A Fall of Moondust

CHAPTER 18

When Tom Lawson woke up in that strange hotel room, he was not even sure who he was, still less where he was. The fact that he had some weight was his first reminder that he was no longer on Lagrange — but he was not heavy enough for Earth. Then it was not a dream; he was on the Moon, and he really had been out into that deadly Sea of Thirst.

And he had helped to find Selene; twenty-two men and women now had a chance of life, thanks to his skill and science. After all the disappointments and frustrations, his adolescent dreams of glory were about to come true. Now the world would have to make amends to him for its indifference and neglect.

The fact that society had provided him with an education which, a century earlier, only a few men could afford did nothing to alleviate Tom's grudge against it. Such treatment was automatic in this age, when every child was educated to the level that his intelligence and aptitudes permitted. Now that civilization needed all the talent that it could find, merely to maintain itself, any other educational policy would have been suicide. Tom gave no thanks to society for providing the environment in which he had obtained his doctor's degree; it had acted in its own self-interest.

Yet this morning he did not feel quite so bitter about life or so cynical about human beings. Success and recognition are great emollients, and he was on his way to achieving both. But there was more to it than that; he had glimpsed a deeper satisfaction. Out there on Duster Two, when his fears and uncertainties had been about to overwhelm him, he had made contact with another human being, and had worked in successful partnership with a man whose skill and courage he could respect.

It was only a tenuous contact, and, like others in the past, it might lead nowhere. A part of his mind, indeed, hoped that it would, so that he could once again assure himself that all men were selfish, sadistic scoundrels. Tom could no more escape from his early boyhood than Charles Dickens, for all his success and fame, could escape the shadows of the blacking factory that had both metaphorically and literally darkened his youth. But he had made a fresh beginning — though he still had very far to go before he became a fully paid-up member of the human race.

When he had showered and tidied himself, he noticed the message that Spenser had left lying on the table. “Make yourself at home”, it said. “I've had to leave in a hurry. Mike Graham is taking over from me — call him at 3443 as soon as you're awake.”

I'm hardly likely to call him before I'm awake, thought Tom, whose excessively logical mind loved to seize on such looseness of speech. But he obeyed Spenser's request, heroically resisting the impulse to order breakfast first.

When he got through to Mike Graham, he discovered that he had slept through a very hectic six hours in the history of Port Roris, that Spenser had taken off in Auriga for the Sea of Thirst — and that the town was full of newsmen from all over the Moon, most of them looking for Dr. Lawson.

“Stay right where you are”, said Graham, whose name and voice were both vaguely familiar to Tom; he must have seen him on those rare occasions when he tuned in to lunar telecasts. “I'll be over in five minutes.”

“I'm starving”, protested Tom.

“Call room service and order anything you like — it's on us, of course — but don't go outside the suite.”

Tom did not resent being pushed around in this somewhat cavalier fashion; it meant, after all, that he was now an important piece of property. He was much more annoyed by the fact that, as anyone in Port Roris could have told him, Mike Graham arrived long before room service. It was a hungry astronomer who now faced Mike's miniature telecamera and tried to explain, for the benefit of — as yet — only two hundred million viewers, exactly how he had been able to locate Selene.

Thanks to the transformation wrought by hunger and his recent experiences, he made a first-class job of it. A few days ago, had any TV reporter managed to drag Lawson in front of a camera to explain the technique of infrared detection, he would have been swiftly and contemptuously blinded by science. Tom would have given a no-holds-barred lecture full of such terms as quantum efficiency, black-body radiation, and spectral sensitivity that would have convinced his audience that the subject was extremely complex (which was true enough) and wholly impossible for the layman to understand (which was quite false).

But now he carefully and fairly patiently — despite the occasional urgent proddings of his stomach — answered Mike Graham's questions in terms that most of his viewers could understand. To the large section of the astronomical community which Tom had scarred at some time or other, it was a revelation. Up in Lagrange II, Professor Kotelnikov summarized the feelings of all his colleagues when, at the end of the performance, he paid Tom the ultimate compliment. “Quite frankly”, he said in tones of incredulous disbelief, “I would never have recognized him.”

It was something of a feat to have squeezed seven men into Selene's air lock, but — as Pat had demonstrated — it was the only place where one could hold a private conference. The other passengers doubtless wondered what was happening; they would soon know.

When Hansteen had finished, his listeners looked understandably worried, but not particularly surprised. They were intelligent men, and must have already guessed the truth.

“I'm telling you first”, explained the Commodore, “because Captain Harris and I decided you were all levelheaded — and tough enough to give us help if we need it. I hope to God we won't, but there may be trouble when I make my announcement.”

“And if there is?” said Harding.

“If anyone makes a fuss, jump on them”, answered the Commodore briefly. “But be as casual as you can when we go back into the cabin. Don't look as if you're expecting a fight; that's the best way to start one. Your job is to damp out panic before it spreads.”

