A Fall of Moondust

CHAPTER 24

The gale that had swept through Selene seemed to have carried away with it more than the stagnant air. When he looked back on their first days beneath the dust, Commodore Hansteen realized that there had often been a hectic, even hysterical mood aboard, after the initial shock had worn off. Trying to keep up their spirits, they had sometimes gone too far in the direction of false gaiety and childish humor.

Now that was all past, and it was easy to see why. The fact that a rescue team was at work only a few meters away was part of the explanation, but only part of it. The spirit of tranquillity that they now shared came from their encounter with death; after that, nothing could be quite the same again. The petty dross of selfishness and cowardice had been burned out of them.

No one knew this better than Hansteen. He had watched it happen many times before, whenever a ship's company faced peril in the far reaches of the solar system. Though he was not philosophically inclined, he had had plenty of time to think in space. He had sometimes wondered if the real reason why men sought danger was that only thus could they find the companionship and solidarity which they unconsciously craved.

He would be sorry to say good-by to all those people — yes, even to Miss Morley, who was now as agreeable and considerate as her temperament would allow. The fact that he could think that far ahead was the measure of his confidence; one could never be certain, of course, but the situation now seemed completely under control. No one knew exactly how Chief Engineer Lawrence intended to get them out, but that problem was now merely a choice between alternative methods. From now on, their imprisonment was an inconvenience, not a danger.

It was not even a hardship, since those food cylinders had started popping down the air tubes. Though there had never been any risk of starvation, the diet had grown extremely monotonous, and water had been rationed for some time. Now, several hundred liters had been pumped down, to refill the almost empty tanks.

It was strange that Commodore Hansteen, who usually thought of everything, never asked himself the simple question “Whatever happened to all the water we started with?” Though he had more immediate problems on his mind, the sight of that extra mass being taken aboard should have set him worrying. But it never did, until it was much too late.

Pat Harris and Chief Engineer Lawrence were equally to blame for the oversight. It was the one flaw in a beautifully executed plan. And one flaw, of course, was all that was needed.

The Engineering Division of Earthside was still working swiftly, but no longer in a desperate race against the clock. There was time now to construct mock-ups of the cruiser, to sink them in the Sea off Port Roris, and to try various ways of entering them. Advice, sensible and otherwise, was still pouring in, but no one took any notice of it. The approach had been decided, and would not be modified now, unless it ran into unexpected obstacles.

Twenty-four hours after the igloo had been set up, all the special gear had been manufactured and shipped out to the site. It was a record that Lawrence hoped he would never have to break, and he was very proud of the men who had made it possible. The Engineering Division seldom got the credit it deserved: like the air, everyone took it for granted, forgetting that the engineers supplied that air.

Now that he was ready to go into action, Lawrence was quite willing to start talking, and Maurice Spenser was more than willing to accommodate him. This was the moment Spenser had been waiting for.

As far as he could remember, it was also the first time that there had ever been a TV interview with camera and subject five kilometers apart. At this fantastic magnification the image was a little fuzzy, of course, and the slightest vibration in Auriga's cabin set it dancing on the screen. For this reason, everyone aboard the ship was motionless, and all nonessential machinery had been switched off.

Chief Engineer Lawrence was standing on the edge of the raft, his space-suited figure braced against the small crane that had been swung over the side. Hanging from the jib was a large concrete cylinder, open at both ends — the first section of the tube that was now being lowered into the dust.

“After a lot of thought”, said Lawrence for the benefit of that distant camera, but, above all, for the benefit of the men and women fifteen meters beneath him, “we've decided that this is the best way to tackle the problem. This cylinder is called a caisson” — he pronounced it “kasoon” — “and it will sink easily under its own weight. The sharp lower edge will cut through the dust like a knife through butter.

“We have enough sections to reach the cruiser. When we've made contact, and the tube is sealed at the bottom — its pressure against the roof will ensure that — we'll start scooping out the dust. As soon as that's done, we'll have an open shaft, like a small well, right down to Selene.

“That will be half the battle, but only half. Then we'll have to connect the shaft to one of our pressurized igloos, so that when we cut through the cruiser's roof there's no loss of air. But I think — I hope — that these are fairly straightforward problems.”

He paused for a minute, wondering if he should touch on any of the other details that made this operation so much trickier than it looked. Then he decided not to; those who understood could see with their own eyes, and the others would not be interested, or would think he was boasting. This blaze of publicity (about half a billion people were watching, so the Tourist Commissioner had reported) did not worry him so long as things went well. But if they did not…

He raised his arm and signaled to the crane operator.

