Plus a conditioning station. The flock did not exercise, and so slept.

They had gotten on poorly during their Earthside expedition, despite Rachel’s attempts at diplomacy. Fraq spoke for his entire flock when he said, “No Prefects go to Mars. We do not need these brains in bodies. I wish that Rachel and a few groundlings go with us in this fundamental exploration.” He would say no more. So off they went with a skimpy crew.

The Aldrin’s gentle spin gave centrifugal gee equal to 0.38 of Earth’s, good Mars training. That counteracted the health effects of weightlessness, and made diving into the Aldrin’s central lake a delicious, slow-motion acrobatic. Rachel had tried a double flip with a spin, and almost made it before splashing in. Her finest diving hour. She wished Fraq would emerge from his strange low-metabolism sleep, to fly with her.

The iron fist of Newtonian mechanics governed the Aldrin, but Martian management was not so clear. She read up on Hassan’s theories, prompted by the Prefect Stiles’s “certain knowledge” that this man was vital to getting good results on Mars. “Hassan is key,” the Prefect had said.

By the time the Aldrin swooped by Mars to pilfer some momentum from the planet’s orbital velocity—a negligible loss to Mars, but a substantial gain for the hollow ex-asteroid—Rachel had been fully ready to suck up to Hassan. Coming in to Mars on a shuttle was like jumping off a building with an umbrella—not much atmosphere to brake you, but exciting, yes. She’d thought as they settled onto the reddish-brown landing field, Fully ready for what? Why does Fraq think this essential?

She got her chance to find out at that afternoon’s meeting.

4.

The two teams assembled in a conference room to review the descent. Everyone was quiet, humbled by the experience. They had to report it all and therefore needed to have their mutual story straight.

There had been some knees banged up, a twisted ankle, but no major damage to anyone except Xiaoling, who smiled bravely behind her bandages. All eyes turned to Fraq, but he refused to report any personal difficulty. He had learned the economy of the human shoulder-shrug with a tilted head. The alien was as stoic as ever, saying little through Xiaoling. He had allowed no others of his flock to come.

Rachel studied the intent faces of the Descent Team. They had been here for years, some for decades. Some had let the lesser gravity turn their bodies into cottage cheeses of cellulite. In others she saw blue spider veins exploding in arms or legs. Adaptation had a price. Yet they all seemed happy and even joyous around the tight tables. Brave new worlds required their own sorts of courage.

To her surprise, Zuminski brushed aside the issues he had raised to her privately. No condemnation of anyone, no “post-action status review,” as the operating manual called for.

Had she somehow talked him out of it? She blinked, said nothing. The thought pleased her, but she suspected a more subtle reason. The great biologist Hassan sat to Zuminski’s right, saying little, and from his manner—an occasional glance, pursed mouth, small hand movements—it emerged that somehow he had control of the terms of debate here. She clandestinely thumbed up a display in the tabletop in front of her and confirmed her suspicion. Zuminski was head of Descent Operations, but in the management flow chart he did not seem to have any direct superior.