conditions, and Senior Mission Commander Tadell Hansard, fearing that the LCO on Phoenix Two might also be malfunctioning, decided on an EVA to inspect the drive unit and the mirror outside the hull.

"He accordingly suited up and made the EVA, unaware that radiation outside the ship was still at danger levels. The force of the solar storm had been greater than predicted; and, in fact, great enough to overload Phoenix One's radiation meter, with the result that it had falsely showed the radiation reducing more rapidly than was actually the case.

"As a result, Colonel Hansard suffered a presently unknown degree of radiation poisoning. Luckily, the LCO of Phoenix Two had not been affected by the solar storm; and finding herself out of contact with Phoenix One by that means, Phoenix Two contacted Mission Control by LCO and Phoenix One by radio—the storm having decreased enough to make this possible. As a result, she was able to convey a warning about the dangerous level of radiation into which Colonel Hansard had EVA'ed; and as soon as Colonel Hansard returned to the interior of Phoenix One, his crewmates took steps to decontaminate him and offset the effects of the radiation.

"He is now resting comfortably, according to our last word from Phoenix One. However, both ships have suffered extensive damage to their electronic control systems as a result of the unexpected severity of the solar storm; and the crews of both ships are busy checking systems and putting them back into operation."

Bill ceased talking, shuffled his papers together and looked out at the crowd.

"Copies of this release are available on tables at the back of the room," he said. "Now, let's get to the question period."

A woman was standing in the front row before he had quite finished speaking. Behind her, several other people who had been a second too slow sat down again.

"There is speculation—" her voice was so thin it was barely audible up on the balcony where Jen was, and then a seeking microphone picked her up and the rest of her words blasted from the wall speakers, "that the U.S. Marsnaut, Tadell Hansard, has actually received a lethal amount of radiation. Could you tell us if that is indeed the fact?"

She sat down again. Bill bent his head toward the oriental-featured man on his right.

"Kim? Do you want to take that?" he said. Jen's lagging memory supplied the full name of the man addressed. Dr. Kim Sung, one of the NASA physicians. Kim Sung was leaning toward his own pencil mike.

"I'm afraid we have no idea how much radiation Tad received," Kim said. "We have no means of knowing what the radiation was outside Phoenix One at the time he was exposed; and we would have no way of determining the extent of the damage to him, physically, otherwise, at this time. I might say, though, that to assume that any dose of radiation poisoning is necessarily a lethal one, could be to fall into pretty serious error."

Several other newspeople were now on their feet; but the woman in the front row persisted.

"But you would not completely rule out the possibility that he had received a lethal dose of radiation, Doctor?"

"In the absence of sufficient facts, all possibilities have to be considered, certainly," said Kim. "But we aren't spending a great deal of our time on that particular one."

"Next," said Bill Ward firmly, as the woman opened her mouth again. She sat down. A man several rows back with a European accent Jen could not pin down, found himself chosen by Bill's pointing finger.

"Have you any idea of the extent of the damage to the two spacecraft, sir?" he called. "And if so—"

"No. No knowledge whatsoever, yet," said Bill. His finger moved on. "Sorry to cut you off. But we've got a large group here and we'd better limit it to a single question apiece. Next!"

"Would you tell us," another woman said, "if radiation damage to electronic systems alone would be enough to permanently disable a spacecraft like Phoenix One or Phoenix Two?"

"Jim?" Bill turned his head, passing the question along to a balding, round-faced man on his right.

"Theoretically," James Howell, Systems Engineer for the mission answered her, "if enough systems were knocked out at once aboard her, one of the Phoenix craft could be completely disabled. However, she would remain disabled only until her crew could repair the damage and replace the necessary parts to get her working again, which is what the crews of Phoenix One and Two tell us they are presently doing."

"Next!" said Bill.

"Assuming Tad Hansard is seriously ill from the radiation—or worse," asked a black-skinned, turbaned man standing among the rows of seats away to the right side of the room, "how will this hamper the continuance of the mission?"

"The mission," said Bill Ward, "is already redundant in the fact that it consists of two identical ships, each of which is capable of making the mission by itself. If Tad's going to be laid up for a while, of course, that will require some readjustment of work schedules aboard at least Phoenix One, and possibly aboard both ships."

"Can you tell us," said yet another woman, "if it is correct that the crews of Phoenix One and Two had already requested a readjustment of the experiment priorities, before the present emergency happened?"

"The matter had come up for discussion, yes," said Bill, harshly. "Both the 'nauts and Mission Control are constantly evaluating and re-evaluating the elements of the mission for maximum performance. But, of course, anything like this has to take a back seat now to the larger matter of getting the spacecraft back to full performance. Next!"

"Assuming the death of Colonel Hansard as a result of this radiation poisoning—" began a man near the front.

Jen felt a sudden wave of nausea. It came on him so suddenly that it was almost as sharp as an unexpected pain. He clutched reflexively at the arm of the chair in which he sat, pushed himself to his feet and stumbled unsteadily back through a curtain and a door beyond into the silence of the wide, carpeted corridor that lay at the back of the balconies.

He was aware abruptly that someone had followed him. Surprisingly, it was Sir Geoffrey, and the tall old man had a grip on his elbow, steadying him.

"Little shaky, there?" muttered Sir Geoffrey, not unkindly, in his ear. "You need a drink. Come along . . ."

He steered Jen down the corridor with a clutch that was surprisingly powerful for someone of his visible age. They entered an elevator, went down to the second-floor lobby, and from there into a large dim bar with overstuffed furniture and one waitress. Sir Geoffrey piloted Jen to a booth against a wall opposite the bar and pushed him into a seat there, sitting down opposite him. The waitress came over.

"What would you like?" she asked.

"What's the specialty of the house?" Sir Geoffrey asked her.

"The special drink?" she said. "The Shamrock. That's the name of this bar—the Shamrock Lounge."

"Shamrock? Irish whiskey, isn't it? All right," said Sir Geoffrey. "Bring him one."

"Nothing for you?" she asked.

"No. I—well, damn it, give me one, too."

"Two Shamrocks," she said, and went off.

"Always order the specialty," said Sir Geoffrey, looking across the table at Jen. "Get more for your money; and the chances are better than even the drink'll be made right, too."

Jen felt he ought to say something; but the effort was too much. "That's right," said Sir Geoffrey, encouragingly, "you just sit there. As soon as you get a drink or two into you, you'll feel better. Alcohol, coffee and iodine—cure anything in the world, one of the three."

There was a little pause. The waitress came back with the two cocktail glasses, green liquid lapping at their rims, and set them down, carefully, in front of Jen and the other man.

"Drink it, now," said Sir Geoffrey when the waitress had gone. "Pour it down, if you're up to that. Most irritating thing in the world, buy somebody a drink to help their nerves and they sit there and play with it. Women do that, a lot. Here, I'll show you how."

He drank from his own cocktail glass. Jen reached out and lifted the one in front of him to his lips. In the moment before he sipped at it, he thought he could not drink anything. Then it was in his mouth, and the taste was mint-like and not unpleasant.

"That's better," said Sir Geoffrey. "Let it hit bottom now, and you're halfway back to health. Upset about Tad, weren't you? You shouldn't be in this kind of work. Bloody amateur—oh, I know that's what your government wanted to prop up in the shoes you're wearing, but it's sickening all the same. Waitress! Two more."

"No, one's plenty—" Jen was beginning, but the waitress was already giving the order to the bartender.

"What you've got to face," said Sir Geoffrey, "is that somebody's always bound to get hurt in things like this. That's the way international politics is. That's why you need professionals. You think we've been somewhat rough on you, I suppose—myself and Guenther, and Mahadev, and the rest. But it's just too messy, trying to absorb a beginner into the situation. Beginners are God's curse; and we've all had to endure them from the top down until we're soul-sick about it. Amateurs do everything wrong—ah, thank you, dear. Drink up the second one now, Wylie. Just like you did the first."

Jen was, in fact, beginning to feel—if not better—anesthetized to a small extent. He picked up the second drink.

"What you've got to understand, for your own sake," Sir Geoffrey was saying, "is that there's always a mess. Always. You've got to learn to just let it happen—"

"And to hell with everybody, I suppose?" said Jen. He was a little surprised to hear himself say it. The first drink was already beginning to work on him.

"Not to hell with everybody!" said Sir Geoffrey, irritated. "To hell with the situation and anyone who is so tangled up with it he can't get loose. You're just a piece of machinery, if you're good at this work. You don't smash yourself on the first problem that comes along; you keep yourself whole so you can be used again—and again. Otherwise, the business does go to the bloody amateurs; and if they'd been able to handle it, they'd never have developed professionals to handle it for them in the first place!"

"That mission," said Jen, a little thickly—and was surprised to see that his second cocktail glass was empty. Sir Geoffrey was already wagging a long forefinger in signal to the bartender. "That mission was sabotaged before the Marsnauts ever got into the shuttle and left the ground."

"True, no doubt at all," said Sir Geoffrey. "And you knew it and did nothing about it. Nothing that made any difference, that is."

"Yes," said Jen, sickening again inside at the thought of Tad Hansard.

"And you're not going to do anything now or later, take my word for it. Outside of the fact they'd find you guilty of violating your own National Security Act and Espionage Law and lock you up for fifteen years—people in our positions just don't meddle in that sort of business," said Sir Geoffrey. "Now drink up, brace up to the facts of life, and let's get back to that balcony before the press conference ends and anyone notices we've been gone—anyone important, I mean to say. Our fellow workers in the vineyard don't count."

Fedya stood in his spacesuit on the hull of Phoenix Two. Half a kilometer away, the lighted part of the hull of Phoenix One looked like a lopsided rectangle in the illumination of the raw sunlight. A wire from a spool clamped to the hull of Phoenix Two by her Hatch Three led to Fedya's belt; and an individual propulsion pack was strapped to the shoulders of his suit.

