Mars Sample Return 7
A speculative tale based on the history of the Viking Lander experiments and recent NASA plans
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Welcome back to Glass Half Full and thanks for reading! In today’s chapter, Joan takes another step toward becoming a right-wing media star.
Attentive readers will notice that the right-wing podcast host is now named “Cutter Tarkelson.” I’ve ret-conned the previous chapters where he was mentioned.
“What am I doing?” Joan kept asking herself on the trip to Maine. In the olden days — five years back, when passenger trains still ran up and down the East Coast — she would have distracted herself by staring out the window at passing scenery, whether graffitied warehouse walls, red barns, forests or fields. Now, traveling by plane, she had only her fellow passengers to look at in the long airport security lines, the waiting areas at the gates, and even on the plane itself. The sterile, crowded surroundings forced her in on herself, leaving her to stew in her worries about the upcoming interview.
Why had she agreed to it? Every instinct told her to decline the offer. But didn’t the public have a right to know about the risks of bringing Martian soil back to Earth? Even if the public she’d reach with this show was a highly partisan one, and no longer that big. But where in the fractured media landscape would she find a larger audience? Not that she had any choices. No legacy media outlets had reached out to her, not even a lone Substacker. Her YouTuber friend in England had wisely turned to other topics after the backlash she’d received.
Joan consoled herself with the thought that this was a recorded podcast, not a live one. She’d seen clips of Tarkelson’s live interviews from his years on cable TV, and it didn’t look like a comfortable experience. She spent a lot of time in advance of the interview on video calls with Sarah, the producer, probing her for any hints that this would be a “gotcha” interview. But the woman, about her own age, seemed sincerely concerned about the possibilities for extraterrestrial infection and claimed that her boss was too.
Which was a bit strange, considering that Tarkelson supported ninety percent of everything this government did. But he’d stuck with MAGA during the MAGA/tech billionaire breakup. The space program was the one area where any billionaire still held sway, and Tarkelson apparently felt free to attack it, no matter what his favorite president might think.
Joan had some other questions for Sarah about how each episode was edited, whether her words would be sliced and diced to have her saying things she didn’t mean. Sarah was again reassuring, claiming they tried to edit as lightly as possible, making cuts only if the host or guest had an egregious slip of the tongue. If Joan felt she’d misspoken at any point, she could always ask for a do over.
It’s just going to be a conversation, a mantra Joan kept repeating as the plane hurtled northward, to little effect.
She felt better when Sarah herself picked her up at the airport in Bangor. The lack of a dedicated driver made it seem like a small operation, but Joan kept that thought to herself. Sarah put her at ease, asking about how she got into exobiology and about astronomy in general. Soon they were talking about their cats and families, which made the hour-long drive glide by like the increasingly rural scenery. Too bad the leaves were mostly off the trees — it must have been spectacular a couple of weeks before.
Tarkelson’s studio was in a small town deep in the heartland of Maine. By the time they arrived at what looked like a converted barn, Joan had almost forgotten the reason for her trip. Inside, she found herself in something like a green room, Sarah asking if she needed water, a snack, a bathroom break, or anything else to make her feel comfortable. “Cutter’s just wrapping up another show, he’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Soon the red “Recording” sign went dark and Tarkelson himself stepped out of the next room. He was heavier than Joan remembered, and his hair had gone gray, but he still looked like a prep school kid, even if he tried to hide it behind a khaki-and-camo vest worn over his light blue Oxford. No bow tie in sight, but he still hadn’t managed to live down the fact that he was named for his parents’ favorite style of sailboat.
Tarkelson said goodbye to his previous guest, a tall blonde woman who looked vaguely familiar, then turned to Joan. “Dr. Lee, so pleased you could be here,” he said, reaching out a hand. “I just need to hit the boy’s room, then I’ll be with you. Sarah will get you all set up.” With that he whisked through another door.
“Let’s get you settled and do the sound check,” Sarah said, holding the studio door open for her.
Inside, it was all Maine hunting lodge — wood paneling, pictures of mountains and wildlife, a photo of Teddy Roosevelt on a hunt, even a couple of trophies mounted on the walls, their glassy eyes staring placidly into the room. One wall had bookshelves filled with old hardbacks and busts of philosophers. There was one framed poster celebrating the 70th anniversary of the October Revolution, which made Joan’s head spin.
Two mics sat on either side of a small wooden table. A staffer was scrubbing everything down with an antibacterial wipe, the germ theory of disease apparently being alive and well in Tarkelson’s studio, if not among his more controversial guests. The assistant placed two fresh mugs on the table next to the mics and left the room.
“Are you all set?” Sarah asked as Joan took her seat.
Joan nodded and took a sip of water from the branded mug.
“You’ll need to say something so Jimmy can get a level.”
“Thank you, this water is delicious.” Joan wasn’t sure if that came off as offensive or inane. She felt like she was going into brain lock.
Sarah moved the mic a bit closer to her, then placed a hand on her shoulder. “Relax, you’ll do fine.” She took a seat in a corner, out of view of the two cameras pointed at the table.
Tarkelson returned, an affable grin on his face. “Welcome to my media empire! How was your flight?”
Joan replied with the obligatory, “Fine.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he went on with hardly a pause. “It’s not every day we get a federal employee on our show, even a former one. And I have to say, it’s a bit of a risk for us. Life on Mars — it’s going to upset the Christians.”
