microphone; that sort of thing got burned off on entering an atmosphere, even one as thin as Mars’s.
Still, Pickover could probably manage a decent volume, so I suggested he shout. He called Mudge’s name a few times, but there was no response—although, even if the computer heard, it was also unlikely that there was a loudspeaker on the outside of the ship.
The cylindrical hull was partially buried in the mud, and the mud was congealing fast. The engine cone and a portion of the lower hull—but not enough to reveal the airlock door—was overhanging the original hole in the ground. The top hatch, now facing outward, was a couple of meters up; somewhat more than half of the ship’s diameter was still above the surface. We moved close, and I boosted Pickover onto my shoulders so he could look at the locking wheel. He was having a hard time perching himself on me since he couldn’t really flex his right ankle.
“It’s been jammed with a crowbar,” he said—or transmitted; I picked it up over my suit radio rather than the external mike. I felt Pickover’s weight shifting on my shoulders as he struggled with the crowbar, but at last he got it free. He tossed it aside, then struggled a bit more and soon had the hatch open. “Mudge!” he called out.
My suit mike picked up the faint voice. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Can you get this ship airborne from its current posture?” Pickover asked.
“Most likely,” Mudge replied.
“How much fuel do you have in reserve?”
“The sensor isn’t designed to operate on its side,” said Mudge, “but I estimate that the tank is about one-fifth full. Not nearly enough to make orbit, let alone escape velocity, I’m afraid.”
“Can you fly to New Klondike?”
“Where is New Klondike?”
Right. The damn computer had spent the last four decades asleep.
“About 300 kilometers east of here,” said Pickover.
“I would require a navigator,” replied Mudge, “but the ship is capable of covering that distance.”
“You fly it back, Rory,” I said, craning my neck upward. “I’ll get Juan’s buggy and use it to tow the two wrecked ones away.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Pickover, and he scrambled up into the access hatch; I was glad to have his weight off my shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “I’m inside and—Jesus!”
“What?”
“Scared me half to death!”
“What?” I said again.
“Old Denny’s corpse got dislodged when the lander toppled. I backed down the access tube right onto it.”
“Yuck,” I said, because he expected me to say something. I headed back toward Juan’s buggy, following the footprints Pickover and I had left earlier. The buggy was intact, thank God. I’d faced murderous transfers before—but I didn’t want to face an angry Juan Santos ever again. I didn’t pressurize the cabin, though. “Rory?” I said into my headset.
“Here, Alex.”
“Buggy’s in good shape. You can take off whenever you’re ready. I want to watch the launch, though. Give me a couple of minutes to get in position.”
“Copy,” said Pickover, in good astronaut fashion. I tooled around the rim of the crater and headed toward the dark bulk of Syrtis Major Planum. We weren’t far north of the equator, and the sun was now nearly overhead. I did an S-shaped maneuver in the buggy and stopped short before I got to the part of the surface that had been melted; I didn’t know how the springy tires would do on a kind of muck they’d never been designed for. I could now see the descent stage from a three-quarters view, favoring the top. “Okay,” I said into the radio.
“Roger,” replied Pickover, clearly still enjoying the notion of piloting a spaceship. But then he had to turn the reins over to the real pilot. “Mudge? We’re all set.”
I couldn’t hear Mudge’s reply, but after a moment, Pickover said, “Oh, right. Go ahead.”
I saw a small hatch open on the side of the ship, and a thruster quad emerged—a cluster of four attitude-control jets. Another cluster emerged ninety degrees farther around the ship’s circumference; I imagined there were two more at the other cardinal points.
On the quad close to me, the jet that was pointing down came to life, and the corresponding one on the other visible unit, near the top, did so, too. The cylindrical stage vibrated for a bit, and then, slowly at first and then more rapidly, it started to roll. I didn’t want to think about Pickover—let alone the corpse—being rotated around like they were on the spin cycle.