broke the tense silence. “I hate to bring up anything so pedestrian, but I’m rather peckish. How about some supper?”
Vosnesensky snorted, Connors laughed out loud, and the others grinned broadly. They left their discarded suits on the floor and trooped to the galley where six frozen precooked meals were speedily microwaved to steaming readiness.
Joanna Brumado disappeared into her own cubicle briefly and came back with a bottle of Spanish champagne.
“You brought that all the way from Brazil?” Pete Connors asked.
Reed said disdainfully, “Of course not. Obviously Joanna fermented the grapes on the way here.”
The cork popped noisily and champagne frothed over their dining table.
“I’m afraid it’s not chilled,” Joanna apologized.
“That’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”
Jamie thought, Just put it outside for a minute or so. That’ll ice it down.
There was enough champagne for one drink each. Reed sat between the willowy blonde Ilona and the dark-eyed little Joanna. The Israeli had the lean, haughty look of an aristocrat, even in drab coveralls. Joanna looked like a waif, barely suppressing the anxiety that lay just behind her wide dark eyes.
Reed, sandy haired, athletically trim, seemed absolutely at ease. He was saying, “… so we actually have all the comforts of home, almost.”
“Almost,” echoed Ilona Malater.
“Food, air, good company,” Reed bantered. “What more could one ask for?”
“The water is recycled,” Ilona said. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
Reed ran a fingertip across his pencil-slim sandy moustache. “I must admit I’d prefer to have something to purity the water. Whisky would do nicely.”
“That’s not allowed,” Joanna said seriously. “I broke the rules with my bottle of champagne.”
“Yes,” said Ilona. “I’m surprised that he”—she tilted her head slightly toward Vosnesensky, at the head of the table—“didn’t reprimand you and confiscate the bottle for himself.”
“Oh, he’s not that bad,” Reed said. “We’ll make him unbend, never fear.”
The Israeli biochemist looked doubtful. Then she said, “I wish we did have some Scotch whisky here.”
“Perhaps I could mix you some from my infirmary supplies.”
Ilona raised an eyebrow. Joanna looked perplexed at the suggestion.
“You’ve got to be careful, however,” Reed went on. “I once shared a bottle of whisky with a Scotsman. When I mixed a little water with my drink the man actually shuddered!”
Both women laughed.
The two pilots were at the end of the little table, talking earnestly together about flying, judging from the way they were using their hands. Pink-faced Russian and black American, their nationalities—even their races—made less difference here than the fact that they were fliers rather than scientists: engineers, at best. A clear difference in caste from the scientists. The American was lanky, lean dancer’s legs and arms. The Russian was shorter, thicker, his hair the shade of auburn that had probably been brick-red when he was a child. His fleshy face, normally a dark scowl, was animated now and his bright blue eyes sparkled as he talked about flying.
Jamie knew he was the outsider. For nearly four years these men and women had trained with Father DiNardo, the Jesuit geologist who had originally been picked for the Mars expedition. Jamie had been one of the also-rans, knowing every instant of every day for nearly four years that he wasgoing through the motions of training for a mission he would never be a part of. And then DiNardo’s god struck him down with a gall bladder infection that required surgery, and his chosen backup had been swiftly chopped down by back-room politics. Suddenly, miraculously, unbelievably, James Waterman—Native American—had joined the team that would actually set foot on Mars.
A red man on the red planet, Jamie mused. I’m here, but only because of blind luck. They accept me, but DiNardo was their first
Vosnesensky snorted, Connors laughed out loud, and the others grinned broadly. They left their discarded suits on the floor and trooped to the galley where six frozen precooked meals were speedily microwaved to steaming readiness.
Joanna Brumado disappeared into her own cubicle briefly and came back with a bottle of Spanish champagne.
“You brought that all the way from Brazil?” Pete Connors asked.
Reed said disdainfully, “Of course not. Obviously Joanna fermented the grapes on the way here.”
The cork popped noisily and champagne frothed over their dining table.
“I’m afraid it’s not chilled,” Joanna apologized.
“That’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”
Jamie thought, Just put it outside for a minute or so. That’ll ice it down.
There was enough champagne for one drink each. Reed sat between the willowy blonde Ilona and the dark-eyed little Joanna. The Israeli had the lean, haughty look of an aristocrat, even in drab coveralls. Joanna looked like a waif, barely suppressing the anxiety that lay just behind her wide dark eyes.
Reed, sandy haired, athletically trim, seemed absolutely at ease. He was saying, “… so we actually have all the comforts of home, almost.”
“Almost,” echoed Ilona Malater.
“Food, air, good company,” Reed bantered. “What more could one ask for?”
“The water is recycled,” Ilona said. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
Reed ran a fingertip across his pencil-slim sandy moustache. “I must admit I’d prefer to have something to purity the water. Whisky would do nicely.”
“That’s not allowed,” Joanna said seriously. “I broke the rules with my bottle of champagne.”
“Yes,” said Ilona. “I’m surprised that he”—she tilted her head slightly toward Vosnesensky, at the head of the table—“didn’t reprimand you and confiscate the bottle for himself.”
“Oh, he’s not that bad,” Reed said. “We’ll make him unbend, never fear.”
The Israeli biochemist looked doubtful. Then she said, “I wish we did have some Scotch whisky here.”
“Perhaps I could mix you some from my infirmary supplies.”
Ilona raised an eyebrow. Joanna looked perplexed at the suggestion.
“You’ve got to be careful, however,” Reed went on. “I once shared a bottle of whisky with a Scotsman. When I mixed a little water with my drink the man actually shuddered!”
Both women laughed.
The two pilots were at the end of the little table, talking earnestly together about flying, judging from the way they were using their hands. Pink-faced Russian and black American, their nationalities—even their races—made less difference here than the fact that they were fliers rather than scientists: engineers, at best. A clear difference in caste from the scientists. The American was lanky, lean dancer’s legs and arms. The Russian was shorter, thicker, his hair the shade of auburn that had probably been brick-red when he was a child. His fleshy face, normally a dark scowl, was animated now and his bright blue eyes sparkled as he talked about flying.
Jamie knew he was the outsider. For nearly four years these men and women had trained with Father DiNardo, the Jesuit geologist who had originally been picked for the Mars expedition. Jamie had been one of the also-rans, knowing every instant of every day for nearly four years that he wasgoing through the motions of training for a mission he would never be a part of. And then DiNardo’s god struck him down with a gall bladder infection that required surgery, and his chosen backup had been swiftly chopped down by back-room politics. Suddenly, miraculously, unbelievably, James Waterman—Native American—had joined the team that would actually set foot on Mars.
A red man on the red planet, Jamie mused. I’m here, but only because of blind luck. They accept me, but DiNardo was their first
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