But York knew the suit had sealed Stone off from his family; he wouldn’t be able to feel them through the thick, elasticized gloves, nor hear anything of their voices through his helmet save a muffled blur. Inside the suit, the only sound was the hiss of air, the rustle of your own breathing.

Stone was only inches from his boys, but already he might have been a thousand miles away.

They stepped out of the MSOB.

It was not yet 6 A.M. There were press here, beyond barriers, and she was confronted by a barrage of flashlights, popping all around her. The last photo opportunity before they walked on a new world, or died.

There was a little gangplank leading into the transfer van. She was startled to see Vladimir Viktorenko standing by the van door. He was dressed in his full Soviet air force uniform.

Phil Stone drew himself up and saluted Viktorenko, and she heard his voice over her headset radio. “My crew and I have been made ready, and now we are reporting that we are ready to fly the Ares mission.”

Viktorenko saluted back. York couldn’t hear his reply, but she could guess what he said. I give you permission to fly. I wish you a successful flight and a gentle landing. Another little Soviet ritual.

Stone stepped forward to the van and let the suit techs help him toward his seat.

York, in line, moved up to Viktorenko. His smile softened, and he spoke again, silently. Marushka.

She felt something break open inside her, something she’d been holding in, from the moment she’d woken that morning.

She dropped her air unit, careless of how it fell, and stepped toward Vladimir. His uniform pushed into the softness of her pressure suit, and his arms circled her back, tightly enough that she could feel his strength through the layers of the suit.

He stepped back, and she forced a smile. “I found Bah-reess. Thank you.”

He spoke again. He dug into a pocket, and pulled out a little handful of steppe grass. He showed it to her, and tucked it into a pocket on the sleeve of her pressure suit. Then he gripped her arms one last time and helped the techs guide her up into the van.

NEWPORT BEACH

It was a fine and clear spring morning.

JK Lee stepped out onto his porch and sniffed the air deeply; he could smell growing things, grass and flowers and such.

He found himself coughing.

His lungs seemed to have gotten attuned, over the years, to the characteristic scents of an aviation plant: kerosene, lubricant, ozone, rubber, hot metal. Since he’d emerged from that cocoon of engineering, he’d found himself stranded on a planet whose atmosphere was alien to him.

He lit up a cigarette and, behind a gathering cloud of nicotine and tar, started to feel more comfortable.

It would be a good day to cut the grass.