2

 

How long has passed?

I must have lost consciousness again, for who knows how many hours. I feel relaxed, but at the same time almost euphoric. I’m smiling. It’s ridiculous, I have no reason to smile. Or maybe I have, because I’m alive. Am I alive? I cannot contain a guffaw.

Okay, I must be sensible, I must reason.

I’m not cold anymore. I’m lying in a warm and comfortable place. It’s dark around me. No, I can catch a glimpse of a far light. My eyes accustomed to darkness show me the outline of an unknown place, but yet somehow familiar. It seems there’s nobody here except me.

I rise slowly into a sitting position. A blanket slides from my chest. My muscles are sore, but otherwise I’m all right. I run my hands down my body. I’m still wearing my working clothes, those I had under the suit. My fingers move along my legs. Even my ankle doesn’t hurt so much; I feel it wrapped by something tight. It’s been bandaged.

“Is anybody there?” I call out, regretting it immediately. I don’t know where I am, who or what is in here with me. Maybe it isn’t a good idea to let them know I’m awake. Then I recall a name. “Jack?”

I prick up my ears, awaiting an answer that doesn’t come, though. I get down from the bed with caution. I guess it’s a bed. Everything is so absurd. I was in the canyon, I was dying of exposure and now I’m here. It is a nonsense that here exists. It is nonsense that whatever saved me exists. But it was a nonsense that I travelled hundreds of kilometres from Station Alpha looking for something. But I did, and I think I’ve found that. And I believe I’ve understood what it is. Except that it isn’t possible.

I’m able to walk. It hurts a little, but it’s bearable. There’s a glow, I move towards it with caution. I don’t want to bump into any of these weird objects surrounding me. I have a slight dizzy spell. I’ve stood up too quickly. My pupils dilate, the light is blinding me. I turn my face to avoid it hitting my eyes and, since it is now behind me, I can better distinguish the place where I am. I see some shelves, a bed, a trolley, some medical instruments. It looks like an infirmary, but it’s all so rudimental, so outdated.

At least thirty years old.

It doesn’t make any sense. Nobody could have endured for so long in Mars, without all the necessary equipment. Without water, a lot of water. Perhaps I’m really dying and my brain is offering me this last lucid dream, before switching off. Nonsense. I’m alive and I’m here. Whatever it is, there must be a logic explanation.

I turn to the light again. It’s coming from a small opening. I get closer and reach out. I touch a smooth, plastic surface. As I put my fingers on it, it draws back a bit, widening the glow. It’s a folding door. As I open it, I find an even bigger room, dimly lit by an emergency lamp. There are two large counters, with some bottles scattered on them, along with a sink, flasks, beakers, Bunsen burners, burettes. A small fridge grumbles in a corner. On another piece of furniture is a cylindrical instrument: an old centrifuge. That thing beside it seems to be a mass spectrometer. On the opposite side of the room is a chemical hood. I’ve never seen one like that; perhaps only in some photographs. I’m no doubt in a laboratory. Everything is clean and ordered, as if it’s used every day. A classic periodic table of elements is hanging on the wall. The NASA logo is imprinted on it. If I didn’t know it’s impossible, I would say I’ve travelled back in time. It would be more probable than any other explanation that comes to mind.

At once I feel a slight tremor coming from the floor. The glassware clinks. Then silence again, followed by a strange noise, like a deep puff. On the opposite wall is an airtight door, with a window. In the end this room isn’t so different from my laboratory, with the exception of the obsolete equipment. I can imagine what’s beyond that door.

I get closer to it. It has got a simple handle, but I can’t move it. It must be an emergency opening mechanism, to be used only when the electricity is out. Beside the jamb is a touch panel. Some climate data are on it: temperature, pressure, humidity, oxygen and carbon dioxide concentration. They would be quite normal values, if I were on Earth. I try to see through the window, but the glass is matted and it’s dark on the other side. I brush against the display, which comes to life.

‘Open door’ appears on it. I tap the icon and then I hear a mechanical click, but the door remains closed. In the same instant, I see through the glass that there are lights turning on. Almost without thinking, I pull the handle and the panel starts sliding into the wall.

The sight opening up before my eyes is at the same time unbelievable and stupendous. The lighting reveals the outlines of a huge plastic bubble, which encapsulates a luxuriant garden. Inside, precisely separated, are plants of various sizes, from creepers to proper trees. With my mouth still wide open, I descend the steps one by one and I put my feet on the ground. Yes, it is ground, not a floor. I stoop to pick up a handful of it. It’s dark reddish in colour, but damp, like in my greenhouse. The air is tepid and pleasant to breath. Overhead I hear life support fans buzzing, which prevent the accumulation of the carbon dioxide produced by the plants in the dark hours.

The ground trembles again for a moment. A spade slides along the wall and falls. The puff repeats. This time it is loud. Soon after, I hear that wonderful noise. Since arriving on Mars, I have dreamt of it so many times, in the morning before waking up. I’ve opened my eyes and looked towards the window, hoping to see the glass beaded from the outside by small raindrops, only to remember where I was. But I’m not dreaming now.

Regardless of the strain to which my body is prey, I rush to the origin of the noise. I pass the fruit trees and a dense cloud hits me, warm, humid. The vapour, which condensates as soon as it touches my skin, mixes with the tears of joy now rolling down on my face, while I let myself fall to the ground and I remain there, admiring that wonder.

“Who are you?”

A child’s voice behind me makes me flinch. When I turn around, I see a girl; she must be no more than seven, her face is round, framed by long wavy hair, her eyes are wide, bright. She’s wearing a white top, so long that it could be a gown, or a nightdress, judging from her sleepy expression. In her hands is a wooden object, a toy. She looks at me with suspicion, but she doesn’t seem fearful.