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All Tighe knew about Nathan Joyce was what the Internet told him—lots of manicured fluff pieces rising to the top of the SEO stack with the actual news buried sixteen pages deep.
After a few moments the company man said, “Cosmic rays. Older people are less susceptible to cumulative radiation exposure. Most of you will die of old age before you develop more serious cancers.”
“Perchlorates are so toxic that here in California the legal limit is one part per billion by mass.” Joyce looked out at the audience. “Anyone care to guess what the concentration is in Martian regolith? Anyone? It’s six million parts per billion. The entire planet makes a toxic Superfund site look like a children’s day care.”
They’d be tethered to the hotel and each would have an instructor alongside, but the trainees were also warned that space sickness was a possibility; with the surface of the Earth in view, they would get the strong sensation they were falling toward it—because they were. Willingly stepping out over a 200-mile drop alarmed most people.
Joyce nodded as he appreciated the cigar. Then he said, “I’ll tell you, it was a calculated risk. But one I knew had to be taken for the expedition to proceed properly.” He took another puff of the cigar. “Besides, you didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to actually give them enough fuel to get back, did you?” Rochat’s smiled faded. He waited for Joyce to laugh—but it never came.
Holding on as they moved beyond the sweep of the radial arms, Tighe gazed out at the cosmos. The majesty all around them no longer inspired Tighe. The universe now seemed cold, uncaring, and incomprehensibly remote. The Earth was just a white dot in an endless void. And yet it was home. More than anything, he yearned for home.
