The Prometheus Incident, A Martian Murder Mystery

  Chapter Nine – A Proposal

  On the floor of the Hellas Basin, Mars, Bob O’Brian walked onto the control deck of the MERV. He walked straight over to the main control screen and typed in a code known only to himself – all electrical power to the control deck died.

  Ravi looked at him surprised, “Bob, what did you do?” she asked.

  “Sorry, skip,” he answered. “No power means no recording. We have five minutes before the safety overrides turn the power back on. Look, we’ve finished up outside and the bodies are all packed away. We’re ready to go, but I thought that you might need to see this. It’s Colonel Prentice’s field notebook.” Ravi took the battered notebook: graphite pencil and paper, an old technology, one not prone to failure. She looked at a list of traverse directions, sample locations and comments. “Read the last page, skip,” Bob said.

  Ravi flipped through to the last entry. She read it and looked at her second-in-command in astonishment. Then she relaxed. The worried frown disappeared from her face. This explained many of the mysteries that swirled around this trip and she could see why Bob didn’t want this recorded without consulting her first. The note had been written as the colonel was dying and it was outstanding in its warmth, pathos and humanity. It was also political dynamite.

  “Bob, could you pass me that security envelope that you are conveniently holding in your hand?” He smiled as he handed it over. She put the notebook in the envelope and wrote: ‘Most Secret. Director’s Eyes Only. Strict Liability Applies.’ She showed the address to her second-in-command. “Do you agree?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Good move, skip, on all sorts of levels,” he said. She sealed the envelope. Then she looked out at the red sandy plain extending to the horizon. It was a hard and empty place. The contents of the note played on her mind, feeding into ideas that she had been playing with for a while now. She looked across at Bob O’Brian. He was a bit taller than her, with ice-blue eyes and a face that seemed to be constantly on the verge of a smile. He had been her 2IC for three years now and she was very fond of him. She also knew he had turned down a number of good promotion opportunities to stay with her, so she figured that he must be fond of her too. In fact, it had been three years of secretly longing for things only spoken of in silent looks and laconic asides. He was a good man but not ambitious: a strong supporter rather than a leader. If she waited for him, she might be waiting until it was too late.

  “You know, Bob,” she said casually. “I’m thinking of leaving the service. What do you know about the old Polish base on the South Argyre rim?”

  “Fairly shallow permafrost and good deep oxide deposits at the base of the scarp. Some nice equipment too,” he said. “Almost ideal from a resource point of view. The Poles only left it because of the financial crisis in 2070. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just been listed as abandoned and open for salvage,” she replied. “It would make a great homesteading opportunity. Of course, I would need someone to help with running the place.”

  Bob O’Brian watched her with his habitual sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Skip, exactly what are you suggesting?” he asked.

  “I’m 32, Bob,” she replied. “I’ve still got some time but the clock is ticking. Father Mulcahey will be at Schiparelli Base for the funerals when we get back. We could ask him to perform another service. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s taken you long enough to ask and that the colour of this uniform never really suited me,” he replied smiling. “I also think I’m going to have to load Polish into my translator app or I’m never going to be able to get that gear up and running again.”

  She smiled; his reply was so typical of him. “What you really need to do is buy a ring,” she said.