Lawrence switched his receiver to the MOONCRASH band—and there she was, yelling at the top of her robot voice. The signal was piercingly strong—quite good enough, he would have thought, to have been picked up by Lagrange or Port Roris. Then he remembered that his metal probe was still resting on the submerged hull; it would give radio waves an easy path to the surface.
He sat listening to that train of pulses for a good fifteen seconds before he plucked up enough courage for the next move. He had never really expected to find anything, and even now his search might be in vain. That automatic beacon would call for weeks, like a voice from the tomb, long after Selene’s occupants were dead.
Then, with an abrupt, angry gesture that defied the fates to do their worst, Lawrence switched to the cruiser’s own frequency—and was almost deafened by Pat Harris shouting: “_Selene_ calling, Selene calling. Do you receive me? Over.”
“This is Duster One,” he answered. “C.E.E. speaking. I’m fifteen meters above you. Are you all O.K.? Over.”
It was a long time before he could make any sense of the reply, the background of shouting and cheering was so loud. That in itself was enough to tell him that all the passengers were alive, and in good spirits. Listening to them, indeed, one might almost have imagined that they were holding some drunken celebration. In their joy at being discovered, at making contact with the human race, they thought that their troubles were over.
“Duster One calling Port Roris Control,” said Lawrence, while he waited for the tumult to die down. “We’ve found Selene, and established radio contact. Judging by the noise that’s going on inside, everyone’s quite O.K. She’s fifteen meters down, just where Doctor Lawson indicated. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Out.”
At the speed of light, waves of relief and happiness would now be spreading over the Moon, the Earth, the inner planets, bringing a sudden lifting of the hearts to billions of people. On streets and slideways, in buses and spaceships, perfect strangers would turn to each other and say, “Have you heard? They’ve found Selene.”
In all the solar system, indeed, there was only one man who could not wholeheartedly share the rejoicing. As he sat on his ski, listening to those cheers from underground and looking at the crawling pattern in the dust, Chief Engineer Lawrence felt far more scared and helpless than the men and women trapped beneath his feet. He knew that he was facing the greatest battle in his life.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For the first time in twenty-four hours, Maurice Spenser was relaxing. Everything that could be done had been done. Men and equipment were already moving toward Port Roris. (Lucky about Jules Braques being at Clavius; he was one of the best cameramen in the business, and they’d often worked together.) Captain Anson was doing sums with the computer and looking thoughtfully at contour maps of the Mountains. The crew (all six) had been rounded up from the bars (all three) and informed that there was yet another change of route. On Earth, at least a dozen contracts had been signed and telefaxed, and large sums of money had already changed hands. The financial wizards of Interplanet News would be calculating, with scientific precision, just how much they could charge the other agencies for the story, without driving them to charter ships of their own—not that this was at all likely, for Spenser had too great a lead. No competitor could possibly reach the Mountains in less than forty-eight hours; he would be there in six.
Yes, it was very pleasant to take it easy, in the calm and confident assurance that everything was under control and going the way you wanted. It was these interludes that made life worth living, and Spenser knew how to make the most of them. They were his panacea against ulcers—still, after a hundred years, the occupational disease of the communications industry.
It was typical of him, however, that he was relaxing on the job. He was lying, a drink in one hand, a plate of sandwiches by the other, in the small observation lounge of the Embarkation Building. Through the double sheets of glass he could see the tiny dock from which Selene had sailed three days ago. (There was no escaping from those maritime words, inappropriate though they were to this situation.) It was merely a strip of concrete stretching for twenty meters out into the uncanny flatness of the dust; lying most of its length, like a giant concertina, was the flexible tube through which the passengers could walk from the Port into the cruiser. Now open to vacuum, it was deflated and partly collapsed—a most depressing sight, Spenser could not help thinking.
He glanced at his watch, then at that unbelievable horizon. If he had been asked to guess, he would have said that it was at least a hundred kilometers away, not two or three. A few minutes later, a reflected glint of sunlight caught his eye. There they were, climbing up over the edge of the Moon. They would be here in five minutes, out of the air lock in ten. Plenty of time to finish that last sandwich.