“Lower away!”

Slowly, the cylinder settled into the dust until its full fourmeter length had vanished, except for a narrow ring just protruding above the surface. It had gone down smoothly and easily. Lawrence hoped that the remaining sections would be equally obliging.

One of the engineers was carefully going along the rim of the caisson with a spirit level, to check that it was sinking vertically. Presently he gave the thumbs-up signal, which Lawrence acknowledged in the same manner. There had been a time when, like any regular spacehog, he could carry out an extended and fairly technical conversation by sign-language alone. This was an essential skill of the trade, for radio sometimes failed and there were occasions when one did not wish to clutter up the limited number of channels available.

“Ready for Number Two!” he said.

This would be tricky. The first section had to be held rigid while the second was bolted to it without altering the alignment. One really needed two cranes for this job, but a framework of I-beams, supported a few centimeters above the surface of the dust, could carry the load when the crane was otherwise engaged.

No mistakes now, for God's sake! he breathed silently. Number-two section swung off the sledge that had brought it from Port Roris, and three of the technicians manhandled it into the vertical. This was the sort of job where the distinction between weight and mass was vital. That swinging cylinder weighed relatively little, but its momentum was the same as it would be on Earth, and it could pulp a man if it managed to trap him on one of those sluggish oscillations. And that was something else peculiar to the Moon — the slow-motion movement of this suspended mass. In this gravity, a pendulum took two-and-a-half times as long to complete its cycle as it would on Earth. This was something that never looked quite right, except to a man who had been born here.

Now the second section was upended and mated to the first one. They were clamped together, and once again Lawrence gave the order to lower away.

The resistance of the dust was increasing, but the caisson continued to sink smoothly under its own weight.

“Eight meters gone”, said Lawrence. “That means we're just past the halfway mark. Number-three section coming up.”

After this, there would only be one more, though Lawrence had provided a spare section, just in case. He had a hearty respect for the Sea's ability to swallow equipment. So far, only a few nuts and bolts had been lost, but if that piece of caisson slipped from the hook, it would be gone in a flash. Though it might not sink far, especially if it hit the dust broadside on, it would be effectively out of reach even if it was only a couple of meters down. They had no time to waste salvaging their own salvage gear.

There went number three, its last section moving with almost imperceptible slowness. But it was still moving; in a few minutes, with any luck at all, they would be knocking on the cruiser's roof.

“Twelve meters down”, said Lawrence. “We're only three meters above you now, Selene. You should be able to hear us at any minute.”

Indeed they could, and the sound was wonderfully reassuring. More than ten minutes ago Hansteen had noticed the vibration of the oxygen inlet pipe as the caisson scraped against it. You could tell when it stopped, and when it started moving again.

There was that vibration once more, accompanied this time by a delicate shower of dust from the roof. The two air pipes had now been drawn up so that about twenty centimeters of their lengths projected through the ceiling, and the quickdrying cement which was part of the emergency kit of all space vehicles had been smoothed around their points of entry. It seemed to be working loose, but that impalpable rain of dust was far too slight to cause alarm. Nevertheless, Hansteen thought that he had better mention it to the skipper, who might not have noticed.

“Funny”, said Pat, looking up at the projecting pipe. “That cement should hold, even if the pipe is vibrating.”

He climbed up on a seat, and examined the air pipe more closely. For a moment he said nothing; then he stepped down, looking puzzled and annoyed — and more than a little worried.

“What's the trouble?” Hansteen asked quietly. He knew Pat well enough now to read his face like an open book.

“That pipe's pulling up through the roof”, he said. “Someone up on the raft's being mighty careless. It's shortened by at least a centimeter, since I fixed that plaster.” Then Pat stopped, suddenly aghast. “My God”, he whispered, “suppose it's our own fault, suppose we're still sinking.”

“What if we are?” said the Commodore, quite calmly. “You'd expect the dust to continue settling beneath our weight. That doesn't mean we're in danger. Judging by that pipe, we've gone down one centimeter in twenty-four hours. They can always give us some more tubing if we need it.”

Pat laughed a little shamefacedly.

“Of course — that's the answer. I should have thought of it before. We've probably been sinking slowly all the time, but this is the first chance we've had to prove it. Still, I'd better report to Mr. Lawrence — it may affect his calculations.”

Pat started to walk toward the front of the cabin; but he never made it.