Boyd Messer considered the note in his hand and glared at the hastily scrawled words. He’d given life to them, but they made little in the way of sense. Frustrated, biting down on his bottom lip, he looked around at the bustling crowd of people, though there were far fewer people here than back home in Merrimac, Wisconsin. Still, the vast creation known as the Mariner Dome—how many times had he been told they named it after the first official rover to land on Mars?—reminded him of a vast urban shopping mall.
There were people and signs and shops and even music playing on hidden speakers. A group of teens raced by, nearly knocking him asunder. Boyd clutched his messenger bag tighter and with one finger pushed his glasses back up his nose. Slowly he turned in a circle, scanning the various