Joan hadn’t thought about that aspect, but it was too late now. “We’re ready in here,” came a voice over a speaker.
Tarkelson raised an inquisitive brow at her and she nodded. “We’re ready out here, Jimmy. Count us in.”
“Recording in three,” Jimmy said and began counting down.
On “one,” her host’s affable grin was replaced with that trademark befuddled scowl. The recording light came on, and Tarkelson turned to one of the cameras.
“Today we’re joined by Dr. Joan Lee, a specialist in astrobiology, the study of life on other planets. She’s here with some startling claims about life on Mars and a billionaire’s plot to bring it here to Earth. If you thought human trafficking was bad, just wait ‘til you hear about Martian trafficking. But first,…”
He went on to mention his advertisers, a long list of alternative medicine and “pills for men” suppliers, and to preview upcoming segments, one on the few remaining holdouts of the “anti-Christian agenda” (principally Catholics and Episcopalians) and another on the new loyalty tests for gun permits. That one was going to air with the title, “No Guns for Thugs and Deviants.”
Preliminaries out of the way, he turned back to Joan. “Dr. Lee, welcome to the Cutter Tarkelson Show.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here, and thank you for having me.”
“Now, you were fired from NASA some time ago. Why was that?”
“I questioned the safety of bringing Martian soil samples directly back to Earth.”
“What’s in these samples that makes them so dangerous?”
Joan tried to outline as briefly and simply as possible the history of the Viking missions and the Levin/Straat experiment. “It’s basically the same test used everywhere on Earth to make sure water doesn’t contain living bacteria.”
“So scientists discovered life on Mars in 1976 and the Deep State has covered it up for over half a century. Unbelievable.”
“It’s not really a cover-up, though. More like a deep, shall I say, conservatism when it comes to finding life on other planets. The scientific community always seems to coalesce around a non-biological explanation, when a biological one is staring them in the face.”
“So this Mars Sample Return mission could unleash the greatest plague the world has ever seen.”
“Well… yes… that’s one very slight possibility. Or it could just mess things up in more manageable ways.”
“But just how likely is it?”
Joan paused. “That’s the thing. We just don’t know. The point is, even if the risk is slight, the scale of the potential catastrophe is great. Why take that risk when we have alternatives, like studying the samples on a space station?”
“Why do you think NASA hasn’t taken enough precautions with this mission?”
“Well, practically speaking… and I want to be clear here, I don’t want to cast doubt on the expertise of NASA’s scientists and engineers. Within the parameters of bringing samples back to Earth, I’m confident that they’re taking every possible precaution. But they haven’t stopped to question the overall mission and what the other options are. The plan was conceived back when the US didn’t have an active space station, so bringing the samples back to Earth was the only option. Why hasn’t the plan evolved with the launch of the International Space Station and now the commercial stations and the moon base, even as the evidence for life on Mars has only grown stronger?”
“Good questions all. But wasn’t funding for Mars Sample Return cut off years ago? And hasn’t one particular billionaire stepped in to rescue it with his own money?”
“That’s right.” Joan thought the conversation had been going well so far, but now she felt her throat tightening and her breath becoming more shallow.
“What can you tell us about the influence that’s given him over this mission?”
“A lot of influence, Cutter, a lot. My superiors at NASA told me he’s pretty much setting the schedule. Even if he was interested in taking the samples to a space station, it’s too late in the game for his next Mars launch window. He wants to make sure there’s no bacteria before sending his astronauts out there.”
“Isn’t that big of him?” Tarkelson turned back to the camera. “There you have it folks, Earth’s most selfish billionaire plans to infect our precious planet with alien bacteria, all to feed his own megalomania. Once again, Big Money, Big Science, and one last bastion of the Deep State are at war with the American people. I’ll have some suggestions on how to root them out for good on next week’s show.” He paused for a moment, frowning at the camera, then sat back in his chair. “That went well, don’t you think?”
“That’s it? I’d hoped to give a few ideas on how we could adapt commercial space stations to take the samples.”
“That’s all we had time for in this episode. Besides, our audience doesn’t like to get bogged down in technical details. You delivered your message well though.”
“But it all seemed so black and white.”
“Black and white, red, white and blue, we do tend to paint in primary colors here. It pays to know your audience. I bet one of those space podcasts would be eager for more details and nuance. Now, thanks again for being here, but I need to record the outro for the show. Jimmy, did we get that spot from Tactical Survival Unlimited?”
Sarah came over. “You did great, Dr. Lee. Would you like to stop for something to eat on our way back to the airport?” She led the way through the green room and out to the car with Joan following behind, wondering what she’d just done.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please consider hitting that like button, sharing it with your friends, or even subscribing or upgrading your subscription. And please leave a comment with your thoughts.
Mars Sample Return will be back in two weeks with Chapter 8.
Next week I’ll have another installment in my Protest Songs series. I’m thinking of something about immigration, either “Migra” by Santana or “Erin-Go-Bragh” by Dick Gaughan. I covered another Gaughan tune just a couple of weeks ago, but is there such a thing as too much Gaughan? This one’s about ancient anti-Irish sentiment in Scotland. It’s even rougher on the police than Santana’s tune.
Which one would you like to hear about? Leave a note in the comments.
Can I vote for both? Also, I’m curious if the tall blonde who is vaguely familiar will reappear later in the story… and who she is to the story