Rocket to Luna

Chapter 14 The Biting Cold

They didn’t speak at all now. There was nothing to say. One thought pressed on both their minds like a suffocating blanket. They had twelve hours of oxygen left and a fifteen-hour trip ahead.

Unless. Unless what, Ted wondered. Unless they could travel at breakneck speed, catching up on time, forcing time back, gaining those three hours they needed so desperately.

The suit chrono became a dreaded thing. It sat above the tubes of chocolate and vitamin concentrate like a relentless, smirking mouth. Its hands became live things that swung around ceaselessly, mocking Ted with their rapid movement.

Ted watched that chrono with morbid fascination. The sweat clung to his forehead in shimmering globules. Every muscle in his body was tense, the nerves tangled into jangling knots. The wire strap under his armpits did its best to bite its way through the material of the space suit. The sled, bearing only Forbes now, seemed heavier, in spite of its comparative lightness.

Ted nearly gave up when the sled snagged itself on a tall rock. He struggled with it tenaciously, like a man struggling with a weed that’s threatening to snuff out the other plants in his garden. When he finally loosened the sled, they had lost ten precious minutes. The clock seemed to mock Ted openly, sitting against the metal helmet with smug superiority.

They kept moving, the pace a fast one now. Ted practically ran, tempted to leave the sled and its bulky awkwardness, tempted to leap through the air in space-devouring jumps that would bring him to the supplies. He thought of Forbes then, a foot that was probably frozen solid in the boot of his suit, a cylinder of oxygen that would last twelve hours on his back. No, he couldn’t take to the air. He had to stick to the ground and the sled, and somehow make up for lost time. They didn’t consult the map again. They knew where they were, and checking on it would only waste more time. The high peaks of the Haemus Mountains stretched off on Ted’s left, and on his right he could see the jagged heights of the Caucasus Mountains. That meant that Archimedes was dead ahead. And three miles beyond that was the supply dump.

Dead ahead.

But, oh, so far ahead. So very far ahead.

There was nothing to do but keep going.

The Moon did its best to hinder their passage. It erected its best obstacle course, and then sat back to watch the struggling humans. The best obstacle was the razor-sharp rock. The Moon had plenty of these, situated strategically. Jagged, coarse, jutting out of the surface like stained dragons’ teeth, waiting to bite and tear. The pumice was good too. It was thick and it clung and pulled and hung. The Moon did its very best, enjoying the spectacle immensely. The people back on Earth looked up and smiled. The Moon was a thin crescent against the blackness, hanging there like a lopsided, grinning mouth.

Time was running out. Ted knew it, and he dreaded it. He hadn’t turned back to look at Forbes since they’d strapped on the new cylinders and started their race. He felt like a victim being led to the execution chamber, with a big-faced clock ticking off the seconds to his death. Ted’s clock didn’t tick, and that made it worse. It didn’t have to tick. He wanted to reach up and smash its glowing face, but the clock was inside his helmet and he couldn’t reach it without opening his face plate. And if he did that, he’d suffocate. He smiled grimly. The way things were going, he’d probably suffocate anyway. Was it pleasant to die by asphyxiation? Ted wondered about it. He tried to center his anger on the chronometer, knowing that anger at the Moon would do him no good, knowing that anger at the dagger-like rocks and deep pumice would only cause carelessness. The chrono was a good scapegoat, and he blamed all their ills on it. Doggedly, he pushed on, licking his lips anxiously.

The Moon, dissatisfied with the ineffectualness of its obstacle course, dug into its bag of tricks and pulled out another weapon. The weapon had been there all the time, of course, but the Moon began using it in earnest now. It sat back to watch the effects.

“My face plate is frosting up,” Ted said suddenly.

“What?”

These were the first words spoken since the race had started. They sounded strange, the way a shout would in a quiet church.

“My face plate. It’s covered with ice.”

“Give it a blast of hot air,” Forbes said. “The lever is outside on your...”

“I know where the lever is,” Ted snapped. “Something’s wrong. No air is coming through the tubes.”

“Try it again, Baker.”

“Why? It’s not working, I tell you.”

