DEADLINE By WALTER L. KLEINE _They had 70 days to prepare a landing strip. Physically, it was impossible. Psychologically, it was even worse!_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Infinity September 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] WALTER L. KLEINE _is doing graduate journalism work at the University of Iowa. He reports that the courses in current magazine practice, magazine article writing, and magazine fiction writing keep him so busy that he has hardly any time left to write science fiction. We think Kleine is one of tomorrow's big name writers; and in_ Deadline _he takes a new and individual approach to the old problem of setting up the first Mars base._ Helene Donnelly handed me a cup of coffee, but didn't pour one for herself. I could feel her eyes on me as I drank. Finally she said, "For God's sake, Marsh, you _could_ say something." I could. Yeah. As the implications penetrated, the coffee slopped over the rim of the cup. I emptied it quickly and gave it back to her. "How about a refill?" She refilled it and gave it back to me. "If we haven't got a chance," she said slowly, "I've got as much right to know as you do. Marsh, _have_ we got _any_ chance?" I set the coffee down and stood up. I shrugged and spread my hands. "Ask me that seventy days from now, if you're still around to ask, and I'm still around to answer. Then maybe I can tell you 'yes.' Right now, I just don't know. _This_ wasn't included in the plans!" She didn't answer. I walked forward and stared out over the crushed cab at the blue-white CO_{2} ice of the Martian north polar cap. Seventy days. That was the deadline--the physical deadline. It really didn't matter too much. Mechanically, we'd either make it to the equator and carve out a landing strip for the other two ships, or we wouldn't. We might make that deadline and still miss the other one. The psychological one. My wife was dead. So was Helene's husband. So were the Travises and the Leonards. That left just me and Helene, and according to the reasonably well-proven theories of space-crew psychology, she would have to replace my wife and I her husband. It was supposed to be easy, since we wouldn't have been in the same crew if we weren't known to be more compatible than ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent of the world's married couples. I pictured her in my mind and tried to superimpose "wife" on the image. It didn't work. I gave it up. Maybe later; it had all happened so fast.... * * * * * Four days ago, the eight ships of Joint Martian Expedition One had gone into orbit around Mars.