by Jerry
“You’re nursemaid, then.”
“I suppose you could call it that.”
KLEIN said, “You’re not a scientist, are you?”
“No, you should know that. I came as the pilot of the first ship. We made the bunker out of parts of the ship so there wasn’t anything to go back on. I’m a good mechanic and I made myself useful with the machinery. When it occurred to us that somebody was going to have to stay over, I volunteered. I thought the others were so important that it was better they should take their samples and data back to Earth when the first relief ship came.”
“You wouldn’t do it again, though, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Do you think Dahl will do as good a job as you’ve done here?”
Chapman frowned. “Frankly, I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t believe I care. I’ve put in my time; it’s somebody else’s turn now. He volunteered for it. I think I was fair in explaining all about the job when you talked it over among yourselves.”
“You did, but I don’t think Dahl’s the man for it. He’s too young, too much of a kid. He volunteered because he thought it made him look like a hero. He doesn’t have the judgment that an older man would have. That you have.” Chapman turned slowly around and faced Klein.
“I’m not the indispensable man,” he said slowly, “and even if I was, it wouldn’t make any difference to me. I’m sorry if Dahl is young. So was I. I’ve lost three years up here. And I don’t intend to lose any more.”
Klein held up his hands. “Look, Chap, I didn’t mean you should stay. I know how much you hate it and the time you put in up here. It’s just—” His voice trailed away. “It’s just that I think it’s such an important job.”
Klein had gone out in a last search for rocks and Chapman enjoyed one of his relatively few moments of privacy. He wandered over to his bunk and opened his bag. He checked the underwear and his toothbrush and shaving kit for maybe the hundredth time and pushed the clothing down farther. It was foolish because the bag was already packed and had been for a week. He remembered stalling it off for as long as he could and then the quiet satisfaction about a week before, when he had opened his small gear locker and transferred its meager belongings to the bag.
He hadn’t actually needed to pack, of course. In less than twenty-four hours he’d be back on Earth, where he could drown himself in toothpaste and buy more tee shirts than he could wear in a lifetime. He could leave behind his shorts and socks and the outsize shirts he had inherited from—who was it?—of the First Group. Dahl could probably use them or maybe one of the boys in the Third.
BUT it wasn’t like going home unless you packed. It was part of the ritual, like marking off the last three weeks in pencil on the gray steel of the bulkhead beside his hammock. Just a few hours ago, when he woke up, he had made the last check mark and signed his name and the date. His signature was right beneath Dixon’s.
He frowned when he thought of Dixon and slid back the catch on the top of the bag and locked it. They should never have sent a kid like Dixon to the Moon.
He had just locked the bag when he heard the rumble of the airlock and the soft hiss of air. Somebody had come back earlier than expected. He watched the inner door swing open and the spacesuited figure clump in and open its helmet.
Dahl. He had gone out to help Dowden on the Schmidt telescope. Maybe Dowden hadn’t needed any help, with Bening along. Or more likely, considering the circumstances, Dahl wasn’t much good at helping anybody today.
Dahl stripped off his suit. His face was covered with light beads of sweat and his eyes were frightened.
He moistened his lips slightly. “Do—do you think they’ll ever have relief ships up here more often than every eighteen months, Chap? I mean, considering the advance of—”
“No,” Chapman interrupted bluntly. “I don’t. Not at least for ten years. The fuel’s too expensive and the trip’s too hazardous. On freight charges alone you’re worth your weight in platinum when they send you up here. Even if it becomes cheaper, Bob, it won’t come about so it will shorten stopover right away.” He stopped, feeling a little sorry for Dahl. “It won’t be too bad. There’ll be new men up here and you’ll pass a lot of time getting to know them.”
“Well, you see,” Dahl started, “that’s why I came back early. I wanted to see you about stopover. It’s that—well, I’ll put it this way.” He seemed to be groping for an easy way to say what he wanted to. “I’m engaged back home. Really nice girl, Chap; you’d like her if you knew her.” He fumbled in his pocket and found a photograph and put it on the desk. “That’s a picture of Alice, taken at a picnic we were on together.” Chapman didn’t look. “She—we—expected to be married when I got back. I never told her about stopover, Chap. She thinks I’ll be home tomorrow. I kept thinking, hoping, that maybe somehow—”
He was fumbling it badly, Chapman thought.
“You wanted to trade places with me, didn’t you, Bob? You thought I might stay for stopover again, in your place?” It hurt to look in Dahl’s eyes. They were the eyes of a man who was trying desperately to stop what he was about to do, but just couldn’t help himself.
“Well, yes, more or less. Chap, I know you want to go home! But I couldn’t ask any of the others; you were the only one who could, the only one who was qualified!”
DAHL looked as though he was going to be sick. Chapman tried to recall all he knew about him. Dahl, Robert. Good mathematician. Graduate from one of the Ivy League schools. Father was a manufacturer of stoves or something.
It still didn’t add, not quite. “You know I don’t like it here any more than you do,” Chapman said slowly. “I may have commitments at home too. What made you think I would change my mind?”