Keeping his eye on the reflection of the distant spacecraft hull, he rose on his toes, flexing his boot-soles to cut off their magnetic attraction to the metal of the hull beneath them, and sprang outward from the ship. It felt as if nothing had happened. There was no sensation of movement; but then, extending his legs, he found no solid surface with them, and, turning, he saw the hull of Phoenix Two now something like his own length from him.

He turned back to locate the hull of Phoenix One with his eyes, raised his gloved hand to the chest of his suit and activated the propulsion pack.

Cold gasses spurted from the two thrusters at the tips of the twin arms extending from the pack. Still, there was no feeling of movement toward Phoenix One; but when he looked back again, he saw Phoenix Two visibly shrinking as he watched, the bright, thin line of the wire from the slowly unreeling spool at his waist in a catenary curve between himself and the ship he had just left. He turned back to concentrate on the lighted section of the hull of Phoenix One, toward which he flew.

For some time, it was hard to see any change in it. But gradually he became aware that the rectangle was apparently growing out toward his right and shrinking in to his left. He was headed off at an angle that would take him past the other spacecraft on his right, unless he corrected.

He corrected, gradually adding pressure to his right thruster until the rectangle ceased to grow in the manner it had been growing.

He traveled on in apparent motionlessness through space. There was no pull at all that he could feel from the wire attached to the heavy belt around him. He noticed abruptly that the rectangle was once again changing. Now it was narrowing—narrowing rather rapidly, so he must be getting close to Phoenix One. Getting close and sliding away at an angle above it. He corrected again.

The rectangle broadened once more. He was now close enough to see, within its lit area, the erect shape of the copper LCO mirror and a corner of Phoenix One's Hatch Three.

Fedya was correcting constantly now, as he zeroed in on the other spacecraft. His target was no longer just the hull itself, but that same Hatch Three. Playing with the controls of his propulsion pack, he drifted toward it. Abruptly, he found the need to decelerate was upon him. The hull and the hatch were growing in size swiftly before him. He rotated the handle on his chest that turned the nozzles of the thrusters about a hundred and eighty degrees, and opened their valves full.

Once more, there were moments in which it seemed that what he had done was having no effect whatsoever. The hull continued to swell toward him; and he drew up his feet instinctively to take the shock of a hard landing. But then, the swelling slowed, slowed ... and he awoke suddenly, only a few meters from his destination to discover that he had now reversed his movement; and was in fact drifting back, away from Phoenix One.

He cut the valves off completely, reversed the nozzles of the thrusters again; and with weak jets of gas began to work his way back toward the hull. It was a good five minutes more, however, before his feet at last touched down and the magnetics of his boot soles gripped the hull.

He clumped over to Hatch Three and the bit which had been welded beside the hatch to secure the end of the wire he had carried over from Phoenix Two. As he was detaching it from his belt and securing it, the cover of Hatch Three opened; and, moving as ponderously as some medieval armored knight, another spacesuited figure emerged to help him tie down the wire to the bit, and connect it to the end of another wire waiting there, before following him back down inside Phoenix One.

The manner of the other figure's movement identified the man within its suit. It was Anoshi. At another time there would have been something cheerful said between the two of them over the suit phones as they met. Now, however, they went in silence together back inside the ship, through the air lock at the end of its access tube and on to A Deck where they removed their suits.

Desuited, finally, Fedya turned to face not only Anoshi, but Bap and Tad. Tad was not even sitting down. He was standing by his control console. Fedya went over to him and gripped his hand.

"How are you feeling?" Fedya asked.

"Fine," said Tad. "I'm feeling up to anything and just fine."

Fedya smiled at him. But Tad was not looking fine. He was looking . . . different. There was no greatly visible change, but his face seemed more bony and pale than Fedya had ever seen it before. For a moment, Fedya was baffled as to why it gave that impression. Tad had worn his hair cut short always, so that the difference was not remarkable; but his hairline had gone back and scalp was showing under what remained. Also, there was a sense of strain about Tad, a tension, as if he were trying to be polite at a social occasion when flu, or a bad cold, was making him long to be home in bed.

XIV

Tad was not fine. This was the second day now since the return of the nausea and the general feeling of malaise that he had felt a little after Bap had changed his blood, when he had first come back into the ship after being exposed to the radiation. Now, as then, he was determined to hide the way he felt; but it was hard to tell how well he was succeeding. The 'nauts had lived together too closely, too long, to be easily fooled by any one of their number.

Fedya, Tad saw, certainly suspected. And Fedya was a problem, since he represented what Tad feared most—that Mission Control might take Tad's official command of the mission away from him.

From the moment he had returned inside the ship after being exposed to the solar storm, he had not forced his authority upon the others; and neither Bap nor Anoshi, at least, had challenged the fact that he still had it.

Fedya, however, as junior co-commander of the mission might just be the one who would challenge that authority—with the result that Tad might lose it. Only, he could not afford to lose it. He trusted none of the others to take the necessary action with respect to himself, when the time came. And the time would come soon now. He turned from Fedya to Anoshi.

"Connected?" he asked.

Anoshi nodded.

"We're tied in by direct line now with the Phoenix Two LCO," Anoshi said. He glanced at Fedya. "I take it for granted Phoenix Two had the other end of the wire already spliced to its LCO?"

"It's spliced in," said Fedya. "Why don't you call Mission Control and say we're ready here any time Bill Ward is ready?"

"I'll do that," said Tad.

He turned about and sat down at his control console. It was a little strange after these several days of always going to the radio for outside communication, to be punching the buttons of the LCO as if the copper mirror outside the hull of Phoenix One were still capable of being aligned properly. It almost seemed as if the picture and the voice that was now coming in over the wire to the LCO of Phoenix One ought to have some noticeably different quality. But the image of Al Ciro's face and the sound of his voice that the console produced was the same as it had been in past days before the solar storm.

"Phoenix One and Two calling Mission Control," said Tad into the mike grid. "Do you read me?"

Al's lips moved on the screen and Tad heard his voice answering. "Read you perfectly," he said. "You did get the two craft wired together, then?"

"Fedya just did," said Tad. "So now we can shift supplies between ships without docking." He was about to say more but a wave of nausea stopped him. "I'll . . . pass you over to Fedya." He got up, stepping away from the console so that he stood with his face turned away from the others, waiting for the feeling of sickness to pass.

"Hello, Al," he heard Fedya saying behind him. "I'm on Phoenix One. Any time Bill Ward is ready to talk to us, we're available."

"He'll be with you in a moment, Fedya. He's on the phone at the moment . . . here he comes, now."

Al's face moved off to one side of the screen and the face of Bill Ward replaced it.

"Hello, Phoenix One and Two," said Bill. "Look, we've gone over the data on both ships that you've been feeding us during the last few days. As far as we understand, it boils down to this—"

He paused and glanced down as if at some papers below the frame of vision of the screen.

"Both ships are operable after a fashion; but both ships have suffered extensive damage to their electronic systems—particularly their control systems—as a result of radiation from the solar storm. Some of the damage can be repaired by pooling spare parts from both ships. But among the important systems which can't be repaired, are the LCO of Phoenix One, and the main engines of the shuttle module of Phoenix Two, of which only two out of five will fire. Also, you don't expect to be able to repair your attitude controls well enough to redock the two craft together. Am I right?"

"Yes," said Fedya.

Tad had conquered the twinge of nausea that had distracted him. He turned and came back to stand behind Fedya, looking into the screen and visible therefore to Bill Ward back at Mission Control. A flicker of Bill's eyelids a moment later, could have betrayed the fact that Bill had noticed his reappearance; but the Mission Director made no comment about it.

"All right," Bill went on. "It seems to us that the possibilities add up like this. There're two practical choices. One, both craft can continue on the mission together coasting to orbit around Mars.

However, with only two main engines on her shuttle module, Phoenix Two will not be able to depart Mars orbit; so at the time of departure all personnel will have to shift themselves and necessary supplies aboard Phoenix One, to return in a single ship."

He paused, glancing out of the screen at them.

"Go on," said Tad, harshly.

"Two," continued Bill, after the time lag had brought Tad's words to him. "We'll compute retro-fire figures now for Phoenix One; and the crews of both ships will move aboard her, abandoning Phoenix Two. Phoenix One then fires to an Earth-reinjection orbit, aborting the mission."

He paused again.

"That's pretty much what we'd figured out for ourselves," said Fedya.

"I suppose," said Bill, a little grimly. "Very well, here it is, then. There's a lot of public interest back here in seeing the mission completed; and I don't have to guess what you all would prefer to do. But here at Mission Control we have to think in terms of a whole space program, not just one mission. Frankly, we'd be tempted to risk your continuing on toward Mars if it weren't for two things. One, you've got a man aboard who needs medical attention. And two, you aren't able to redock the ships together. We found out with the Spacelabs how important some sort of substitute gravity is for the human body in space for any length of time; and you've got most of three years yet to go. Exercises may help, but we don't want to count on them on a mission like this. So—I'm sorry, gentlemen—but the decision of Mission Control is that the present situation calls for an abort. If you'll start making ready to have everyone aboard Phoenix One at firing time, we'll start working up the figures for your burn to an injection orbit that will bring you to rendezvous with Earth in about thirteen days."

He paused again. But this time only for a second, before proceeding.

"How soon do you think you can be ready to fire Phoenix One?" he asked.

Fedya started to speak, but Tad put a hand on Fedya's shoulder.

"Hold it a minute," said Tad.

He moved forward, pushing Fedya lightly aside; and the other man moved, vacating the seat in front of the console. Tad sat down.

"Bill," he said, "it's not going to be that easy. Phoenix One isn't going to be able to make it back to Earth orbit without some help from Phoenix Two while she's firing."

The pause between speech and answer, imposed by the distance between them, delayed Bill's visible reaction to these words. When he did react, it was with a sudden stiffening of his features. His lips moved.

"Can't?" he said, finally. "Why not?"

