"Thanks, son, I'm depending on you. Come November, we'll straighten this country out. Well, I've got to be off. Good meeting you two."
Fairchild flashed the two of them a victory sign, then snapped his fingers and pointed ahead. The fat man in the suit set the golf cart in motion. As the two drove off, Gibbs observed that they carried no golf clubs.
Gibbs looked at his boss in open admiration and gratitude. The Old Man had just introduced him to the next President of the United States. They were onboard the winning team, and unlike most of the senior staff of the doomed Administration, they would not only survive the transition but rise with it.
Kowalski turned to his protégé. "So you see, Darrell, there is a great deal at stake in all this."
Gibbs nodded in solemn agreement. "You can count on me, sir."
While it was morning at Jackson Hole, it was evening on the Planitia. At the same time Gibbs and Kowalski were enjoying the superb lunch buffet offered by the golf club, the tired and hungry crew of the Beagle gathered in the Hab's wardroom for a meager dinner. As they watched with a combination of anticipation and resignation, Rebecca emerged from the galley carrying a very small plate of greens with one piece of Spam on it. She divided it five ways.
Suppressing the indignant cries from his stomach, Townsend took advantage of the moment to consult with his geologist. "It's been four weeks now, with nothing but three false positives to show. I think we need to move the search much deeper into Xanthe."
Staring at the minute portion placed before him, Luke replied in a monotone, "Okay by me."
McGee was more direct. "That's not much food, Rebecca."
His remark was spoken in irritation, not malice, but its obvious truth made it sound like an indictment. Rebecca tried to defend herself with a shrug. "That's our daily greenhouse output, plus one half meat ration. I'm afraid it doesn't go very far cut five ways."
Gwen glared at her, and Rebecca recoiled from the eye contact as if stunned. "Well, it doesn't!"
Gwen took out her sheath knife, causing Rebecca to take two nervous steps backward. The flight engineer then used the knife to stab her morsel of Spam and pop it into her mouth. "Damn Yankee atheist bitch," she muttered. Then, scowling at the doctor, she stalked out of the room.
McGee and Townsend exchanged worried glances. A new threat had emerged. Historian and officer both knew how much crew morale mattered. And it was disintegrating before their eyes.
CHAPTER 18
TWO MORE MONTHS went by, filled with ever deeper frustration as the search for ground water proved fruitless. Despite everything, the crew somehow managed to battle on, but more and more they seemed split into two groups: Gwen and Luke on one side, and Rebecca and McGee on the other. Rednecks versus eggheads.
Townsend tried to maintain cohesion among the crew, but his job was becoming increasingly impossible. In September, a dispute over whether the Hab audio should play Bach or Hank Williams almost came to blows. Unable to keep the crew working together, the mission commander chose to work them separately. With greater frequency, the rover sorties devolved upon the rednecks, while the others strove to keep things going back at the base.
On October 15, Luke and Gwen went out on yet another rover excursion, and as usual failed to produce any positive results. By the time they turned back toward home on their unproductive mission, Gwen was in a bad mood. "You can rack up another failure for your water-table theory, Dr. Luke. What's your score now, zero for thirty-six?"
He winced. "Come on, Gwen, cut me some slack."
As he continued to drive, Gwen turned away from him to stare out her window. "Sure. I don't mind. Who cares?"
Luke felt hurt by her attitude. Outwardly still confident, inwardly he was terrified that everyone on the crew blamed him for the failure of the water-prospecting campaign. He needed some support. "Please, Gwen."
As if sensing his need, she sighed and gave him the best remnant of her smile. "All right, what the heck? We may be hunting wild geese, but at least we get to see a bit of the country."
At this, Luke felt relieved, but only momentarily. A huge dust cloud had begun gathering to the west. "Looks like we're about to see some foul weather," he commented.
The sky grew dark as the rover rattled in the thin wind. Gwen stared in amazement at the storm shadow racing toward them. "Better step on it, Luke," she said, an edge of fear in her voice. "This is going to be a bad one."
But it was far too late. Within seconds, the storm was all around them. Visibility dropped to zero. Luke, who had briefly accelerated the rover at Gwen's suggestion, was forced to slow to a crawl. But it only took a few moments of driving in the dust blizzard before the engine stalled out.
"Come on, start. Come on. Come on!" Luke pushed the starter lever again and again, without success. The starter wouldn't even crank. Then the lights in the rover went out.
Gwen threw a switch, and dim orange lights came back on, glowing with battery power. In the fading emergency lights, the two explorers looked at each other. Neither had any doubt of their peril. Night was coming, and with it temperatures below minus 90° centigrade.
"Now what do we do?" An edge of hopelessness crept into Luke's voice.
The co-pilot gritted her teeth. "Now we try to restart the engine." She hit some buttons and projected circuit and plumbing diagrams and data readouts on the rover's dashboard computer screen.
Luke tried to interpret the tech readouts, but the schematics were completely incomprehensible. He frowned. "Better make it fast, Gwen. It's getting cold in here. I'll see if I can call Triple A." He picked up the radio and began to recite: "Beagle, this is rover, Beagle this is rover, do you read?"
The only answer was loud static.
"Damn! Electrical disturbances in this storm must be blacking out the radio. Find anything?"
Gwen looked up from her miniscreen. "Yeah. The CO2 intake for the engine coolant loop is jammed with dust. The engine shut off automatically as soon as the line was blocked."
"Can you hot-wire it to run anyway?"
Gwen thought for a moment and then shook her head. "Doubt it. Wouldn't do much good anyhow. Without that coolant, the engine would overheat and seize up in minutes. The real question is why the filter jammed. There's a motorized fan that's supposed to keep it clean."
"Is the fan motor broken?"
"No, it's reading green. I don't get it..." Gwen looked at her miniscreen, then typed commands to bring up backup screens. Suddenly her expression changed. "Would you look at this! The autocontroller has it shut off."
Gwen typed quickly on the keyboard, then stared in disbelief at the dashboard computer screen. With each finger stroke her expression grew increasingly flustered. Finally she stopped and turned to Luke. There was a dark fire in her eyes.
"Well?" Luke inquired.
"The damn computer won't let me turn the fan on!"
That was supposed to be impossible. Luke was mystified. "It won't... What?"
Gwen exploded. "Somebody's been screwing with the rover software, that's what! And I think I know who it is, too."
Suppressing her anger, Gwen ducked down and crawled under the dashboard. On her back, she edged under the engine, which was forward of the driver's compartment, and examined the mechanisms with her flashlight. Then she squirmed out and faced Luke as he tugged on a sweater. "I think I can fix this. If we can move the lower cooler casing, I can get at the motor leads and short them around the control relay. It'll make the fan run nonstop... but so what?"