Everyone turned toward her.

"I mean, we have men and women of every nationality on this mission. Yet of the four teams, each group is headed by a Russian. A Russian male, at that."

For a long moment there was absolute silence. Jamie could hear the electrical hum of the ship’s equipment and the quiet hiss of the air fans.

"I can answer that," said Pete Connors.

"Please do," Ilona said.

The black astronaut was sitting beside Vosnesensky, who had the other cosmonaut, Ivshenko, on his other side. Connors gave them a small grin, then turned back to Ilona.

"First," he raised a long finger, "the commander of each team must be a pilot. A man from the military, accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Accustomed to receiving orders from higher authority and carrying them out. Without discipline we could all get killed. This is no weekend hiking trip we’re on."

"You said a man," Katrin Diels interrupted. "Why not a woman?"

Connors made an elaborate shrug. "Guess they couldn’t find any women with the necessary qualifications."

All three women hooted at him. Even most of the men laughed.

Once they calmed down, Connors resumed, "Second, the Soviet Federation has provided the boosters and the life-support equipment for this mission. Soviet cosmonauts have more experience in spaceflight than anyone on Earth; they’ve been doing long-term missions aboard their space station since 1971, for god’s sake!"

"Because you Americans waited twenty-five years before you put up a permanent space station," Xenophanes said, practically sneering.

"Yeah, that’s true," Connors agreed. "So when we started planning the Mars mission, the American government agreed that the team leaders would be picked from military pilots who had the most experience in spaceflight."

"Meaning Russians," said Xenophanes.

"That’s the way it worked out."

Sliwa huffed, "The Russians outsmarted you at the very start of the program. They have always been clever at negotiations."

"I don’t think you can say that Mikhail or Dmitri are here because some Russian politician outslicked his American counterpart," Connors objected.

Sliwa hunched his shoulders. Vosnesensky was glaring at the Pole.

Ivshenko glanced at his compatriot, then said, "The Soviet Union has made some sacrifices for this privilege of providing leadership. No Soviet scientist was selected for the ground team, even though we have many men — and women — who are highly qualified in the fields of planetary sciences."

"Same thing with the States," added Connors. "We have astronauts on all four teams, but no scientists on the ground team except for Jamie here."

They all turned toward Jamie, who forced himself to remain silent. I’m here by accident, he told himself. They all know that. And back in the States I’m only half American, whichever way you look at it.

"Perhaps we should change the subject," Reed suggested. "This kind of argument will get us nowhere."

Jamie was tempted to ask Reed to explain how he could sneak sex-suppressant drugs into their food or drink. But he thought better of it. No sense starting a real fight, he told himself. So he remained quiet while the others stared at one another, unable or unwilling to find a new topic for discussion.

"Well then, perhaps we should get some sleep," Reed said.

Vosnesensky nodded vigorously. "Yes. A good idea. In ten hours or so the radiation levels should be low enough for us to leave this shelter. Then we will have to check the ship’s systems and all our equipment thoroughly to assess what damage the storm has done, and then repair it. We should sleep now."

It was an order, not a suggestion. No one argued, not even Ilona.

Jamie and Vosnesensky had started as soon as the morning sunlight made the ground around them visible. All the previous day they had taken turns driving the rover at breakneck speed along the broken, rugged badlands country, heading north by east, away from the faulted canyons of Noctis Labyrinthus, away from their base camp. Breakneck speed, for the rover, was not quite forty kilometers per hour — almost the speed limit in a school zone.

Still they were exhausted by the time the sun had finally dropped behind the ragged horizon at their backs and the dark cold shadows of night overtook their vehicle. Two straight days of continuous driving, much of it detours around ridges too steep to climb or crevasses too deep to traverse, had sapped them physically and emotionally. They ate a sparse dinner in moody silence; then Vosnesensky checked in with Dr. Li and the base camp. Everything was going smoothly at the base, and to Jamie’s continuing surprise and delight, Li still did not order them to turn around and return to the domed camp.

"The mission controllers haven’t vetoed our excursion," he said, leaning back on the bench that would later unfold to be his bunk. Vosnesensky sat across from him, the narrow folding table between them.

"Not yet," said the cosmonaut, like a man waiting for the ax to fall.

Feeling something between guilt and embarrassment, Jamie said, "I’m sorry I had to go over your head about this."

Vosnesensky shrugged his heavy shoulders. "It was your right to do so." He looked into Jamie’s eyes and added, "My responsibility was to stick to the mission plan until higher authority changed the plan. I was only doing my duty. I was not objecting on personal grounds."

A tendril of relief wormed along Jamie’s spine. "Then you’re not angry?"

"Why should I be? Do you think you scientists have a monopoly on curiosity?"

Jamie smiled broadly. "That’s great! I was afraid I’d made you sore."

The Russian grinned back at him. "Not so. Once Dr. Li took the responsibility of allowing this change in the traverse, my objections vanished. I would like to see this Grand Canyon too."

Jamie slept soundly, dreaming of Mesa Verde and his grandfather.

They awakened after their third night aboard the rover at the first eerie light of dawn, the faintest pale pink brightening of the sky along the flat eastern horizon. Jamie pulled his coveralls over his briefs, then set up the folding table between their bunks and popped two precooked breakfasts into the microwave while Vosnesensky was in the lavatory. The Russian, already in his tan coveralls and soft slipper-socks, spooned down his steaming oatmeal while Jamie took his turn at the toilet.

As Jamie was washing up he heard Vosnesensky shout, "Jamie! Look at this!"

He ducked out of the narrow lavatory and saw that Vosnesensky was up in the cockpit. Squeezing past the table, Jamie hurried there.

Vosnesensky had pulled back the thermal shroud. The plastiglass bubble canopy was twinkling with faintly glistening little glimmers that winked on and disappeared like fireflies. Jamie felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Dewdrops," Vosnesensky said. "Morning dew."

"It condenses on the glass." Jamie reached out his fingers to touch the bubble. It was cold but dry inside. Even while he watched more tiny droplets appeared and flickered out, evaporating before his eyes, vanishing so quickly that he would have missed them altogether if others had not glimmered into brief existence. Like tiny diamonds they sparkled for a heartbeat and then were gone. After a few minutes they stopped completely. Jamie realized that he would never have suspected they had been there if he had not seen them himself. Mikhail caught them at just the right moment.

"There is moisture in the air here," the Russian said. "A little, at least."

"Frost," Jamie murmured. "Must be ice particles that form in the air at night. They melted on the warm surface…"

"And evaporated immediately."

"Where’s the moisture coming from?" Jamie asked. Turning to the Russian, "Mikhail, how far are we from the canyon?"