Dr. Lawson showed no signs of recognition when Spenser greeted him; that was not surprising, for their previous brief conversation had been in almost total darkness.
“Doctor Lawson? I’m Bureau Chief of Interplanet News. Permission to record?”
“Just a minute,” interrupted Lawrence. “I know the Interplanet man. You’re not Joe Leonard. . . .”
“Correct; I’m Maurice Spenser. I took over from Joe last week. He has to get used to Earth gravity again—otherwise he’ll be stuck here for life.”
“Well, you’re damn quick off the mark. It was only an hour ago that we radioed.”
Spenser thought it best not to mention that he had already been here the better part of a day.
“I’d still like to know if I can record,” he repeated. He was very conscientious about this. Some newsmen took a chance and went ahead without permission, but if you were caught, you lost your job. As a Bureau Chief, he had to keep the rules laid down to safeguard his profession, and the public.
“Not now, if you don’t mind,” said Lawrence. “I’ve fifty things to organize, but Doctor Lawson will be glad to talk to you; he did most of the work and deserves all the credit. You can quote me on that.”
“Er—thank you,” mumbled Tom, looking embarrassed.
“Right—see you later,” said Lawrence. “I’ll be at the Local Engineer’s office, living on pills. But you might as well get some sleep.”
“Not until I’ve finished with you,” corrected Spenser, grabbing Tom and aiming him in the direction of the hotel.
The first person they met in the ten-meter-square foyer was Captain Anson.
“I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “The Space-Workers’ Union is making trouble. You know there’s a ruling about time off between trips. Well, it seems that—“
“_Please_, Captain, not now. Take it up with Interplanet’s Legal Department. Call Clavius 1234, ask for Harry Dantzig—he’ll straighten it out.”
He propelled the unresisting Tom Lawson up the stairs (it was odd to find a hotel without elevators, but they were unnecessary on a world where you weighed only a dozen or so kilos) and into his suite.
Apart from its excessively small size, and complete absence of windows, the suite might have been in any cheap hotel on Earth. The simple chairs, couch, and table were manufactured from the very minimum of material, most of it Fiberglas, for quartz was common on the Moon. The bathroom was perfectly conventional (that was a relief, after those tricky freefall toilets), but the bed had a slightly disconcerting appearance. Some visitors from Earth found it difficult to sleep under a sixth of a gravity, and for their benefit an elastic sheet could be stretched across the bed and held in place by light springs. The whole arrangement had a distinct flavor of strait-jackets and padded cells.
Another cheerful little touch was the notice behind the door, which announced in English, Russian, and Mandarin that THIS HOTEL IS INDEPENDENTLY PRESSURISED. IN THE EVENT OF A DOME FAILURE, YOU WILL BE PERFECTLY SAFE. SHOULD THIS OCCUR, PLEASE REMAIN IN YOUR ROOM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. THANK YOU.
Spenser had read that notice several times. He still thought that the basic informa
tion could have been conveyed in a more confident, lighthearted manner. The wording lacked charm.
And that, he decided, was the whole trouble on the Moon. The struggle against the forces of Nature was so fierce that no energy was left for gracious living. This was most noticeable in the contrast between the superb efficiency of the technical services, and the easygoing, take-it-or-leave-it attitude one met in all the other walks of life. If you complained about the telephone, the plumbing, the air (especially the air!), it was fixed within minutes. But just try to get quick service in a restaurant or bar . . .
“I know you’re very tired,” Spenser began, “but I’d like to ask a few questions. You don’t mind being recorded, I hope?”
“No,” said Tom, who had long since passed the stage of caring one way or the other. He was slumped in a chair, mechanically sipping the drink Spenser had poured out, but obviously not tasting it.
