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Mandrake?”
    Ford produced an impressive, Asian-style card on heavy card stock with stamped gold embossing, English on the front, Thai on the back. He handed it to Boonmee with a flourish. “One hour, Mr. Boonmee.”
    Boonmee inclined his head.
    With a final handshake, Ford walked out of the shop and stood on the corner, looking for a cab, waving off the tuk-tuks. Two illegal cabs came by but he waved those off as well. After ten minutes of pacing about in frustration, he took out his wallet, looked through it, and went back inside.
    He was immediately rushed by the salesgirls. Bypassing them, he went to the back of the shop. He rapped on the door. After a moment, the little man appeared.
    “Mr. Boonmee?”
    He looked at him, surprised. “A problem?”
    Ford smiled sheepishly. “I gave you the wrong card. An old one. May I—?”
    Boonmee went to his desk, picked up the old card, handed it to him.
    “My apologies.” Ford proffered the new card, slipped the old one into his shirt pocket, and hustled back out into the hot sun.
    This time he found a cab right away.

8

    Amazing how places like this always look the same , thought Mark Corso as he walked down the long polished halls of the National Propulsion Facility. Even though he was on the other side of the continent, the halls of NPF smelled just like those at MIT—or Los Alamos or Fermilab for that matter—the same mixture of floor wax, warm electronics, and dusty textbooks. And they looked the same, too, the rippled linoleum, the cheap blond-wood paneling, the humming fluorescent panels spaced among acoustic tiles.
    Corso touched the shiny new identity badge hanging on a plastic cord around his neck almost as if it were a talisman. As a kid he’d wanted to be an astronaut. The Moon was taken but there was Mars. And Mars was even better. Now, here he was, thirty years old, the youngest senior technician in the entire Mars mission, at a moment in human history like no other. In less than two decades—before he was fifty—he would be part of the greatest event in the annals of exploration: putting the first human beings on another planet. And if he played his cards right, he might even be mission director.
    Corso paused at an empty glass case in the hall to check his reflection: spotless lab coat casually unbuttoned, pressed white cotton shirt and silk foulard tie, gabardine slacks. He was punctilious with his dress and careful to avoid any suggestion of the nerd. Gazing at his reflection, he pretended to be seeing himself for the first time. His hair was short (read: reliable), beard (unconventional), but neatly trimmed (not too unconventional), his frame thin and athletic (not effete). He was a good-looking guy, dark in the Italian way, chiseled face, big brown eyes. The expensive Armani glasses and tailored clothes reinforced the impression: no geek here.
    Corso took a deep breath and knocked confidently on the closed office door.
    “ Entrez ,” came the voice.
    Corso pushed open the door and entered the office, standing in front of the desk. There was no place to sit; the office of his new supervisor, Winston Derkweiler, was small and cramped, even though the team leader could have gotten himself a much bigger office. But Derkweiler was one of those scientists who affected a disdain for perquisites and appearances, his blunt manner and sloppy look broadcasting his pure dedication to science.
    Derkweiler eased himself back in the office chair, where his soft corpulance settled in, conforming to the chair’s contours. “Adjusting to the asylum, Corso? You got a big new title now, new responsibilities.”
    He didn’t like being called Corso, but he’d gotten used to it. “Pretty well.”
    “Good. What can I do for you?”
    Corso took a deep breath. “I’ve been going over some of the Martian gamma ray data—”
    Derkweiler suddenly frowned. “Gamma ray data?”
    “Well, yes. I’ve been familiarizing myself with my new responsibilities and as I was