So it was Mars, at last. He'd been in rocketry and space travel long enough to know that there'd be at least a year of concentrated planning and calculating. Then rocket ships would have to be designed, built, tested and improved. That, of course, was Spencer's specialty; he'd do it all right. But this was no fortnight's trip, like the lunar expedition; this was big, really big. He'd gone along on the lunar trip as a young, unattached Captain. And he'd had a magnificent Commanding Officer, a splendid fellow named Fitzgerald… This voyage to Mars was something entirely different, and his astronomical knowledge, like that of all good space men, was sharp enough to tell him that the trip would require a time about half way between six months as we reckon them and six months as the Martians reckoned them. Quickly he did the sum in his head. One half of an Earth year is about 183 days. Add one-half of a Mars year, 343 days, and you get 526 days. Half of that is 263. Why, a one-way trip would be 263 days! They'd spend 526 days in outer space, just traveling. A lot more than a year! But then, too, they'd have to wait on Mars for the home planet to get into the right position before they could start back.
That would call for yet another year at least. What a year that would be! It was the real objective of the whole expedition. During that time they would be finding out the nature of the inhabitants, and the circumstances and conditions in which they lived. There could be no doubt about it, he would spend not less than three years in outer space or upon a strange planet before he'd set foot upon Earth once more… It was his job to figure out, as well as he could, what conditions on Mars would be and make all possible preparations to meet them. And the same for their return to Earth. Upon his success in so doing would depend the success or failure of the whole expedition…
Of course Spencer's reference to the probability of intelligent life on Mars hadn't been particularly startling. General ideas along that line had been rather common for decades. As a matter of fact, they dated from the time when Mars first focused in the objectives of improved telescopes. Such assumptions were but more strongly supported by the new photographs taken from the observatory on Lunetta. Holt sank down on a convenient sand dune. As his eyes sought the horizon above the gentle Pacific rollers of the balmy Spring evening, exciting thoughts churned within his brain. The adventurer in him reawakened. This was no tame trip to a domesticated little satellite like the Moon! Once those trips were started, it was almost like driving to Death Valley — you can get an accurate map at any filling station. The astronomers had laid out every cranny and crater. He'd known exactly what to expect in the matter of atmosphere, temperature and such like. All the plans could be made with exact knowledge of what would be met. Since there wasn't any atmosphere, suitable pressure suits, with built-in breathing equipment, were provided. The footing would be hot during the 14 days of isolation which constitute a lunar day, and cold during the ensuing lunar night. So they worked up suitable heat retainers and temperature controls. It had been a matter of physics, technology, design, fabrication and testing in chambers where lunar conditions were reproduced. It had been a grand technical experiment. The dangers had lain in technical shortcomings or hiatuses in planning, Holt knew, for some minor slips of that nature had made him suffer physical agonies.
But this Mars business! What did we really know about the actual physical conditions there? His first step would be to pick the brains of the astronomers and get out every last bit of information to be found in them. The initial move would be a trip to Lunetta. There he would work out a detailed program of mensuration with the astronomers stationed there. This would provide many of the data required for organizing the expedition.
Among others, they would need temperatures, density of the Martian atmosphere, its constituents, and so on. What is the nature of the surface of Mars? Do winds exist there? What will be the best procedure for landing? And what spot will be the most suitable? There were other questions; in what form does life exist? The creatures must have intelligence and be thoroughly organized if they can set up such elaborate irrigation systems.
And there must be a General Martian Government, indicated by the way that the irrigation system covers the entire planet in such astounding symmetry, from one pole to the other. Holt wondered whether the inhabitants would be belligerent. After all, Mars was rather an elderly planet, he thought, and perhaps they've gotten over their period of wars in the thousands of centuries by which their planet is older than ours. Maybe they're even unfamiliar with armaments, because they've no more use for them… But maybe their superior age and experience has put them in possession of atomic energy and perhaps something even more advanced, with which we're still unfamiliar? Will they receive an expedition from the Earth with kindness or not? Holt's mind whirled trying to imagine the variety of eventualities which might greet him on Mars. Not in the wildest flights of imagination could he convince himself that he had covered even a part of them.
It seemed reasonable to prepare for the worst. It might be foolhardy to explore the distant, unknown planet with a couple of companions waving only olive branches. There'd have to be a sort of commando detachment equipped with the latest in weapons. In that way, there'd be at least a chance of covering a retreat. But it would be far more important to affect an amicable approach, and to be able to get into communication with the inhabitants, assuming that the latter were also so inclined.
Holt's mind went back to his school days. He wondered how Hernando Cortez felt when he and his little band of followers found themselves on the coast of Mexico and face to face with the vast Empire of the Aztecs. Cortez had tackled a huge section of humanity which spoke an unknown tongue, adored strange Gods, and had curious and cruel customs springing from an ancient culture. Could this be more foolhardy than Cortez's invasion? Well, time would tell…
Holt ceased musing and he leaped to his feet. In his soul, he knew that he was already dedicated to Mars. He would be the Columbus of Space, the Admiral of the Universe, the Cortez of Mars. Hastily he regained his car and headed for Emerald Bay.
Catherine Holt was cooking dinner when her husband's car rolled into the little garage near the kitchen window. She saw him pull down the overhead door with an absent-minded gesture and walk into the living room, as in a dream, sit down in his favorite chair, and begin to drum his fingers on the leather chair-arm. After several minutes, he rose and came into the kitchen, putting his arm around her and kissing her, as was his wont after any absence. When they sat down to the table, she noticed that he put a pinch of salt into his coffee before reaching over to the sugar bowl. The conversation was desultory, but he did discuss for sometime how old man Spencer still had the same energy as ever. Humorously, he laid it to the odoriferousness of the Spencer cheroots.
"Gary," said Catherine, "come on; tell me what's up."
Oh," said he, "no hurry. Let's go out on the terrace and watch the sunset. I'll get your coat."
Putting her white sports coat around her shoulders, he gave her a gentle shove through the French doors onto the fieldstone terrace. Holt's glance went up into the darkening skies where the starts shone over the wide Pacific. He put his arm around her.
"Gee, this is a nice place," he said, "with you…"
"It is for me too, darling, so long as you're here."