"Phoenix One," said Tad, "can't make it without Phoenix Two to tell her how to get there because when I was EVA on duty about a week and a half ago, I was checking the control leads from the mission module to the shuttle module. I'd gone in through Hatch Four; and I took the shielding off the leads for the check. The shielding floated away and I was so woozy from lack of sleep that I forgot all about the chance of a solar storm and didn't make a hard enough try to catch it. So those connections went unshielded during the storm. I sneaked down and checked them yesterday before I was supposed to be up and around; and while all five engines on the shuttle module here on Phoenix One still respond to controls, there's just one deficiency. The steering engine—the movable jet in the center of the fixed ones—won't lock in position during a burn. If we have to burn those engines, that steering nozzle is going to creep out of proper alignment and we'll curve off course.

"That means that the only safe way to get Phoenix One back to Earth orbit isn't with one long burn, but with a number of small burns, each one corrected for the creeping of the steering nozzle on the previous burn until a correct velocity and direction can be built up."

He paused and took a breath.

"You see what it means," he said. "We may need five or six burns. Mission Control will have to figure a fresh position for Phoenix One after each burn and give a corrected figure for the next burn. And the only way that information for each new burn can reach Phoenix One, is through the LCO on Phoenix Two and then from Phoenix Two by radio to Phoenix One."

Bill sat motionless in the screen—for a longer time than the delay in transmission alone would have required. When he did speak again, his voice came heavily on their ears, saying only what was in all their minds.

"Phoenix Two can't fire to an Earth reinjection orbit with only two shuttle engines."

"That's right," said Tad. "You'll need one man aboard her when Phoenix One is firing, to relay information from Mission Control . . . me."

Bill's face stared at him from the screen. Behind Tad, none of the others said anything; but there was a feeling of negation from them that he could feel like a static discharge against the short hairs remaining at the back of his head.

"You're sick," said Bill, after a moment. "You're not fit—even if we were considering something like that."

"I'm fit enough," said Tad. "But I'm the most expendable. I got a real dose during that storm. But there's more than that. There's a gamble to it. I'm a real spacecraft pilot—the only one on board besides Fedya. I can fire those two shuttle engines into as close to an Earth-injection orbit as possible. Maybe close enough so that some support shuttles can come out and find me, in time. Nobody else but Fedya could make the most of that chance; and you'll want him in Phoenix One to see that the majority of the crew gets home safely—particularly with that unreliable steering engine."

Bill still sat, staring out from the screen at them. Finally he sat forward.

"I can't agree to anything like that," he said.

"Of course you can't," said Tad. "But go back and talk it over there at Mission Control. Then let us know. I'm not worried. There's only one way you can decide; because you've got an obligation to save as many of the mission crew as you can: So, talk it over and decide. Only, don't take too long. I'm in fine shape now, as I say, but I may not last forever."

He stopped speaking. Bill, however, still stayed where he was. "Over and out," said Tad.

Bill stirred himself.

"Over and out," he echoed heavily.

The screen went blank. Tad leaned back in his console seat, slumping a little.

"You are a liar," said the voice of Bap behind him. "You feel much worse than you pretend, Tad."

"Go to hell," said Tad gently, without turning around. For a moment, geared up by his talk with Bill, he had forgotten how his body felt. But now the feeling of malaise came back on him. He closed his eyes, letting the sickness run loose about his body and limbs. "Go to hell, all of you. It's on the ground, they'll decide; and, as I said, they've got no choice."

"All the same," said Anoshi. "I'm going to check on that steering motor, right now; and see if it's crippled the way you say."

"Go ahead," said Tad. "You'll find it to be as I said. But look if you want. It won't make any difference."

The phone rang in the darkness.

For a moment Jen merely lay on his bed listening to it. He had been dreaming—about what he could not remember, some sort of semi-unpleasant dream of struggling with some duty in which other people would not cooperate—and for a moment, still wrapped in the shreds of the dream, he confused the sound of the phone with the imaginary situation he had just left.

Then he came fully awake and reached out for the instrument through the dark, fumbling for the on button, finally finding and punching it.

The screen sprang to colorful life and the image on it resolved into the face of Bill Ward.

"Mr. Wylie?" Bill said, squinting on the screen. "Have I reached Mr. Wylie? I can't see any image." "You've reached me," said Jen, thickly. He struggled up on one elbow and punched on the bedside table light.

"There you are," said Bill. "I'm sorry to call you at four a.m. like this, but I've just been having a talk with the 'nauts on the LCO to Phoenix Two; and after that a long talk with our NASA people. They think I ought to talk directly to the President, myself, privately—and without anyone knowing that I've seen him. They don't trust the regular channels for getting in touch with him, and neither do I—"

He looked earnestly out of the screen into Jen's face.

"I didn't know who to go to but you," Bill said.

XV

The motors of the Vertical Takeoff and Landing Craft muttered on a bass note that set Jen's ears ringing, as the plane slowly sank level, and in a straight line like an elevator, from two thousand feet to the landing pad behind the White House. Rain drummed on the plane window beside Jen. The sky to the east was beginning to lighten with dawn.

They touched down and the door opened. Filing out, he and Bill were met by Warner Rethe, ducking under an umbrella held by somebody who was undoubtedly a White House security man.

"Come on!" said Warn.

He led the way at a trot to a side door of a building that might or might not have been a part of the White House structure—it was impossible to tell in the dark that was intensified by the glare of lights about the landing pad. A moment later they were indoors, walking down a narrow, but thickly carpeted, corridor.

The room they came into at last, two floors up, was a large and luxuriously furnished office. The President was on his feet, there, pacing up and down the room.

"Come in. Sit down." Fanzone pointed them to chairs as they came in. Jen and Warn took seats near Bill Ward.

"Listen, now," said Fanzone, turning to Bill Ward abruptly. "You did the right thing—when I say you, I mean all of you down there at the Cape. You did the right thing to come to me quietly this way. We can't let anyone know that the story you've told me came to me, alone, first. Let anyone who wants to guess as much as he wants. The point is, he mustn't know for certain. I want you and Jen here to go back to Florida, immediately. Warn?"

"Sir?"

"Is there still a plane out there for them to go back in?" "It's standing by," said Warn. "Good. Now, Bill, I want you to talk to the Marsnauts—privately. You can do that, can't you?"

"There's no way anyone can intercept laser communication," Bill said. "It's not like radio."

"Then talk to them. Don't tell them you've seen me, or talked to me. Just say you passed the matter on to your superiors in the Space Agency; and what you've got to tell them isn't official, it's just your own conclusions after passing the word along. Tell them they've got to wait until the governments participating in the Mars mission are at least notified; and they may have to wait for some agreement among them. Tell them we'll do our best to get an answer to them right away; but they have to expect it'll be three or four days at least before that answer comes. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir," said Bill. "Only—" "Never mind anything else," Fanzone said. "You do it, just as I said. And you, Jen!"

"Yes, sir?" said Jen.

"You're going to need some more authority than you've had up until now," Fanzone said. "I want you, as soon as you get back, to do two things. One, is to get the Deputy Ministers of Science for the various other countries together with you and say that I asked you, personally, to speak to them privately, and brief them on the whole situation. Then do it—don't hold back any information about the 'nauts or the mission; but don't ' hint that anything more has happened between you and me, except that I called you early this morning and asked you to talk to them. You can do that?"

"Yes," said Jen.

"The second thing I want you to do is after—note, after you've given the complete story to the Deputy Ministers and they've had an hour or two to contact their governments—hold a press conference. You can handle a press conference on your own, of course? Can't he, Warn?"

"Yes, sir. He can," Warn said.

"Again, you tell the press nothing about the White House in connection with this, except that it was suggested you were the one to break the news to the world, as our government's formal representative on the spot. You tell them what there is to tell about the 'nauts and their situation, except what you've been told not to tell. Warn will call you shortly after you're back down in Florida, and let you know what we don't want given to the press right now. That's all—except after both the Deputy Ministers' meeting and the press conference, you call Warn on scramble circuit and give him a report of what the reactions were. Is all that understood, now?" "Yes, Mr. President," said Jen.

"Fine. Warn, take them back to their plane, now." The three other men rose and started to the door. "And, Warn—"

"Yes, sir?" Warn stopped and turned.

"As soon as they're off, get back up here," said Fanzone. "We're going to have to throw today's schedule into the wastebasket and make up one that's altogether different."

Bill Ward sat hunched before the LCO screen, talking to Tad, out on Phoenix One.

"The foreign representatives—those Deputy Ministers of Science—got briefed this morning by Jen Wylie," Bill said. "Wylie also had a press conference for the news-people to pass the word to them, after lunch. So things are moving."

"Just so they keep moving," said Tad. "You said three or four days?"

"Yes. Maybe quicker, though." "It needs to be quicker," said Tad. He no longer had any hair visible on his head as Bill viewed him in the LCO screen; and his face seemed to have fallen in until he had almost a skull-like look that the bald head reinforced.

"By the way," said Bill. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," said Tad. "I'm just fine."

Jen Wylie sat in the sitting room of his hotel suite with copies of nearly a dozen newspapers in various languages, spread out on the rug in front of his chair. He had done his best; but the headlines, as usual, had gone for the worst.

DISASTER HITS MARS MISSION read the one next to his right toe. SPACECRAFT BOTH FAIL, read the next nearest one . . . and so on from around the world in various tongues.

Maybe in its own way, it was a good thing—this jumping to announce tragedy. Then, if they managed to save five of the six 'nauts ...

But no matter what course events took, sooner or later would come the witch-hunters, looking for Tad or someone else to blame for the failure of artificially high hopes.

Masaharu Tatsukichi, the Japanese Deputy Minister of Science, sat talking to Anoshi. All the Deputy Ministers had asked to speak to the 'nauts from their own country; and although on Phoenix One and Two they were still busy transferring repair parts, short interviews had been set up. Guenther had already talked to Bern, and Mahadev to Bap.

"Regrettable," said M'asaharu to Anoshi, now, "that such high hopes should end in tragedy."

"Regrettable for all," replied Anoshi.