“Do you think it's fair”, said Dr. McKenzie, “not to give an opportunity to — well, send out some last messages?”

“We thought of that, but it would take a long time and would make everyone completely depressed. We want to get this through as quickly as possible. The sooner we act, the better our chance.”

“Do you really think we have one?” asked Barrett.

“Yes”, said Hansteen, “though I'd hate to quote the odds. No more questions? Bryan? Johanson? Right — let's go.”

As they marched back into the cabin, and took their places, the remaining passengers looked at them with curiosity and growing alarm. Hansteen did not keep them in suspense.

“I've some grave news”, he said, speaking very slowly. “You must all have noticed difficulty in breathing, and several of you have complained about headaches.

“Yes, I'm afraid it's the air. We still have plenty of oxygen — that's not our problem. But we can't get rid of the carbon dioxide we exhale; it's accumulating inside the cabin. Why, we don't know. My guess is that the heat has knocked out the chemical absorbers. But the explanation hardly matters, for there's nothing we can do about it.” He had to stop and take several deep breaths before he could continue.

“So we have to face this situation. Your breathing difficulties will get steadily worse; so will your headaches. I won't attempt to fool you. The rescue team can't possibly reach us in under six hours, and we can't wait that long.”

There was a stifled gasp from somewhere in the audience. Hansteen avoided looking for its source. A moment later there came a stertorous snore from Mrs. Schuster. At another time it would have been funny, but not now. She was one of the lucky ones; she was already peacefully, if not quietly, unconscious.

The Commodore refilled his lungs. It was tiring to talk for any length of time.

“If I couldn't offer you some hope”, he continued, “I would have said nothing. But we do have one chance and we have to take it soon. It's not a very pleasant one, but the alternative is much worse. Miss Wilkins, please hand me the sleep tubes.”

There was a deathly silence — not even interrupted by Mrs. Schuster — as the stewardess handed over a small metal box. Hansteen opened it, and took out a white cylinder the size and shape of a cigarette.

“You probably know”, he continued, “that all space vehicles are compelled by law to carry these in their medicine chests. They are quite painless, and will knock you out for ten hours. That may mean all the difference between life and death — for man's respiration rate is cut by more than fifty per cent when he's unconscious. So our air will last twice as long as it would otherwise. Long enough, we hope, for Port Roris to reach us.

“Now, it's essential for at least one person to remain awake to keep in touch with the rescue team. And to be on the safe side, we should have two. One of them must be the Captain; I think that goes without argument.”

“And I suppose the other should be you?” said an all-too-familiar voice.

“I'm really very sorry for you, Miss Morley”, said Commodore Hansteen, without the slightest sign of resentment — for there was no point, now, in making an issue of a matter that had already been settled. “Just to remove any possible misconceptions —”

Before anyone quite realized what had happened, he had pressed the cylinder to his forearm.

“I'll hope to see you all — ten hours from now”, he said, very slowly but distinctly, as he walked to the nearest seat. He had barely reached it when he slumped quietly into oblivion.

It's all your show now, Pat told himself as he got to his feet. For a moment he felt like addressing a few well-chosen words to Miss Morley; then he realized that to do so would spoil the dignity of the Commodore's exit.

“I'm the captain of this vessel”, he said in a firm, low voice. “And from now on, what I say goes.”

“Not with me”, retorted the indomitable Miss Morley. “I'm a paying passenger and I have my rights. I've not the slightest intention of using one of those things.”

The blasted woman seemed unsnubbable. Pat was also compelled to admit that she had guts. He had a brief, nightmare glimpse of the future that her words suggested. Ten hours alone with Miss Morley, and no one else to talk to.

He glanced at the five troubleshooters. The nearest to Miss Morley was the Jamaican civil engineer, Robert Bryan. He looked ready and willing to move into action, but Pat still hoped that unpleasantness could be avoided.

“I don't wish to argue about rights”, he said, “but if you were to look at the small print on your tickets, you'd discover that, in an emergency, I'm in absolute charge here. In any event, this is for your own good, and your own comfort. I'd much rather be asleep than awake while we wait for the rescue team to get here.”

“That goes for me, too”, said Professor Jayawardene unexpectedly. “As the Commodore said, it will conserve the air, so it's our only chance. Miss Wilkins, will you give me one of those things?”

The calm logic of this helped to lower the emotional temperature; so did the Professor's smooth, obviously comfortable slide into unconsciousness. Two down and eighteen to go, murmured Pat under his breath.

“Let's waste no more time”, he said aloud. “As you can see, these shots are entirely painless. There's a microjet hypodermic inside each cylinder, and you won't even feel a pinprick.”

Sue was already handing out the innocent-looking little tubes, and several of the passengers had used them immediately. There went the Schusters (Irving, with a reluctant and touching tenderness, had pressed the tube against the arm of his sleeping wife) and the enigmatic Mr. Radley. That left fifteen. Who would be next?

