Jamie got to his feet shakily. They helped him wriggle out of the chute harness. The plane circled lazily overhead.

"You did hokay," Zavgorodny said, smiling broadly now.

"How’d you get down so fast?" Jamie asked.

"I did free-fall, went past you. You did not see me? I was like a rocket!"

"Yuri is free-fall champion," said the other cosmonaut.

The plane was coming in to land, flaps down, engines coughing. Its wheels hit the ground and kicked up enormous plumes of dust.

"So now we go to Muzhestvo?" Jamie asked Zavgorodny.

The Russian shook his head. "We have found it already. Muzhestvo means in English courage. You have courage, James Waterman. I am glad."

Jamie took a deep breath. "Me too."

"We four," Zavgorodny said, "we will not go to Mars. But some of our friends will. We will not allow anyone who does not show courage to go to Mars."

"How can you…?"

"Others test you for knowledge, for health, for working with necessary equipment. We test for courage. No one without courage goes to Mars. It would make a danger for our fellow cosmonauts."

"Muzhestvo," Jamie said.

Zavgorodny laughed and slapped him on the back and they started walking across the bare dusty ground toward the waiting plane.

Muzhestvo, Jamie repeated to himself. Their version of a sacred ritual. Like a Navaho purifying rite. I’m one of them now. I’ve proved it to them. I’ve proved it to myself.

The dome was neatly laid out with two airlocks on opposite sides of its circular perimeter, all the life-support equipment in the center, and precisely partitioned little cells for each of the twelve team members arranged in an arc on one side of the floor. The plastic partitions were two meters high, like a set of office cubicles in a bank staffed by basketball players. The psychologists had insisted that the tall partitions be colored in cool pastels. Jamie would have preferred the bold warm hues of his native desert. We’re going to need all the warmth we can get here, he thought.

Two phonebooth-sized bathrooms stood at either end of the personnel cubicles. Scheduling would be a major headache.

Common areas were grouped around the center: a galley; a wardroom that was nothing more than a trio of tables with spindly Martian-gravity chairs of lightweight plastic; and a communications center with desktop computers and display screens. Workstations for the individual scientists were arrayed along the circular outer wall. Each scientist was responsible for unpacking his or her own equipment and setting up a workstation. Most of their equipment was still up in orbit; it was to be brought down by the second lander.

After their long day of labor, the four scientists and two astronauts began to shrug out of their backpacks and peel off the hard suits they had been wearing for more than twenty hours.

Within minutes the suits were strewn on the floor like discarded pieces of brightly colored armor, and the six team members stood in their coveralls of tan or olive green or pale aqua blue. We look like human beings again, Jamie thought.

Frightened human beings. Each staring silently at the others, as if seeing them for the first time. Each realizing with utter finality that they were more than a hundred million kilometers from home, from safety, that a single failed transistor or a slight rip in the dome’s plastic skin could kill them all without warning or mercy.

They stood in silence, wide-eyed, openmouthed, hands held stiffly away from their bodies, as if testing the world on which they stood and trying to determine if it would be kind to them or not. Like children suddenly thrust into a totally new place, they held their breath and stared silently around them.

Tony Reed broke the tense silence. "I hate to bring up anything so pedestrian, but I’m rather peckish. How about some supper?"

Vosnesensky snorted, Connors laughed out loud, and the others grinned broadly. They left their discarded suits on the floor and trooped to the galley where six frozen precooked meals were speedily microwaved to steaming readiness.

Joanna Brumado disappeared into her own cubicle briefly and came back with a bottle of Spanish champagne.

"You brought that all the way from Brazil?" Pete Connors asked.

Reed said disdainfully, "Of course not. Obviously Joanna fermented the grapes on the way here."

The cork popped noisily and champagne frothed over their dining table.

"I’m afraid it’s not chilled," Joanna apologized.

"That’s all right. Don’t worry about it."

Jamie thought, Just put it outside for a minute or so. That’ll ice it down.

There was enough champagne for one drink each. Reed sat between the willowy blonde Ilona and the dark-eyed little Joanna. The Israeli had the lean, haughty look of an aristocrat, even in drab coveralls. Joanna looked like a waif, barely suppressing the anxiety that lay just behind her wide dark eyes.

Reed, sandy haired, athletically trim, seemed absolutely at ease. He was saying, "…so we actually have all the comforts of home, almost."

"Almost," echoed Ilona Malater.

"Food, air, good company," Reed bantered. "What more could one ask for?"

"The water is recycled," Ilona said. "Doesn’t that bother you?"

Reed ran a fingertip across his pencil-slim sandy moustache. "I must admit I’d prefer to have something to purify the water. Whisky would do nicely."

"That’s not allowed," Joanna said seriously. "I broke the rules with my bottle of champagne."

"Yes." said Ilona. "I’m surprised that he" — she tilted her head slightly toward Vosnesensky, at the head of the table — "didn’t reprimand you and confiscate the bottle for himself."

"Oh, he’s not that bad," Reed said. "We’ll make him unbend, never fear."

The Israeli biochemist looked doubtful. Then she said, "I wish we did have some Scotch whisky here."

"Perhaps I could mix you some from my infirmary supplies."

Ilona raised an eyebrow. Joanna looked perplexed at the suggestion.

"You’ve got to be careful, however," Reed went on. "I once shared a bottle of whisky with a Scotsman. When I mixed a little water with my drink the man actually shuddered!"

Both women laughed.

The two pilots were at the end of the little table, talking earnestly together about flying, judging from the way they were using their hands. Pink-faced Russian and black American, their nationalities —  even their races — made less difference here than the fact that they were fliers rather than scientists: engineers, at best. A clear difference in caste from the scientists. The American was lanky, lean dancer’s legs and arms. The Russian was shorter, thicker, his hair the shade of auburn that had probably been brick-red when he was a child. His fleshy face, normally a dark scowl, was animated now and his bright blue eyes sparkled as he talked about flying.

Jamie knew he was the outsider. For nearly four years these men and women had trained with Father DiNardo, the Jesuit geologist who had originally been picked for the Mars expedition. Jamie had been one of the also-rans, knowing every instant of every day for nearly four years that he was going through the motions of training for a mission he would never be a part of. And then DiNardo’s god struck him down with a gall bladder infection that required surgery, and his chosen backup had been swiftly chopped down by backroom politics. Suddenly, miraculously, unbelievably, James Waterman — Native American — had joined the team that would actually set foot on Mars.

A red man on the red planet, Jamie mused. I’m here, but only because of blind luck. They accept me, but DiNardo was their first choice; I’m just a substitute.

Yes, he heard the whispered voice of his grandfather. But you’re here, on Mars, and the Anglo priest is not.