She felt her sore arm. The muscle had become a lot tougher. While she could never match the others' digging, she was becoming stronger and more productive with time. That was good. It wasn't just a matter of pride. She had done the math: Without her pitching in, they simply couldn't make it.
Rebecca watered the plants carefully. Thanks to the increased efforts, more water was available; barrels were now being carted over from the oven to the ERV for use in the propellant-making unit. She had been tempted to request more for the greenhouse and for the personal hygiene unit, but had resisted the impulse. Propellant was everything. If used with precision, the present greenhouse water allotment was enough.
Accumulated sweat and grime made the biologist itch. If only she could wash. She shuddered at how unkempt she'd appeared in the mirror that morning. What she would give for a shower, or even a sponge bath! But the logistics calculations were clear: Washing would just have to wait.
She hesitated; something seemed wrong. She stopped what she was doing. It was the sound. The greenhouse was too quiet. The ventilation fans had stopped working.
Stiff, she hobbled over to the control panel, which revealed the source of the problem clearly enough. Fuse 16 had burned out. Easy enough to fix. She opened the fuse box and looked inside. Sure enough, Fuse 16, a 1-amp unit, was fried. She pulled out a spare and replaced it, then opened the log to record the repair.
There, she spotted a notation written with a shaky stylus: "F16, replaced by GL, 6/2/12." So Gwen had replaced the fuse yesterday. Curious that it should burn out so fast.
Rebecca opened the unit manual and called up the specs for Fuse 16. That was strange: A 1.5-amp unit was specified. Yet Gwen had used a 1-amp fuse. It was certainly very unusual for the flight mechanic to make such a mistake.
Rebecca removed her 1-amp fuse again and inserted a properly specified 1.5-amp unit. When she threw the restart switch, she was gratified to hear the renewed hum of the greenhouse ventilators. Then she relaxed a bit.
She hadn't been in immediate danger, but it was a scary thought that if she hadn't noticed the ventilator failure promptly, she might have been overcome by a toxic overdose of carbon dioxide. It was already late afternoon, and without the ventilator, CO2 would have built up within the greenhouse as the reduced solar light level caused photosynthesis rates to drop.
She checked the CO2 monitor. It read yellow—outside of recommended limits, though not yet unsafe.
So why hadn't a warning sounded? She checked the alarm circuit, and discovered that it ran through Fuse 16. A chill ran down her spine. I almost just bought the farm.
Tiny mistakes like that could kill. She realized with a start that she was not the only one who was played out. Her companions might manage bigger shovel loads than she, but the rest of the crew—who had been tired enough before the intensified effort—were also transitioning into mental numbness.
She thought of how they would stagger into the Hab after a day's shift, lurching out of bed in the morning, becoming increasingly unkempt, punch-drunk, worn out. How long could they keep this up? As the crew wore itself out, so would their machines. And with increasing frequency, that would force repair jobs upon an ever-more exhausted Gwen. Formerly simple repairs would become hard, and formerly dependable work would become unreliable.
But they had no choice. It was launch in 2013, or nothing.
As the sun went down, Rebecca limped from the greenhouse to greet her returning crewmates.
HOUSTON
JUNE 15, 2012 12:30 CST
Dr. George Kowalski pushed his plate away and glanced impatiently around the private dining room in the Nassau Bay Hilton. The food had been acceptable, but Darrell Gibbs had already kept him waiting long enough. The Science and Security Advisor did not like to reveal his interest in certain delicate matters by forcing the conversation, but it was time to get down to business. "So, Darrell, have you completed your investigation into the events of January twenty-eighth?"
The Special Assistant faced his boss. "Yes, sir. I followed through, using our hand-picked people exclusively, just as you ordered. There's no doubt about it—the propellant dumping was done by Holloway."
Kowalski leaned back in his chair, surprised. "Are you sure? The NASA probe of his data transmission showed no appended instructions. FBI's keystroke-by-keystroke analysis of the internal video of Holloway's moves during the riot showed he did nothing more than transmit that harmless data file."
Gibbs smiled. "It wasn't harmless."
"No?"
"It included a self-erasing nano-encryption."
Kowalski raised his eyebrows. "He used a SENE? Really?"
Gibbs nodded.
"Clever boy," Kowalski said with genuine admiration. "So, does he have an intelligence background?"
"None. Not with us or anyone else."
"Then how? SENE technology is top secret."
"Apparently he picked up the trick in the M.I.T. Hacker's Club five years ago."
"You're kidding."
Gibbs spread his hands, palms outward, and shook his head.
Kowalski began to laugh, but managed to suppress his reaction. The scenario was hilarious. The government, under his direction, had spent $14 billion to develop SENE capabilities. Now it appeared that some M.I.T. brats had duplicated the feat in their spare time—at least three years before the Science and Security Advisor.
Gibbs waited for his boss to calm down, then he posed the obvious question. "So, do we pick him up?"
Kowalski steepled his fingers, thinking. This was a very interesting situation. Finally, he said, "No, I don't think so. That would be giving too much away. Don't you agree?"
Gibbs regarded his superior quietly. Keeping SENE from public view was a credible rationale for not arresting Holloway. However, Darrell Gibbs was anything but naive, and it was clear that more was involved here. This time the SSA was asking a great deal of him.
If Holloway remained free, it was quite conceivable that he could strike again, even from a distance, especially if it started to look like the crew had some chance of making it home. The Science and Security Advisor's views on the back-contamination issue were well known, but there was probably another hidden agenda beyond that.
Gibbs thought fast. Clearly, his future lay with Kowalski... but it would be best if all the cards were on the table. He framed his answer accordingly. "Certainly, sir. And I have to say, that while Holloway's illegal actions were reprehensible, it's clear to me that he acted only on the basis of the purist motives."
Kowalski glanced sharply at his assistant. "Pure motives" was SSA slang for fanaticism.
Gibbs didn't flinch. "I think it would be a shame for someone who has so much to offer the nation to spend the rest of his life in prison."
Kowalski smiled inwardly. He had chosen his protégé well. "So, you think Holloway may prove to be a national resource someday?"
"Quite possibly... if he feels called upon."
The SSA shared meaningful eye contact with his Special Assistant. "It's good to know that there are still young men willing to put themselves on the line for their convictions."
"I quite agree, sir," Gibbs replied.
CHAPTER 15
OPHIR PLANUM
JULY 20, 2012 17:10 MLT
AFTER TWO MONTHS of nonstop, back-breaking work, the crew took the day off. It was the anniversary of the Apollo 11 landing on the Moon and the Viking 1 landing on Mars. During the decades that had followed those events, space scientists, astronautical engineers, and activists used this date as a special time for conferences—technical and otherwise.