The Man Plus programme was designed to establish a colony on Mars, and since man cannot survive unprotected on Mars he must be adapted in the middle of a cold war.
A third person viewpoint.
We expected a great deal from Roger Torraway, although he was not much different from any of the other astronauts: a little overtrained, a lot underemployed, a good deal discontented with what was happening in their jobs, but very much unwilling to trade them for any others as long as there was still a chance to be great again. They were all like that, even the one that was a monster.
What does Roger Torraway actually do?
“No sweat. What do you do, anyway, if you don’t mind my asking? I mean, besides V.I.P.ing it around.”
Torraway had an answer all ready for that. “Administration,” he said. He always said that, when people asked what he did. Sometimes the people who asked had proper security clearance, not only with the government but with the private radar in his own mind that told him to trust one person and not another. Then he said, “I make monsters.” If what they said next indicated that they too were in the know, he might go a sentence or two farther.
There was no secret about the Exomedicine Project. Everyone knew that what they did in Tonka was prepare astronauts to live on Mars. What was secret was how they did it: the monster. If Torraway had said too much he would have jeopardized both his freedom and his job. And Roger liked his job. It supported his pretty wife in her pottery shop. It gave him the feeling of doing something that people would remember, and it took him to interesting places. Back when he was an active astronaut he had been to even more interesting places, but they were out in space and kind of lonely. He liked better the places he went to in private jets, with flattering diplomats and impressionable cocktail-party women to greet him when he got there. Of course, there was the monster to think about, but he didn’t really worry about that. Much.
Relationship troubles - from an unknown viewpoint
He stood there for a moment, watching Brad retreating back, and wondering how Brad knew about something he had told only to his wife.
We could have told him—as in fact we could have told him many, many things, including why the polls showed what they showed. But no one really needed to tell him. He could have told himself—if he had allowed himself to know.
Who is in charge?
Don Kayman was a complex man who never let go of a problem. It was why we wanted him on the project as areologist, but it extended to the religious part of his life too.
Bad news
The world situation was proceeding as predicted. New York City was of course in turmoil, the Near East was building up pressures past the safety valves, and New People’s Asia was pouring out furious manifestos denouncing the squid kill in the Pacific. The planet was rapidly reaching critical mass. Our projections were that the future of the race was questionable on Earth past another two years. We could not allow that. The Mars landing had to succeed.
When things go very wrong
“ROGER, HONEY! YOU—”
Torraway jumped straight up and landed a meter away. The scream inside his head had been deafening. Had it been real? He had no way to tell; the voices from Brad or Don Kayman and the simulated voice of his wife sounded equally familiar inside his head. He was not even sure whose voice it had been—Dorrie’s? But he had been thinking about Sulie Carpenter, and the voice had been so queerly stressed that it could have been either or neither of them.
And now there was no sound at all, or none except for the irregular clicks, squeaks and scrapes that came up from the rock as the Martian crust responded to the rapidly dropping temperature. He was not aware of the cold as cold; his internal heaters kept the feeling part of him at constant temperature and would go on doing so easily all through the night. But he knew that it was at least fifty below now.
Another blast: “ROG—THINK YOU OUGHT—”
Even with the warning of the time before, the raucous shout was painful. This time he caught a quick fugitive glimpse of Dorrie’s simulated image, standing queerly on nothing at all a dozen meters in the air.
Training took over. Roger turned toward the distant dome, or where he thought it had been, cupped his wings behind him and said clearly: “Don! Brad! I’ve got some kind of a malfunction. I’m getting a signal but I can’t read it.”
He waited. There was no response, nothing inside his head except his own thoughts and a confused grumbling that he recognized as static.
“ROGER!”
It was Dorrie again, ten times life-size, towering over him, and on her face a grimace of wrath and fear. She seemed to be reaching down
toward him, and then she bent curiously sidewise, like a television image flickering off the tube, and was gone.
Roger felt a peculiar pain, tried to dismiss it as fear, felt it again and realized it was cold. There was something seriously wrong. “Mayday!” he shouted. “Don! I’m in trouble—help me!” The dark distant hills seemed to be rippling slowly. He looked up. The stars were turning liquid and dripping from the sky.
Who is the "we". Many times the point of view moves to the unknown "we". By the end of the book you will easily find who "we" is, and be pleasantly surprised with the end.
Enjoy!