I got up from the chair in his office and stepped to the door. "That's
dishonest," I pointed out.
"Creative is the word," Louie said.
So I went on the first trip to Mars. And I kept a diary. This is it. And
it is honest. Honest it is.
* * * * *
_October 1, 1960_
They picked the launching date from the March, 1959, New York _Times_,
which stated that this was the most likely time for launching. Trip time
is supposed to take 260 days (that's one way), so we're aimed toward
where Mars will be (had _better_ be, or else).
There are five of us on board. A pilot, co-pilot, navigator and
biochemist. And, of course, me. I've met all but the pilot (he's very
busy today), and they seem friendly enough.
Dwight Kroger, the biochemist, is rather old to take the "rigors of the
journey," as he puts it, but the government had a choice between sending
a green scientist who could stand the trip or an accomplished man who
would probably not survive, so they picked Kroger. We've blasted off,
though, and he's still with us. He looks a damn sight better than I
feel. He's kind of balding, and very iron-gray-haired and skinny, but
his skin is tan as an Indian's, and right now he's telling jokes in the
washroom with the co-pilot.
Jones (that's the co-pilot; I didn't quite catch his first name) is
scarlet-faced, barrel-chested and gives the general appearance of
belonging under the spreading chestnut tree, not in a metal bullet
flinging itself out into airless space. Come to think of it, who _does_
belong where we are?
The navigator's name is Lloyd Streeter, but I haven't seen his face yet.
He has a little cubicle behind the pilot's compartment, with all kinds of
maps and rulers and things. He keeps bent low over a welded-to-the-wall
(they call it the bulkhead, for some reason or other) table, scratching
away with a ballpoint pen on the maps, and now and then calling numbers
over a microphone to the pilot. His hair is red and curly, and he looks
as though he'd be tall if he ever gets to stand up. There are freckles
on the backs of his hands, so I think he's probably got them on his
face, too. So far, all he's said is, "Scram, I'm busy."
Kroger tells me that the pilot's name is Patrick Desmond, but that I can
call him Pat when I get to know him better. So far, he's still Captain
Desmond to me. I haven't the vaguest idea what he looks like. He was
already on board when I got here, with my typewriter and ream of paper,
so we didn't meet.
My compartment is small but clean. I mean clean now. It wasn't during
blastoff. The inertial gravities didn't bother me so much as the
gyroscopic spin they put on the ship so we have a sort of artificial
gravity to hold us against the curved floor. It's that constant whirly
feeling that gets me. I get sick on merry-go-rounds, too.
They're having pork for dinner today. Not me.
* * * * *
_October 2, 1960_
Feeling much better today. Kroger gave me a box of Dramamine pills. He
says they'll help my stomach. So far, so good.
Lloyd came by, also. "You play chess?" he asked.
"A little," I admitted.
"How about a game sometime?"
"Sure," I said. "Do you have a board?"
He didn't.
Lloyd went away then, but the interview wasn't wasted. I learned that he
_is_ tall and _does_ have a freckled face. Maybe we can build a
chessboard. With my paper and his ballpoint pen and ruler, it should be
easy. Don't know what we'll use for pieces, though.
Jones (I still haven't learned his first name) has been up with the
pilot all day. He passed my room on the way to the galley (the kitchen)
for a cup of dark brown coffee (they like it thick) and told me that we
were almost past the Moon. I asked to look, but he said not yet; the
instrument panel is Top Secret. They'd have to cover it so I could look
out the viewing screen, and they still need it for steering or
something.