The Martian Race by Gregory Benford

e-mail, so you can get an idea of what it was all about.
Hope your trip is working out like you hoped. Your last message about the poacher's camp sounded a bit gruesome. It's dreadful to think that the few remaining wildlife are being butchered—and for meat!
I hope it wasn't dangerous, riding along with the park rangers like that. We've heard so many dreadful stories over the years about game park incidents. Please be careful!
Oh, forgot one thing. The kids are honeymooning here for a few days. In fact Raoul and Katherine are staying on also. It's about the only place those four can get some privacy. I'm looking forward to a few days’ peace myself. And it's a lovely place. I'll be flying back at the end of the week.
Miss you, you old curmudgeon! Take care of yourself!!
Much love, xxxx
    Robbs
    With Axelrod at her side, Julia launched herself into the wedding. In some ways this was the most terrifying part of the mission.
    She hadn't yet gotten used to all the media attention—camera snouts, microphones, shouted questions. But it was impersonal. She was just an astronaut, an object caught in the crosshairs of the media. This was different. She knew a great many of the guests now staring wide-eyed and entranced (or so it seemed) at the spectacle. Despite her finery, she felt naked.
    Axelrod leaned over, whispered in her ear, “Someone with a small nuclear weapon could take out the entire Mars faction.”
    It was just what she needed. The remark triggered her professional instincts. Axelrod was right. She caught sight of Bob Zubrin, Axelrod's Mars guru, and many of the longtime Mars researchers at NASA—Chris McKay, Carol Stoker, Nathalie Cabrol, Geoff Briggs, John Connolly, and others, some retired, all a bit grayer, but still enthusiastic.
    Why are they all here! The dreamers …
    And some schemers, too. They had come because of something none of them could quite put into words. Marriage, Mars …
    And then she caught sight of Viktor. And all the rest dropped away. He was grinning in sheer delight. He stretched out his arm in an unplanned gesture of welcome. She took his hand and knew that this was the right thing to do.
    Later, thinking about the ceremony, all she could remember clearly was the fond expression in his eyes. The right stuff.

5

    JANUARY 11, 2018

    D ESPITE M ARC'S BEST EFFORTS, DINNER WAS NOT A CULINARY SUCCESS .
    He was the foodie among them, forever trying out new variations of the limited range of kitchen stores. But they had long ago exhausted the narrow potential of the supplies for new tastes, and now everything they ate was too familiar to the tongue. No surprises.
    Still, they did have luxuries. Marc's favorite duck in burgundy sauce from a trendy L.A. restaurant, authentic borscht from a San Francisco Russian bakery, blue corn enchiladas from New Mexico, kangaroo steaks, and holiday treats. The list was extensive. But frozen meals lacked that just-cooked, fresh taste.
    Food and the mealtime experience were part of an elaborate emphasis on the crew's psychological well-being. There Axelrod had not cut back on the budget. No one on Earth really knew how tough it would be to live so long in a large tuna can surrounded by a hostile planet. So the psychologists intended the mealtimes to be extended breaks in the day. Chances to talk, relax, and eat good, nourishing grub. For Julia, plenty of comfort food—soups, meatloaf, chowder, oatmeal. They each had their own. “Evoke resonances of home,” a psych guy had pontificated. As one wag put it, eating is the only enjoyable activity you can do three times a day, every day.
    Months before launch each crew member had filled out an exhaustive dietary survey, and then had been interviewed by a dietician. Finally, a computer program called “Meal Creativity” took all the input and attempted to create a set of enticing menus that could be prepared in their galley. The menus rotated their individual choices and the whole pattern repeated monthly. Of course