"Of course," said Masaharu, "but I have been aware of your own strong desire to accomplish the completed mission; and so I offer my sympathy on a personal level."

"I deeply appreciate," said Anoshi. "Personal regrets, however, are nothing when weighed in the balance against the greater loss . . ."

Varisov spoke to Fedya.

". . . All that can be done on both ships is being done, then?" Varisov asked.

"Yes," said Fedya.

Varisov leaned forward to examine Fedya's image in the screen more closely; and his tone gentled.

"My boy," he said, "you look thin. Quite thin and pale. You haven't been exposed to anything like radiation yourself, have you?"

"No," said Fedya. "I am only tired. As we all are . . ."

Tad floated half-asleep in a sort of fog of discomfort. He was too exhausted to stay awake but physically too miserable to fall completely into slumber. Vague thoughts and half-dreams chased themselves through his head. Most of the repairs that could be made on the two ships had been made. This was already the fourth day since he had last spoken to Bill Ward; and still there was no word from Mission Control to go ahead. Jen, whom he had spoken to last when the Deputy Ministers were all being allowed to speak to the Marsnaut of their own nationality, had fumbled, answering Tad's direct question as to why there should be any delay at all.

". . . Each government wants to make sure it doesn't lose face," Jen had said. "Each wants to make sure it isn't putting itself in a position where the others can blame or attack it in any way—"

"What happened to us had nothing to do with governments!" Tad snapped. "It was an overloaded schedule and a solar storm!"

"I know," said Jen, unhappily, "but the first instinct of political thinking when an emergency comes up is that you try to do nothing, for fear of doing the wrong thing. You sit back and let somebody else make the first mistake . . ."

But, thought Tad, drifting in his mist of discomfort, Phoenix One and Two could not wait forever. He, for one, could not wait; and even the ships, themselves ... something else could break down on either one or both of them as a result of the primary damage from the storm; and not even Phoenix One would be able to make it back

He roused to recognize the figure of Bap, which had loomed up in the darkness by his bed. Bap was smiling and carrying a syringe.

"Something new the docs down at Mission Control just suggested to keep you perky," Bap said.

"What is it . . ." Tad started to ask; but Bap was already giving him the shot and it really did not matter. Whatever it was, it worked quickly. The needle had hardly been withdrawn from his arm before the sickness trembling all through his body and limbs began to diminish. The feeling of malaise faded; and his overwhelming tiredness claimed him.

"Working," he mumbled to Bap, who still stood by the bed, "working fine. That's good. I'll need my rest."

"Yes, you will," said Bap.

Bap continued to stand by the bed until Tad's breathing became slow and deep. Then he went back out and up the access tube to A Deck. Anoshi was there, with Fedya, Dirk and Bern.

"He's asleep," Bap said, as he came out of the access tube hatch. "It's fairly short-action, though. He shouldn't be out more than three or four hours."

"Good," said Fedya. "I'll get going, then."

He started to get into his spacesuit, which was waiting on the deck. Dirk and Bern helped him into it.

"What if Mission Control just delays in giving you the figures for our first burn?" Bap asked.

"Then you'll make the first burn on our own figures," Fedya said, "and I say that to you as an order, since I'm in command, now."

"Yes, sir," said Bap. But the smile that went with his words, faded almost immediately. Bern and Dirk were fitting on Fedya's helmet now. As soon as they were done and had stepped back, Bap held out his hand.

The gloved hand of Fedya took and shook it. They did not say any thing. Turning slowly and clumsily about in a near circle, Fedya shook hands in turn with Anoshi, Bern and Dirk. Then he turned and left them, pulling himself into the access tube and along the tube to the air lock at the end of it leading to Hatch Three.

He emerged from Hatch Three into the unchanging lights and dark of space. The propulsion pack was already in place on his shoulders; but this time he would not have to rely on it alone to cross the void between him and Phoenix Two. He reached for a meter-long tether connected to the tool belt around the waist of his suit, and clipped the metal loop at the free end of it over the wire that now connected the two ships. Pushing off from the hull of Phoenix One, he activated the propulsion pack and slid along the line of the wire toward the other spacecraft.

At the far end, he detached his tether. He reached to release the wire where it was wound around the bit on the hull of Phoenix Two, then changed his mind. With the inertia of Phoenix Two to hold it in place, the first thrust of the Phoenix One engines would snap the wire like a thread. He went down alone into the A Deck of Phoenix Two and took off his suit.

He sat down at his control console and sent a call on the LCO to Mission Control.

"There's been a slight change in plans, here," Fedya said to Al Ciro, who answered. "We can't wait any longer to start Phoenix toward Earth; and we will start with our own figures for the first burn unless we get others from you in four hours' time."

"Just a minute!" said Al. "This is all over my head. Bill Ward's at home. Let me get him here to talk to you."

Fedya shook his head.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said. "We're not asking Mission Control for permission to move. We're telling Mission Control that we are moving. We'll be following the plan outlined by Tad in which one man stays aboard Phoenix Two to handle transmission of data to Phoenix One, while the other five travel in Phoenix One. The only change will be in the places of the pilots. Tad will pilot Phoenix One. I will stay aboard Phoenix Two."

"Wait," said Al. "Phoenix Two, wait. Let me talk to Tad."

"You cannot talk to Tad," said Fedya. "He's resting before the work of bringing Phoenix One in. In any case, he is no longer in command of the mission. Because of his illness, he has been relieved of his command; and I, as second officer, have taken over."

Al stared out of the screen at Fedya.

"I'll get Bill Ward," he said, finally.

"By all means," said Fedya. "Get anyone you like. But also get us the figures for the first burn in four hours or we will proceed on our own."

XVI

Tad woke from the deepest sleep he had had in some days to find Bap shaking him.

"What is it?" he asked, thickly.

"I'm sorry, Tad," said Bap, "but you'll have to get up now. Fedya's taken command of the mission and he's staying aboard Phoenix Two, alone. You and I, and Anoshi, Dirk, and Bern are all here on Phoenix One."

Tad stared up at him blearily. "Taken . . ." he muttered. "No, he can't."

"He has, though," said Bap. "He left this tape for you. Listen."

Bap reached out and pushed the playback button at the base of the phone by Tad's bed. There was a second of silence; and then Fedya's voice, speaking in the room.

"Forgive me, Tad," it said. "You did very well at hiding the way you've been feeling; but we all know you too well. It was plain that you are less strong and more sick than you wished us to think. But time is running out without the go-ahead from Mission Control and we—both of us, you and I—have to think of the mission first and the chance of saving the larger part of the crews. It's true that handling Phoenix One down through a series of burns needs a man with your experience. But in a pinch, Anoshi or one of the others could at least attempt it, and probably get close enough to Earth orbit to be found by shuttles sent out to find you. But what if you were alone on Phoenix Two, and your illness got to the point where you could not transmit the necessary information from Mission Control on to Phoenix One?"

There was a pause in the tape. The Fedya's voice took up again.

"You see, Tad," he said, "the mission cannot afford to have anyone but a well man on the LCO of Phoenix Two. Forgive me, as I say—and believe me. I would not have taken this from you for any lesser reason than the good of the greatest number."

"Damn his eyes!" mumbled Tad. Then, slowly he shook his head. "No, I take that back. It's true. He wouldn't have, either."

"Wouldn't have what?" asked Bap, looking down at him with strange curiosity.

"Get me upstairs. Get me to A Deck," said Tad, trying to stand up. Bap caught his arm and helped him to his feet. "I suspected something like this might happen. Has Mission Control given us the word to go and the first burn figures?"

"Yes," said Bap, helping him out of the room and through the hatch into the access tube. "Fedya told them that if we didn't have burn figures from them in four hours, we'd go on our own figures. They just sent their figures through.

There's a permanent patch from the Phoenix Two LCO to its radio. We pick up everything that Mission Control sends him, by voice, as well as what Fedya says to us . . ."

All the time Bap was talking, he was assisting and guiding Tad up the tube and out onto A Deck. Tad dropped at last heavily into his usual seat, the acceleration couch in its chair position before the control console.

He leaned toward the console, lifted his hand toward its controls, then dropped it again, leaning back in his seat.

"Bap," he said. "I need something. You must have some kind of stimulant among those drugs of yours."

"You don't want anything like that," said Bap. "It'd give you a lift for a short while, but then you'd feel even worse."

"Get it for me," Tad said.

"Tad, listen to me—"

"Get it for me," repeated Tad. "I'm no good this way. Give me something to get my motor started turning over; and maybe I can keep it going, myself."

Bap turned and went oil. He came back with a little yellow pill and a glass of water. Tad washed the pill down his throat and lay back, panting.

After a few minutes, his panting slowed and, with an effort, he sat up to the controls again. He punched communications.

"Fedya—" he said. "Phoenix One to Phoenix Two."

"I'm right here, Tad," Fedya's voice came back immediately. "And, as I said to you on the tape. Forgive me."

"Nothing," said Tad, rubbing the back of his hand across his dry lips. "You did the right thing. You and I know why it's really right. I wouldn't have lasted. Bap said Mission Control had already sent through the burn figures."

"You've got them on printout in the console before you," Fedya said.

Tad looked down and punched for course data printout. A tongue of paper darkened with figures marched slowly out of the -slot into his hands. He tore it off and studied it. After a few minutes he raised his head. He was sitting a little straighter now as the stimulant took hold; and his eyes were brighter.

"Fedya," he said, "let me talk to Mission Control."

"We're right here, too, Phoenix One," answered Bill Ward's voice after a short pause. "Fedya has us patched in on his radio to you."

"Is this all there is to the first burn?" Tad asked. "These figures?"

"That's right," said Bill. "Fedya's got his own set, of course, for all the burn he can get at once, since he's only going to have one chance to get as much course change and velocity as he can before those two motors burn out. But what we thought would be best for Phoenix One would be to space out a number of small burns at first, to see if we couldn't figure out some kind of pattern to the way that steering engine of yours will creep. If we can figure out a pattern, then we can try to allow for it in the later burns at the same time as we're trying to straighten out your course."

