Chapter 17 #2
The poor drill wasn’t designed to operate constantly for so long.
Fortunately, it sensed the overheat and warned me.
So I leaned it against the workbench for a few minutes, and it cooled down.
One thing you can say about Mars: It’s really cold.
The thin atmosphere doesn’t conduct heat very well, but it cools everything, eventually.
I had already removed the drill’s cowling (the power cord needed a way in). A pleasant side effect is the drill cools even faster. Though I’ll have to clean it thoroughly every few hours as dust accumulates.
By 17:00, when the sun began to set, I had drilled seventy-five holes. A good start, but there’s still tons to do. Eventually (probably tomorrow) I’ll have to start drilling holes that I can’t reach from the ground. For that I’ll need something to stand on.
I can’t use my “workbench.” It’s got Pathfinder on it, and the last thing I’m going to do is mess with that. But I’ve got three more MAV landing struts. I’m sure I can make a ramp or something.
Anyway, that’s all stuff for tomorrow. Tonight is about eating a full ration for dinner.
Awww yeah. That’s right. I’m either getting rescued on Sol 549 or I’m dying. That means I have thirty-five sols of extra food. I can indulge once in a while.
LOG ENTRY: SOL 194
I average a hole every 3.5 minutes. That includes the occasional breather to let the drill cool off.
I learned this by spending all damn day drilling. After eight hours of dull, physically intense work, I had 137 holes to show forit.
It turned out to be easy to deal with places I couldn’t reach. I didn’t need to modify a landing strut after all. I just had to get something to stand on. I used a geological sample container (also known as “a box”).
Before I was in contact with NASA, I would have worked more than eight hours. I can stay out for ten before even dipping into “emergency” air. But NASA’s got a lot of nervous Nellies who don’t want me out longer than spec.
With today’s work, I’m about one-fourth of the way through the whole cut.
At least, one-fourth of the way through the drilling.
Then I’ll have 759 little chunks to chisel out.
And I’m not sure how well carbon composite is going to take to that.
But NASA’ll do it a thousand times back on Earth and tell me the best way to get it done.
Anyway, at this rate, it’ll take four more sols of (boring-ass) work to finish the drilling.
I’ve actually exhausted Lewis’s supply of shitty seventies TV. And I’ve read all of Johanssen’s mystery books.
I’ve already rifled through other crewmates’ stuff to find entertainment. But all of Vogel’s stuff is in German, Beck brought nothing but medical journals, and Martinez didn’t bring anything.
I got really bored, so I decided to pick a theme song!
Something appropriate. And naturally, it should be something from Lewis’s godawful seventies collection. It wouldn’t be right any other way.
There are plenty of great candidates: “Life on Mars?” by David Bowie, “Rocket Man” by Elton John, “Alone Again (Naturally)” by Gilbert O’Sullivan.
But I settled on “ Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees.
LOG ENTRY: SOL 195
Another day, another bunch of holes: 145 this time (I’m getting better). I’m halfway done. This is getting really old.
But at least I have encouraging messages from Venkat to cheer me on!
[17:12] WATNEY: 145 holes today. 357 total.
[17:31] JPL: We thought you’d have more done by now.
Dick.
Anyway, I’m still bored at night. I guess that’s a good thing. Nothing’s wrong with the Hab. There’s a plan to save me, and the physical labor is making me sleep wonderfully.
I miss tending the potatoes. The Hab isn’t the same without them.
There’s still soil everywhere. No point in lugging it back outside.
Lacking anything better to do, I ran some tests on it.
Amazingly, some of the bacteria survived.
The population is strong and growing. That’s pretty impressive, when you consider it was exposed to near-vacuum and subarctic temperatures for over twenty-four hours.
My guess is pockets of ice formed around some of the bacteria, leaving a bubble of survivable pressure inside, and the cold wasn’t quite enough to kill them. With hundreds of millions of bacteria, it only takes one survivor to stave off extinction.
Life is amazingly tenacious. They don’t want to die any more than I do.
LOG ENTRY: SOL 196
I fucked up.
I fucked up big-time. I made a mistake that might kill me.
I started my EVA around 08:45, same as always. I got my hammer and screwdriver and started chipping the trailer’s hull. It’s a pain in the ass to make a chip before each drilling, so I make all the day’s chips in a single go.
After chipping out 150 divots (hey, I’m an optimist), I got to work.
It was the same as yesterday and the day before. Drill through, relocate. Drill through, relocate. Drill through a third time, then set the drill aside to cool. Repeat that process over and over till lunchtime.
At 12:00, I took a break. Back in the Hab, I enjoyed a nice lunch and played some chess against the computer (it kicked my ass). Then back out for the day’s second EVA.
At 13:30 my ruination occurred, though I didn’t realize it at the time.
