DOSSIER: JAMES FOX WATERMAN
JAMIE WAS SHOCKED WHEN HE REALIZED THAT HE WAS NOT being considered to go on the second expedition to Mars.
For three years he had been something of a celebrity in the international community of scientists: the man who had insisted on exploring the Valles Marineris. The man whose stubborn determination had led to the discovery of life on Mars.
He married Joanna Brumado, one of the two biologists who actually made the discovery. Joanna and her colleague, Ilona Malater, shared a special Nobel Prize for their find. Jamie went with his Brazilian bride to conferences all around the world, often accompanied by her father, Alberto Brumado, the astronomer-turned-activist who had spent his life cajoling the world’s governments and corporations into supporting a human expedition to the red planet.
The marriage had been a mistake from the start. Born of the enforced intimacy of the long years of training and the actual expedition to Mars, it fell apart almost as soon as they took their vows in the magnificent old Candelaria Church in Rio de Janeiro. Jamie was a celebrity among the scientists, but Joanna was an international star, beloved of the media, the woman who discovered life on. Mars, an instant target of the paparazzi wherever she went.
They drifted apart even though they travelled together. And Jamie had known from the beginning that Joanna’s world really revolved around her father. The kindest, gentlest man in the world, Alberto Brumado was still the one man whom his daughter worshipped. She had gone to Mars despite her inner terrors because he was too old to go himself. She had married despite her inner doubts because he wanted to see her married before he died.
He died much too soon, cut down while he labored as a volunteer during an ebola epidemic that decimated São Paolo despite a multinational task force of medical aid.
With her father gone, but her stardom elevated even more by the tragedy, Joanna for the first time in her life found that she wanted to live to please herself. She enjoyed the limelight; Jamie did not. She wanted her freedom; Jamie numbly agreed.
That was when he discovered that he was being passed over for the return expedition.
“You are three years out of date,” said Father DiNardo, his naturally soft voice even gentler than normal. “For three years you have been attending conferences and media interviews instead of doing research.”
Jamie had gone to the Jesuit geologist once he realized that the planning for the second expedition was going ahead without him. They sat in a small office in the Vatican, Jamie tensely hunched in an ornately carved wooden chair that dated to the high Renaissance, DiNardo sitting behind a modern desk of gleaming rosewood.
Except for his clerical garb, DiNardo would have looked like the bouncer in a cheap bistro: he was built like a fireplug, short and wide; his scalp was shaved bald, his swarthy jaw stubbled.
“I’ve kept up with the results coming out of the various studies,” Jamie protested.
DiNardo made a sympathetic smile. “Ah, yes, certainly. But you have not produced any of those results yourself. You have allowed others to do the work. Three years is a very long time.”
The priest had originally been selected to be chief geologist for the first expedition; a sudden gall bladder attack had grounded him. Nearly scandalous political maneuverings had put Jamie in his place.
“I’ve got to go back there,” Jamie muttered. “I’ve got to.”
DiNardo said nothing.
Jamie looked into the older man’s calm brown eyes. “Nobody’s planning to look for the cliff dwelling. That ought to be our first priority.”
The priest sighed patiently. “Let me give you a piece of friendly advice,” he said, the hint of soft Italian vowels at the end of his English words. “The more you mention the cliff dwelling, the less likely that you will be accepted for the mission.”
“But it’s there! I saw it!”
“You saw a rock formation that was many kilometers away from you. You believe it might be an artificial construction. No one else believes it is anything but a natural formation.”
“I took video footage,” Jamie insisted.
“And we have all studied your video very intensely. I myself have had it computer-enhanced. The formation appears to be a wall of some kind, standing in a niche in the cliff face. There is no evidence that it is artificial.”
“That’s why we’ve got to go back there, to find out what it really is!”
DiNardo shook his head sadly. “Do you want to be included in the second expedition or not?”
“Of course I want to be.”
“Then stop talking about your cliff dwelling. It makes you look ridiculous. It makes you appear to be a fanatic. Be quiet, and I will do whatever I can to find you a berth on the mission.”
Jamie stared at the priest for a long while, his mind racing. He can’t accept the possibility that there might have been intelligent life on Mars. None of them want to think about that possibility. The lichen surprised them, but the idea of intelligent life is too much for them to swallow. They can deal with a simple form of life on Mars, but they won’t open their minds to the bigger possibilities.
The answer came to him: They’re afraid.
Li Chengdu was very satisfied with his life now. He had been chosen mission director of the First Mars Expedition as a political compromise. Born in Singapore of Chinese parents, a respected atmospheric physicist, he did not belong in any entrenched political camp.
As mission director, he had remained in orbit above Mars and watched with a mixture of dread and curiosity as Jamie Waterman had wrested actual command of the scientists and astronauts on the ground team and reshaped the expedition to his purposes. Waterman had been extremely fortunate: thanks to his insistence, they found living organisms at the floor of the Grand Canyon.
And Li Chengdu, upon their return from Mars, was invited to join the faculty of the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton. A fitting reward, he thought, for his leadership and patience—and Waterman’s luck.
Now an older, warier James Waterman walked beside him through the woods outside the red-brick campus of the institute.
A scant centimeter short of two meters’ height, the lean, sallow-faced Li towered over Jamie, his long legs devouring the forest track at a pace that forced Jamie almost into a jogging gait.
“I agree with Father DiNardo,” Li said as they walked through the woods. The trees were blazing with autumn; red and gold and auburn leaves littered the ground like a many-hued carpet that crackled and rustled as they hiked along.
“About not mentioning the cliff dwelling,” Jamie said.