"Good." Tad nodded.

"Let us know how it feels to you while the burn's on."

"Right," said Tad.

"Then let us know when you're ready to go," said Bill. "We'll give you a firing time and an update of the figures to that moment."

"Let's get settled here, first," said Tad. He turned to look around at the other four men. "Bap and Anoshi, you'd better take your seats in couch position. Dirk, Bern—you two had better head down to B Deck and take a bed apiece, there. This isn't going to be much of a burn; but there's no point in taking chances."

Bern and Dirk disappeared into the access tube as Anoshi and Bap took their control seats, laying them back into the couch position.

"How about it, down on B Deck," said Tad after a couple of minutes. "Are you both tucked in, down there?"

"Tucked in nicely, Mother," said Dirk.

"I am in," said Bern.

"All right, Mission Control," said Tad. "We're ready here for-that firing time, now, and that update of the figures."

He reached out to press the printout button, and a new piece of paper worked its way out from the slot into his hand.

"Firing time five minutes," said the speaker on the console in a Mission Control voice. "Four -minutes, fifty-nine seconds and counting . . . four minutes, fifty seconds and counting . . . four minutes, forty seconds . . ."

Tad was punching the information from the latest printout into his engine controls.

". . . One minute," said the speaker. ". . Fifty-nine seconds . . . fifty-eight seconds . . ."

Tad completed his preparations. "All set, Mission Control," he said.

". . . Three . . . two . . . one … Fire!"

"Fire!" echoed Tad, pressing the firing button. Aboard Phoenix One vibration and sudden weight took them all for the first time since she had been lifted from Earth orbit by the two auxiliary shuttles that later parted from her.

But this was only a lesser and shorter version of the three-gravity thrust that the spacecraft had felt at that time. The firing was over, it seemed to Tad, almost before it had begun. But he had felt—he was positive he had felt—the direction of the change of angle of thrust as the steering motor crept off course even in that short time. He began checking his instruments eagerly, to see what they could tell him about the error which the steering jet's movement must have caused.

"Phoenix Two! Phoenix Two, this is Mission Control!" the radio speaker was saying. "Fedya, we were in communication all through that firing period and we're in communication now as far as we can tell. Come in, Fedya!"

"Phoenix Two," said Fedya's voice. "We're in communication."

"What happened, Phoenix Two? Didn't you fire? If you'd moved we'd be out of communication now until the LCO could realign between us."

"No," said Fedya; arid Tad stopped checking his instruments, abruptly, to listen. "I didn't fire. There seems to be some malfunction in the controls. It doesn't look serious. I'll get down and check it. I can fuel any time, of course."

"We'll give you an update on your own figures, to the next firing time of Phoenix One," said Mission Control. "Let us know about that malfunction as soon as you establish what it is."

"Will do," said Fedya.

"Good. Phoenix One. Phoenix One, this is Mission Control. How did the burn go with you?"

"Fine," said Tad. "There was a creep, all right. I'll let you know as soon as I get what information I have on it. When's our next firing time?"

"As soon as we pinpoint your present position," said Mission Control, "and decide on the details of the next burn. Estimate, twelve to sixteen hours. Without the LCO on Phoenix Two alongside you, we're going to have to hunt for you."

"Good hunting," said Tad.

He leaned back on the acceleration couch exhaustedly. He had meant to make some more energetic answer, perhaps some joke about little black sheep who had lost their way; but he did not have the energy. The effect of the yellow pill was wearing off.

"You understand," said Vassily Zacharin, "we must ask for a thorough examination and explanation of this."

Vassily Zacharin was the Soviet Ambassador to the United States of America. He and Varisov sat now in the office of Paul Fanzone; and Paul Fanzone himself, sitting behind his desk with Warn Rethe standing behind him, nodded agreeably.

"I do understand," said Fanzone, gently. "Of course. I've had calls made on me today by several representatives of the other powers involved with us in this space effort. Of course it's a great shock to us all, that a mission that meant so much to the world should find itself frustrated in this tragic way."

"It's true, Mr. President," said Vassily, "that we are very concerned with the failure of the Mars mission itself. But more important to my government and the Soviet peoples is an answer to the question of why Feodor Aleksandrovitch Asturnov should be the one of six Marsnauts to give his life that the others may live."

"He hasn't given it yet," said Fanzone, a little dryly.

"We understand," said Vassily, "that the chances of his bringing Phoenix Two close enough to Earth to be found and rescued are so small as to hardly be worth computing. You understand me, Mr. President, Feodor Aleksandrovitch is a brave man and we do not doubt that he would hesitate to offer to help his comrades even at the cost of his almost certain death. It is simply that we understand your Marsnaut Tadell Hansard first informed Mission Control that he was to be the one to stay on Phoenix Two, since he was already dying from a lethal exposure to radiation—"

"Tadell Hansard isn't dead yet, either," said Fanzone. "And our doctors say no one will know whether he had a lethal dose or not until they get him back here and examine him."

"Undoubtedly," said Vassily. "It is expected that physicians wish to make absolutely certain before making any pronouncement. But your doctors, like ours, like those of the rest of the world, can hardly avoid interpreting the information of Colonel Hansard's steady deterioration as pointing to anything but one overwhelming probability. In short, few people qualified to interpret the symptoms doubt that he is a dying man. The question therefore arises in the minds of the people of the world—not just in the Soviet Republics—why a dying man is being brought back to Earth, while a completely well man throws his life away in the dying man's place."

"I can't really answer that question any better than anyone else, including yourselves," said Fan-zone. "Your Marsnaut has told us that he took over command from Tad Hansard and made the change of ships between the two of them on his own authority. We have the tape of his telling Mission Control so; and I believe you've heard it played. Presumably you understand one of your own nationals better than we do. Perhaps you can tell me why he did it."

"We have no idea, of course, Mr. President," said Vassily, the even tenor of his voice almost monotonously unchanging. "We only point out that the question exists; and that since it was the Marsnaut of your country that was favored at the expense of ours, we would like to be satisfied that the urgency to discover an explanation—a thoroughly impartial explanation, without partisanship toward any member of the mission—burns as strongly in the minds of your people as it does in ours." "You can be certain of that," said Fanzone. "We would very much like to know why Colonel Asturnov deposed the established senior commander of the mission without authority. Also, why he took matters into his own hands, even to the point of threatening to risk the lives of other members of the mission on a burn from incomplete data, unless Mission Control gave him the complete data."

Vassily paused.

"I'm sure, Mr. President," he said after a second, "you do not mean to imply some sort of accusation against Colonel Asturnov?"

"Of course not," said Fanzone. "We are just, like your government and people, very desirous of finding out just what caused things to happen as they have. I think all of the world's people who supplied 'nauts to this mission have a common interest in that."

"I agree with you," said Vassily, inclining his head.

"Then we'll all look forward to getting the Phoenix One and Two back, so we can satisfy our interest," said Fanzone, briskly.

"Yes indeed, Mr. President. You've been most kind. If you'll excuse us, then?" Vassily raised his eyebrows.

"Very good of you and Deputy Minister Varisov to come and see us," said Fanzone, rising behind the desk. Vassily and Varisov were also on their feet.

"I will be informing my government immediately about your equal interest in this matter," said Vassily.

"Thank you. Good afternoon," said Fanzone.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President." The two men went out. Fanzone, still standing, turned and looked at Warn Rethe, who came forward.

"Now the rock-throwing starts," said Fanzone. "The public is hungry, Warn. Not just our public, but the public all over the world. The hope they all had for the mission as a symbol of world cooperation was just too damn high. Someone's going to have to be hung at high noon for this, or governments all over the world are going to be shaken up. Any idea who could fill the role of scapegoat, Warn?"

"No, sir," said Warn. He looked at Fanzone curiously, and added, "Do you?"

"Of course," said Fanzone, grimly. "The 'nauts, themselves. Nothing or no one else is big enough now to feed the wolves."

"Phoenix One, ready for your fourth burn?" asked Mission Control.

"Ready," said Tad, coming awake in the control seat with a snap. Now, after three burns and more than six days, he had become conditioned to the sound of the voice of Mission Control over the speaker. Since that first burn he had not needed again the stimulant he had demanded that Bap supply him. At the word that a burn was imminent, his body chemistry leaped by itself into high gear, depressing for the moment actual vomiting and diarrhea, but the feelings of nausea and spasm and the half-unreal sensation of waking dreams made him doubt at times that he was actually seated at the control console on the Phoenix One. There were times when he could have sworn he was back at home, doing some painting on the house, or at the beach with Wendy and the children.

"Phoenix Two, how about you?" Mission Control was demanding. "Are you ready to fire this time?"

"I am afraid not," Fedya's voice said. Six days plus had separated the two spacecraft enough so that a little static washed out his words, now and then. "I haven't been able to track down the trouble, yet; but I should find it soon. I'm not going away, Mission Control. I will have my chance to fire, later."

"Better sooner than later, Phoenix Two," said Mission Control. "See if you can't find it before next firing. Phoenix One, have you got your figures for the burn?"

"I'll read them back to you," said Tad. Since the first burn when Phoenix One had still been in wired connection with Phoenix Two, a printout of the burn figures had been impossible. The only way they could be transmitted to Tad was for Mission Control to read them to him orally over the radio patch from Phoenix Two; and the only check on the accuracy of their transmission was to have Tad read them back.

He began to read.

XVII

"Well, Phoenix One," said Mission Control, "I think we may have some good news for you."

Tad woke with a start—came back from some strange delirious dream, the details of which evaporated even as he tried to remember them.

"What—" he started to say; but the word was only a dry husk of a sound in his throat. He tried to clear his throat, but it would not clear. A hand offered him a cup of water and he took it gratefully. It was Anoshi standing over him and offering him the water. There was always one of the others with him on A Deck, now, when he was at the control console.

The water moistened his throat, and he could speak aloud.

"What day is this?" he asked Anoshi. "How many burns so far?"