“This is Maurice Spenser, Interplanet News, talking with Doctor Thomas Lawson. Now, Doctor, all we know at the moment is that you and Mister Lawrence, Chief Engineer, Earthside, have found Selene, and that the people inside are safe. Perhaps you’ll tell us, without going into technical details, just how you—hell and damnation!”
He caught the slowly falling glass without spilling a drop, then eased the sleeping astronomer over to the couch. Well, he couldn’t grumble; this was the only item that hadn’t worked according to plan. And even this might be to his advantage; for no one else could find Lawson—still less, interview him—while he was sleeping it off in what the Hotel Roris, with a fine sense of humor, called its luxury suite.
In Clavius City, the Tourist Commissioner had finally managed to convince everyone that he had not been playing favorites. His relief at hearing of Selene’s discovery had quickly abated when Reuter’s, Time-Space, Triplanetary Publications, and Lunar News had phoned him in rapid succession to ask just how Interplanet had managed to break the story first. It had been on the wires, in fact, even before it had reached Administration headquarters, thanks to Spenser’s thoughtful monitoring of the dust-ski radios.
Now that it was obvious what had happened, the suspicions of all the other news services had been replaced by frank admiration for Spenser’s luck and enterprise. It would be a little while yet before they realized that he had an even bigger trick up his capacious sleeve.
The Communications Center at Clavius had seen many dramatic moments, but this was one of the most unforgettable. It was, thought Commissioner Davis, almost like listening to voices from beyond the grave. A few hours ago, all these men and women were presumed dead—yet here they were, fit and cheerful, lining up at that buried microphone to relay messages of reassurance to their friends and relatives. Thanks to the probe which Lawrence had left as marker and antenna, that fifteen-meter blanket of dust could no longer cut the cruiser off from the rest of mankind.
The impatient reporters had to wait until there was a break in Selene’s transmission before they could get their interviews. Miss Wilkins was now speaking, dictating messages that were being handed to her by the passengers. The cruiser must have been full of people scribbling telegraphese on the backs of torn-up guidebooks, trying to condense the maximum amount of information into the minimum number of words. None of this material, of course, could be quoted or reproduced; it was all private, and the Postmasters General of three planets would descend in their combined wrath upon any reporter foolish enough to use it. Strictly speaking, they should not even be listening in on this circuit, as the Communications Officer had several times pointed out with increasing degrees of indignation.
“. . . tell Martha, Jan, and Ivy not to worry about me, I’ll be home soon. Ask Tom how the Ericson deal went, and let me know when you call back. My love to you all—George. End of message. Did you get that? Selene calling. Over.”
“Luna Central calling Selene. Yes, we have it all down; we’ll see that the messages get delivered and will relay the answers as soon as they come in. Now can we speak to Captain Harris? Over.”
There was a brief pause, during which the background noises in the cruiser could be clearly heard—the sound of voices, slightly reverberant in this enclosed space, the creak of a chair, a muffled “Excuse me.” Then:
“Captain Harris calling Central. Over.”
Commissioner Davis took the mike.
“Captain Harris, this is the Tourist Commissioner. I know that you all have messages you wish to send, but the news services are here and are very anxious to have a few words with you. First of all, could you give us a brief description of conditions inside Selene? Over.”
“Well, it’s very hot, and we aren’t wearing much clothes. But I don’t suppose we can grumble about the heat, since it helped you to find us. Anyway, we’ve grown used to it. The air’s still good, and we have enough food and water, though the menu is—let’s say it’s monotonous. What more do you want to know? Over.”
“Ask him about morale—how are the passengers taking it?--are there any signs of strain?” said the representative of Triplanetary Publications. The Tourist Commissioner relayed the question, rather more tactfully. It seemed to cause slight embarrassment at the other end of the line.
“Everyone’s behaved very well,” said Pat, just a little too hastily. “Of course, we all wonder how long it will take you to get us out. Can you give us any ideas on that? Over.”
“Chief Engineer Lawrence is in Port Roris now, planning rescue operations,” Davis answered. “As soon as he has an estimate, we’ll pass it on. Meanwhile, how are you occupying your time? Over.”
