said it better,” he said, softly. Turning back to face the camera squarely, he finished, “That was the Arrow ’s pilot, Ted Connover. I’m Steven Treadway, wishing the men and women of the Arrow well from somewhere in space between the orbit of Earth and the planet Mars.”
May 24, 2035
Earth Departure Plus 40 Days
13:45 Universal Time
Observation Cupola
Take it slow and stay calm, Taki Nomura told herself as she waited for Prokhorov to show up. Be professional. Listen to what he has to say.
She had chosen the observation cupola, just below the command center, for this one-on-one with the Russian. Just the two of us, nobody else, no recording devices. Try to put him at his ease so he’ll open up to you.
Yes, she thought. Put him at his ease. While you’re wound up tighter than a spring.
She actually flinched when Mikhail Prokhorov yanked the hatch open and ducked through.
“Greetings and salutations,” he said, his voice low and grave, his face almost scowling. Nomura realized that Mikhail always appeared to her to be larger than his actual physical stature. Standing next to Bee or Ted Connover, the Russian looked short, dumpy, almost gnomish. But here in the confines of the cupola he seemed sizeable, bulky. The little compartment felt crowded with just the two of them in it.
Prokhorov looked past Taki, through the thick quartz view port.
“It’s all empty out there,” he murmured. “Empty and far from home.”
Taki nodded agreement. “Does that bother you?”
He focused on her. “Is this a psychological exam?”
Suppressing a sudden urge to worm uncomfortably, Taki said, “Sort of.”
“On the record?”
“No. Not at all. This is strictly between the two of us. No notes. No reports.”
Suspiciously, Prokhorov inquired, “Not even to Bee?”
Realizing this interview was quickly slipping beyond her control, Taki said, “Mikhail, I was there when you and Hi were playing chess.”
“That was two weeks ago!”
“Yes, but . . . well, I saw you move your rook.”
“What of it?”
“Then you denied it. You lied to Hi’s face.”
Prokhorov burst into laughter. “Is that what this is all about: that stupid chess game?”
“Why did you do it?” Taki asked.
“To shorten the game, of course. I saw after three moves that Hi is a blundering amateur at chess. I simply wanted to put an end to his misery.”
“You cheated.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Is that so important?”
“It is if you’ve destroyed the trust Hi had in you.”
“Trust? He’s never had any trust in me. He’s always regarded me as a needless add-on to the crew. A political appointee, useless.”
“That’s not so!”
“Isn’t it? Ask him.”
“I will. But . . . Mikhail, you should talk with him, too. Tell him how you feel.”
“How I feel,” Prokhorov repeated. “I leave my wife and children for two years—three, if you count the time I spent in training—and what do I get? I get treated like an outsider, a Russian barbarian brought into the team by political pressure.”
“I don’t feel that way about you,” Taki protested.
“Then you’re the only one. Hi has Catherine at his side every minute of the day. Bee and Ted work together like brothers. Oh, I know they quarrel sometimes, but brothers do that.”
Taki kept silent. Let him vent, she told herself. Let him get it all out.
“Virginia and Amanda are like sorority sisters. I am alone. Despised and alone.”
“I don’t despise you,” she protested. “And neither do the others. They all respect you, your . . . your competence in your field.”
Prokhorov let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Competence in my field,” he sneered. “There are only a half-dozen people in the world who are specialists in Martian meteorology. Some field.”
“But you were picked ahead of all the others.”
“Politics. It was all politics.”
“Is that what you feel?”
“It is what I know.”
Taki pulled in a deep, calming
May 24, 2035
Earth Departure Plus 40 Days
13:45 Universal Time
Observation Cupola
Take it slow and stay calm, Taki Nomura told herself as she waited for Prokhorov to show up. Be professional. Listen to what he has to say.
She had chosen the observation cupola, just below the command center, for this one-on-one with the Russian. Just the two of us, nobody else, no recording devices. Try to put him at his ease so he’ll open up to you.
Yes, she thought. Put him at his ease. While you’re wound up tighter than a spring.
She actually flinched when Mikhail Prokhorov yanked the hatch open and ducked through.
“Greetings and salutations,” he said, his voice low and grave, his face almost scowling. Nomura realized that Mikhail always appeared to her to be larger than his actual physical stature. Standing next to Bee or Ted Connover, the Russian looked short, dumpy, almost gnomish. But here in the confines of the cupola he seemed sizeable, bulky. The little compartment felt crowded with just the two of them in it.
Prokhorov looked past Taki, through the thick quartz view port.
“It’s all empty out there,” he murmured. “Empty and far from home.”
Taki nodded agreement. “Does that bother you?”
He focused on her. “Is this a psychological exam?”
Suppressing a sudden urge to worm uncomfortably, Taki said, “Sort of.”
“On the record?”
“No. Not at all. This is strictly between the two of us. No notes. No reports.”
Suspiciously, Prokhorov inquired, “Not even to Bee?”
Realizing this interview was quickly slipping beyond her control, Taki said, “Mikhail, I was there when you and Hi were playing chess.”
“That was two weeks ago!”
“Yes, but . . . well, I saw you move your rook.”
“What of it?”
“Then you denied it. You lied to Hi’s face.”
Prokhorov burst into laughter. “Is that what this is all about: that stupid chess game?”
“Why did you do it?” Taki asked.
“To shorten the game, of course. I saw after three moves that Hi is a blundering amateur at chess. I simply wanted to put an end to his misery.”
“You cheated.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Is that so important?”
“It is if you’ve destroyed the trust Hi had in you.”
“Trust? He’s never had any trust in me. He’s always regarded me as a needless add-on to the crew. A political appointee, useless.”
“That’s not so!”
“Isn’t it? Ask him.”
“I will. But . . . Mikhail, you should talk with him, too. Tell him how you feel.”
“How I feel,” Prokhorov repeated. “I leave my wife and children for two years—three, if you count the time I spent in training—and what do I get? I get treated like an outsider, a Russian barbarian brought into the team by political pressure.”
“I don’t feel that way about you,” Taki protested.
“Then you’re the only one. Hi has Catherine at his side every minute of the day. Bee and Ted work together like brothers. Oh, I know they quarrel sometimes, but brothers do that.”
Taki kept silent. Let him vent, she told herself. Let him get it all out.
“Virginia and Amanda are like sorority sisters. I am alone. Despised and alone.”
“I don’t despise you,” she protested. “And neither do the others. They all respect you, your . . . your competence in your field.”
Prokhorov let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Competence in my field,” he sneered. “There are only a half-dozen people in the world who are specialists in Martian meteorology. Some field.”
“But you were picked ahead of all the others.”
“Politics. It was all politics.”
“Is that what you feel?”
“It is what I know.”
Taki pulled in a deep, calming
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