"Tenth day," Anoshi said. "Seventh burn coming up."

"Did you hear me, Phoenix One?" Mission Control said. Relayed from the now-distant Phoenix Two, the radio was thin and scratchy with static. "I was saying we may have some good news for you, after all."

"I hear you," said Tad to the mike grid. "What is it?"

"Well, for one thing, you're getting close. We're starting to pick up that radio signal of yours. We can't understand you on radio, yet, but we're beginning to bring you in. We'll be talking directly to you, soon as we can get a real directional fix on you." Mission Control paused. "That's one thing. The other thing is, we think we've got the pattern of that creep in your steering motor figured out; so we can correct for it in the next burn. If we're right, it won't take more than one or two more burns to bring you home."

Tad nodded. It did not occur to him to answer, until Anoshi leaned forward to the mike grid.

"That's wonderful, Mission Control," said Anoshi, "you're wonderful."

"Thank you, Phoenix One. The compliment is returned—is this someone else speaking?"

"This is Anoshi, Tad just had a frog in his throat for a minute." "I'm all right now, Mission Control," said Tad. "You've got some burn figures for us, then?"

"That's right," said Mission Control. "Got them for Phoenix Two, as well. You're going to go this time, aren't you, Phoenix Two?"

There was a definite pause now, before radio waves brought Fedya's answer to the speaker of the console on Phoenix One, and Fedya's voice, like Mission Control's, was now dimmed by distance and static.

"Is this my last chance, Mission Control?"

"Either your last, or your next-to-last, Phoenix Two."

"Do not worry, then," said Fedya. "This time I'll fire."

"All right, then, Phoenix One and Two. Here's your data . . ."

Jen punched out a number on the phone with great energy. "Hello," he said, when he got it, "Barney Winstrom, please. Yes, would you page him? I'll hold."

"Jen," said Lin, behind him, "are you sure you want to do this?" "Very sure," said Jen. "I should have done something like this a long time ago. I would have if I'd been thinking straight. I can blow this thing wide open."

"But are you sure you need to?" Lin said. "You can't be positive that there's any plan to blame everything on the mission crews—"

"Barney?" said Jen into the telephone. "Jen. Look, I want you to do something for me. But first, will you answer a question for me?"

"Glad to, if I can," Barney frowned a little in the phone screen. "What's the question?"

"If you had to make a bet on who's going to catch the largest share of official blame, once they start investigating the accidents on the Mars mission, who would you bet would be the goats?" said Jen.

"From the sounds in the woodwork, already," said Barney, "the 'nauts, themselves." Barney peered forward on the screen, as if trying to see around Jen to Lin. "Understand, that's not what I think. I'm just giving you a reading on what I hear, and smell in the wind. There's been too much fuss all around the world for this to happen without someone having to take the blame."

"You see," said Jen, glancing over his shoulder at Lin, "it doesn't take planning—just a few voices going for the same target. Look, Barney," he transferred his gaze back to the phone screen, "I'm going to hold a press conference. Just like I did by Presidential request, right after word came of what the radiation had done to Tad and the ships. But I'm doing this one on my own hook; so I'm calling it for two hours from now so they won't have time to stop me. And I don't want to announce it officially for the same reason. Would you get on the phone and start spreading the word to the newspeople?"

"What's the subject? And where'll the conference be?"

"Subject's a secret," said Jen. "And it'll be held in that ballroom at the official hotel where I'm staying—you know the one with the balconies they've kept for press conferences. It'll be held there—" Jen glanced at his watch, "at three o'clock sharp, whether there's anything else going on in that room then or not. If necessary, I'll just walk to the stage and take over the mike. Will you spread the word for me; now?"

Barney gazed at him.

"How do you feel?" Barney asked.

"Better than I've felt in days." "All right," said Barney. "It can't hurt me, anyway. I'll just pass on the rumor I heard."

"Fine. So long," said Jen.

"See you there," said Barney, and punched off.

Jen punched a new set of numbers on the phone.

"Merritt Island Hotel, manager's office," said the face of a young man appearing on the screen. "Oh, Mr. Wylie."

"Could I speak to the manager?" "Yes, sir. One moment."

The screen went blank for a moment, then sprang into color with the image of a gray-haired, smiling woman.

"Yes, Mr. Wylie?"

"It looks as if I'm going to have to call a press conference on short notice," Jen said. "Do you know if that ballroom of yours is available?"

"Let me see . . ." She glanced aside. "Yes, Mr. Wylie, it is. Any special requirements?"

"No. Just have the doors unlocked as soon as possible," said Jen. "I've set the time at three o'clock—this afternoon."

"Three? That soon?"

"Any problem about it?"

"Why . . . no. No, Mr. Wylie. None at all."

"Good. Thank you," said Jen; and punched off.

He straightened up from the phone and got to his feet, to find Lin already on her feet, looking at him strangely.

"Now," he said, before she could speak, "I need a lawyer; and I don't know any down here. Did you know any lawyers back when your father was stationed here at Patrick Air Force Base?"

"Lawyer?" Lin looked puzzled. "Not really. We always used someone Dad knew in the Adjutant General's department when we had legal questions to ask."

"That's no good," said Jen. "A military lawyer won't help me. I need someone locally who's not afraid of tangling with the Federal government."

"Oh," said Lin. "Tom Haley. He's a friend of Dad's. A civilian lawyer."

"Not afraid—"

"Tom Haley likes tangling with the Federal government, or anyone else," said Lin firmly.

"Will you call him and introduce me?"

"I . . . can, of course," said Lin. "But what are you going to tell him? What are you going to tell those newspeople at the press conference?"

"The truth about the mission and whose fault it is things went wrong, and how they can prove for themselves I'm telling the truth. Once I do that, of course, I'm going to find myself under Federal arrest, for violation of the National Security Act and Espionage Law. I'll need a lawyer."

She looked at him a long moment, then walked past him to the phone.

"I'll get Tom on the line," she said.

Jen, Lin, and Tom Haley—a tall, powerful, cheerful man with white hair cut to a one-inch stubble—came into the ballroom just before three p.m., and walked down the side of the room to the speakers' stand with its long table and pencil microphones. The ranks of folding chairs that filled the expanse of ballroom floor had only a sprinkling of people in them; but more were coming in.

"Well, well," said Tern Haley, looking them over, "not much of a gathering to hear a man accuse the leading governments of the world. Are you sure you're going to need me, Jen? I could have stayed at my office and got part-way caught up on my work."

"There may not be many of them here," said Jen, "but the ones that are here have large ears; and their papers or stations or networks have large mouths. I'll need you all right."

He went toward the center of the table.

"Aren't you going to wait?" Lin asked. "There's a stream of people in every aisle, still coming in."

"Maybe you're right," said Jen. Then, abruptly, he started toward the chair at the center of the table. "No. See that gray-haired woman coming down the side aisle? She's the day manager of the hotel. Tom, will you try to stall her as long as you can?"

Tom turned, followed by Lin, and went toward that end of the platform that met the bottom of the side aisle Jen had indicated. Jen seated himself at the table, tapped the pencil microphone before him to make sure it was working, and spoke.

"Sorry to start while some of you are still coming in," he said. "But my time may be limited. As most of you may know, I'm Jen Wylie, U.S. Undersecretary of Science for the Development of Space; and a former newsman myself."

Out of the corner his eye could see that the hotel manager had reached the edge of the platform and was faced there by Tom and Lin, who were arguing with her.

"What I have to say won't take long in any case," he said, "because I'm not going to give you information so much as put you on the track of finding it for yourselves. As you know, the two spacecraft of the Mars mission have been disabled by a solar storm—Mission Control is trying to bring at least one of them back to Earth orbit right now. Also, Tad Hansard, one of the Marsnauts, has suffered some had effects from radiation during the solar storm. Very soon now, investigations will be started into what factors were involved in the failure of the mission."

The manager was up on one corner of the stage, now, but her way was still being barred by Tom and Lin. Behind the manager, were a heavy middle-aged man wearing the uniform of a hotel guard and one of the Federal security men assigned to the Deputy Ministers, in civilian suit, coming down the aisle.

"There may be some voices raised to suggest that the cause of failure lay in the Marsnauts, themselves," he went on, rapidly. "In connection with that I want to suggest that you investigate the following possible chain of events. That the publics of the various nations and national groups involved in this mission competed against each other for the time and effort that the 'nauts would have to spare for scientific experimentation and testing on the mission. That the result of this competition was that the Marsnauts were given an experimental schedule too heavy for them to handle in the time available. That the 'nauts tried to handle this impossible work load, regardless, with the result that fatigue from overwork caused errors of judgment that led directly to the radiation damage to Tad Hansard and both ships.

"Finally, I would like you to investigate the fact that storage space aboard both ships intended for spare parts and equipment, now become necessary since the radiation storm both ships encountered, has in some cases been preempted for equipment belonging to the area of the experimental schedule. So that right at this moment both ships now lack repair facilities which should have been aboard them.

"The necessary information to check this is already in your hands, and in the hands of the public you inform. I suggest you check the bargraphs of the Marsnauts' schedules to establish whether the work required of them could reasonably be accomplished in the overall time available, unless all activities aboard the ship were miraculously free of any delay and time loss. I ask you to examine the reports so far released, of events on both Phoenix One and Two; and decide for yourselves and your readers whether it was the demands of the mission or the Marsnauts who are responsible for the failures. And now—" said Jen, hastily pushing back his chair, "I must go."

He rose and left by the far end of the stage, just as the security agent he had recognized pushed past a determined Lin and strode toward him. He leaped down into an aisle and ran toward the entrance to the ballroom.

To his surprise he made it. Looking back, he saw that the security agent had been entangled in a crowd of newspeople apparently eager to question him—and who in the process had trapped him to a standstill. Lin and Tom, now ignored, were coming up the other aisle, where a little earlier, the manager had gone down.

Jen ducked out the ballroom entrance and waited. After a minute or two, Lin and Tom came out and saw him.

