For a full minute no one spoke, then McGee began quietly. "Gwen's right about one thing, Colonel—they are lying to us. I got the straight story from my friend Wex at the White House. There will be no push for funding a relief expedition this year, which means no resupply launched in 2013 or early 2014. Maybe in 2016 at the soonest, but that means no possibility of return until 2018. We're here for the duration."
"Yes, I know. I got the same message through my back channel from the Joint Chiefs."
"Not until 2018!" Luke exclaimed. "That's six years from now. We only have supplies for two years at most."
McGee nodded in agreement with the geologist's facts, but continued with his own conclusion. "We've got to start thinking about how to stretch our resources for long-term survival."
The thought of positive action stiffened the colonel's spine. Somewhere in his soul a dormant faculty of his mind awoke. "Right. Dr. Sherman, how low can we cut our rations and still maintain strength?"
"For an extended period, no less than three-quarters of the NASA minimum standard. The meals we're used to have been about twenty percent larger than the NASA minimum."
Townsend felt his belly, which in recent years had pouched a bit heavier than desired. Think of this as an opportunity to get back into shape, Andy. He grinned inwardly. "Well, so much for high living. Effective immediately, the whole crew will be placed on rations, seventy-five percent of NASA minimum."
Luke shook his head. "That still won't get us there."
The colonel was unflappable. "I know, we still need more food. I want that greenhouse powered up ASAP. Dr. Sherman, you're the biologist. Effective immediately, you will suspend your exobiological investigations and devote yourself full-time to the management of the greenhouse unit."
Rebecca smoothed her hair in thought. "It's only an experiment. At maximum design capacity it could produce fifteen, maybe twenty percent of what we need."
"Then modify it, make it produce more than it was designed for."
"Increasing yields above design max won't be easy."
The conversation suddenly became interesting for Gwen. "What would you need?"
Rebecca looked at the resourceful flight mechanic and allowed herself a momentary surge of admiration. Never say die, eh, Gwen? OK, I'm with you on this. "In the first place, we'll need additional racks for more plants."
"I can make them."
"And, we'll need more power and light in there. The autonomous photovoltaic array that comes with the greenhouse is too small to support much in the way of crop yield."
That was harder, but after a moment's thought Gwen had a response. "I can run an auxiliary power cable to the greenhouse from the reactor. As for lights, I could pull the landing beacon lights off the ERV, but..."
Townsend was firm. "Do it, Major. We're not expecting visitors any time soon."
Rebecca went on. "But light and heat are not enough. We'll need fertilizer."
That caught Luke's attention. "Some of the sediments in the layered terrain to the east are rich in nitrates."
Rebecca nodded. "That's true, and they might do in a pinch. But we still need—"
"Water," McGee concluded, with the hint of a laugh. "Imagine that. We're the first five Martians, and we'll either find water or die. Percival Lowell predicted it in 1895. He wrote, ‘In the Martian mind, there would be one question perpetually paramount to all the local labor, women's suffrage, and Eastern questions put together—the water question. How to procure water enough to support life would be the great communal problem of the day.'"
"Thanks for the literary note, Professor," Townsend commented sourly. "Luke, are there any ice deposits near here?"
"No, surface ice can't last at this latitude. The nearest likely ice deposits are at least two thousand miles to the north."
The mission commander slapped his fist into his palm. "Dammit, that's too far. The rover's one-way range is only six hundred miles."
"When the Israelites were thirsting in the desert," Gwen mused, "the Almighty provided them with water when Moses struck a rock with his staff."
Rebecca felt her temporary admiration for Gwen ebb rapidly. "Too bad real life isn't like storybooks."
Luke, however, appeared inspired. "Hold on, Gwen's got a point. There is some water content in the soil here. Not much, only one percent on average, but two or even three percent in some places."
Three percent water sounded like a lot, but Rebecca knew that it wasn't. "Still too dry to support agriculture, and even if it could, cycling moist soil around the plants would disrupt their root structure to the point where growth would be impossible. We need liquid water."
"If there's some moisture in the soil, can't we bake it out, concentrate it somehow?" McGee suggested.
Townsend turned to the mechanic. "Major?"
"Microwaves might work. We'd need a powerful source."
"The lab autoclave?" Rebecca offered.
"Much too small." Gwen thought furiously. "Wait, the spare S-band TWTA transponder is rated at five kilowatts rf. I could jury-rig a wave-guide out of some of the aluminum tanks from the Beagle's landing stage, and use another tank as an oven. You'd have to shovel the dirt in manually, then close it except for a vent line that would be wound as a condenser tube. It wouldn't be portable, because we'll need the power of the reactor to drive it... but I think it could work."
Maybe, Townsend thought, except for one thing. "But if it's not portable, we'll need fuel for the rover to transport the high-grade dirt." And we're out of gas. Death is in the details.
The hope that had animated the room only moments before disappeared from all except McGee, who apparently had not understood the implications of the colonel's last remark. "Why are you all so down? You heard Gwen, we've got the answer."
Luke looked at the historian with disdain. "But we don't have the fuel."
"Yes, we do."
"Excuse me, Professor?" Townsend said.
"Sure, we've got it. Last week, I was having so much trouble piping propellant from the ERV's ascent stage fuel tanks to the rover, that I transferred five tonnes to its landing stage, where it would be easier to reach. The JSC saboteur only emptied the ascent stages. We still have enough fuel to drive around."
Townsend leaned back in his chair and slowly allowed a smile to fill his face. "What do you know? Even laziness has its points." Then he leaned forward and the smile was gone, replaced by the mask of command. "All right, then, we have work to do. Dr. Sherman, to the greenhouse. Major Llewellyn, I'll assist you in the fabrication work. Luke, McGee, you two rig the trailer cart to the rover and go fetch us a load of the wettest dirt you can find. Move!"
With grim determination, the crew went to work, fighting not for science or for glory, but for their own survival. Within hours of the meeting, Rebecca transformed from a world-class exobiologist to a scientific gardener. While Gwen and Townsend worked overtime to fashion additional plant racks from scrap material, Luke and McGee undertook sorties to gather soil samples, which Rebecca tested meticulously for mineral and nutrient content. They found nitrates, and all Martian soils were rich in iron and sulfur by terrestrial standards. As for the rest of the required plant nutrients, all the samples tested were overrich in some and deficient in others, but Rebecca was able to synthesize a satisfactory mix. To this growth medium, she added waste from the ship's galley recycler and various strains of decomposing bacteria. It might not be a bestseller at the soil section of a suburban plant nursery, she thought, but it ought to do the trick.