by Jerry
“Why?”
“Because he’d told Lacey he’d meet him there. He never forgot it. It became an obsession towards the end. His last words were, ‘I told Jim I’d meet him’.”
They crossed the town, landed at the base of an enormous quartzite rock. They got out and stared up at it. It soared for two hundred feet, the facets of its crystals glittering in the sun.
“The Needle,” informed Buhl. “It’s not unique. There are other formations like it. We dug up’ Lacey’s bones and buried them here. We buried Harlow with them.”
He led the way around to the front of The Needle. A plain, unadorned grave lay at its foot. On the face of the rock a skilled mason had polished a square yard of crystal and cut a neat inscription thereon.
All it said was:
James Lacey
and
William Harlow
THEY MET.
END
GLIMPSES OF THE MOON
Wallace West
In all history, I know of only one true, three-cornered war. This might have made a second . . . except for a fourth party . . .
Someday . . . we are going to see something not to our liking, some looming shape outside there across the great pond of space
LOREN EISELEY
“The Immense Journey”
Butter-yellow morning sunshine caressed porticoes of The Hague’s stately Peace Palace. It splashed like a blessing across the wide square and through windows of the Officers’ Club. It highlighted the faces of diplomats, lawyers, correspondents and other club members while dimming a still photograph of the Moon on a TV set in the lounge.
“. . . And yet, my friends,” a baritone voice was soaring from the set’s loudspeaker, “my words cannot hope to convey the majesty—the grandeur—of the scene before me. I stand, proud and lonely, upon a silent peak of Copernicus. Before me, a sun-drenched crater stretches to glimmering distances. Behind me towers my ship, where my valiant crew awaits my order to debark. Above me, the cloud-swathed Earth turns visibly as Alaska sinks beyond my sight . . .”
“Oh me, oh my!” snorted Gerald Fortesque, United Press International correspondent. “Eleven first-person-singular pronouns in thirty seconds. That must be a record. No mistake, folks. Horace is there.”
“Shhh!” came annoyed whispers from the listeners.
“I feel I must express my humility and my solemn joy,” the voice chanted. “Words fail me . . .”
“For the first time, I’ll bet,” Fortesque interjected.
“Shut your big mouth, Gerry!” someone yelled.
“I can only quote those exquisite lines by Keats:
My spirit is too weak—mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep
And each imagin’d pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship, tells me I must die
Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky.”
Static sputtered warningly.
“And now I fulfill my lifelong dream. In the presence of my Almighty God, and through power vested in me, Air Force Colonel Horace Brown, by my President, I plant the Stars and Stripes forever on Copernicus and take possession of the Moon for the United States of America. I . . .”
The static rose to a crescendo.
“Sick Eagle timed it perfectly,” Fortesque said to an old man seated beside him as the Moon photo on the TV tube was replaced by a well-known face. “One minute earlier with that grandstand play and the President would have had a chance to cut Horrie down to size. But he finished just as the shortwave station at Unimak lost contact. Our phony Cortez will go far, won’t he, Your Honor?”
“Farther than the White House, perhaps,” Judge George Gavin, U. S. representative on the International Court of Justice, agreed. “Unless the Russians put a flea in his jets.”
“How can they do that?” someone asked. “Americans have got to the Moon first.”
“Space law is peculiar, Herr Gottlieb,” Gavin replied. “Let us tune in Moscow.”
That channel was off the air. A test pattern announced in several languages that “A direct telecast from the Moon will be presented shortly through the Vladivostok relay.”
“Live?” Fortesque perked up. “Oh no! They couldn’t have carried TV equipment. It’s too heavy.”
“Our ship is larger than yours.” Judge Prybylowski, Polish member of the court, was trying to salve his Slavic pride.
“And slow!” said a voice with a burr in it. “ ’Tis the Yanks who’ve won. I owe Judge Gavin ten pounds. A pity Her Majesty’s ship developed fuel trouble at the start of the race.”
“Keep your money for a time, MacGregor,” said the jurist.
