converged on Sacramento, trapping senators in their buildings, demanding the governor secede so that Neteno could go about its business. Eventually, over a million people gathered there, some in overalls and prickly beards and armed with shotguns, some wearing Klingon outfits, some housewives in SUVs, some businessmen who worked in aviation and space and engineering. In three days, two slogans were posted at over ten million websites, plastered on bumper stickers, hung from suction-cups behind windows:
Three days after the video hit the net, Jere received a discreet phone call from a higher-up at NASA/Oversight. Jere made his own counteroffer.
A day after that, he received another phone call, politely accepting the prime sponsorship for the mission, for a price greater than the entire funds they had collected to date. The launch would go forward as planned. Jere and Evan were still the primes. The only difference was that there would be another discreet logo added on the ship and the suits.
Evan looked at Jere as the NASA muckty spouted off about “New Partnership with Business,” and how wonderful this opportunity was under the big Neteno sign out in front of the building. The press had built a wall around the crowd with cameras and laptops and transmission equipment. The crowd looked happy, vindicated, relieved. As if they were thinking,
“We are proud to be able to support this effort,” the muckty said. “For less than the cost of a single robotic Mars lander, we are sending the first manned mission to Mars. With this mission, we have again leaped ahead of the Chinese. We see this as a model for future exploration of space: USG Oversight and private industry, working hand-in-hand to accomplish our goals.”
Some applause, some boos, some catcalls. But it was done. They were back on track. It even got them their advertising hook: Free Enterprise. That was really catching on in a big way, simmering around the net.
He looked at Evan and his hard, unblinking eyes.
To him, it was still just a game.
A game played hard, winner take all.
Frank was lying to them again. Mike Kinsson didn’t blame him. What was he going to tell them otherwise?
“We’re still seeing if we can rig one of the Returns for remote operation,” Frank said.
“How much longer?” Juelie whined.
It was the morning of the third day. Later, Mike would go and wander around. Juelie and Sam looked like two teenagers who had just discovered sex, and they were probably happy to have the privacy. He’d already walked over to the nearby cliffs, turning over rocks, hoping beyond hope to see the tell-tale carpet of a lichen. He still remembered the first time his mother and father had taken him to the Griffith Observatory, and they had talked about what life might be like on other planets. Lichens and primitive plants for Mars, they’d said. It had fascinated him in a way that nothing had ever done, before or since.
“We’re hoping to have a definitive answer by the end of the day,” Frank said.
“What if it takes longer?” Sam said.
“Then we wait.”
“We’re running out of food!” Juelie said.
“We know. Please conserve your energy.”
They both looked at Mike. Mike looked right back at them, thinking,
He edged away from them. What would they do when they found out there really wasn’t any rescue coming? Maybe it would be best just to wander off, and stay wandered off.
“He’s walking away!” Juelie said.
“Mild physical exertion won’t hurt,” Frank said.
They didn’t come after him.
He walked past the cliffs from the day before and came to a place where sand and rocks made a steep slope down into a small valley. Rivulets had been cut in the surface of the slope, some still knife-edged.
He remembered old satellite images. Could he be near a place where water was near the surface? He paused to dig into one of the little channels, but turned up only dry sand and dust and pebbles.
He wandered on. He’d keep walking and see where his feet took him. Until it was time to lie down and turn down the heaters as far as they went. Maybe some real pioneer, fifty years from now, would find his desiccated body and say,
It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
But it was better than imagining Juelie and Sam, when the real news came down.
Russian summer was the same as Russian winter, except the black ice had been replaced by mud. And it was an entire caravan this time, reporters and pundits and hangers-on, all loudly complaining about the facilities. They swarmed the tiny town, like ants on a dead cockroach. Reporters slept in taverns, in houses, in barns, in the street if they had to. NO FOOD signs hung from many of the restaurants and bars.
“Shouldn’t they pay us extra for the tourism?” Evan said.
“It won’t last,” Jere said.
“Sure it will. There are enough bored reporters around here to crank out five thousand local-interest pieces. And people will travel anywhere.”
Then it was launch day, and Jere didn’t know how to feel. He should be worried. He should be thinking about what would happen if the whole shebang blew up on the ground. If that happened, everyone would howl for blood. They would be crucified. If they were lucky.
All because they didn’t get their daily dose of excitement. A-muse-ment, Ron used to call it. Non-thinking. To muse is to think, and to A-muse was not to think. Which is what most people wanted. Give them a roof and food and someone to screw, let them buy a few shiny things from time to time, and all they really cared about was filling the gaping void of their lives. They didn’t want to muse. They wanted to A-muse.
And God help the person who promised amusement, but didn’t come through.
It was a short ride to the launch site. The crowd outside the gates parted for them as they drove to the official grandstand and made their way to the little box at the top. Ron collapsed in his seat with a grunt. Jere and Evan book-ended him. They were sitting on camp chairs that looked like they could have come from a Napoleonic campaign.
“Crunch time,” Evan said softly.
“Yes,” Ron said.
“Anyone in a betting mood?” He rubbed his hands.
“Shut up,” Ron said.
Again, Jere was glad to have the old man. Without Ron, Evan would have woven a web tighter and tighter. Evan still held too many purse strings, and was hiding a lot of money, but they could deal with that later.
Ahead of them, the ship towered over the bleak landscape. Gleaming steel and clouds of vapor, a high-tech pillar aimed at the deep blue sky.
One minute. The few people on the field scampered to cover.
Ten seconds.
Jere held his breath.
The numbers flickered down on the big board.
There was an explosion of light and a mind-numbing roar. The Plexiglas windows of the little booth jittered and
