Somebody had to get the humanangle on this trip ... but whatwas humane about sending me?
Illustrated by WOOD
My agent was the one whogot me the job of goingalong to write up the firsttrip to Mars. He was always gettingme things like that—appearanceson TV shows, or mentions in writers'magazines. If he didn't sellmuch of my stuff, at least he soldme.
"It'll be the biggest break awriter ever got," he told me, twodays before blastoff. "Oh, surethere'll be scientific reports on thetrip, but the public doesn't wantthem; they want the human slanton things."
"But, Louie," I said weakly, "I'llprobably be locked up for thewhole trip. If there are fights or accidents,they won't tell me aboutthem."
"Nonsense," said Louie, sippingcarefully at a paper cup of scaldingcoffee. "It'll be just like thepublic going along vicariously.They'll identify with you."
"But, Louie," I said, wiping thedampness from my palms on theknees of my trousers as I sat there,"how'll I go about it? A story? Anarticle? A you-are-there type of report?What?"
Louie shrugged. "So keep adiary. It'll be more intimate, like."
"But what if nothing happens?"I insisted hopelessly.
Louie smiled. "So you fake it."
I got up from the chair in his officeand stepped to the door."That's dishonest," I pointed out.
"Creative is the word," Louiesaid.
So I went on the first trip toMars. And I kept a diary. This isit. And it is honest. Honest it is.
October 1, 1960
They picked the launchingdate from the March, 1959, NewYork Times, which stated that thiswas the most likely time for launching.Trip time is supposed to take260 days (that's one way), sowe're aimed toward where Marswill be (had better be, or else).
There are five of us on board. Apilot, co-pilot, navigator and biochemist.And, of course, me. I'vemet all but the pilot (he's verybusy today), and they seem friendlyenough.
Dwight Kroger, the biochemist,is rather old to take the "rigors ofthe journey," as he puts it, but thegovernment had a choice betweensending a green scientist who couldstand the trip or an accomplishedman who would probably not survive,so they picked Kroger. We'veblasted off, though, and he's stillwith us. He looks a damn sight betterthan I feel. He's kind of balding,and very iron-gray-haired andskinny, but his skin is tan as an Indian's,and right now he's tellingjokes in the washroom with the co-pilot.
Jones (that's the co-pilot; Ididn't quite catch his first name) isscarlet-faced, barrel-chested andgives the general appearance of belongingunder the spreading chestnuttree, not in a metal bullet flingingitself out into airless space.Come to think of it, who does belongwhere we are?
The navigator's name is LloydStreeter, but I haven't seen his faceyet. He has a little cubicle behindthe pilot's compartment, with allkinds 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 ballpointpen on the maps, and nowand then calling numbers over amicrophone to the pilot. His hairis red and curly, and he looks asthough he'd be tall if he ever getsto stand up. There are freckles onthe backs of his hands, so I thinkhe's probably got them on his face,too. So far, all he's said is, "Scram,I'm busy."
Kroger tell