Dahl took the plunge. “Well, you see,” he started eagerly, too far gone to remember such a thing as pride, “you know my father’s pretty well fixed. We would make it worth your while, Chap.” He was feverish. “It would mean eighteen more months, Chap, but they’d be well-paid months!” Chapman felt tired. The good feeling he had about going home was slowly evaporating.
“If you have any report to make, I think you had better get at it,” he cut in, keeping all the harshness he felt out of his voice. “It’ll be too late after the relief ship leaves. It’ll be easier to give the captain your report than try to radio it back to Earth from here.”
He felt sorrier for Dahl than he could ever remember having felt for anybody. Long after going home, Dahl would remember this. It would eat at him like a cancer.
Cowardice is the one thing for which no man ever forgives himself.
DONLEY was eating a sandwich and looking out the port, so, naturally, he saw the ship first. “Well, whaddya know!” he shouted. “We got company!” He dashed for his suit. Dowden and Bening piled after him and all three started for the lock.
Chapman was standing in front of it. “Check your suits,” he said softly. “Just be sure to check.”
“Oh, what the hell, Chap!” Donley started angrily. Then he shut up and went over his suit. He got to his tank and turned white. Empty. It was only half a mile to the relief rocket, so somebody would probably have got to him in time, but . . . He bit his lips and got a full tank.
Chapman and Klein watched them dash across the pumice, making the tremendous leaps they used to read about in the Sunday supplements. The port of the rocket had opened and tiny figures were climbing down the ladder. The small figures from the bunker reached them and did a short jig of welcome. Then the figures linked arms and started back. Chapman noticed one—it was probably Donley—pat the ship affectionately before he started back.
They were in the lock and the air pumped in and then they were in the bunker, taking off their suits. The newcomers were impressed and solemn, very much aware of the tremendous responsibility that rested on their shoulders. Like Donley and Klein and the members of the Second Group had been when they had landed. Like Chapman had been in the First.
Donley and the o
thers were all over them.
HOW was it back on Earth? Who had won the series? Was so-and-so still teaching at the university? What was the international situation?
Was the sky still blue, was the grass still green, did the leaves still turn color in the autumn, did people still love and cry and were there still people who didn’t know what an atom was and didn’t give a damn?
Chapman had gone through it all before. But was Ginny still Ginny?
Some of the men in the Third had their luggage with them. One of them—a husky, red-faced kid named Williams—was opening a box about a foot square and six inches deep. Chapman watched him curiously.
Klein said, “Hey, guys, look what we’ve got here!”
Chapman and the others crowded around and suddenly Donley leaned over and took a deep breath. In the box, covering a thick layer of ordinary dirt, was a plot of grass. They looked at it, awed. Klein put out his hand and laid it on top of the grass.
“I like the feel of it,” he said simply.
Chapman cut off a single blade with his fingernail and put it between his lips. It had been years since he had seen grass and had the luxury of walking on it and lying on its cool thickness during those sultry summer nights when it was too hot to sleep indoors.
Williams said, “I thought we could spare a little water for it and maybe use the lamp on it some of the time. Couldn’t help but bring it along; it seemed sort of like a symbol . . .” He looked embarrassed.
Chapman sympathized. If he had had any sense, he’d have tried to smuggle something like that up to the Moon instead of his phonograph.
“That’s valuable grass,” Dahl said sharply. “Do you realize that at current freight rates up here, it’s worth about ten dollars a blade?”
Williams looked stricken and somebody said, “Oh, shut up, Dahl.”
One of the men separated from the group and came over to Chapman. He held out his hand and said, “My name’s Eberlein. Captain of the relief ship. I understand you’re in charge here.”
Chapman nodded and shook hands. They hadn’t had a captain on the first ship. Just a pilot and crew. Eberlein looked every inch a captain, too. Craggy face, gray hair, the firm chin of a man who was sure of himself.
“You might say I’m in charge here,” Chapman said. “Well, look, Mr. Chapman, is there any place where we can talk together privately?”
They walked over to one corner of the bunker. “This is about as private as we can get, Captain,” Chapman said. “What’s on your mind?”
EBERLEIN found a packing crate and made himself comfortable. He looked at Chapman.
“I’ve always wanted to meet the man who’s spent more time here than anybody else,” he began.
“I’m sure you wanted to see me for more reasons than just curiosity.”
Eberlein took out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”
Chapman jerked a thumb toward Dahl. “Ask him. He’s in charge now.”
The captain didn’t bother. He put the pack away. “You know we have big plans for the station,” he said.
“I hadn’t heard of them.”
“Oh, yes, big plans. They’re working on unmanned, open-side rockets now that could carry cargo and sheet steel for more bunkers like this. Enable us to enlarge the unit, have a series of bunkers all linked together. Make good laboratories and living quarters for you people.” His eyes swept the room. “Have a little privacy for a change.”
Chapman nodded. “They could use a little privacy up here.”