"Better move while you can," said Tom.

They left the hotel for Tom's car, which was parked in the hotel parking lot outside.

"Where to?" the lawyer asked as they slipped out into the traffic of the street.

"Let's go back to my motel and think," said Lin. She looked at Jen. "We should have thought about it before you got up to talk."

But Jen was supremely happy.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "They'll catch up with me sooner or later. But meanwhile I might as well enjoy life."

"You'd better simmer down," said Lin.

"That's not bad advice," said Tom. His car was the largest model air-cushion vehicle being made for private use, and he slid it through the traffic with absent-minded skill. "Everyone who's come after you so far hasn't had any arrest powers. When someone like that actually shows up, though, all Lin and I are going to be able to do for you is advise you to go quietly."

They came finally to the motel. The phone within was ringing as they pulled into the driveway beside the unit. Lin opened the door on her side of the car as Tom stopped the vehicle, and she ran into the motel room.

They followed and heard her talking to someone at the far end of the line.

"Yes, I'll be right out," she was saying. She punched off and turned to them. "Barney calling about Mission Control. They finally figured out the creeping of that steering engine on Phoenix One. The last burn- put the ship right where they expected her to be. One more will bring them in—and they can talk directly to Tad by radio, now, without going through the LCO to Phoenix Two!"

"Thank God," said Jen.

"I'm going out there right away." Lin headed toward the door. "They just might give me an interview.

"I'll go with you—" Jen checked and looked back at Tom Haley. "That's right, you won't be able to go in with us. Wait, you can wear my press pass."

"I've got a press vehicle pass for our car and passengers," said Lin. "Unless they stop him inside the Flight Control building, he'll be all right."

"Do you want to go?" Jen asked him.

"I like to see things through," said Tom. "And as soon as word gets around you're there, somebody'll be tapping on your shoulder inside of fifteen minutes. I'll stick with you until dinner time."

"Good," said Jen.

They took Lin's rented car. The roads to the Cape were almost deserted in the brilliant, late afternoon sunlight. As Lin had said, the guard on the gate did not question Tom; and they pulled into the parking lot beside the Flight Control building. Inside, on the main floor, they hurried past another guard who as talking on the telephone in the lobby tnd did not see them pass.

The elevator took them up to the floor where the Flight Control Room was. But there was a third guard on duty at the door of the room and this time not only Tom, but Lin, was stopped.

"I'll try to get someone to phone security for Tom," said Jen, going in alone. Lin stayed with Tom.

Jen went into the glassed-in observation room, at the back of the sloping floor with its rows of consoles. Wendy Hansard was at one of them, apparently having just finished talking to Tad. A speaker inside the observation room sounded with Tad's voice, over a background of light static.

". . . give me a time check."

His voice sounded in Jen's ears as heavy, blurred and slow—like the voice of a man under drugs or just awakened.

"Time is four minutes, thirty- seven seconds to burn," answered a Mission Control voice. "four thirty-six . . . four thirty-five . . . four thirty-four . . ."

"Copy," said Tad's voice. "O.K. Our time checks. You've got a perceptible disk, seen from here."

"Glad to hear it," said Mission Control. "Are you all set with the figures for the final burn?"

"All set. All ready here. Just waiting it out," said Tad's voice, slowly.

"Phoenix Two, how about you?" asked Mission Control. The light sound of static ceased, but there was no other response. "Phoenix Two. Come in, Phoenix Two. We're not reading you."

There was a faint murmur that swelled up clearly and loudly, suddenly, with no static to be heard at all.

 "…said that the LCO here seems to be fading in and out on transmission for me," said Fedya's voice. "Can you read me now, Mission Control? Can you read me?"

"Roger. We read you now, Phoenix Two. We read you clear and loud," said Mission Control. "You were out there for a few minutes again, then you faded back in all of a sudden. Is your reception of us or of Phoenix One fading likewise?"

"No. No fade from you. I'm receiving Phoenix One now through you. Too much static on radio direct from Tad, now," said Fedya. "Let me know if I fade out again."

"Are you set for burn, Phoenix Two? Have you got your figures?"

"I have the figures. Thank you, Mission Control."

"Will you make the burn this time, all right, do you think?" There was a movement beside Jen, and he glanced aside briefly to see Tom, now with a badge, slip into the room beside him and stand listening. "If we lose contact with you through the LCO, we won't be able to keep updating your burn figures. You've got to go, this time."

"I intend to go," said the voice of Fedya. "Never mind me, Mission Control. Concentrate on getting Phoenix One home safe."

"What is it?" Tom asked Jen. For no readily obvious reason, he spoke in a whisper. "That business about his going?"

"He's been having trouble getting the two working engines he's got to burn at all," Jen said. "He hasn't been able to fire at the same time as Phoenix One on any of the burns since the two ships were together—"

He broke off. Mission Control was talking to Tad, again.

". . . Two shuttles," Mission Control was saying. "One will stand off when they meet you. The other will come close enough to get a line to your Number Three Hatch. We'll send a pilot across to bring Phoenix One in the rest of the way to orbit; and all of you will transfer over to the shuttle. Understood?"

"Understood," said Tad. "How soon after we finish burn should we rendezvous?"

"The shuttle should meet you in four hours and ten minutes after you finish your burn," Mission Control said. "That's provided you end up where you're supposed to. The shuttles are already on the way to that point, as we told you earlier today."

"Copy," said Tad. "Four hours, ten minutes after end burn."

His voice was slowing down even more as he talked. Like a phonograph record slowing down.

"Tad," said Mission Control. "Tad, why don't you let Anoshi or one of the others take over for this last burn? It's all cut and dried, now."

"Hell with that . . ." Tad's voice slurred drunkenly. "Took her out—bring 'er back . . . Fedya!"

"I'm listening, Tad." Fedya's voice over the LCO was so clear, alert and free of background noise in comparison to Tad's that Jen almost started. It was almost as if Fedya had spoken behind Jen and Tom in the observation room.

"Good hunting, partner."

"Thank you . . . partner," said Fedya. "And I wish. . . ."

His voice faded once more, suddenly, into nothingness.

"Fedya?" said Tad, after a moment.

There was no answer.

"Phoenix Two's LCO is malfunctioning," Mission Control said.

"We don't receive Fedya either, Tad."

Tad's voice muttered something unintelligible.

"One minute and counting," said Mission Control. "Ready for countdown, Phoenix One, Phoenix-Two? Fifty-six seconds . . . fifty-five ... fifty-four . . ."

"You mean—" Tom Haley was whispering again in Jen's ear, "the other spaceship hasn't even started to come toward Earth?"

"Yes," said Jen. He was hardly listening. His attention was all on Wendy, standing by the console with her back turned to Jen's end of the room. Her arms were at her side, and her hands were clenched. There was no other sign of tension about her. Someone else came into the observation room behind Jen and Tom, but neither of them turned to look.

"Twenty seconds . . ." Mission Control was counting.

"GOOD LUCK, PHOENIX ONE," said the voice of Fedya, suddenly loud in the observation room, drowning out the voice of Mission Control's counting.

"Six seconds . . . five seconds," said Mission Control. "Four ... three . . . two . . . one . . . fire!"

A sudden roar of static erupted from the speaker, and was tuned down to silence. It was silent in the observation room. No one moved down in the Control Room proper. Jen and Tom waited, breathing shallow breaths.

Finally, after a long time, the speaker came to life again with the faint background wash of static Jen had heard originally.

"Phoenix One," said Mission Control. "Come in, Phoenix One."

"Read you, Mission Control," answered Tad's voice suddenly. "All over. Burn went fine. Everything's fine."

"Roger, Phoenix One," said Mission Control. "You are on target. Repeat, you are on target. We're just getting confirmation on that by the ATM in Skylab Two. Congratulations. The shuttles will be with you soon."

"Thanks to you, Mission Control," said Tad. "I thank you, we all thank you . . ."

"Phoenix Two?" said Mission Control. "Phoenix Two, come in. This is Mission Control calling Phoenix Two. Do you read me, Phoenix Two?"

"I read you, Mission Control." Fedya's voice swelled up in volume suddenly from the speaker. "Great good work, Tad. My congratulations to all of you."

"Salute to you, Fedya," said Tad.

"Phoenix Two, this is Mission Control. Did you accomplish burn? Repeat, did you accomplish burn this time."

"I am sorry, Mission Control," said Fedya. "Very sorry. No, I did not burn. But then I was not trying. Forgive me for keeping you in the dark this long; but I wanted to leave your minds free to concentrate on getting Phoenix One home safely. I never intended to use the figures you gave me."

"Phoenix Two? Hello, Phoenix Two. We're reading you; but don't understand. Did you say you didn't intend to burn at any time? What about the malfunction of your two engines?"

"There was none," said Fedya. "As I say, Mission Control, forgive me. If I had told you the truth to begin with, you would have wanted to argue with me. I did not want argument, particularly useless argument once my mind was made up."

"Phoenix Two, I don't understand—" Mission Control's voice suddenly broke off and changed to another voice familiar to Jen.

"Phoenix Two, this is Bill Ward. Fedya, what are you talking about? Have you been deliberately choosing to keep Phoenix Two as she is? Why, in God's name?"

"Leave him alone." It was Tad's voice suddenly, breaking in. "We started out to go to Mars, Bill. If one man wants to complete that mission, he's got a right to. Anyway, what're you going to do about it?"

"But . . ." began Bill; and stopped again.

"Please, Bill," said Fedya. "No arguments. We all know that the mission has to be completed, if there are to be more missions after this one. This spacecraft is a small capsule of all our efforts since time began; and someone has to see it safely to its destination. If it weren't me, it would have been one of the others—Dirk, Bern, Anoshi, Bap. One of us would have stayed with Phoenix Two."

"Hey," said Tad, thickly, "don't forget me, you damned mutineer." "I don't forget you, Tad," said Fedya. "But it had to be a well man. One who could stay alive until Mars is reached, and even after. Someone who could keep records and even maintain as many of the experiments as possible, so that the data will be there when the next ships come. I know . . . I know what I did in taking this away from you, Tad. But we agreed, all the rest of us agreed, that it had to be done."