Pat told him, thereby enormously multiplying the sales of Shane and, less happily, giving a boost to the flagging fortunes of The Orange and the Apple. He also gave a brief account of the court proceedings—now terminated sine die.
“That must have been amusing entertainment,” said Davis. “But now you won’t have to rely on your own resources. We can send you anything you want—music, plays, discussions. Just give the word—we’ll fix it. Over.”
Pat took his time in answering this. The radio link had already transformed their lives, had brought them hope and put them in touch with their loved ones. Yet, in a way he was almost sony that their seclusion was ended. The heart-warming sense of solidarity, which even Miss Morley’s outburst had scarcely ruffled, was already a fading dream. They no longer formed a single group, united in the common cause of survival. Now their lives had diverged again into a score of independent aims and ambitions. Humanity had swallowed them up once more, as the ocean swallows a raindrop.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chief Engineer Lawrence did not believe that committees ever achieved anything. His views were well known on the Moon, for shortly after the last biannual visit of the Lunar Board of Survey, a notice had appeared on his desk conveying the information: A BOARD IS LONG, HARD, AND NARROW. IT IS MADE OF WOOD.
But he approved of this committee, because it fulfilled his somewhat stringent requirements. He was chairman; there were no minutes, no secretary, no agenda. Best of all, he could ignore or accept its recommendations as he pleased. He was the man in charge of rescue operations, unless the Chief Administrator chose to sack him—which he would do only under extreme pressure from Earth. The committee existed merely to provide ideas and technical knowledge; it was his private brain trust.
Only half of its dozen members were physically present; the rest were scattered over Moon, Earth, and space. The soilphysics expert on Earth was at a disadvantage, for owing to the finite speed of radio waves, he would always be a second and a half in arrears, and by the time his comments could get to the Moon, almost three seconds would have passed. He had accordingly been asked to make notes and to save his views until the end, only interrupting if it was absolutely necessary. As many people had discovered, after setting up lunar conference calls at great expense, nothing hamstrung a brisk discussion more effectively than that three-second time lag.
“For the benefit of the newcomers,” said Lawrence, when the roll c
all had been completed, “I’ll brief you on the situation. Selene is fifteen meters down, on a level keel. She’s undamaged, with all her equipment functioning, and the twentytwo people inside her are still in good spirits. They have enough oxygen for ninety hours—that’s the deadline we have to keep in mind.
“For those of you who don’t know what Selene looks like, here’s a one-in-twenty scale model.” He lifted the model from the table, and turned it slowly in front of the camera. “She’s just like a bus, or a small aircraft; the only thing unique is her propulsion system, which employs these wide-bladed, variable-pitch fans.
“Our great problem, of course, is the dust. If you’ve never seen it, you can’t imagine what it’s like. Any ideas you may have about sand or other materials on Earth won’t apply here; this stuff is more like a liquid. Here’s a sample of it.”
Lawrence picked up a tall vertical cylinder, the lower third of which was filled with an amorphous gray substance. He tilted it, and the stuff began to flow. It moved more quickly than syrup, more slowly than water, and it took a few seconds for its surface to become horizontal again after it had been disturbed. No one could ever have guessed, by looking at it, that it was not a fluid.
“This cylinder is sealed,” explained Lawrence, “with a vacuum inside, so the dust is showing its normal behavior. In air, it’s quite different; it’s much stickier, and behaves rather like very fine sand or talcum powder. I’d better warn you—it’s impossible to make a synthetic sample that has the properties of the real thing. It takes a few billion years of desiccation to produce the genuine article. If you want to do some experimenting, we’ll ship you as much dust as you like; heaven knows, we can spare it.
“A few other points. Selene is three kilometers from the nearest solid land—the Mountains of Inaccessibility. There may be several hundred meters of dust beneath her, though we’re not sure of that. Nor can we be quite sure that there will be no more cave-ins, though the geologists think it’s very unlikely.
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