“Take it easy, Ted.”

Ted stopped short in the middle of a word. Forbes had called him “Ted.” He tried to calm himself. The frost was closing in on his helmet, thick ice forming on the edges, where plexiglass joined metal. It shot long white lances across the transparent surface, spearing its way toward the center of the face plate, leaving a circle of clearness in the center.

Frantically, Ted rubbed at the outside of the face plate with his gloved hand.

“It’s no use,” he said. “Something’s blocking the tube.”

“Is it bad?” Forbes said.

“I’m looking through a spot the size of a quarter. That’ll probably be covered in a few minutes.”

The Moon wasted no time. It summoned all its strength and concentrated on the remaining clear area in the center of the face plate. The ice moved rapidly, covering the plexiglass, completely blanking out all vision. In thirty seconds, Ted could see nothing but the inside of his helmet.

“I can’t see,” he said. He stopped abruptly, aware of the luminous hands of the chrono staring back at him. “What are we going to do, Forbes?”

“What’s blocking that duct?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well find out, hang it!” Forbes’s voice was sharp.

Ted stared down the length of his nose, trying to locate the source of trouble. The rubber tubes from the chocolate and vitamin cylinders twisted around the sides of the helmet in a twining maze. Ted’s eyes opened wide as he saw what had blocked the hot-air duct.

“It’s one of the tubes,” he shouted. “It’s hanging right over the opening of the duct.”

“Can you reach it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try.”

Ted reached out with his chin, snapping at the trouble-making tube with his teeth. The tube dangled enticingly several inches from his mouth. He stuck out his tongue, tried to wrap it around the tube, succeeded only in feeling the cold blast of ice that covered the face plate.

“I can’t do it,” he said.

“All right, forget it. We’re wasting time. Follow the strap back to the sled. I’ll take your hand when you get here.”

Ted turned and wiggled out of the strap. He grabbed it firmly in his hands and followed it hand over hand back to the sled. He groped like a blind man, the sheet of ice before his face as formidable as blinkers.

He felt Forbes’s hand close over his. He waited.

“I’ll lead you around to the back of the sled. You’ll have to push from now on. I’ll call directions.”

“All right.”

Forbes swung his arm around, and Ted followed it to the back of the sled. He groped around clumsily, finally found the runners and gripped them tightly.

“I’m ready,” he said.

“We’ve got clear sailing for about fifty yards. We turn right then to avoid a high rock. I’ll let you know just when. Let’s go, boy.”

Ted began pushing, bent over double, his arms and shoulders bearing down against the runners. It was a change, that much he could say. His muscles ached from pulling, and now they were pushing. He felt terribly confined within his helmet. A wall of white met his eyes whenever he glanced up. And he knew that each time he exhaled, moisture was being added to that wall, moisture that froze instantly. He kept pushing.

“A little to the right,” Forbes called. “That’s it. Now to your left, just a trifle. That’s the boy. Straight ahead. Fine. Fine.”

The calling went on as the figures fought their way against the night. A crippled man directing a boy with a blanked-out face plate. The halt leading the blind. The Moon no longer found it funny.

The calls stopped suddenly.

Ted jerked the sled to a halt and looked up. “Forbes?”

No answer.

“Forbes?”

“Straight... ahead,” the voice came. It was feeble, weak.

Panic clutched at Ted’s heart. “Forbes!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”

“Straight ahead.” The voice was weaker this time.

“Forbes!” Ted sprang erect and groped his way around the side of the sled. He fell to his knees, clambered to his feet again. He tripped over a sharp rock and fell flat on his stomach, rolling away from the sled. He sat up then and stared around. Tentatively, he reached out with his hands, feeling for the sled. He leaned forward.

Where was the sled? Where had it gone?

He got to his knees, his tongue swollen in his mouth, the taste of dead ashes in his throat. He pawed the ground, pulling his gloved hand back when it contacted a sharp rock.

He was bathed in sweat now, a prisoner within the space suit, a blind man groping for a sled on the face of the Moon. Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet.

He stood stockstill, seeing no farther than the white sheet of ice four inches from his nose.

