Gwen hit the brakes and froze at the rover's controls, panting like a winded hound. The dust subsided, and her vision cleared. The pillbox became the Beagle. Tears ran down her face. She shook her companion. "Luke, get up. We're home."
The geologist awoke. Without a word, avoiding glances in each other's direction, the two donned their Marsuits, exited the rover, and entered the Hab.
The nighttime dust storm drive had seemed like an eternity, but it was actually only about ten P.M., local time. The rest of the crew was still up and about, and came down to the lower deck to greet them.
After Townsend helped her through the airlock door, Gwen detached her helmet, revealing a dark expression close to madness. Observing the look on her tear-stained face, McGee tried to lighten the mood. "You sure look happy to be home. Tears of joy at the prospect of more greens and Spam, perhaps?"
Gwen lost control and kicked at him, hard, barely missing his crotch. Astonished, the historian fell back. "What did I say? What did I say, dammit?"
Townsend stepped forward, adopting a blocking stance to suppress any further violence. "What has gotten into you, Major?"
Gwen glared in response. She peeled off her gloves and flung them down on the steel honeycomb floor of the Hab's lower deck. "You jerks have no idea what's really going on here, do you? The rover was sabotaged! Somebody intended for us to die out in the storm."
The wildness of the charge sent the colonel reeling. "Sabotaged? How? And by who?"
Whether by chance or design, the "how" question was just what was needed to return Gwen to sanity. For her, the world of machines was the world of reason. Her answer was lucid and precise. "How? By derailing the controller system software. Luke and I would have frozen if I hadn't figured out a quick-enough workaround."
Townsend noted how the technical question calmed the flight mechanic. "It could have been a single-point upset to the computer memory caused by cosmic ray impacts."
Gwen shook her head. "Not likely. And as far as who could have done this, let's just say it was probably done by someone who thinks what we have will go further around here if only three of us are eating." She looked daggers at Rebecca.
Shocked by the wild hatred blazing in the flight mechanic's eyes, Rebecca countered self-righteously, "You're out of your stupid hillbilly mind."
Gwen met her look without blinking. "Am I?"
Rebecca was taken aback, but not intimidated. "If you want to make an accusation like that, be prepared to prove it. You have no evidence whatsoever for your insane charge."
Townsend intervened. "That's enough, both of you. I'll hear no talk like this among my crew. Major, do you have any proof that implicates Dr. Sherman?" He waited. "I thought not. You will refrain from further outbursts."
Gwen turned to him. "Open your eyes, Colonel. She's evil!"
That could not be tolerated. The colonel mustered his command tone. "That will be all! Major, go to your quarters."
Gwen regarded her commander with insolence. "Sure. Why not? It stinks in here."
CHAPTER 19
OPHIR PLANUM
OCT. 26, 2012 17:13 MLT
AS MCGEE AND REBECCA played Scrabble on the galley table, Townsend nursed a cup of dreary instant coffee. In the doctor's lap sat her pet lab rabbit, Louise, who, along with her rabbit-spouse, Clark, had parented the animals now populating the greenhouse's sizable array of hutches. These provided the only fresh meat for the crew's diet, but Louise's long-standing association with the ship's doctor protected the mother rabbit from a similar fate.
Since Luke was not around, and McGee tended not to fight about such things, Rebecca had been free to choose the background music. It was Italian opera, and vaguely familiar. Townsend didn't care much for opera, and he couldn't understand a word of Italian, but somehow he found the voices of the current song deeply moving. "What music is that?"
Concentrating on her tiles, Rebecca barely looked up. "It's Verdi's opera Nabucco."
That meant nothing to Townsend, but fortunately, the professor provided some additional detail. "What you're hearing now is a chorus of Israelite slaves in exile in Babylon, bemoaning the fact that they can't return to their homeland."
Townsend nodded. No wonder it had struck home. Even across an incomprehensible language barrier, the powerful longing for home in the voices was readily apparent. "Slaves in exile. Appropriate." He regarded his drink with distaste. "This coffee is fit for slaves. I wonder what genius at NASA decided to supply us with instant coffee for a two-and-a-half-year mission."
That remark brought a sympathetic sigh from Rebecca. "Yes, I'd give a lot for a good cappuccino right now. Ah, Starbucks." She put down six tiles. "Read 'em and weep, Kevin. ‘Bequeathal,' with a double letter score for the Q, and a double word score overall, plus a few extra for ‘bid' on the horizontal. Eighty-six points. You're going to owe me chore duty for the next week, cutie." She wrinkled her nose mischievously at her hapless victim.
McGee stared at the board. "Hmm. Looks grim."
Townsend had little interest in the game. "Do either of you know where Luke and the major are?"
Her tiles down and the game virtually won, Rebecca shrugged. "Can't say I do. They've been acting pretty weird since that rover sortie two weeks ago, mysteriously disappearing all the time."
"I think they're hanging out in the ERV," McGee said. "They don't seem to like our company anymore."
Townsend rose from his chair and began pacing. "This paranoia has got to stop. We can't have the crew split in half."
McGee's attention, however, was back on his tiles. "Well, this looks promising."
Townsend was uncomprehending. "What does?"
McGee put down all seven tiles. "‘Ambidextrously.' That ‘bid' of yours sure came in handy, Rebecca. Let's see, triple letter score for the X, triple word score overall, and of course the bonus for getting rid of all seven tiles at once: 204 points. You'll find my laundry in the red sack in my closet." He smiled triumphantly.
Rebecca was dismayed. "Unbelievable," she muttered. "Unbelievable!"
The rabbit began to act nervous, agitated.
Observing its behavior, the biologist had a bizarre thought: Could it be that the rabbit was upset with her defeat? That even simple creatures required order in their universe? Rebecca tried to calm her pet with baby talk. "Don't worry, Louise. Mommy will win next time."
This proved ineffective. The rabbit started clawing madly, squirming in her lap. Now Rebecca was alarmed. Was the rabbit sick? "Louise, what's wrong, baby?" Strange, her own voice sounded high.
McGee stood up from the table and screeched. "Does anyone think it's getting stuffy in here?"
The colonel looked at the historian in amazement. "What's wrong with your voice?" His own pitch rose in apparent comic imitation.
But before Rebecca could laugh at the colonel's uncharacteristic attempt at humor, Louise leapt from her lap and went into convulsions on the floor. Suddenly, Rebecca felt very short of breath. She looked at the others in alarm.
"Helium!" she gasped. "The air. Check the readouts."
Rebecca tried to stand but collapsed back into her seat, hyperventilating. McGee and Townsend stumbled out of the galley toward the pilot's control booth. Suddenly weak, the colonel crashed beside the door.
Totally out of breath, McGee fell halfway across the room. Somehow, though, he found the strength for one final surge forward, making it to the panel. He looked at the array of controls in alarmed incomprehension. "What do I do?"