After twenty meters, she turned around and walked the opposite direction. Walking a straight line proved to be impossible. Not only did she lack visual references, the endless wind pushed her off course. The sheer volume of attacking sand buried her feet with each step. Grunting, she pressed on.

Beck, Johanssen, and Vogel squeezed into the MAV airlock. Designed for two, it could be used by three in emergencies. As it equalized, Lewis’s voice came over the radio.

“Johanssen,” she said, “would the rover IR camera do any good?”

“Negative,” Johanssen replied. “IR can’t get through sand any better than visible light.”

“What’s she thinking?” Beck asked after removing his helmet. “She’s a geologist. She knows IR can’t get through a sandstorm.”

“She is grasping,” Vogel said, opening the inner door. “We must get to the couches. Please hurry.”

“I don’t feel good about this,” Beck said.

“Neither do I, Doctor,” said Vogel, climbing the ladder, “but the commander has given us orders. Insubordination will not help.”

“Commander,” Martinez radioed, “we’re tilting 11.6 degrees. One good gust and we’re tipping.”

“What about the proximity radar?” Lewis said. “Could it detect Watney’s suit?”

“No way,” Martinez said. “It’s made to see Hermes in orbit, not the metal in a single space suit.”

“Give it a try,” Lewis said.

“Commander,” said Beck, putting on a headset as he slid into his acceleration couch, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but Watn—…Mark’s dead.”

“Copy,” Lewis said. “Martinez, try the radar.”

“Roger,” Martinez radioed.

He brought the radar online and waited for it to complete a self-check. Glaring at Beck, he said, “What’s the matter with you?”

“My friend just died,” Beck answered. “And I don’t want my commander to die, too.”

Martinez gave him a stern look. Turning his attention back to the radar, he radioed, “Negative contact on proximity radar.”

“Nothing?” Lewis asked.

“It can barely see the Hab,” he replied. “The sandstorm’s fucking things up. Even if it wasn’t, there’s not enough metal in— Shit!”

“Strap in!” he yelled to the crew. “We’re tipping!”

The MAV creaked as it tilted faster and faster.

“Thirteen degrees,” Johanssen called out from her couch.

Buckling his restraints, Vogel said, “We are far past balance. We will not rock back.”

“We can’t leave her!” Beck yelled. “Let it tip, we’ll fix it!”

“Thirty-two metric tons including fuel,” Martinez said, his hands flying over the controls. “If it hits the ground, it’ll do structural damage to the tanks, frame, and probably the second-stage engine. We’d never be able to fix it.”

“You can’t abandon her!” Beck said. “You can’t.”

“I’ve got one trick. If that doesn’t work, I’m following her orders.”

Bringing the orbital maneuvering system online, he fired a sustained burn from the nose cone array. The small thrusters fought against the lumbering mass of the slowly tilting spacecraft.

“You are firing the OMS?” Vogel asked.

“I don’t know if it’ll work. We’re not tipping very fast,” Martinez said. “I think it’s slowing down…”