AFTERNOON: SOL 368

JAMIE WAS HANGING IN THE CLIMBING HARNESS, SCRAPING rock samples from the cliff face, when the message came through.

“You did it!” Dex’s voice sounded exultant in his helmet earphones. “Listen to this!”

It was the message from the president of the Navaho Nation, the message he’d been waiting for. Jamie wished he could see the man’s face, but his words were good enough to make him burn with pride and gratitude.

“The Navaho people accept the responsibility of claiming utilization rights to the areas of Mars explored by the Second Mars Expedition,” the president said slowly, as if reading from a prepared script. “We intend to hold it in trust for all the peoples of Earth, and to encourage the careful scientific study of the planet Mars and all its life-forms, past and present.

“We recognize that Dr. James Waterman, whose father was a pure-blood Navaho, will be our people’s representative on Mars while this claim is officially filed with the International Astronautical Authority.”

There was more, and Jamie listened patiently through it all, dangling two kilometers above the Canyon floor. But he listened with only a fraction of his attention. For a voice in his mind was saying, You’ve done it. Now Trumball won’t be able to claim use of this land. Now we can keep it out of Trumball’s hands, out of the greedy paws of the developers and the exploiters. We can keep Mars clean and preserve it for scientific study.

Once the president’s message ended, Dex came back on, jabbering, “I just wish I could see my father’s face when he hears about this. He’ll go ballistic! He’s all suited up and ready to come here and now it’s gonna be for nothing. He can’t touch a thing here! I’ll bet—”

Jamie clicked off the suit radio. He hung there in the harness in blessed silence, swaying slightly on the cable, hearing nothing but the soft thudding of his pulse and the faint whir of his suit’s fans.

He planted both boots against the cliff face and pushed as hard as he could and let out a wild war whoop of sheer joy as he swung dizzyingly on the cable.

Only four reporters showed up for the Navaho president’s news conference, but his announcement that the Navaho Nation, through Jamie Waterman, was claiming usage rights to Mars sizzled through the news media with the speed of light.

By the next morning, the president’s office at Window Rock was besieged by an army of TV vans and reporters. Headlines around the world were blaring:

The chairwoman of the International Astronautical Authority looked distinctly uncomfortable. Darryl C. Trumball had flown her to Boston in his own private jet, put her up in the best hotel on the harborfront, and sent his personal limousine and driver to bring her to his office.

Still, she was obviously nervous and ill at ease as she sat before Trumball’s massive desk, a rail-thin woman with graying hair and the hard-bitten features of someone who had struggled against steep odds to rise to the position she now held.

Jet lag, Trumball said to himself. She’s just jet-lagged from her trip here. But he didn’t really believe that; she looked displeased, almost angry that she had been summoned to him.

“If you’re inquiring about the Navaho request,” she said, with no preamble except the coldest of good-mornings, “it seems to be in perfectly legal form and entirely valid.”

Trumball sank back in his tall leather desk chair and steepled his fingertips. “I am scheduled to take off with the replenishment mission in two days,” he said mildly. “If this Navaho claim is valid, that would seem to be pointless.”

“I can find nothing wrong with their claim,” the IAA chairwoman replied. Her accent was difficult for Trumball to place. German, perhaps. He had no idea of her background, he had merely told his staff to bring the head of the IAA to his office.

“Then their claim will be accepted?”

She arched a brow. “The full committee must meet and formally approve their request, but I see no problem with that. We are bound by international law and the treaties that the various governments have ratified, going back to 1967.”

“I see,” said Trumball.

“I would suggest,” she said stiffly, “that you cancel your travel plans and allow another archeologist to take your space on the flight to Mars.”

Trumball nodded. “That would seem to be the prudent thing to do.”

A long silence stretched between them. She’s waiting for me to sweeten the pot, Trumball thought. Or to make threats. Pressure her. He studied her thin, sallow face and saw real hostility there. She doesn’t like me. She doesn’t like American billionaires who throw their weight around. But she likes my money. That’s why she agreed to come to see me.

“Mr. Trumball,” she said at last, her voice slightly husky.

“Yes?”

“I know that you are disappointed by this turn of events.”

He nodded agreement.

“But I hope that this will not affect your contribution to the Third Expedition.”

“Why shouldn’t it?” he snapped.

“Because the exploration of Mars is more important than …than … your plans to make money.”

There. It was out in the open. She’s a damnable socialist, just like the rest of the bureaucrats.

But he kept his voice calm and reasonable as he replied, “More important to you, madam. Not to me.”

She looked him squarely in the eye. “Axe you telling me that you will not contribute to funding the Third Expedition if we allow the Navahos to claim utilization rights?”

“That is precisely what I am telling you.”

“But as I explained to you, we have no choice in the matter. Their claim is legally valid and we must accept it.”

“Then you must find your money elsewhere,” Trumball said.

The IAA chairwoman shot to her feet. “That is exactly what I expected from someone like you!”

Trumball got up, too. Slowly. “Then I haven’t disappointed you. How delightful.” He pointed to the door. “Have a pleasant day.”

Once she left, Trumball sat down again and swivelled his chair to look out on the city and Boston Harbor, far below him.

I shouldn’t blame the Indian for this. Waterman would never have thought of this by himself. Dex did this. Dex has screwed me out of a whole planet. The little sonofabitch has kicked me in the balls.

Strangely, he smiled.

Jamie spent as much time as he could outside, sampling the strata of the cliff face, going all the way down to the Canyon floor to help Trudy and Fuchida, walking alone through the silent and empty Martian building.

But he had to go back to the dome eventually. The cliff face darkened into shadow as the sun sank toward the western horizon. Fuchida and Hall rose past the rock niche on their way to the dome. Vijay, handling the comm console, told him it was almost sundown and he had to come back.

As soon as Jamie stepped through the airlock’s inner hatch, he saw that Dex was practically bouncing around the dome floor with delight.

“Half the news media in the world want to talk to you, pal,” he exclaimed as soon as Jamie took off his helmet. “They’re going nuts back there!”

“Any word from your father?”

“No. But Pete Connors sent word that dear old Dad’s cancelled his flight here.”

As he wormed his torso out of the suit’s upper half, Jamie saw Vijay hurrying toward them.

“That means he’s not going to help finance the next expedition, doesn’t it?” Jamie said.

“Who cares?” Dex snapped. “I’ll take care of that once we get back home.”

Vijay looked upset, distressed. “Come to the comm center, quick!” she called, almost breathless. “There’s been an accident!”