"Five seconds… four, three, two, one — ignition."

The Russian’s voice was flat calm. Jamie felt a surge of pressure pushing him against the chair’s back. Nothing startling; he had driven sports cars with more acceleration. The picture of Earth on the display screen did not change discernibly.

But Vosnesensky’s voice said, "We are off, on schedule. Mars 2 thruster ignition was precisely on time, also."

A clearly American voice broke in, "We’re off for Mars!"

Not one of the scientists cheered. Jamie wanted to, but felt too embarrassed. An image of Edith formed in his mind, the strangely sad smile on her pretty face as they said good-bye for the final time. No, not the final time, Jamie told himself. I’ll be back. I’ll see her when I get back.

He did not notice Tony Reed staring at him, thinking, I got rid of that prig Hoffman and neither our Navaho geologist nor pretty Joanna has even so much as thanked me for it. Perhaps I made a mistake. She’s interested in this Red Indian. As long as he’s among us Joanna won’t even look at me.

They did not eat together that night. Joanna and the other two women huddled by the biology bench, ignoring food as they tested the green-streaked rock. Tony Reed and a couple of the other men drifted by, but the women shooed them away.

Jamie picked at his meal, worrying more about the idiotic news media back home than the Martian rock. It’s copper, he told himself. Got to be.

But suppose it isn’t? A part of his mind wanted the rock to be life bearing. In fact, as he sat alone at the wardroom table methodically working his way through the bland microwaved meal, Jamie realized that if they had indeed found life it would surely divert the media’s attention from this Native American business.

He got up and took his half-finished tray to the recycler, scraped the food into the slot in its top, and then stacked the tray and his utensils in the dishwasher’s rack. Someone had put a swing-era tape on the sound system: a clarinet sweet as licorice worked through an old ballad.

Laughter rose from the far side of the dome; men joking together. He recognized Patel’s high-pitched squeal. His fellow geologist had found something amusing. Whom was he sharing it with? Reed? Naguib? Toshima? From the sound of it they were all in one of the lab areas together.

Vosnesensky and the three other pilots were sitting around one of the communications consoles. Its screen showed a topographical map. Planning the first cross-country traverse, Jamie thought as he walked past them.

"Waterman, come and look at this," called Vosnesensky. "Latest photos of the badlands."

Jamie joined them and saw that the image on the screen was a map of contour lines superimposed on a photograph of the Noctis Labyrinthus region, slightly less than three hundred kilometers to the south. He pulled a chair from the monitoring station next to the comm console and joined the little group.

Noctis Labyrinthus. The badlands. A real labyrinth of interconnected canyons and chains of craters, fault lines that ran for hundreds of kilometers like giant cracks crisscrossing the ground, slumped canyon walls with landslides that may have been caused by flowing water.

The labyrinth was at the western end of the titanic Valles Marineris, the Grand Canyon of Mars that extended more than four thousand kilometers, at places so wide that an observer standing on the lip of the seven-kilometer-deep canyon could not see the other side of it. Named after the Mariner 9 spacecraft that discovered the giant rift, Valles Marineris was longer than North America was wide, and deeper than the Atlantic Ocean. Its western end butted into the enormous upswelling of the Tharsis Bulge, where ten-kilometer-high volcanoes sat atop a mammoth blister of rock the size of Europe.

Where the deeply carved Valles Marineris meets the dense rock of the Tharsis Bulge the badlands of the Noctis Labyrinthus spreads its fractured pattern of canyons. From orbit above Mars it almost looks as if the great rip in the ground was stopped and shattered by the uplifted bulge the way a battering ram might splinter against an iron door.

"We are deciding on the route for the first traverse," Vosnesensky said as Jamie sat down in front of the display screen.

Jamie looked at the four fliers. Vosnesensky seemed brooding and melancholy, as usual. Mironov was smiling the way a man does when he is bored or embarrassed. Connors was studying the map display intently, as if trying to memorize it. Paul Abell had a puzzled, quizzical expression on his pop-eyed face.

Tapping a fingernail against the screen, Jamie said, "I’d like to arrive here, at this point."

Abell said, "That’s not exactly where Father DiNardo indicated in his mission plan, is it?"

"Not quite. I’ve been thinking about this traverse all during our flight here. This spot here is a branching point. I can look at three canyons from there." Leaning forward enough to reach the keyboard, Jamie punched up an enlargement of the region. "You see? There’s slumping here; a landslide. And clear fracture lines…"

"Yes, yes," said Vosnesensky impatiently. "That is permissible. We can get you to that point."

"Good."

"I have decided to drive the rover myself," Vosnesensky said.

Jamie glanced at Connors. The American did not seem surprised. Jamie realized that he had been keeping his eyes focused on the display screen because he was angry. The astronaut’s lips were pressed together in a grim tight line.

"I thought the mission plan called for Pete to drive the rover."

"I have changed the plan," Vosnesensky said flatly.

"Why?"

"This is no reflection on Pete. He will still command one of the other traverses and fly the soarplane."

"But why change the mission plan?" Jamie insisted.

Mironov’s smile had gradually dwindled. He said, "This has nothing to do with politics, I assure you."

Which immediately made Jamie think that it was entirely due to national pride and competition. Or at least some form of rivalry between the Russians and the Americans.

Connors finally spoke up. "It’s cool, Jamie. We talked it over. Mike just wants to take the first traverse himself." Forcing a humorless grin, the astronaut added, "It’s part of Mike’s god complex. He’s afraid something’ll go wrong if he’s not there running the show himself."

Mikhail Vosnesensky made himself smile back at Connors. "I have no intention of flying the soarplane. You may have that honor entirely to yourself."

Connors nodded and turned back toward the display screen.

Jamie asked, "Do we start the traverse as scheduled?"

"In two days, yes."

"The only change," Mironov said, "is to substitute Mikhail Andreivitch as your chauffeur."

"Does Dr. Li know about this?" Jamie asked.

"He will be informed. I do not expect him to object," Vosnesensky said.

With a shrug, Jamie said, "Well, I guess it’s okay then."

Mironov got to his feet and Vosnesensky lumbered up from his chair a fraction of a second after him. For a wild moment Jamie got the impression that Mironov was in charge, not Vosnesensky. Vaguely he recalled that the Russians used to have political officers among their men who worked at subsidiary jobs but were actually the real bosses.

As the two Russians walked away, Connors said earnestly, "Listen, Jamie, the last thing I want is for a Soviet-American rivalry to break out here."

"But why’d he do it?" Jamie asked.

Leaning his forearms on his knees, Connors answered, "I think he really has a god complex. He thinks that if he’s in charge nothing will go wrong. It’s the first overland traverse and he’s nervous about it."

Abell looked skeptical but said nothing.

"You don’t mind being bumped?" Jamie asked.