April 5, 2035
Earth Departure
17:03 Universal Time
Aboard the Arrow
Catherine Clermont suppressed an urge to giggle at the newsman. Steven Treadway was standing in a TV studio in New York City, of course, but thanks to the virtual reality electronics aboard the Arrow, he appeared on the monitor screen in the vessel’s small geology lab to be standing in front of her. As carefully instructed before the TV show began, Catherine looked at the monitor screen and Treadway’s image.
We make a good-looking couple, she thought. Even in her NASA-issue sky blue overalls, Clermont had carefully arranged her hair and makeup; her petite figure looked trim and attractive, she knew. And Treadway was dashingly handsome, tall, his smile gleaming.
Yet somehow he looked boyish, slightly disheveled, his customary white shirt a bit askew, as though he had pulled it on at the last moment without checking how it fit. His dark hair, normally perfectly smoothed, was a little disarrayed. He looked . . . excited. That surprised her.
“I’m reporting from the geology laboratory aboard the Arrow,” he was saying, a little breathlessly, “as it starts out on its six-month flight to Mars.”
He is excited, Clermont decided. Truly. Just as if he were actually here with us.
“The crew is in good spirits,” Treadway continued, “after their departure this morning at 7:45 Central U.S. Time. All the ship’s systems are performing as planned and the crew is optimistic and upbeat about their historic voyage.”
Focusing on Clermont, Treadway said, “To get a perspective on leaving the Earth for a mission that will take the better part of two years, I’m speaking with one of the crew’s two geologists, Catherine Clermont.”
Clermont nodded and smiled on cue.
“Dr. Clermont, you won’t be able to do any geology until you actually get to Mars. How are you going to spend your time over the next one hundred seventy-eight days?”
“Oh, I have plenty to keep me occupied,” she said, keeping her smile in place. “I plan to keep up with the latest work in my field by reading the scientific journals in their digital editions. And I will check all the tools I will use in the field once we arrive on Mars, to make certain they are in proper working order when I need them.”
Treadway grinned at her. “Don’t you think that will get a little boring after a hundred days or so?”
She made a Gallic shrug. “Well, I do plan to do more than merely read the journals. I am writing a novel—”
“No!”
“Yes. I expect I will have the time to finish the first draft on the outbound leg of our mission. I probably won’t have time to work on it during the trip home, though. I will be too busy examining the rocks we collect on Mars.”
“A novel,” Treadway said. “May I ask what it’s about?”
Her smile turning impish, Clermont said, “It is a love story about a field geologist who becomes an astronaut and a handsome news reporter, of course.” Arching an eyebrow, she asked, “Any more questions?”
Treadway swallowed visibly, then answered, “No, I think that’ll wrap up this session. Good luck with your, er, novel. This is Steven Treadway, reporting virtually from the Arrow.”
All eight of the crew got together in the galley at the end of the work day. It was a tight squeeze: although the galley had been designed to seat all of them, there was scant room to spare. Lanky Hi McPherson had to pull himself up over the chair’s back and slide his long legs under the table.
“We ought to just float,” he complained, “while we’re still in zero-g. Take advantage of the weightlessness instead of wedging ourselves around the table.”
Virginia Gonzalez started to shake her head, but caught herself in time. “I’m having a tough enough time keeping from tossing my cookies, Hi. If you were floating over my head, I think I’d lose it.”
McPherson cinched his seat belt. “Sorry, Jinny. I wouldn’t want to upset you.”
Though the inflated habitat module was less luxurious than the tourist hotels in low Earth orbit, it was still a big improvement over the more Spartan accommodations of the earlier space shuttles and space stations built by governments. The Arrow’s habitat had been built by a non-traditional contractor, Harris Space Corporation, which had made its mark by constructing the Earth-orbiting hotel getaways for the uber-rich tourists eager to “go where no one has gone before”—and pay for the privilege.
The orbiting Harris hotels had entertainment options that the Arrow did not, such as three-D virtual reality couches and gourmet meals. Plus acrobatic weightless “play” areas that some tourists used to join the ‘Zero-G Club.’ Harris himself often attributed his corporation’s profits to the thirst of millionaires who were quite willing to part with their money for the excitement of sex in orbit.
The space agencies that funded the Mars mission officially frowned on the idea of their crew enjoying sex during their mission to Mars and back. But they knew that eight healthy, intelligent men and women cooped up together for nearly two years were bound to make their own arrangements. “I just hope they’re discreet about it,” NASA chief Saxby said with a resigned tone.
Benson looked around the table at his seven crewmates. They all looked expectantly at their commander.
“Ginny, your troubles will be over in about an hour,” he said, “when we start spinning up the ship. We’ll have a one-third g the rest of the way to Mars, so we won’t be invalids when we get there.”
Taki Nomura closed her eyes for a moment. She had seen the results of long-term exposure to microgravity: loss of muscle tone, including the heart muscle. Loss of bone mass, making the bones so brittle a man could not stand on his own feet without danger of snapping a bone. Spinning the ship was necessary, a prudent solution to the problem of long-term weightlessness. Should they for some reason have to make the journey to Mars without artificial gravity, the ship had a pair of treadmills stowed on the ceiling just above the galley—complete with a gyroscope to keep it stabilized and a harness to keep the person using it from simply floating away with each step, a stationary bike and even a bench press that used tensioned cables instead of weights. The whole setup could be used where it was, if they were in zero gravity, or lowered to the deck in the space now occupied by the dining table in artificial gee. Both were modular and easily repositioned. But spinning the ship to simulate gravity was much the preferable solution. They would arrive at Mars fully conditioned to walk and work on the planet’s surface.
“Ted will fire the minithrusters that will spin us up,” Benson went on, as if reading from the mission manual. “Before he does that, though, I need for each of you to check that all your equipment and belongings are properly stowed or tied down. We don’t want loose stuff flying around and hurting somebody once gravity comes on.”
Nods and murmurs around the table.
“Like we rehearsed, the spin-up will take only a few minutes. We’ll need to be back in our launch seats and strapped in while Ted gets us moving. I’ll go around the comm with each of you and get your ‘all clear’ before we start the procedure. Okay?”
More nods.
“All right, let’s make it happen.”
The crew got up at once, taking off in all directions. McPherson slid his long legs out from under the table, bounced off the cushiony ceiling, and bumped into Clermont. His face turned red.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“C’est rien,” she replied, with a smile.
Gonzales and Amanda Lynn swam through the hatch together, heading for their privacy cubicles. Benson headed for the control center, almost regretting that within a few minutes gravity would return to their little self-contained world. There’d be a definite up and down. He’d miss the ease and joy of floating weightlessly.