The Martians(55)

At first Roger approves of the hike through the jumbled field of house-sized boulders. “The Khumbu Rockfall,” Ivan calls out, getting into his Sherpa persona as they pass under a big stone serac. But unlike the Khumbu Ice-fall below the fabled Everest, this chaotic terrain is relatively stable; the overhangs won't fall on them, and there are few hidden crevasses to fall into. No, it is just a rock field, and Roger likes it. Still, on the way they pass little pockets of chir pine and juniper, and Hans apparently feels obliged to identify every flower to Arthur. “There's aconite, and those are anemones, and that's a kind of iris, and those are gentians, and those are primulas. . . .” Arthur stops to point. “What the hell is that!”

Staring down at them from a flat-topped boulder is a small furry mammal. “It's a dune dog,” Hans says proudly. “They've clipped some marmot and Weddell seal genes onto what is basically a wolverine.”

“You're kidding! It looks like a miniature polar bear.”

Behind them Roger shakes his head, kicks idly at a stand of tundra cactus. It is flowering; the six-month Martian northern spring is beginning. Syrtis grass tufting in every wet sandy flat. Little biology experiments, everywhere you look; the whole planet one big laboratory. Roger sighs. Arthur tries to pick one of each variety of flower, making a bouquet suitable for a state funeral, but after too many falls he gives up, and lets the colorful bundle hang from his hand. Late in the day they reach the bottom of the wall. The whole world is in shadow, while the clear sky overhead is still a bright lavender. Looking up, they cannot see the top of the escarpment anymore; they will not see it again unless their climb succeeds.


Camp One is a broad flat circle of sand, surrounded by boulders that were once part of the face, and set under a slight overhang formed by the sheer rampart of basalt that stands to the right side of the Great Gully. Protected from rockfall, roomy and comfortable to lie on, Camp One is perfect for a big lower camp, and it has been used before; between the rocks they find pitons, oxygen cylinders, buried latrines overgrown with bright green moss.


The next day they wind their way back down through the talus to base camp—all but Dougal and Marie, who take the day to look at the routes leading out of Camp One. For the rest of them, it's off before dawn, and down through the talus at nearly a running pace; a quick reloading; and back up in a race to reach Camp One again before nightfall. Every one of the next four days will be spent in the same way, and the Sherpas will continue for three more days after that, threading the same trail through the boulders, until all the equipment has been lugged up to Camp One.

In the same way that a tongue will go to a sore tooth over and over, Roger finds himself following Hans and Arthur to hear the areologist's explanations. He has realized, to his chagrin, that he is nearly as ignorant about what lives on Mars as Arthur is.

“See the blood pheasant?”

“No.”

“Over there. The head tuft is black. Pretty well camouflaged.”

“You're kidding. Why there it is!”

“They like these rocks. Blood pheasants, redstarts, accentors—more of them than we ever see.”

Later: “Look there!”

“Where?”

Roger finds himself peering in the direction Hans has pointed.

“On the tall rock, see? The killer rabbit, they call it. A joke.”

“Oh, a joke,” Arthur says. Roger makes a revision in his estimation of the Terran's subtlety. “A rabbit with fangs?”

“Not exactly. Actually there's very little hare in it—more lemming and pika, but with some important traits of the lynx added. A very successful creature. Some of Harry Whitebook's work. He's very good.”

“So some of your biological designers become famous?”

“Oh yes. Very much so. Whitebook is one of the best of the mammal designers. And we seem to have a special love for mammals, don't we?”

“I know I do.” Several puffing steps up waist-high blocks. “I just don't understand how they can survive the cold!”

“Well, it's not that cold down here, of course. This is the top of the alpine zone, in effect. The adaptations for cold are usually taken directly from arctic and antarctic creatures. Many seals can cut the circulation to their extremities when necessary to preserve heat. And they have a sort of antifreeze in their blood—a glycoprotein that binds to the surface of ice crystals and stops their growth—stops the accumulation of salts. Wonderful stuff. Some of these mammals can freeze limbs and thaw them without damage to the flesh.”

“You're kidding,” Roger whispers as he hikes.

“You're kidding!”