A Fall of Moondust

by Arthur C. Clarke

  But the TV camera could, if desired, and some directors preferred it to do so. Others argued that this falsified reality. It was one of those problems that had no correct answer. Jules sided with the realists, and kept the star gate circuit switched off unless the studio asked for it.

  At any moment, he would have some action for Earth. Already the news networks had taken flashes—general views of the mountains, slow pans across the Sea, close-ups of that lonely marker sticking through the dust. But before long, and perhaps for hours on end, his camera might well be the eyes of several billion people. This feature was either going to be a bust, or the biggest story of the year.

  He fingered the talisman in his pocket. Jules Braques, Member of the Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers, would have been displeased had anyone accused him of carrying a lucky charm. On the other hand, he would have been very hard put to explain why he never brought out his little toy until the story he was covering was safely on the air.

  “Here they are!” yelled Spenser, his voice revealing the strain under which he had been laboring. He lowered his binoculars and glanced at the camera. “You’re too far off to the right!”

  Jules was already panning. On the monitor screen, the geometrical smoothness of the far horizon had been broken at last; two tiny, twinkling stars had appeared on that perfect arc dividing Sea and space. The dust-skis were coming up over the face of the Moon.

  Even with the longest focus of the zoom lens, they looked small and distant. That was the way Jules wanted it; he was anxious to give the impression of loneliness, emptiness. He shot a quick glance at the ship’s main screen, now tuned to the Interplanet channel. Yes, they were carrying him.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small diary, and laid it on top of the camera. He lifted the cover, which locked into position just short of the vertical—and immediately became alive with color and movement. At the same time a faint gnat-sized voice started to tell him that this was a special program of the Interplanet News Service, Channel One Oh Seven—and We Will Now Be Taking You Over to the Moon.

  On the tiny screen was the picture he was seeing directly on his monitor. No—not quite the same picture. This was the one he had captured two and a half seconds ago; he was looking that far into the past. In those two and a halt million microseconds—to change to the time scale of the electronic engineer—this scene had undergone many adventures and transformations. From his camera it had been piped to Auriga’s transmitter, and beamed straight up to Lagrange, fifty thousand kilometers overhead. There it had been snatched out of space, boosted a few hundred times, and sped Earthward to be caught by one or another of the satellite relays. Then down through the ionosphere—that last hundred kilometers the hardest of all—to the Interplanet Building, where its adventures really began, as it joined the ceaseless flood of sounds and sights and electrical impulses which informed and amused a substantial fraction of the human race.

  And here it was again, after passing through the hands of program directors and special-effects departments and engineering assistants—right back where it started, broadcast over the whole of Earthside from the high-power transmitter on Lagrange II, and over the whole of Farside from Lagrange I. To span the single hand’s breadth from Jules’s TV camera to his pocket-diary receiver, that image had traveled three quarters of a million kilometers.

  He wondered if it was worth the trouble. Men had been wondering that ever since television was invented.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Lawrence spotted Auriga while he was still fifteen kilometers away; he could scarcely have failed to do so, for she was a conspicuous object, as the sunlight glistened from her plastic and metal.

  What the devil’s that? he asked himself, and answered the question at once. It was obviously a ship, and he remembered hearing vague rumors that some news network had chartered a flight to the mountains. That was not his business, though at one time he himself had looked into the question of landing equipment there, to cut out this tedious haul across the Sea. Unfortunately, the plan wouldn’t work. There was no safe landing point within five hundred meters of Sea level; the ledge that had been so convenient for Spenser was at too great an altitude to be of use.

  The Chief Engineer was not sure that he liked the idea of having his every move watched by long-focus lenses up in the hills—not that there was anything he could do about it. He had already vetoed an attempt to put a camera on his ski—to the enormous relief, though Lawrence did not know it, of Interplanet News, and the extreme frustration of the other services. Then he realized that it might well be useful having a ship only a few kilometers away. It would provide an additional information channel, and perhaps they could utilize its services in some other way. It might even provide hospitality until the igloos could be ferried out.

  Where was the marker? Surely it should be in sight by now! For an uncomfortable moment Lawrence thought that it had fallen down and disappeared into the dust. That would not stop them finding Selene, of course, but it might delay them five or ten minutes at a time when every second was vital.

  He breathed a sigh of relief; he had overlooked the thin shaft against the blazing background of the mountains. His pilot had already spotted their goal and had changed course slightly to head toward it.

  The skis coasted to a halt on either side of the marker, and at once erupted into activity. Eight space-suited figures started unshipping roped bundles and large cylindrical drums at a great speed, according to the prearranged plan. Swiftly, the raft began to take shape as its slotted metal framework was bolted into position round the drums, and the light Fiberglas flooring was laid across it.

  No construction job in the whole history of the Moon had ever been carried out in such a blaze of publicity, thanks to the watchful eye in the mountains. But once they had started work, the eight men on the skis were totally unconscious of the millions looking over their shoulders. All that mattered to them now was getting that raft in position, and fixing the jigs which would guide the hollow, life-bearing drills down to their target.

