Impact

'What has led you to think we sell this kind of stone?'

Ford reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of American gold eagles and let them fall to the felt, one by one, with a dull clinking. Boonmee didn't even appear to look at the coins. But Ford could see the pulse in his neck quicken. Funny how the sight of gold did that.

'That's to open the conversation.'

Boonmee smiled, a curiously innocent, sweet expression that lit up his small face. His hand closed over the coins and slipped them into his pocket. He leaned back in his chair. 'I think, Mr. Mandrake, that we will have a good conversation.'

'My client is a wholesaler in the U.S. looking for at least ten thousand carats of raw stone to cut and sell. I myself am not a gem dealer; I wouldn't know a diamond from a piece of glass. I'm what you might call an 'import facilitator' when it comes to, ah, getting shipments through U.S. Customs.' Ford allowed a certain braggadoccio to creep into his voice.

'I see. But ten thousand carats is impossible. At least, right away.'

'Why's that?'

'The stones are rare. They're coming out slowly. And I'm not the only gem dealer in Bangkok. I can start you off with a few hundred carats. We can work up from there.'

Ford shifted in his seat, frowned. 'You aren't going to 'start me off' at all, Mr. Boonmee. This is a one-shot deal. Ten thousand carats or I walk down the street.'

'What is your price, Mr. Mandrake?'

'Twenty percent higher than the going rate: six hundred American dollars an uncut carat. That's six million dollars, in case math isn't your strong suit.' Ford gave an appropriately stupid grin.

'I will make a call. Do you have a card, Mr. Mandrake?'

Ford produced an impressive, Asian-style card on heavy card stock with stamped gold embossing, English on the front, Thai on the back. He handed it to Boonmee with a flourish. 'One hour, Mr. Boonmee.'

Boonmee inclined his head.

With a final handshake, Ford walked out of the shop and stood on the corner, looking for a cab, waving off the tuk-tuks. Two illegal cabs came by but he waved those off as well. After ten minutes of pacing about in frustration, he took out his wallet, looked through it, and went back inside.

He was immediately rushed by the salesgirls. Bypassing them, he went to the back of the shop. He rapped on the door. After a moment, the little man appeared.

'Mr. Boonmee?'

He looked at him, surprised. 'A problem?'

Ford smiled sheepishly. 'I gave you the wrong card. An old one. May I--?'

Boonmee went to his desk, picked up the old card, handed it to him.

'My apologies.' Ford proffered the new card, slipped the old one into his shirt pocket, and hustled back out into the hot sun.

This time he found a cab right away.

8

Amazing how places like this always look the same, thought Mark Corso as he walked down the long polished halls of the National Propulsion Facility. Even though he was on the other side of the continent, the halls of NPF smelled just like those at MIT--or Los Alamos or Fermilab for that matter--the same mixture of floor wax, warm electronics, and dusty textbooks. And they looked the same, too, the rippled linoleum, the cheap blond-wood paneling, the humming fluorescent panels spaced among acoustic tiles.

Corso touched the shiny new identity badge hanging on a plastic cord around his neck almost as if it were a talisman. As a kid he'd wanted to be an astronaut. The Moon was taken but there was Mars. And Mars was even better. Now, here he was, thirty years old, the youngest senior technician in the entire Mars mission, at a moment in human history like no other. In less than two decades--before he was fifty--he would be part of the greatest event in the annals of exploration: putting the first human beings on another planet. And if he played his cards right, he might even be mission director.

Corso paused at an empty glass case in the hall to check his reflection: spotless lab coat casually unbuttoned, pressed white cotton shirt and silk foulard tie, gabardine slacks. He was punctilious with his dress and careful to avoid any suggestion of the nerd. Gazing at his reflection, he pretended to be seeing himself for the first time. His hair was short (read: reliable), beard (unconventional), but neatly trimmed (not too unconventional), his frame thin and athletic (not effete). He was a good-looking guy, dark in the Italian way, chiseled face, big brown eyes. The expensive Armani glasses and tailored clothes reinforced the impression: no geek here.

Corso took a deep breath and knocked confidently on the closed office door.

'Entrez,' came the voice.

Corso pushed open the door and entered the office, standing in front of the desk. There was no place to sit; the office of his new supervisor, Winston Derkweiler, was small and cramped, even though the team leader could have gotten himself a much bigger office. But Derkweiler was one of those scientists who affected a disdain for perquisites and appearances, his blunt manner and sloppy look broadcasting his pure dedication to science.

Derkweiler eased himself back in the office chair, where his soft corpulance settled in, conforming to the chair's contours. 'Adjusting to the asylum, Corso? You got a big new title now, new responsibilities.'

He didn't like being called Corso, but he'd gotten used to it. 'Pretty well.'

'Good. What can I do for you?'

Corso took a deep breath. 'I've been going over some of the Martian gamma ray data--'

Derkweiler suddenly frowned. 'Gamma ray data?'

'Well, yes. I've been familiarizing myself with my new responsibilities and as I was going through all the old data . . .' He paused as Derkweiler continued to frown ostentatiously. 'Excuse me, Dr. Derkweiler, is something wrong?'

The project manager was looking at him instead of the data printout that Corso had laid in front of him. His hands were folded pensively. 'How long have you been looking at old gamma ray data?'

'This past week.' Corso suddenly felt apprehensive; maybe Derkweiler and Freeman had had a run-in over the data.

'Every week we have half a terabyte of radar and visual data coming in here, piling up, unlooked at. The gamma ray data is the least important.'

'I understand that, but here's the thing.' Corso felt flustered. 'Dr. Freeman, before he, ah, left NPF, was working on an analysis of the gamma ray data. I inherited his work in the area and in going over it, I noted some anomalous results . . .'

Derkweiler clasped his hands and leaned forward on the desk. 'Corso, do you know what our mission is here?'

'Mission? You mean. . .?' Corso found himself flushing like a school-boy who'd forgotten his lesson. This was ridiculous, a senior technician being treated this way. Freeman had complained to him repeatedly about Derkweiler.

'I mean--' Derkweiler spread his arms with a big smile and looked around his office. 'Here we are in beautiful suburban Pasadena, California, at the lovely National Propulsion Facility. Are we on vacation? No, we are not on vacation. So what are we doing here, Corso? What's the mission?'

'Of the Mars Mapping Orbiter or NPF in general?' Corso tried to keep his face neutral.

'Of the MMO! We're not raising organic fryers here, Corso!' Derkweiler chuckled at his bon mot.

'To observe the surface of Mars, looking for subsurface water, analyzing minerals, mapping terrain--'

'Excellent. In preparation for future landing missions. Perhaps you haven't heard yet that we're in a new