Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

Sasim followed him out, but evidently felt no one would care what the second person on Deimos had to say for posterity. He simply launched into his report. “The surface, as expected, is covered with dust and regolith …”

* * *

Once Sasim was finished, Don looked at him through their polarized faceplates. A big grin broke out on Don’s face. He used his chin to tap the control that cut the broadcast back to Earth, while leaving the channel to Sasim open. “All right,” he said. “Enough of the formalities. Here’s one thing we can do that Zakarian will never be able to.”

Don flexed his knees, crouched down, then pushed off the surface, straightening his legs as he did so, and—

Clark Kent had nothing on him!

Up, up, and away!

Higher and higher.

Further and farther.

Closer and closer to Mars itself.

Don looked down. Sasim had dwindled to the size of the proverbial ant, his olive-green space suit just a mote against the dark gray surface of Deimos.

Don continued to rise for a while longer, but at last he felt gentle fingers tugging at him. It took several minutes, but slowly, gradually, sensually, he settled to the ground. He’d tried to just go up, but there’d been a slight angle to his flight, and he’d found himself coming down a hundred-odd meters from where he’d started.

“A true giant leap,” said Sasim, over the radio. “Beats all heck out of a small step.”

Don smiled, although he knew he was too far away for Sasim to see him do that. The jump had been exhilarating. “Maybe this station isn’t going to be so bad after all.”

* * *

“I’ve got an idea,” said Sasim, as they continued to work converting the fuel tank into a habitat. “We could call this place Asaph Hall.”

“That’s the name of our spaceship,” said Don, perplexed.

“Well, yes and no. Our ship is called Asaph Hall, after the guy who discovered the moons of Mars. And when you refer to a ship, you write the name in italics. But this whole station could be Asaph Hall—‘hall,’ like in a building, get it?—all in roman type.”

“That’s a pretty picayune distinction,” said Don, unfolding an articulated section divider that had been stored for the outward journey. “It’ll get confusing.”

Sas frowned. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.”

* * *

It took several days to finish the conversion of the empty fuel tank into the habitat, even though all the fixtures were designed for easy assembly. During the process, Don and Sasim had slept in their spaceship’s command module, but at last the habitat was ready for them to move in. And although it was roomy—bigger than Skylab or Mir—Don was finally beginning to appreciate the wisdom of making an entire moonlet into a space station. He could see how being confined to just the habitat would have gotten claustrophobic after a while, if he and Sas didn’t have the rest of Deimos to roam over.

And roam over it they did. It only took a dozen leaps to circumnavigate their little—well, it wasn’t a globe; the technical name for Deimos’s shape was a triaxial ellipsoid. It was a lot of fun leaping around Deimos— and, despite the low gravity, it was actually excellent exercise, too. Up, up, up, that brief magical moment during which you felt suspended, at one with the cosmos, and then gently, oh so gently, sliding down out of the sky.

Don and Sas were approaching the line that separated Deimos’s nearside—the part of the moon that always faced toward Mars—from its farside. Like the blooded horn of some great beast, the now-crescent Mars stretched from Deimos’s smooth surface up toward the zenith. One more leap, and—

Yup, there it went: the Red Planet disappearing behind the horizon. With its glare gone from the sky, Don tried to find Earth. He oriented himself with Ursa Major, found the zodiac, scanned along, and there it was, a brilliant blue point of light, right in the heart of Scorpius, not far from red Antares, the rival of Mars.

Sas, Don had noticed, had a funny habit of bending his knees when he contacted the surface. It wasn’t as if there was any real impact to absorb— it was just a bit of theater—and it made Don smile. Don’s space suit was a sort of mustard color, a nice contrast with Sas’s. The dark ground loomed closer and closer to him, and—

There wasn’t enough speed with contact to make any sort of sound that might be conducted through Don’s boots. And yet, still, as his soles touched Deimos, something felt strange this time, just different enough from every other landing Don had made so far to pique his curiosity.

He’d raised up a fair bit of dust, and it took him a few seconds to realize exactly what had happened. His foot hadn’t hit crumbly regolith. It had hit something unyielding. Something smooth.

Don did a gentle backflip, landing upside down on his gloved hands. He used his right one to brush away dust.

“Sas!” Don called into his helmet mike. “Come here!”