  Every five minutes, or less, Lawrence spoke to Selene, keeping Pat and McKenzie informed of progress. The fact that he was also informing the anxiously waiting world scarcely crossed his mind.

  At last, in an incredible twenty minutes, the drill was ready, its first five-meter section poised like a harpoon ready to plunge into the Sea. But this harpoon was designed to bring life, not death.

  “We’re coming down,” said Lawrence. “The first section’s going in now.”

  “You’d better hurry,” whispered Pat. “I can’t hold out much longer.”

  He seemed to be moving in a fog; he could not remember a time when it was not there. Apart from the dull ache in his lungs, he was not really uncomfortable—merely incredibly, unbelievably tired. He was now no more than a robot, going about a task whose meaning he had long ago forgotten, if indeed he had ever known it. There was a wrench in his hand; he had taken it out of the tool kit hours ago, knowing that it would be needed. Perhaps it would remind him of what he had to do when the time came.

  From a great distance, it seemed, he heard a snatch of conversation that was obviously not intended for him. Someone had forgotten to switch channels.

  “We should have fixed it so that the drill could be unscrewed from this end. Suppose he’s too weak to do it?”

  “We had to take the risk; the extra fittings would have delayed us at least an hour. Give me that—“

  Then the circuit went dead; but Pat had heard enough to make him angry—or as angry as a man could be, in his halfstupefied condition. He’d show them—he and his good pal Doctor Mac—Mac what? He could no longer remember the name.

  He turned slowly round in his swiveling seat and looked back along the Golgotha-like shambles of the cabin. For a moment he could not find the physicist among the other tumbled bodies; then he saw that he was kneeling beside Mrs. Williams, whose dates of birth and death now looked like being very close together. Mc
Kenzie was holding the oxygen mask over her face, quite unaware of the fact that the telltale hiss of gas from the cylinder had ceased, and the gauge had long ago reached zero.

  “We’re almost there,” said the radio. “You should hear us hit at any minute.”

  So soon? thought Pat. But, of course, a heavy tube would slice down through the dust almost as quickly as it could be lowered. He thought he was very clever to deduce this.

  Bang! Something had hit the roof. But where?

  “I can hear you,” he whispered. “You’ve reached us.”

  “We know,” answered the voice. “We can feel the contact. But you have to do the rest. Can you tell where the drill’s touching? Is it in a clear section of the roof, or is it over the wiring? We’ll raise and lower it several times, to help you locate it.”

  Pat felt rather aggrieved at this. It seemed terribly unfair that he should have to decide such a complicated matter.

  Knock, knock went the drill against the roof. He couldn’t for the life of him (why did that phrase seem so appropriate?) locate the exact position of the sound. Well, they had nothing to lose.

  “Go ahead,” he murmured. “You’re in the clear.” He had to repeat it twice before they understood his words.

  Instantly—they were quick off the pad up there—the drill started whirring against the outer hull. He could hear the sound very distinctly, more beautiful than any music.

  The bit was through the first obstacle in less than a minute. He heard it race, then stop as the motor was cut. Then the operator lowered it the few centimeters to the inner hull, and started it spinning again.

  The sound was much louder now, and could be pinpointed exactly. It came, Pat was mildly disconcerted to note, from very close to the main cable conduit, along the center of the roof. If it went through that . . .

  Slowly and unsteadily he got to his feet and walked over to the source of the sound. He had just reached it when there was a shower of dust from the ceiling, a sudden spitting of electricity—and the main lights went out.

  Luckily, the emergency lighting remained on. It took Pat’s eyes several seconds to adapt to the dim red glow. Then he saw that a metal tube was protruding through the roof. It moved slowly downward until it had traveled half a meter into the cabin; and there it stopped.

  The radio was talking in the background, saying something that he knew was very important. He tried to make sense of it as he fitted the wrench around the bit head, and tightened the screw adjustment.

  “_Don’t_ undo the bit until we tell you,” said that remote voice. “We had no time to fit a nonreturn valve—the pipe’s open to vacuum at this end. We’ll tell you as soon as we’re ready. I repeat, don’t remove the bit until we say so.”

  Pat wished the man would stop bothering him; he knew exactly what to do. If he leaned with all his might on the handle of the wrench—so—the drill head would come off, and he’d be able to breathe again.

  Why wasn’t it moving? He tried once more.

  “My God,” said the radio. “Stop that! We’re not ready! You’ll lose all your air!”

  Just a minute, thought Pat, ignoring the distraction. There’s something wrong here. A screw can turn this way—or that way. Suppose I’m tightening it up, when I should be doing the opposite?

  This was horribly complicated. He looked at his right hand, then his left; neither seemed to help. (Nor did that silly man shouting on the radio.) Well, he could try the other way and see if that was better.

  With great dignity, he performed a complete circuit of the tube, keeping one arm wrapped around it. As he fell on the wrench from the other side, he grabbed it with both hands to keep himself from collapsing. For a moment he rested against it, head bowed.

