The dummy Surface Experimental Package was already set up, its silver and gold boxes sprawling across the surface in a spiderweb of power cables and data feeds. Some of the cables still needed connecting, as did the antenna for transmitting signals back to Earth. The SNAP generator — System of Nuclear Auxiliary Power — was a box to one side of the little complex. York was supposed to activate it by inserting a little pod of plutonium. The pod — a dummy, one of several — was mounted in a little rack at the back of the Rover. It was a narrow cylinder, maybe a foot long, held inside a graphite storage cask.

She got hold of a handling rod. By pulling a trigger handle, she opened little jaws at the end of the handle and tried to engage them around the pod. Her pressurized, elasticized gloves resisted every movement of her hands; it was like trying to close a fist around a rubber ball.

When she had gotten the handling jaws open, she had to use two hands to guide the open mouth around the end of the pod.

Finally she tried to pull the pod free of its flask. But the damn thing wouldn’t come.

The jaws slipped off the pod, and she staggered backwards. She could hear her breathing rasp, the rattle of the cable on her harness.

“You got any suggestions, Ralph?”

“Hold it there. Let me try that mother.”

She rested surreptitiously against her cables, while Gershon clambered backwards out of the MEM. He wasn’t hooked up to a Peter Pan, so he labored under the full weight of his suit, and his movements were heavy and awkward.

He climbed down the ladder and took the handling rod. With York’s help he got the jaws fitted to the fuel pod. He started to pull; he even leaned back, digging his heels into the dried-out gumbo. But the pod wouldn’t come loose.

The SimSup called, “Ah, you guys want to take a break? That thing sure is jammed.”

“Nope,” said Gershon. “Natalie, let’s try the direct approach. You get hold of the rod, here.”

“Okay.” She took it from him, moving slowly, being careful not to release the grip on the trigger handle.

“Now.” He reached over and took a geological hammer from the loop at her waist. “Start pulling, babe.”

With both hands on the handling rod, she leaned back and dragged.

Gershon started hitting the cask with the hammer, with high, sweeping blows; his whole body had to swivel to deliver the blows.

Every time a blow landed York could feel the fuel pod shudder.

“It’s not working, Ralph.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

He spun like a hammer thrower, and with two hands he delivered one final almighty blow to the cask.

The graphite split right in two.