By WALTER L. KLEINE
They had 70 days to prepare a landing
strip. Physically, it was impossible.
Psychologically, it was even worse!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity September 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Walter L. Kleine is doing graduate journalism work at theUniversity of Iowa. He reports that the courses in current magazinepractice, magazine article writing, and magazine fiction writing keephim so busy that he has hardly any time left to write science fiction.We think Kleine is one of tomorrow's big name writers; and in Deadlinehe takes a new and individual approach to the old problem of settingup the first Mars base.
Helene Donnelly handed me a cup of coffee, but didn't pour one forherself. I could feel her eyes on me as I drank.
Finally she said, "For God's sake, Marsh, you could say something."
I could. Yeah. As the implications penetrated, the coffee slopped overthe rim of the cup. I emptied it quickly and gave it back to her. "Howabout a refill?"
She refilled it and gave it back to me. "If we haven't got a chance,"she said slowly, "I've got as much right to know as you do. Marsh,have we got any chance?"
I set the coffee down and stood up. I shrugged and spread my hands."Ask me that seventy days from now, if you're still around to ask, andI'm still around to answer. Then maybe I can tell you 'yes.' Right now,I just don't know. This wasn't included in the plans!"
She didn't answer. I walked forward and stared out over the crushed cabat the blue-white CO2 ice of the Martian north polar cap.
Seventy days. That was the deadline—the physical deadline. It reallydidn't matter too much. Mechanically, we'd either make it to theequator and carve out a landing strip for the other two ships, or wewouldn't.
We might make that deadline and still miss the other one. Thepsychological one.
My wife was dead. So was Helene's husband. So were the Travises and theLeonards.
That left just me and Helene, and according to the reasonablywell-proven theories of space-crew psychology, she would have toreplace my wife and I her husband. It was supposed to be easy, sincewe wouldn't have been in the same crew if we weren't known to be morecompatible than ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent of the world'smarried couples.
I pictured her in my mind and tried to superimpose "wife" on the image.It didn't work. I gave it up. Maybe later; it had all happened sofast....
Four days ago, the eight ships of Joint Martian Expedition One had goneinto orbit around Mars.
Four men and four women in each ship; forty of the most stablemarriages discoverable at the present state of the research which hadresulted in using the "stabilizing influence" of marriage to stabilizespace crews.
Three of those ships were equipped with the streamlined nose-shellsand wings necessary to make actual landings on Mars. Number One, myship, was supposed to make the first landing, on skis, near the edge ofthe north polar cap. We carried a pair of double-unit sand-tractors,each of which had quarters for four in the front section and carried afeatherweight bulldozer on the trailer.
We were supposed to report a safe landing by radio, proceed overlandto the equator, and carve out a landing strip, in seventy days. Ifthe radio didn't work, we were to touch off the remaining fuel in ourtanks, after we had everything clear of the blast area.
Right now, a mile or so behind us,