Rebecca Sherman certainly had it alclass="underline" exclusive prep-school background, Radcliffe B.A., Ph.D. from Cornell in exobiology on a Carl Sagan Fellowship, M.D. from Harvard Medical School, an international scientific reputation, not to mention liberal politics and a cosmopolitan sophistication. Rebecca could stop McGee's breath simply by combing her long brunette hair in his presence, all the while acting as if she were completely unaware of her effect on him. Never wore a spot of makeup, didn't need any. Few men could resist her when she flashed her smile. McGee dreamed about her nearly every night.
"Well, have you come up with anything?"
McGee hadn't realized that she'd been waiting for him to make another attempt at a profound quote; instead, he had wasted the moment in fantasy. Wisely, he decided to raise the white flag. "Sorry, I'm just drawing a blank. Everything I come up with seems either mundane or contrived. It's a grand moment, but I can't seem to get a handle on it."
Having won this battle of wits, Rebecca's expression changed from subtle mockery to big-sister concern. She gave him an honest look in the eye. "Kevin, cobblers should stick to their lasts." She turned to face the window again.
Cobblers should stick to their lasts. What could that mean? Talk about what you know. He brightened. Forget about the Mars of the geologists; tell us about the Mars of the imagination. Okay, coach, you got it. He switched the recorder back on, and this time his blood warmed as he spoke, recalling the wonderful, fictional Mars that had inspired him in his youth.
"Edgar Rice Burroughs already told us about this place. Once there were canals here, and cities, capitals of mighty empires that had names like Helium, Ptarth, and Manator. I can now see one of the plains upon which thundering herds of six-legged thoats ran, ridden by their masters, the barbaric green-skinned Tharks and Warhoons."
Rebecca stared at him with a look at turns quizzical, then deliberately cross-eyed. For once, he wasn't intimidated by her. The Muse was singing in him now, and not even Rebecca could stop it. "I am looking at a pink sky, in which once the great battle fleets of the red men flew, commanded by their proud jeddaks, or daring and willful princesses"—McGee sneaked a glance at Rebecca; she'd definitely pass in that role—"seeking glory, fortune, love, and adventure beneath the two hurtling moons of Barsoom."
He took a breath, smiling to himself. "Ah, Barsoom, you were destroyed by the Mariner probes, which banished you into mere fiction. But now we are here to make amends. Once again, there are people on Mars, and before long there will be cities, and you shall be filled with new life, love, adventure, and unlimited potential. For those of us who dream will not be stopped, and the fact that we five pioneers are here proves that the human imagination is the most powerful force in the universe. We know your secret, Mars, we who dream by day. We know that you are not a rock, but a world, one filled with wonders waiting to be discovered and history waiting to be made by a new branch of human civilization waiting to be born.
"And so, Red Planet, prepare to live again! For the sight that meets my eyes now out this porthole shall someday greet the eyes of numberless immigrants, dreamers who shall fill you with Life as you fill them with Hope. Barsoom, awake! Your people are here."
He turned off the recorder and peered gamely at Rebecca, who gave him a sly look. "Any better?"
"Well, Kevin, it's all you," she replied, laughing softly. With a shake of her gorgeous hair, she glanced toward the bridge. "Hey, I gotta run. Keep working on it. I'll be back to check on that arm." As Rebecca hurried off, she held up her hand and said with a mocking smile, "By the way, I believe the word is Kaor." The classic Barsoomian salute. From Brontë to Burroughs, Rebecca was well-read.
Mildly humiliated, McGee consoled himself with the thought that over the months of flight he had occasionally beaten her at Scrabble. He had done so yesterday, as a matter of fact. Even so, somehow she always managed to win four games out of seven, thereby dooming him to do her chore duty for the following week. Was she hustling him? Probably. But McGee didn't mind. As the historian onboard, he didn't have a lot to do, and Rebecca used her liberated time to write magazine articles that she promptly E-mailed to every forum of public opinion from the Weekly Reader to Newsweek to the Journal of Geophysical Research, all for the purpose of mobilizing public support for a follow-up Mars mission.
But hey, McGee, aren't you supposed to be the writer here? And remember that Fremont novel about the Western frontier you promised yourself you would write during the boring outbound cruise? Nearly a year wasted, and you haven't written ten pages. Housework is your excuse for not writing. Admit it.
Not true, McGee told his nagging inner critic. I'm doing it to have some degree of contact with Rebecca. Ah, Rebecca, goddess with the mind of an Einstein in the body of the young Kelly McGillis. And the heart of Joan of Arc, La Passionara, Bernadette Devlin. I am a mere historian; you are a maker of history.
A member of the old Mars Underground, Rebecca Sherman was one of a handful of people who had made the whole mission happen. She and McKay, Stoker, and the rest who realized that it is people with ideas who make history. It had been almost a decade and a half since Rebecca's first Mars Society convention, but she'd finally done it. In fact, McGee had seen her score the winning touchdown in her testimony to the Senate committee three years ago.
Did she notice him, sitting in the back of the room? He'd been there covering the hearing for the Seattle Times. McGee had given her good press; had she even paid attention? He doubted it. But, by God, she'd been perfect. Just the right mixture of brilliant reason, passionate conviction, girlish innocence, and womanly charm. In less than an hour Rebecca had turned three votes, two of which were clearly immovable. You have magical powers, Rebecca; do you know that? I'll bet you do.
But why did she have to keep him at such a distance? Of the Beagle's crew of five, they were the only two at home in the world of ideas from Plato to Shakespeare, intellectuals who were passionate about real music and real poetry. On the long outbound journey, he and Rebecca had whiled away hours discussing opera, philosophy, literature. He couldn't imagine doing that with Luke Johnson, the mission's redneck geologist, or Gwen Llewellyn, the tomboy flight engineer, or Mission Commander Townsend, a test pilot who'd made the varsity. What did Rebecca really have in common with the others?
McGee's inner critic answered his question promptly and accurately—mutual respect, the kind that comes from being part of a team that had trained together for years, endured hardship and heartbreak, and beat nine competing teams to win the privilege and eternal honor of being the crew of the first human mission to Mars. In other words, the kind of respect that McGee could never have, since he was a last-minute addition to the crew, a mere replacement for a team member who should rightfully be here.
The geologist opened a nearby locker and pulled out a Marsuit. McGee called over to him as he checked out the suit, "What's the plan for the first sortie to the surface, Luke?"
"Can't you see I'm busy?" The geologist moved toward the control area, his overpriced fake cowboy boots clanging on the deck.
Disappointed and annoyed, McGee watched him depart. It had been this way since the crew shakedown simulation at the Devon Island Mars Arctic Research Station. Even at the top of the world, the team had excluded him from their camaraderie for the whole nine months there, treated him like a polar bear cub with rotten-herring breath.