"Sure," said Tad. "Sure. If I'd been in shape to think straight I'd have realized that earlier, myself."

He stopped talking. There was no sound.

"Fedya?" Tad said. "Fedya, you still reading me? . . . Fedya?"

"Phoenix Two, come in," said Bill Ward. "Phoenix Two, this is Mission Control. We do not read you. Phoenix Two, we've lost your transmission. Come in, Phoenix Two. Phoenix Two, come in . . ."

He continued talking. There was no answer.

Whoever had come into the observation room a little while ago, stepped forward. He was a stocky young man with blond hair and a slow Southern accent.

"Undersecretary of Science, Mr. Jen Wylie?" He was holding out a wallet, opened to show a card within bearing his photograph and several lines of information. "FBI, Mr. Wylie. You are under arrest, sir, on an open charge. Please come with me."

XVIII

"You'll find," said the U.S. marshal behind the desk at the St. Petersburg, Florida office, "everything that was in your pockets at the time you entered legal custody, is in this envelope. And if you'll just read and sign this last form . . ."

Jen, seated across from him, tore open the pink envelope and dumped change, watch, minicorder and cardcase onto the desk top. He scooped the items into the pocket of his new civilian clothes and took up the form.

"What's this?" he said.

"Just your statement that you have no immediate complaints about your treatment while under sentence. It's not a blanket release for the government, of course. You have up to six months to file charges against any officials or personnel whom you believe acted to you in an indecent, inhumane or illegal manner while you were under their authority."

"They were good enough," said Jen. He scrawled his signature.

"Very nice of you to say so, Mr. Wylie." The guard took it.

Jen grinned at him.

"Got my 'Mr.' back, have I?" he asked. "Nine months of being called by your first name can get you out of the habit."

"Yes, sir," said the marshal. "I can believe it. I understand there's quite a movement on now for Retraining Centers personnel to be more formal and polite with federal custodees."

"Good," said Jen. "But prison's prison, no matter what you do about it." He opened the card case and saw it was empty. "My social security card?"

The marshal slid it across the desk to him. It was the same plastic card he had carried for years, but it was now a soft dove-gray in color, instead of its original white.

"Colored," said Jen, picking it up.

"Sorry, Mr. Wylie," said the marshal. "I understand there's a bill before the Congress to give you a complete pardon. But as long as your sentence was only commuted . . ."

"Don't let it worry you," said Jen. "As far as I'm concerned that gray is a battle award, for a wound taken honorably in the course of duty."

"Yes, sir," said the marshal.

"Tell me one thing, though," said Jen, as he got up and started to leave. "Do all departing Federal prisoners get the same polite treatment as this—or am I an exception?"

"All of them. Of course, Mr. Wylie," said the marshal. He stood up and offered his hand, across the desk.

Jen looked at it for a second. "What the hell!" he said; and shook hands. "Good-bye." "Good-bye, Mr. Wylie."

Jen turned and went out through the door into a busy, people-filled corridor. A glowing arrow pointed the way to his right. He followed it past the doors of more offices and out eventually into a parking lot, where a blue car was waiting for him. Standing beside the car was the tall, stooping figure of Sir Geoffrey, with Lin. Lin ran into Jen's arms.

"Where are we going?" asked Jen, when they were all back in the car once more; and Lin, at the wheel, had swung it out of the parking lot up onto the highway. They hummed northward.

"Back to Merritt Island," said Lin. "There's a small celebration there, planned to mark your getting Out. No—" she added soothingly, as Jen stiffened, "nothing large. Just a couple of the 'nauts and Bill Ward, and some others. A couple of handfuls of people only."

"Good," said Jen, settling back. "Nine months quiets you down a bit. I don't think I could take brass bands right away. Anyway, the big thing isn't me. It's Fedya riding Phoenix Two, alive, all the way to Mars, the way he has; and the fact that what he's done, and Tad's death, and all the rest, did more for the future of people in space than anything."

"Get the papers, did you?" said Sir Geoffrey from the back seat.

"Oh, yes," said Jen. "Not at first—but the last three months I've been able to follow it all. Radio signals from Fedya's body sensors that could tell us he was still alive and active; the popular reaction all over the world; the blame for the mission's trouble getting pinned where it belonged, on politics as usual—"

He swiveled his car seat about to look at Sir Geoffrey, who was occupying the back couch of the vehicle, knees in the air.

"No offense in your case."

"Why not?" said Sir Geoffrey, cheerfully. "It was a good system. Politics as usual helped build the Earth. I was all for it, once. Not ashamed of the fact. But outside the Earth, evidently it's a clog, not a benefit. Right. Scrap it then. I have, and not ashamed of that, either."

"Geoff," said Lin, "was our strong right arm in getting your sentence commuted this early, Jen. He was the man who knew just what strings to pull and what buttons to push, and when."

"That so?" said Jen, staring at Sir Geoffrey. "What did the British government think of that sort of activity on your part?"

"Oh Lord," said Sir Geoffrey, "I'm retired. I quit right after that press conference of yours. Don't know why I didn't do it years ago. I can drink all I want now, whenever I want. Odd thing, I used to fear I'd end up one of these boozy old men that everybody slides away from at parties. But not at all. After a bit I just get sleepy and doze off. Don't even snore, they tell me."

He looked at Jen triumphantly. "What do you think of that?" "Amazing."

"Ah, well," said Sir Geoffrey, "only a natural talent, I suppose. But then, I've never been ,what you might call the average, ordinary sort of man."

"The celebration at. Merritt Island's for Fedya, too," said Lin. Jen swiveled his chair back to face her. She sat in profile, her hands on the curving-bar that rimmed the upper part of the half-wheel. Beyond her profile, the high acoustical wall guarding the concrete highway was momentarily a blur of black color, warning of a housing area behind it, where quiet was required.

"They're not putting me in the same bag with Fedya!" said Jen. "No, no. Not really," said Lin. "It's just the two occasions come at the same time. You're free, and Fedya reached Mars ten days ago. If he's following the schedule they calculate for him, he's due to land on the surface, today."

"All that distance . . ." said Jen, half to himself, his eyes unfocusing on the concrete wall's blackness, like the darkness of airless space between the starpoints, spanning from the highway on Earth to the crater-dust of the Martian soil. "All that distance . . ."

In his spacesuit, Fedya moved slowly but continuously. He had redoubled his exercising the past three months. He had even set up in the wardroom on B Deck the "squirrel cage," as the emergency centrifuge wheel was called; and spent two of his daily waking hours under its simulation of gravity. But the slowly debilitating effects of no-gravity had continued to weaken him.

But in the total absence of gravity, patience and a minimal amount of strength could accomplish a great deal. For seven months now, Fedya had done all he was capable of doing in the way of maintaining the original work and records schedule of the mission. His records, his log, were complete and up to date. Now, it was time to do something for himself.

With Phoenix Two now in orbit about Mars, he had worked the Mars Excursion Module out of its storage compartment in the airless forward section of Phoenix Two; and readied it for a landing on the alien world below. Now, he entered it; and a few touches on the position thrusters separated it from its mother craft.

The on-board computer of Phoenix Two had given him the figures he needed. He retrofired the MEM's descent stage rocket motor for the descent; and fell toward the surface. As they came close, the protective shroud and a portion of the heat shield was jettisoned—the latter an automatic action to allow use Of the ascent stage of the MEM as an abort vehicle, unnecessary here since Fedya did not intend to return to Phoenix Two.

Close to the Mars surface now, it seemed to swell away on all sides below him like the cratered surface of some larger moon—Fedya used the descent stage motor again, for braking. His descent slowed, slowed, until he was finally hovering, just above the surface. Then he went down.

The jar of landing was small. Fedya sat where he was at the controls, wrapped in silence. The weariness that dragged him down into apathy, urged him to stay where he was, comfortably seated, waiting for the final slowdown of his body into death that was not far off, now. But he had not come all this way to be found still encased in a vehicle, some yards above the Martian soil.

With great effort, he put himself into motion. It was an even slower business here, where he had the gravity of Mars to make his work heavy; but he struggled, and rested, and struggled again.

Eventually, he was out of the MEM, and down its metal ladder to the Mars surface, carrying the few items he had determined to bring with him. One of these was the United Nations Flag, which he set up on the rubbled ground, together with smaller flags of the six national areas who had combined in the Mars mission. With the colors of the artificially stiffened flag standing out in the light of the distance-shrunken sun, he turned to put up the locator beacon that would be activated by those who came after him, searching for this spot where he had landed, within the area where he had written in the log he would set down.

These two items out of the way he was free. He began at last to assemble the framework he had designed and built aboard the Phoenix Two during the last two months. When it was done, it showed itself as a sort of standing support—half chair, half crutches. He had positioned it facing the sun; and when he backed into it, and relaxed, it held him facing the light.

He hung in his support. It was not uncomfortable, in Mars light gravity; and now that he gave way, at last, he could feel that the end, for him, was very close. He sighed a little with satisfaction.

The mission had reached Mars. Man had reached Mars. Here he was, and here he would be when those who would come after arrived to find him. They would find him here as he was now—waiting, upon his feet.

I am the first Martian, he thought, with slow whimsicality.

Far above him, in orbit, Phoenix Two faithfully continued to rebroadcast to Earth the radio signal relayed to it from the MEM and to the MEM from the sensors in Fedya's underclothing beneath the spacesuit. The body signals were growing weaker. Very soon, they would stop entirely.

Meanwhile, Phoenix Two continued to fall endlessly about her, following her long coast from Earth. Even after the signals from the ground had long ceased she would continue to orbit, rushing through space above the red planet, glinting in the light from the far-off sun, and waiting.

Waiting for the other men and women who would come before too long now. Who must come, since there was now no other choice. Because for human beings it had always been that way. The road led always forward; and there was no turning back.