“Yes. Why stir up more controversy than necessary? Your goal is to be on second expedition, not to argue the chances of intelligent Martians.”
“If they existed they must have died out long ago,” Jamie said, puffing slightly as he worked to keep pace with Li. The Navaho part of his mind thought, If they existed they might have migrated to a richer, bluer world.
Li raised one long-fingered hand in a gesture indicating silence. “Be patient. You will be on Mars for a year and a half. There will be ample time to visit the site again—if you can find it.”
“Blindfolded,” Jamie snapped.
The Chinese looked down on the intent, bronze-faced younger man and smiled slightly.
“Patience is a virtue,” he said.
“You’ll recommend me for the expedition?” Jamie asked.
“You have little idea of what you ask. There will be only eight berths for this expedition. Only two geologists.”
“I know. Anybody would commit murder to get included,” said Jamie.
“Worse than that. You have already been to Mars. The younger scientists are clamoring that it would not be fair to allow someone who has already been there to return.”
“Fair? This isn’t a game!”
“I agree. But by convincing the selection committee to reject anyone who has already gone to Mars, they make it more likely for one of themselves to be picked.”
“Christ,” Jamie grumbled. “It always boils down to politics.”
“Always,” said Li.
They walked through the falling leaves in silence for a while. The afternoon sun was warm, but Jamie felt a chill inside him.
At last, Li said, “I will support your inclusion in the expedition, but not as a geologist.”
Jamie blinked up at him, puzzled.
“Trying to take one of the geology berths would stir up too much animosity,” Li explained.
“Then what?”
“Mission director, of course,” said Li. “As mission director, your experience with the first expedition would be an asset, not a liability.”
All that Jamie could think to say was, “Oh.”
Li smiled again, like a Cheshire cat. “After all, you really were de facto mission director the first time, no?”
Jamie was not a politician, but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. There was no way to answer that loaded question without putting his foot in his mouth.
Li felt delighted. It would be a delicious irony to place Waterman in the same position he himself had struggled with during the first expedition. Let this red man know the stress of responsibility, just as I did. Let him feel the strains of younger men making demands on his judgment and patience, just as he made demands on mine.
This is not worthy of you, Li chided himself silently. This is not the way an enlightened man should behave.
Yet he nodded inwardly, satisfied that the cosmic wheel was going to complete a full turn.
There was one more person Jamie had to see before his post of mission director could be confirmed: Darryl C. Trumball.
Jamie shivered involuntarily as he was ushered into Trumball’s spacious office on the top floor of the tallest tower in Boston’s financial district. The room was cold, almost painfully so. It wasn’t only that the air conditioning was set to a frosty temperature, the entire decor of the office was wintry: bare walls of pallid gray, not a painting or a photograph or even a flower to brighten up the bleakness. Nothing but sweeping windows in one corner, looking out on the city of Boston, far below.
Trumball was lean and hard-eyed as he sat behind an airport-sized desk of hand-polished ebony. He was completely bald, making him look almost like a death’s head shining in the glow of a tiny spotlight set into the high ceiling. He was in shirtsleeves with a precisely knotted maroon tie at his throat. A gray vest was buttoned up tight over the silk shirt.
He looked as hard and sharp-edged as flint. Jamie wondered if this was what Dex would be like in thirty years.
“Have a seat, relax,” he said, indicating one of the big burgundy leather chairs in front of the desk.
As he sat down, Jamie remembered how his grandfather would sit in silence for several minutes when meeting someone new to him; take the man’s measure, size up his persona.
But Trumball was not a patient man. “So you want to be mission director,” he said.
Jamie nodded. The truth was, Jamie wanted to go back to Mars and he would accept any position, any job, just to be included.
“That’s a lot of responsibility,” Trumball said.
“Dr. Li recommended me for the position,” Jamie said slowly. “He was mission director for the first expedition.”
“I know, I know.” Trumball tilted back in his massive desk chair and steepled his long, manicured fingers.
He waited for Jamie to say something. When he didn’t, Trumball said, “This is going to be a very different kind of trip, Dr. Waterman. Very different. We’re not going just for the sake of sweet science, no sir. We’re going to make money out of Mars!”
“I hope so,” said Jamie.
Trumball went silent for a moment, his hard gray eyes studying Jamie. “You’re not against turning an honest dollar, are you?”
“Not if it helps us to explore Mars.”
“That it will, that it will.”
“Then I’m for it.”
“Hasn’t been easy raising the funding for this trip. I’ve had to work like hell.”
Jamie realized the man was waiting for a compliment. “You’ve done a fine job,” he said.
Trumball drummed his fingers on the desktop for a moment. “My son’s going to be one of the scientists, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve met him. He’s a geophysicist.”
“Right. But he’s got a good business head. Do you have a good business head, Dr. Waterman?”
Jamie was taken aback by the question. “I don’t really know,” he answered honestly.
Trumball looked displeased, almost angry. But he said, “Doesn’t matter. Dex will look out for the business end of this job, don’t you worry.”
Jamie thought the man was really talking to himself.
“Well, I suppose you’ve got the best qualifications for the job,” Trumball said, grudgingly.
“I’ll take good care of your son,” he said.
Trumball looked genuinely surprised. “Take good care … ! Hah! Dex’ll take care of himself, by damn. He’d better! You just make sure that everything goes right. That’s your job.”
Jamie thought, No one can guarantee that everything will go right. Not when we’re a hundred million kilometers away.
But he said nothing. He got up from his chair when Trumball rose from his, reached across the massive desk and shook Trumball’s cold, dry hand.
And left Boston with his appointment as mission director assured.