The worst moments in life are heralded by small observations. The tiny lump on your side that wasn’t there before. Coming home to your wife and seeing two wineglasses in the sink. Anytime you hear “We interrupt this program…”
For me, it was when the drill didn’t start.
Only three minutes earlier, it was working fine. I had finished a hole and set the drill aside to cool. Same as always.
But when I tried to get back to work, it was dead. The power light wouldn’t even come on.
I wasn’t worried. If all else failed, I had another drill. It would take a few hours to wire it up, but that’s hardly a concern.
The power light being off meant there was probably something wrong with the line. A quick glance at the airlock window showed the lights were on in the Hab. So there were no systemic power problems. I checked my new breakers, and sure enough, all three had tripped.
I guess the drill pulled a little too much amperage. No big deal. I reset the breakers and got back to work. The drill fired right up, and I was back to making holes.
Doesn’t seem like a big deal, right? I certainly didn’t think so at the time.
I finished my day at 17:00 after drilling 131 holes. Not as good as yesterday, but I lost some time to the drill malfunction.
I reported my progress.
[17:08] WATNEY: 131 holes today. 488 total. Minor drill issue; it tripped the breakers. There may be an intermittent short in the drill, probably in the attachment point of the power line. Might need to redo it.
Earth and Mars are just over eighteen light-minutes apart now.
Usually, NASA responds within twenty-five minutes.
Remember, I do all my communication from Rover 2, which relays everything through Pathfinder .
I can’t just lounge in the Hab awaiting a reply; I have to stay in the rover until they acknowledge the message.
[17:38] WATNEY: Have received no reply. Last message sent 30 minutes ago. Please acknowledge.
I waited another thirty minutes. Still no reply. Fear started to take root.
Back when JPL’s Nerd Brigade hacked the rover and Pathfinder to be a poor man’s IM client, they sent me a cheat sheet for troubleshooting. I executed the first instruction:
[18:09] WATNEY: system_command: STATUS
[18:09] SYSTEM: Last message sent 00h31m ago. Last message received 26h17m ago. Last ping reply from probe received 04h24m ago. WARNING: 52 unanswered pings.
Pathfinder was no longer talking to the rover. It had stopped answering pings four hours and twenty-four minutes ago. Some quick math told me that was around 13:30 today.
The same time the drill died.
I tried not to panic. The troubleshooting sheet has a list of things to try if communication is lost. They are (in order):
Confirm power still flowing to Pathfinder .
Reboot rover.
Reboot Pathfinder by disconnecting/reconnecting power.
Install rover’s comm software on the other rover’s computer, try from there.
If both rovers fail, problem is likely with Pathfinder . Check connections very closely. Clean Pathfinder of Martian dust.
Spell message in Morse code with rocks, include things attempted. Problem may be recoverable with remote update of Pathfinder .
I only got as far as step 1. I checked Pathfinder ’s connections and the negative lead was no longer attached.
I was elated! What a relief! With a smile on my face, I fetched my electronics kit and prepared to reattach the lead. I pulled it out of the probe to give it a good cleaning (as best I could with the gloves of my space suit) and noticed something strange. The insulation had melted.
I pondered this development. Melted insulation usually means a short. More current than the wire could handle had passed through. But the bare portion of the wire wasn’t black or even singed, and the positive lead’s insulation wasn’t melted at all.
Then, one by one, the horrible realities of Mars came into play. The wire wouldn’t be burned or singed. That’s a result of oxidization. And there’s no oxygen in the air. There likely was a short after all. But with the positive lead being unaffected, the power must have come from somewhere else….
And the drill’s breaker tripped around the same time….
Oh…shit…
The internal electronics for Pathfinder included a ground lead to the hull. This way it could not build up a static charge in Martian weather conditions (no water and frequent sandblasting can make impressive static charge).
The hull sat on Panel A, one of four sides of the tetrahedron which brought Pathfinder to Mars. The other three sides are still in Ares Vallis where I left them.
Between Panel A and the workbench were the Mylar balloons Pathfinder had used to tumble-land. I had shredded many of them to transport it, but a lot of material remained—enough to reach around Panel A and be in contact with the hull. I should mention that Mylar is conductive.
At 13:30, I leaned the drill against the workbench. The drill’s cowling was off to make room for the power line. The workbench is metal. If the drill leaned against the workbench just right, it could make a metal-to-metal connection.
And that’s exactly what had happened.
Power traveled from the drill line’s positive lead, through the workbench, through the Mylar, through Pathfinder ’s hull, through a bunch of extremely sensitive and irreplaceable electronics, and out the negative lead of Pathfinder ’s power line.
Pathfinder operates on 50 milliamps. It got 9000 milliamps, which plowed through the delicate electronics, frying everything along the way. The breakers tripped, but it was too late.
Pathfinder ’s dead. I’ve lost the ability to contact Earth.
I’m on my own.