  “Up periscope,” he mumbled. Now what on Earth did that mean? He had no idea, but he had heard it somewhere and it seemed appropriate.

  He was still puzzling over the matter when the drill head started to unscrew beneath his weight, very easily and smoothly.

  Fifteen meters above, Chief Engineer Lawrence and his assistants stood for a moment almost paralyzed with horror. This was something that no one could ever have imagined; they had thought of a hundred other accidents, but not this.

  “Coleman—Matsui!” snapped Lawrence. “Connect up that oxygen line, for God’s sake!”

  Even as he shouted at them, he knew that it would be too late. There were two connections still to be made before the oxygen circuit was closed. And, of course, they were screw threads, not quick-release couplings. Just one of those little points that normally wouldn’t matter in a thousand years, but now made all the difference between life and death.

  Like Samson at the mill, Pat trudged round and round the pipe, pushing the handle of the wrench before him. It offered no opposition, even in his present feeble state. By now the bit had unscrewed more than two centimeters; surely it would fall off in a few more seconds.

  Ah—almost there. He could hear a faint hissing, that grew steadily as the bit unwound. That would be oxygen rushing into the cabin, of course. In a few seconds, he would be able to breathe again, and all his troubles would be over.

  The hiss had deepened to an ominous whistling, and for the first time Pat began to wonder if he was doing precisely the right thing. He stopped, looked thoughtfully at the wrench, and scratched his head. His slow mental processes could find no fault with his action; if the radio had given him orders then, he might have obeyed, but it had abandoned the attempt.

  Well, back to work. (It was years since he’d had a hangover like this.) He started to push on the wrench once more-and fell flat on his face as the drill came loose.

  In the same instant, the cabin reverberated with a screaming roar, and a gale started all the loose papers fluttering like autumn leaves. A mist of condensation formed as the air, chilled by its sudden expansion, dumped its moisture in a thick fog. When Pat turned over on his back, conscious at last of what had happened, he was almost blinded by the mist around him.

  That scream meant only one thing to a trained spaceman, and his automatic reactions had taken over now. He must find some flat object that could be slid over the hole; anything would do, if it was fairly strong.

  He looked wildly around him in the crimson fog, which was already thinning as it was sucked into space. The noise was deafening; it seemed incredible that so small a pipe could make such a scream.

  Staggering over his unconscious companions, clawing his way from seat to seat, he had almost abandoned hope when he saw the answer to his prayer. There lay a thick volume, open face downward on the floor where it had been dropped. Not the right way to treat books, he thought, but he was glad that someone had been careless. He might never have seen it otherwise.

  When he reached the shrieking orifice that was sucking the life out of the cruiser, the book was literally torn from his hands and flattened against the end of the pipe. The sound died instantly, as did the gale. For a moment Pat stood swaying like a drunken man; then he quietly folded at the knees and pitched to the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The really unforgettable moments of TV are those which no one expects, and for which neither cameras nor commentators are prepared. For the last thirty minutes, the raft had been the site of feverish but controlled activity—then, without warning, it had erupted.

  Impossible though that was, it seemed as if a geyser had spouted from the Sea of Thirst. Automatically, Jules tracked that ascending column of mist as it drove toward the stars (they were visible now; the director had asked for them). As it rose, it expanded like some strange, attenuated plant—or like a thinner, feebler version of the mushroom cloud that had terrorized two generations of mankind.

  It lasted only for a few seconds, but in that time it held unknown millions frozen in front of their screens, wondering how a waterspout could possibly have reared itself from this arid sea. Then it collapsed and died, still in the same uncanny silence in which it had been born.

  To the men on the raft tha
t geyser of moisture-laden air was equally silent, but they felt its vibration as they struggled to get the last coupling into place. They would have managed, sooner or later, even if Pat had not cut off the flow, for the forces involved were quite trivial. But their “later” might have been too late. Perhaps, indeed, it already was. . . .

  “Calling Selene! Calling Selene!” shouted Lawrence. “Can you hear me?”

  There was no reply. The cruiser’s transmitter was not operating; he could not even hear the sounds her mike should be picking up inside the cabin.

  “Connections ready, sir,” said Coleman. “Shall I turn on the oxygen generator?”

  It won’t do any good, thought Lawrence, if Harris has managed to screw that damned bit back into place. I can only hope he’s merely stuffed something into the end of the tube, and that we can blow it out.

  “O.K.” he said. “Let her go—all the pressure you can get.”

  With a sudden bang, the battered copy of The Orange and the Apple was blasted away from the pipe to which it had been vacuum-clamped. Out of the open orifice gushed an inverted fountain of gas, so cold that its outline was visible in ghostly swirls of condensing water vapor.

  For several minutes the oxygen geyser roared without producing any effect. Then Pat Harris slowly stirred, tried to get up, and was knocked back to the ground by the concentrated jet. It was not a particularly powerful jet, but it was stronger than he was in his present state.