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.A big, stupid public relations show promoting those idiots on Mars.Two of them were out in the open, wearing their white suits and helmets.But the suits weren’t lily-white anymore.Five days out on the sands of Mars and the suits were turning pink, especially their boots and leggings, and their gloves.“The atmosphere here on Mars is so thin,” the male astronaut was saying from inside his helmet, “that water boils away immediately, even though the temperature is well below freezing.”“Having that damned news reporter with them makes it all look completely ridiculous,” Donaldson grumbled to the trio of aides who were watching the broadcast with him.They nodded in unison.On the TV screen, Steven Treadway appeared to be standing between the two spacesuited astronauts.Unlike them, he was wearing his usual white shirt and slacks.Virtual reality, Donaldson snorted.Just plain stupid.The male astronaut—identified on the bottom of the screen as geologist Hiram McPherson—was holding a small bottle of water in his gloved hand.Treadway was saying, “Do you mean that if you uncapped that bottle you’re holding, the water would boil away? Just like that?”“That’s right, Steve.Look.”The TV camera moved in closer as McPherson unscrewed the bottle’s cap.As soon as he removed it the water in the bottle began to froth furiously.In seconds it was all gone.“Wow!” said Treadway.An intellectual giant, Donaldson thought.And wasn’t there a delay? This hd to be scripted.“And the temperature right now is.?”McPherson raised his left hand and peered at the instrument cuff on his wrist.“It’s twenty-three degrees below zero, Steve.An average summer afternoon on Mars.”“But the air pressure is so low that the water boils, even at such a low temperature.”“That’s right, Steve.”“Turn it off,” Donaldson snapped.“I’ve seen enough.”The pert young woman who headed the senator’s public relations staff picked the remote from a corner of the senator’s desk and clicked the TV screen to darkness.“Publicity stunt,” Donaldson grumbled.“Yeah,” said his chief of staff, a pudgy, short, balding New Englander with a pouchy-eyed face that masked a keen analytical mind.He had successfully guided Donaldson through many political campaigns.“But that trick of writing your name in the sand with a magnet, that’s pretty neat.”“Tomfoolery,” Donaldson groused.“The sand’s loaded with iron,” said his third aide, his techie guru.“A striking image,” said the PR woman.Donaldson looked at them the way Julius Caesar must have looked at Brutus, at that last instant.“Whose side are you people on?” he demanded.“Yours, of course,” said his chief of staff.His normally cheerful round face was quite serious.As he sat up straighter in his chair his unbuttoned suit jacket flapped open around his corpulent middle.“But this stuff coming from Mars is a real problem,” said the PR person.“Audiences have been tremendous, even with the religious groups that want the mission canceled.”“A lot of kids, though,” the chief of staff said.“They don’t vote.”The PR person was a light-skinned Hispanic woman.“Great publicity for the Mars people.The numbers show overwhelming support for sending the next mission out there to save their lives.”Donaldson remembered the three laws of politics enunciated by the man for whom this Senate Office Building had been named, Ohio Senator Everett Dirksen.His three laws were: Get elected.Get reelected.Don’t get mad, get even.“All right,” he said, putting his drink down on the green Vermont marble coaster atop his desk.“What do we do about this?”His chief of staff said, “Harper’s going to ask you to reinstate funding for the follow-on mission.”“I know that.What do we do about it?”“You can’t oppose it,” the PR director said.“You’d look like an insensitive know-nothing.”“Or a murderer,” said the tech guru.Donaldson glared at him.His chief of staff hauled himself out of the chair and headed for the bar, hidden behind a row of false book spines.“You’ve got to give the appearance of going along with the follow-on mission,” he told the senator, over his shoulder.“Give the appearance of caving in to Harper? Never!”Bending over to pick a bottle of ginger ale from the bar’s refrigerator, the chief of staff said, “You want the party’s nomination next year? You go along with the follow-on.QED.”“Never,” Donaldson repeated, but more softly.With an amiable smile on his moon face, the staff chief said, “It’s politics, William.You’ve got to give something to get something.”Donaldson frowned as his longtime friend and advisor settled himself back in his chair.“After all,” the man went on, “you at least have to give the impression that you’re willing to bend in order to try to save those four nitwits on Mars.”“Give the impression,” Donaldson muttered.“You ask your subcommittee to study the possibility of replacing the funding for the follow-on
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