The captain noticed the pronoun. “Well, that’s one of the reasons why I wanted to talk to you, Chapman. The Commission talked it over and they’d like to see you stay. They feel if they’re going to enlarge it, add more bunkers and have more men up here, that a man of practical experience should be running things. They figure that you’re the only man who’s capable and who’s had the experience.”
The captain vaguely felt the approach was all wrong.
“Is that all?”
Eberlein was ill at ease. “Naturally you’d be paid well. I don’t imagine any man would like being here all the time. They’re prepared to double your salary—maybe even a bonus in addition—and let you have full charge. You’d be Director of the Luna Laboratories.”
All this and a title too, Chapman thought.
“That’s it?” Chapman asked.
Eberlein frowned. “Well, the Commission said they’d be willing to consider anything else you had in mind, if it was more money or . . .”
“The answer is no,” Chapman said. “I’m not interested in more money for staying because I’m not interested in staying. Money can’t buy it, Captain. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that you’d have to stay up here to appreciate that.
“Bob Dahl is staying for stopover. If there’s something important about the project or impending changes, perhaps you’d better tell him before you go.”
He walked away.
CHAPMAN held the letter in both hands, but the paper still shook. The others had left the bunker, the men of the Second taking those of the Third in hand to show them the machinery and apparatus that was outside, point out the deadly blisters underneath the pumice covering, and show them how to keep out of the Sun and how to watch their air supply.
He was glad he was alone. He felt something trickle down his face and tasted salt on his lips.
The mail had been distributed and he had saved his latest letter until the others had left so he could read it in privacy. It was a short letter, very short.
It stated: “Dear Joel: This isn’t going to be a nice letter, but I thought it best that you should know before you came home.”
There was more to it, but he hadn’t even needed to read it to know what it said. It wasn’t original, of course. Women who change their minds weren’t exactly an innovation, either.
He crumpled the paper and held a match to it and watched it burn on the steel floor.
Three years had been a long time to keep loving a man who was a quarter of a million miles away. She could look up in the night sky when she was out with somebody else now and tell him how she had once been engaged to the Man in the Moon.
It would make good conversation. It would be funny. A joke.
He got up and walked over to his phonograph and put the record on. The somewhat scratchy voice sang about home as if nothing had happened.
The home food’s the spreadiest,
The old wine’s the headiest,
The old pals the readiest,
The home gal’s the steadiest,
The love the liveliest,
The life the loveliest,
Way back home.
The record caught and started repeating the last line.
He hadn’t actually wanted to play it. It had been an automatic response. He had played it lots of times before when he had thought of Earth. Of going home.
He crossed over and threw the record across the bunker.
The others came back into the bunker and the men of the Second started grabbing their bags and few belongings and getting ready to leave. Dahl sat in a corner, a peculiar expression on his face. He looked as if he wanted to cry and yet still felt that the occasion was one for rejoicing.
Chapman walked over to him. “Get your stuff and leave with the others, Dahl.” His voice was quiet and hard.
Dahl looked up, opened his mouth to say something, and then shut up. Donley and Bening and Dowden were already in the airlock, ready to leave. Klein caught the conversation and came over. He gripped Chapman’s arm.
“What’s going on, Chap? Get your bag and let’s go. I know just the bistro to throw a wing-ding when we get—”
“I’m not going back,” Chapman said.
Klein looked annoyed, not believing him. “Come on, what’s the matter with you? You suddenly decide you don’t like the blue sky and trees and stuff? Let’s go!”
The men in the lock were looking at them questioningly. Some members of the Third looked embarrassed, like outsiders
caught in a family argument.
“Look, Julius, I’m not going back,” Chapman repeated dully. “I haven’t anything to go back for.”
“You’re doing a much braver thing than you may think,” a voice cut in. It belonged to Eberlein.
Chapman looked at him. Eberlein flushed, then turned and walked stiffly to the lock to join the others.
Just before the inner door of the lock shut, they could hear Chapman, his hands on his hips, breaking in the Third on how to be happy and stay healthy on the Moon. His voice was ragged and strained and sounded like a top-sergeant’s.
DAHL and Eberlein stood in the outer port of the relief ship, staring back at the research bunker. It was half hidden in the shadows of a rocky overhang that protected it from meteorites.
“They kidded him a lot this morning,” Dahl said. “They said he had found a home on the Moon.”
“If we had stayed an hour or so more, he might have changed his mind and left, after all,” Eberlein mused, his face a thoughtful mask behind his air helmet.
“I offered him money,” Dahl said painfully. “I was a coward and I offered him money to stay in my place.” His face was bitter and full of disgust for himself.
Eberlein turned to him quickly and automatically told him the right thing.
“We’re all cowards once in a while,” he said earnestly. “But your offer of money had nothing to do with his staying. He stayed because he had to stay, because we made him stay.”
“I don’t understand,” Dahl said.
“Chapman had a lot to go home for. He was engaged to be married.” Dahl winced. “We got her to write him a letter breaking it off. We knew it meant that he lost one of his main reasons for wanting to go back. I think, perhaps, that he still would have left if we had stayed and argued him into going. But we left before he could change his mind.”
