Galactic Dreams

Coming to was accompanied by the usual nausea and weakness. No realism spared. On a sudden impulse Tony staggered to the latrine mirror and blinked at his red-eyed, smooth-shaven reflection. He tore the bandage off his cheek and his fingers touched the open cut with the still congealed drop of blood at the bottom. A relaxed sigh slipped out. He had the recurrent bad dream that some day one of these training trips would really be a flight to Mars. Logic told him that the bureaucrats would never forgo the pleasure and publicity of a big send-off. Yet the doubt, like all illogical ones, persisted. At the beginning of each training flight, he had to abolish it again.

The nausea came back with a swoop and he forced it down. This was one exercise where he couldn’t waste time. The ship had to be checked. Hal was sitting up on his bunk waving a limp hand. Tony waved back.

At that moment, the emergency communication speaker crackled into life. At first, there was just the rustle of activity in the control office, then the training officer’s voice cut through the background noise.

“Lieutenant Bannerman — you awake yet?”

Tony fumbled the mike out of its clip and reported. “Here, sir.”

Then the endless seconds of waiting as the radio signal crossed the depths of space to Earth, was received and answered.

“Just a second, Tony,” the officer said. He mumbled to someone at one side of the mike, then came back on. “There’s been some trouble with one of the bleeder valves in the chamber; the pressure is above Mars norm. Hold the exercise until we pump her back down.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony said, then killed the mike so he and Hal could groan about the so-called efficiency of the training squad. It was only a few minutes before the speaker came back to life.

“Okay, pressure on the button. Carry on as before.”

Tony made an obscene gesture at the unseen man behind the voice and walked over to the single port. He cranked at the handle that moved the crash shield out of the way.

“Well, at least it’s a quiet Mars for a change,” he said after the ruddy light had streamed in. Hal came up and looked over his shoulder.

“Praise Stegham for that,” he said. “The last one, where I lost my partner, was wind all the time. From the shape of those dunes it looks like the atmosphere never moves at all.”

They stared glumly at the familiar red landscape and dark sky for a long moment, then Tony turned to the controls while Hal cracked out the atmosphere suits.

“Over here-quickly!”

Hal didn’t have to be called twice, he was at the board in a single jump. He followed Tony’s pointing finger.

“The water meter — it shows the tank’s only about half-full!”

They struggled to take off the plate that gave access to the tank compartment. When they laid it aside a small trickle of rusty water ran across the deck at their feet. Tony crawled in with a flashlight and moved it up and down the tubular tanks. His muffled voice echoed inside the small compartment.

“Damn Stegham and his tricks-another `shock of landing failure.’

Connecting pipe split and the water that leaked out has soaked down into the insulating layer; we’ll never get it out without tearing the ship apart. Hand me the gunk. I’ll plug the leak until we can repair it.”

“It’s going to be an awfully dry month,” Hal said grimly while he checked the rest of the control board.

The first few days were like every other trip. They planted the flag and unloaded the equipment. The observing and recording instruments were set up by the third day; they unshipped the automatic theodolite and started it making maps. By the fourth day they were ready to begin their sample collection.

It was just at this point that they really became aware of the dust.

Tony chewed an unusually gritty mouthful of rations cursing under his breath because there was only a mouthful of water to wash it down with. He swallowed it painfully then looked around the control chamber.

“Have you noticed how dusty it is?” he asked.

“How could you not notice it? I have so much of it inside my clothes I feel like I’m living on an anthill.”

Hal stopped scratching just long enough to take a bite of food.

They both looked around and it hit them for the first time just how much dust was in the ship. A red coating on everything, in their food and in their hair. The constant scratch of grit underfoot.

“It must be carried in on our suits,” Tony said. “We’ll have to clean them off better before coming inside.”