Axelrod had insisted on the visuals. Make it look Earthy, yes. She had worked for years to make the inflated domes support life and there was still plenty to do. Making the raw regolith swarm with microbes to build soil, coaxing lichens onto the boulders used to help anchor the dome floors in place, being sure the roots of the first shrubs could survive the cold and prickly alkaline dirt. Years, yes, grubbing and figuring and trying everything she could muster. For a beginning.

Pay attention! You’re on camera, and Viktor hates to reshoot.

“Ah, one of my faves . . .” She altered course to pass by a baobab—a tall, fat, tubular tree from western Australia, with only a few thin spidery limbs sprouting from its top, like a nearly bald man. Early settlers had used them to store food, take shelter, even as jail cells. On Mars they grew spectacularly fast, like eucalyptus, and nobody knew why. Aussie plants generally did better here, from the early greenhouse days of the first landing, onward. Maybe, the biologist in her said, this came from the low-energy biology of Australia. The continent had skated across the Pacific, its mountains getting worn down, minerals depleted, rainfall lessening, and life had been forced to adapt. A hundred million years of life getting by with less and less . . . much like Mars.

“For those of you who’ve loyally stuck with us through these—wow, twenty-two years!—I say thanks. Sometimes I think that this is all a dream, and days like this prove it. Grass on Mars! Or”—she grinned, tilting her head up a bit to let the filtered sunlight play on her still dark hair, using the only line she had prepared for this ’cast—“another way to say it, I started out with nothing and still have most of it left. Out there—in wild Mars.”

Not that this little patch is so domesticated. It’s how we find out if raw regolith can become true soil, and what will grow well here.

“Already there are environmental groups trying to preserve original, ancient Mars from us invaders.” She chuckled. “If Mars were just bare stone and dust, I’d laugh—I never did believe that rocks have rights. But since there’s life here, they have a point.”

This was just editorial patter, of course, while Viktor followed her on the walk toward the fountain. It tinkled and splashed in the foreground while she approached, Viktor shooting from behind her, so the camera looked through the trees, on through the clear dome walls to the dusty red landscape beyond. “I like to gaze out, so that I can imagine what Mars was like in its early days, a hospitable planet.” She turned, spread her hands in self mockery. “Okay, we now know from fossils that there were no really big trees—nothing larger than a bush, in fact. But I can dream . . .”

She smiled and tried to not make it look calculated. After a quarter century of peering into camera snouts, she had some media savvy. Still, she and Viktor thought in terms of, If we do this, people will like it. That had been a steadier guide through the decades than taking the advice about exploring Mars from the Earthside media execs of the Consortium, whose sole idea was, If we do this, we’ll maximize our global audience share, get ideas for new product lines, and/or optimize near-term profitability.

She paused beside the splashing fountain. She plucked up a cup they had planted there and drank some of the water. “On Earth, you can drink all the water you want and leave the tap on between cupfuls. Here, nobody does.” She smiled and walked on. “You’ve seen this before, of course, but imagine if it were the only fountain you’d seen in a quarter century. That’s why I come here to read, meditate, think. That—and our newest wonder . . .”

Let them wait. She had learned that trick early on. Mars couldn’t be chopped up into five-second image-bites and have any lasting impression. She circled around the constant-cam that fed a view to Earthside for the market that wanted to have the Martian day as a wall or window in their homes. She knew this view sold especially well in the cramped rooms of China and India. It was a solid but subtle advertisement.

Crowded? Here’s a whole world, only a few dozen people on it, well, actually about ten dozen, and it has the same land area as the Earth. A different world entirely.

Things were different, all right. The dome was great, the biggest of several, a full hundred and fifty meters tall. It would have been far more useful in the first years, when they still lived in apartment-sized habs. Now her pressure suit was supple, moving fluidly over her body as she walked and stooped. The first expedition suits had been the best of their era, but they’d still made you as flexible as a barely oiled Tin Man, as dextrous as a bear in mittens. The old helmets had misted over unless you remembered to swab the inside with ordinary dish soap. And the catheters had been always irksome, especially for women; now they fit beautifully.

Outside, the wind whistled softly around the dome walls. Another reason she enjoyed the big dome—the sighing winds. Sounds didn’t carry well in Mars’s thin atmosphere, and the habs were so insulated they were cut off from any outdoor noise.

The grass ended and she crunched over slightly processed regolith. Lichens could break the rock down, but they took time—lots of it. So they’d taken shortcuts to make an ersatz soil. They mixed Martian dust and small gravel-sized rock bits with a lot of their organic waste, spaded in over decades—everything from kitchen leftovers to lightly cleaned excrement. Add compost-starter bacteria, keep moist, and wait. And hope. Microbes like free carbon, using it with water to frame elaborate molecules. She and Viktor had doled it out for years under the first, small dome before even trying to grow anything. The Book of Genesis got it all done in six days, but mere humans took longer.

She hit the marker they had laid out—a rock—and turned, pointing off-camera. “And now—ta-daah!—we have a surprise. The first Martian swimming pool.”

Okay, no swimming pools in Genesis—but it’s a step.

“I’m going for my first swim—now.” She shucked off her blue jump suit to reveal a red bikini. Her arms and legs were muscular, breasts midsized, skin pale, not too many wrinkles. Not really a babe, no, but she still got mash notes from middle-aged guys, somehow leaking through the e-mail filters.

Hey, we’re looking for market share here! She grinned, turned and dove into the lapping clear water. Surfaced, gasped—she wasn’t faking, this really was her first swim in a quarter century—and laughed with sheer pleasure (not in the script). Went into a breast stroke, feeling the tug and flex of muscle, and something inexpressible and simple burst in her. Fun, yes—not nearly enough fun on Mars.

Or water. They had moved from the original base camp about eighteen years before. Once Earthside shipped enough gear to build a real water retrieval system, and a big nuke generator to run it, there seemed no point in not moving the hab and other structures—mostly light and portable—to the ice hills.

Mars was in some ways an upside down world. On Earth, one would look for water in the low spots, stream channels. Here in Gusev, water lay waiting in the hilly hummocks, termed by geologists “pingos.” When water froze beneath blown dust, it thrust up as it expanded, making low hills of a few hundred meters. She recalled how Marc and Raoul had found the first ice, their drill bit steaming as ice sublimed into fog. Now Marc was a big vid star and Raoul ran Axelrod’s solar energy grid on the Moon. Time . . .

She stopped at the pool edge, flipped out and sprang to her feet—thanks, 0.38 g! “The first swim on Mars, and you saw it.” Planned this shot a year ago, when I ordered the bikini . . . She donned a blue terry cloth bathrobe; the dryness made the air feel decidedly chilly. “In case you’re wondering, swimming doesn’t feel any different here. That’s because the water you displace makes you float—we’re mostly made of water, so the effect compensates. It doesn’t matter much what the local gravity is.”