Gwen put her feet up on the rover's dashboard and started thumbing through one of McGee's Edgar Rice Burroughs Mars novels, apparently subjecting the pulp adventure story to a systematic scan. McGee found this action curious, causing him to take out his electric notebook and enter a note in his private diary.
"It is strange," McGee wrote while looking thoughtfully at Gwen, "the kind of people you meet if you go to Mars. On the surface, Gwen seems ultra-tough, the ultimate tomboy. A decorated combat veteran, never far from that Bowie knife of hers. Yet something about her is so quiet, soft, peaceful. She's probably seen more of the rough side of the world than any other woman I've met, but somehow she still seems the most innocent. She's very intelligent, yet until now I've never seen her open a book other than the Bible or a technical work. I wonder what practical value she sees in Burroughs' novel. Surely she wouldn't touch it otherwise. She's certainly not my type; what a disaster she'd be at the faculty club! But, in her own way, she's a real gem."
The subject of his contemplation interrupted the historian's reverie.
"Hey, Professor, it says here in your book that there are underground caverns on Mars filled with flowing rivers."
He formed an embarrassed smile. "Gwen, that's a great novel, but it's just a work of fantasy."
Gwen was adamant. "Well, he's right about a lot of other things. Mars does have two moons."
"But no towering cities."
"Not yet, anyway. Right, McGee?" Gwen smiled. There was warmth in that smile.
McGee rushed to check some instruments. "Right. Looks like we're making progress."
The flight engineer returned to business. "Sixty-eight meters. Could hit the water any time now."
The radio crackled. "Rover, this is Luke. We have you approaching the discontinuity within sixty seconds. Keep an eye on the drill-bit temperature. As soon as you hit water, it should drop dramatically."
McGee checked the temperature readouts. "We're reading 560° centigrade now. How far should it drop?"
"Close to zero. Any water this near the surface is going to be icy. That drill bit is in for one heck of a cold bath."
"Sixty-nine meters," Gwen announced.
McGee watched excitedly as the thermal data began to shift. "The temperature's beginning to drop! 558. 555. 553."
Gwen gave a new depth measurement: "Sixty-nine point five meters."
"551. 549. 547. 546," McGee rapidly called out.
"Seventy meters."
"543. 542."
"Seventy point five."
Another burst of static came from the radio. "Luke here. I have you through the discontinuity now. The temperature should be dropping very fast."
"It's still going down," McGee cried. "541. 540. 539—"
"It's not dropping fast enough." All the exhilaration left Luke's voice. "Something's wrong."
"Seventy one meters," Gwen announced coolly.
"538. 537. 537. 538. 538." McGee watched the thermal data now with growing dismay. "It seems to be leveling off."
"Bad news, children." The geologist sounded as if he was offering condolences. "Looks like you've found a false positive."
McGee felt hollow inside as all hope died. "You mean it's a dry well?"
"More like a radar mirage." Luke's radio voice crackled with authority. "Probably never was anything but two regolith layers with different electrical conductivities."
Gwen's voice was as dry as the well. "Seventy-two meters."
"You might as well stop the drill," Luke advised. "You won't find anything there."
Gwen silenced the drill, then picked up the mike, dropping her professional cool. "Then why did you tell us to drill here, you know-it-all?"
"It looked good," Luke said sheepishly. "But there's no way to tell, for sure. When you get a radar return like that, you just have to drill and see for yourself."
McGee sagged in frustration. "We've searched for two weeks, and all we found was this one mirage. The colonel was right. This isn't going to work."
"I never said it would be easy." Luke sounded defensive. "I told you there'd be false positives. We just have to keep searching and keep drilling. Sooner or later, we're bound to find it."
The crackling static on the radio continued even after Luke disconnected at the other end.
Gwen slammed her fist down on the console. "Damnation!"
CHAPTER 17
NEAR JACKSON HOLE, Wyoming, there is a superlative golf course favored by the rich, powerful, and famous. On August 21, 2012, the weather was splendid, and had any reporters been allowed in, they would have seen celebrated personalities from Malibu, the Beltway, Central Park West, and Silicon Valley. It would not have surprised them to see a member of the President's inner circle traveling about the golf course in the company of a well-dressed young man equipped with a stylish set of clubs.
Darrell Gibbs, liaison to JSC Mission Control, golfed with George Kowalski, Science and Security Advisor to the White House. Gibbs was an excellent golfer, and a wise one too. The game was close, but Kowalski was ahead.
The older man was clearly enjoying himself. "Darrell, you're a very bright young man. You remind me a lot of myself at your age. I'm sure you'll go far."
Gibbs grinned; he certainly hoped so. "Thank you, sir."
"Call me George."
"Thank you, George. I must say that I'm grateful for the promotion to Senior SSA Staff."
"It's just the beginning for you. We need fresh young blood in policy-making positions in Washington."
Policy making, Gibbs thought. Has a nice ring to it.
A golf cart approached, and Gibbs was dumbstruck to see its passenger: Senator Fairchild, the opposition's candidate for President. In the cart with him sat a very overweight suit with a laptop, obviously one of the senator's campaign flacks.
Fairchild leaned out of his cart to shake Kowalski's hand. "Hello, George. Fancy meeting you here. How's life as White House Science and Security Advisor treating you?"
Kowalski shrugged. "A bit frustrating..."
Fairchild nodded sympathetically. "I know how it must be, stuck in an advisory role when you should be making policy from a Cabinet position."
"Indeed. So how goes the campaign?"
"Rather well," Fairchild chuckled. "Your boss seems to have painted himself into a corner by putting all his political capital into this Mars adventure. His only chance appears to be for a miracle to happen that gets the crew home."
Gibbs had watched this Olympian exchange in awe, but now that the conversation shifted to his own area of expertise, he seized his chance to join in. "I hardly think that's likely," he remarked.
The senator favored Gibbs with a pleased look. "George, you haven't introduced me to your young friend here."
Kowalski put a paternal hand on Gibbs' shoulder. "This is Darrell Gibbs. He's my Special Assistant at JSC Mission Control."
Fairchild gave the younger man a wink and a firm handshake. "Oh, yes, Gibbs. George has been telling me a lot of fine things about you."
The Special Assistant was stunned by the attention, and he responded with his best Ivy League smile. "You've got my vote, Senator."