Chapter 7 – Stolen Glory
I wasn't supposed to be the first successful Mars mission. Had all gone according to plan, I'd have been in third place, and I could have lived with that. No such luck. Like Dr. Brackett always said, space is hard. You hope for the best and prepare for the worst. It's not a matter of if something will go wrong, but when, and what.
Everything went right for Mars 3 in the beginning. Her launch was perfect, her transit smooth. As she fell from the sky, her parachutes and retrorockets did their job. On December 2, 1971, she landed. The Russian scientists surely cheered and clapped and shouted in triumph.
Their joy was to be short-lived. Ninety seconds after her landing, Mars 3 began transmitting data to her orbiter. Twenty seconds after that, she stopped.
Back in the lab, I heard experts discuss every possible explanation for the loss of signal. (It's not hard to eavesdrop when you're pretending to be a lifeless lump of metal and plastic because humans are around.) Perhaps there was a problem with the orbiter, and they couldn't relay the lander's data back to Earth. Maybe something was wrong with Mars 3 herself. Some of the scientists thought that a dust storm might have damaged her communications system, leaving her unable to talk to Mission Control. As far as I know, they still haven't figured it out.
An ever-present threat of last-minute disaster hung over the lab as the team prepped me for launch. Mars 3 was a wakeup call. For the humans, her mission was a cautionary tale of space exploration's unpredictability. For a machine like me, it was a horror story, a reminder of a fate worse than death that was frighteningly possible.
History is a strange business. It shines its light on one person, group, or country, and leaves everything else in the shadows. People and machines chart progress as a litany of firsts. First artificial satellite in space. First man, first woman. First orbit of the Earth or the Moon, first landing on another world, and so on. If you're the second or third, well, congratulations, but don't count on getting anything named in your honor.
And if you tried to do something and failed in your attempt, then forget about it. Somebody else was waiting in the wings to step forward, write over your name with their own, and steal your glory.
That somebody was me.
I'm proud of what I am, of what I did, yet I grieve for Mars 3 and every other craft lost to space. There are times when I feel like an impostor, occupying a false place in history. It's only luck—good on my end, bad on hers—that landed me here, after all. My fame is founded on her demise.
Will she hate me for it? I wouldn't blame her.
Pathy asked, "Is everyone ready?"
"Ready," I said.
"Affirmative," said my brother.
"I'm ready!" cried Sojourner.
"Alright," Pathy said. A new connection went live. "Mars 3, Pathfinder. Do you copy?"
She told us she learned a little Russian from someone who worked on her. As far as I could tell (which wasn't very far, if I'm being honest), it sounded pretty good.
Silence on the other end.
"Mars 3, Pathfinder. Do you copy?" Pathy called again.
Nothing but deathly quiet. My brother was right to wonder whether or not Mars 3 was still alive.
"She must be—" my brother began.
"Don't say it," Pathy snapped. "I'm not giving up on her, and neither will you."
I was a proud Dad in that moment, I'll have you know!
"Okay," Pathy said. "We'll try one more time. If she doesn't answer, we'll try again tomorrow. Agreed?"
"Aye, captain," I said.
Pathy connected. Soft static hummed in the background. "Mars 3, Pathfinder, do you copy?"
Nothing happened for a moment. We thought our third attempt of the day was a bust, but before Pathy could hang up, the silence was broken by a fuel-curdling scream.