Rodriguez sat at the console with his bandaged hand tied against his chest by a sling. Stacy Dezhurova sat beside him. No one made a sound, not even a breath, as they stared at the main display screen. “We’ve got to get back up to the rover now,” Jamie was saying, his voice sounding tired, drained. “I just wanted to make sure that you all saw this. It’s a building, for certain. There were intelligent Martians here.” Vijay’s throat felt dry, even though she was perspiring in the hot, crowded cubicle. “I did not think it was real,” Dezhurova admitted, her voice low, hollow. “Not until your imagery started to come through did I believe it is real.” “It’s real,” Jamie said. “Better send the news to Tarawa.” Pete Connors was dozing peacefully in his aluminum-and-plastic beach lounge chair. It was Sunday afternoon. The sun was hot, but the breeze coming in off the reef was brisk and delicious.
