[Gutenberg 26843] • The Dope on Mars

*Somebody had to get the human angle on this trip ... but what was humane about sending me?*

* * *

***a selection from the story's opening:* ** MY AGENT was the one who got me the job of going along to write up the first trip to Mars. He was always getting me things like that-appearances on TV shows, or mentions in writers' magazines. If he didn't sell much of my stuff, at least he sold *me*. "It'll be the biggest break a writer ever got," he told me, two days before blastoff. "Oh, sure there'll be scientific reports on the trip, but the public doesn't want them; they want the *human* slant on things." "But, Louie," I said weakly, "I'll probably be locked up for the whole trip. If there are fights or accidents, they won't tell *me* about them." "Nonsense," said Louie, sipping carefully at a paper cup of scalding coffee. "It'll be just like the public going along vicariously. They'll *identify* with you." "But, Louie," I said, wiping the dampness from my palms on the knees of my trousers as I sat there, "how'll I go about it? A story? An article? A *you-are-there* type of report? What?" Louie shrugged. "So keep a diary. 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 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?