Now Sue had come to Miss Morley. This is it, thought Pat. If she was still determined to make a fuss…

He might have guessed it.

“I thought I made it quite clear that I don't want one of these things. Please take it away.”

Robert Bryan began to inch forward, but it was the sardonic, English voice of David Barrett that did the trick.

“What really worries the good lady, Captain”, he said, obviously placing his barb with relish, “is that you may take advantage of her in her helpless condition.”

For a few seconds, Miss Morley sat speechless with fury, while her cheeks turned a bright crimson.

“I've never been so insulted in my —” she began.

“Nor have I, madam”, interjected Pat, completing her demoralization. She looked round the circle of faces — most of them solemn, but several grinning, even at a time like this — and realized that there was only one way out.

As she slumped in her seat, Pat breathed a vast sigh of relief. After that little episode, the rest should be easy.

Then he saw that Mrs. Williams, whose birthday had been celebrated in such Spartan style only a few hours before, was staring in a kind of frozen trance at the cylinder in her hand. The poor woman was obviously terrified, and no one could blame her. In the next seat, her husband had already collapsed; it was a little ungallant, Pat thought, to have gone first and left his wife to fend for herself.

Before he could take any action, Sue had moved forward.

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Williams, I made a mistake. I gave you an empty one. Perhaps you'll let me have it back…”

The whole thing was done so neatly that it looked like a conjuring trick. Sue took — or seemed to take — the tube from the unresisting fingers, but as she did so she must have jolted it against Mrs. Williams. The lady never knew what had happened; she quietly folded up and joined her husband.

Half the company was unconscious now. On the whole, thought Pat, there had been remarkably little fuss. Commodore Hansteen had been too much of a pessimist; the riot squad had not been necessary, after all.

Then, with a slight sinking feeling, he noticed something that made him change his mind. It looked as if, as usual, the Commodore had known exactly what he was doing. Miss Morley was not going to be the only difficult customer.

It was at least two years since Lawrence had been inside an igloo. There was a time, when he had been a junior engineer out on construction projects, when he had lived in one for weeks on end, and had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by rigid walls. Since those days, of course, there had been many improvements in design; it was now no particular hardship to live in a home that would fold up into a small trunk.

This was one of the latest models — a Goodyear Mark XX — and it could sustain six men for an indefinite period, as long as they were supplied with power, water, food, and oxygen. The igloo could provide everything else — even entertainment, for it had a built-in microlibrary of books, music, and video. This was no extravagant luxury, though the auditors queried it with great regularity. In space, boredom could be a killer. It might take longer than, say, a leak in an air line, but it could be just as effective, and was sometimes much messier.

Lawrence stooped slightly to enter the air lock. In some of the old models, he remembered, you practically had to go down on hands and knees. He waited for the “pressure equalized” signal, then stepped into the hemispherical main chamber.

It was like being inside a balloon; indeed, that was exactly where he was. He could see only part of the interior, for it had been divided into several compartments by movable screens. (Another modern refinement; in his day, the only privacy was that given by the curtain across the toilet.) Overhead, three meters above the floor, were the lights and the air-conditioning grille, suspended from the ceiling by elastic webbing. Against the curved wall stood collapsible metal racks, only partly erected. From the other side of the nearest screen came the sound of a voice reading from an inventory, while every few seconds another interjected, “Check.”

Lawrence stepped around the screen and found himself in the dormitory section of the igloo. Like the wall racks, the double bunks had not been fully erected; it was merely necessary to see that all the bits and pieces were in their place, for as soon as the inventory was completed everything would be packed and rushed to the site.

Lawrence did not interrupt the two storemen as they continued their careful stock-taking. This was one of those unexciting but vital jobs — of which there were so many on the Moon — upon which lives could depend. A mistake here could be a sentence of death for someone, sometime in the future.

When the checkers had come to the end of a sheet, Lawrence said, “Is this the largest model you have in stock?”

“The largest that's serviceable”, was the answer. “We have a twelve-man Mark Nineteen, but there's a slow leak in the outer envelope that has to be fixed.”

“How long will that take?”

“Only a few minutes. But then there's a twelve-hour inflation test before we're allowed to check it out.”

This was one of those times when the man who made the rules had to break them.

“We can't wait to make the full test. Put on a double patch and take a leak reading; if it's inside the standard tolerance, get the igloo checked out right away. I'll authorize the clearance.”

The risk was trivial, and he might need that big dome in a hurry. Somehow, he had to provide air and shelter for twenty-two men and women out there on the Sea of Thirst. They couldn't all wear space suits from the time they left Selene until they were ferried back to Port Roris.

There was a “beep beep” from the communicator behind his left ear. He flicked the switch at his belt and acknowledged the call.

“C. E. E. speaking.”

“Message from Selene, sir”, said a clear, tiny voice. “Very urgent — they're in trouble.”