“Forbes?”

Nothing broke the stillness. Nothing but the sound of his own heart hammering against his ears.

“Dan! Dan, where are you?”

He stretched out his foot, feeling the ground gently. Carefully, he put it down, his arms outstretched. He lifted his other foot, placed that down. He took a third step.

“Dan? Dan, please, where are you?”

He lifted his foot and was about to put it down when the ground disappeared beneath it. He pitched forward slowly, like a balloon falling on the wind. He was rolling over then, and the tubes slithered over his face like a nest of snakes disturbed. He kept rolling, head over heels, down, down, seeing nothing, feeling only the sharp prods of rocks as they scraped against his suit.

Finally he stopped. He was lying flat on his back and the tubes were trailing over his face. He took a deep breath, despair flooding his senses. They’d never make it now, never. All this time wasted. He shook his head, surprised when his chin bumped against one of the tubes.

The tubes!

The fall had rearranged them, tearing some loose from their moorings. He tried to locate the troublesome tube that was blocking the hot-air duct.

He found it, and his heart skipped an anxious beat. It was hanging several inches from his mouth. He wet his lips and then stuck out his tongue. The tip of his tongue nudged the tube, filling his mouth with a rubbery taste. He craned his neck forward and suddenly closed his mouth around the tube. Elation filled him as he yanked back his head. The tube was firmly stuck to the duct.

A new thought sent terror racing through his brain. Suppose the duct had frozen over. Suppose...

Viciously, he yanked at the tube again.

It came free this time, almost pulling the cylinder from the wall of the helmet. Quickly he fumbled with the lever on the breastplate outside his suit. He heard a rush of air into his helmet, felt the blast of warmth as it reached curling fingers for his face.

He watched the heat attack the ice slowly. Impatiently, he turned up the lever to full, watching the ice turn shiny and wet, watching it finally dissolve into big chunks that slithered down the plexiglass and fell against his chest.

He could see a little now. The heat kept steaming up against the ice, boring a path through the whiteness. The face plate was getting clearer. He could make out a few rocks now. And suddenly the remaining ice seemed to crumble completely, like the ice around the freezing unit of a refrigerator when the box is being defrosted. It fell onto his chest and slithered down the length of his body. The face plate was completely clear now.

He saw the sled first, and he ran to it, shaking Forbes.

“Dan, Dan,” he cried.

“Straight ahead.” Forbes mumbled.

Ted stole a quick glance at the chrono. They had been traveling for almost twelve hours, the last few hours in total blindness. He tore his eyes from the luminous dial and looked out through the face plate.

He blinked his eyes, refusing to believe what he saw.

Archimedes!

No, no, it couldn’t be!

But it was, it was! Archimedes! He’d have recognized the crater anywhere. That meant... that meant the supplies! The supplies were only three miles away. Three miles — why he could make that in a matter of minutes. He didn’t bother with the strap this time. He picked up Forbes, getting a firm grip beneath his knees and his shoulders.

He began leaping across the face of the Moon, a weird bullfrog hopping across the night.

The supply rockets sprawled across the pumice like scattered bowling pins. Plaster of Paris dotted the pumice with white brilliance, a marker for the Moon explorers. There were four rockets all told, and Ted raced for the nearest one, prying open the hatch and rummaging inside for the oxygen cylinders he needed so badly. He could hear Forbes’s breath rasping into the suit radio, harsh and uneven. He imagined there was very little air left in Forbes’s suit, and he could begin to feel the strain of breathing the thin oxygen in his own helmet. When he found the stack of cylinders, he almost screamed in glee. He strapped one onto Forbes’s back immediately, adjusted the flow to full, shooting a fast stream into the weakening lieutenant’s helmet.

He put a container onto his own back, and shot a sweet, steady stream into his helmet. He sat back against the bulkhead of the supply rocket, a long sigh escaping his lungs.

After a while he adjusted the flow of Forbes’s oxygen to normal.

Tremulously, he called, “Dan? Dan?”

There was a long time before any answer came. When it did come, it was low and weak.

“Ted?” A pause, and then, “We made it, didn’t we?”