Monday evening at dusk Nadia went out with Sax to get something to eat. South Fossa’s canyon floor was thick with mature trees, the giant sequoias standing over an understory of pines and junipers and, in the lower stretch of the canyon, aspens and canyon oaks. As they walked down the streamside park, Nadia and Sax were introduced by the Mangalavid people to group after group, most of them natives, all of them unfamiliar faces, but all very happy to meet them, it was clear. It was strange to see so many people obviously, visibly happy; in normal life, Nadia realized, one simply didn’t see it— smiles everywhere, strangers talking to each other . . . there was more than one way for things to go when a social order disappeared. Anarchy and chaos, definitely all too possible; but also communion.

They ate in an outdoor restaurant by the central stream, and then returned to the Mangalavid offices. Nadia got back in front of her screen, and went to work talking to as many organizing committees as she could reach. She felt like Frank in ‘61, working the phones in frantic overdrive; only now they were in communication with all of Mars, and she had the distinct impression that while she was not by any means in control, she at least had a good sense of what was going on. And that was gold, that was. The iron walnut in her stomach began to shift to something more like wood.

After a couple of hours, she began to fall asleep in the seconds between one call and the next; it was the middle of the night back in Underhill and Shalbatana, and she hadn’t slept much since the call from Sax about Antarctica. That meant four or five days without sleep— no, wait— she figured it out— three days. Though it already felt like two weeks.

She had just lain down on a couch when there was an outcry, and everyone ran into the hall, then out onto the stone-flagged plaza surrounding the Mangalavid offices. Nadia stumbled blearily after Sax, who grabbed her by the arm and helped her keep her balance.

Apparently there was a hole in the roof tent. People pointed, but Nadia couldn’t make it out. “This is where we’re better off,” Sax said with a satisfied little purse of the mouth. “The pressure under the roof is only a hundred and fifty millibars higher than the pressure outside.”

“So roofs don’t pop like pricked balloons,” Nadia said, remembering with a shudder some of the domed craters of ‘61.

“And even though some outside air is getting in, it’s mostly oxygen and nitrogen. Still too much CO2, but not so much that we’re all poisoned instantly.”

“But if the hole were bigger,” Nadia said.

“True.”

She shook her head. “We need to secure the whole planet, to really be safe.”

“True.”