“What do you mean, sir?” Fortesque scented a story. The test pattern dissolved to show the head of a commentator.
“We take you now to Copernicus,” he said in Russian and repeated in English, French, Spanish, Italian and Arabic.
The TV screen focused on a full Moon and zoomed toward it.
“Wunderbar!” Gottlieb said grudgingly. “Those Russians have no precision equipment and no technologists. Yet they can do this!”
Copernicus wheeled into line and grew like a fang-studded maw.
“How are they managing this, Harry?” Fortesque asked.
“They have picked up a running telecast from the ship, taped it, and cut it,” NBC’s string man answered from the back of the room. “Sweet job, though I hate to admit it.”
The crater rim lunged at them.
“We’re going to crash!” someone yelled, then joined sheepishly in the laughter.
The camera dollied back as retro-rockets blazed outside a port. The ship jarred to a landing. Clouds of pumice billowed and flopped to the Moon’s surface like powdered lead.
The camera nonchalantly studied the needle-nosed American ship poised three miles away, then surveyed the interior of the Soviet craft. Its visible crew members—two young men and an intensely pretty blonde—gave a last check to their instruments, stood up awkwardly, kissed one another on both cheeks, and suited up.
“That Captain Ivanovna!” Gerry sighed. “For just one smile I might defect.”
“Schweinehund!” Herr Gottlieb muttered.
Fortesque ignored that as he watched the explorers uncase a crimson banner, unscrew a port and clamber gingerly to Luna firma. They tried to march smartly to the crater edge, bounced in the low gravity, but got there somehow. Wedging the base of a pole into a crevice, they levered the flag into position.
Harry erupted. “They’re plagiarizing the flag-raising we staged in Iwo Jima! This scene will knock the unfree world on its ear. Whoever’s handling that camera is a cockeyed genius.”
Captain Ivanovna saluted the limp emblem and faced them. The ship provided perfect background. Rays from a setting sun highlighted her snubnosed face. Her full lips moved.
A few seconds later her husky contralto came through, first in Russian and then in English.
“The crew of Vostok X hereby takes possession of the Moon for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”
The screen flashed fireworks as Russia’s anthem blared.
“Clever ploy!” Judge Gavin said.
“Judge!” Gerry gripped his arm. “Let’s get out of here before Harry or the other newshawks catch on. I want an exclusive.”
As they ordered breakfast at one of The Hague’s restaurants, Gavin surveyed his friend.
“Before we start this interview,” he said, enunciating with great care, “tell me what you have against Colonel Brown.”
“Oh, he’s the goof who tries to operate automatic elevators,” Gerry hedged. “You know: pushes the ‘Door Close’ and ‘Door Open’ buttons. Makes like an operator.”
“Come now, boy!”
“He once ruined my only good suit, sir. That was when I was UPI Bureau Manager at Indianapolis. Earlier that year the British ship had crashed after circumnavigating the Moon. When Horrie repeated the stunt and brought his rocket back for a safe landing he became an interna
tional hero. He was asked to fly his own plane on a whirlwind world tour.
“In those days he hadn’t learned to treat reporters like pals. He despised them. When he landed at the Indianapolis airport on a rainy day and saw a crowd of us waiting to interview him he pushed the rudder over, gunned his jets and sprayed us with water and oil as he taxied down the field.”
“A childish grudge.” Gavin chuckled.
“Maybe. But a new suit cost me two weeks’ pay.”
“How about a spot of kirschwasser to smooth your ruffled feathers?
“You know you can’t quote me, Gerry,” he continued after a startled waiter had served the untimely aperitif. “Judges must appear impartial.”
“Just tell me what’s going on. I’ll find some American big shot who likes to get his name in print and quote him as competent authority. Ivanovna must have monitored Brown’s broadcast. From where I sit, it looks as if she made a fool of herself and her government. What gives?”
While the hovering waiter shuddered, Gavin drew two circles, one large and one small, on the tablecloth.
“Earth here. Moon there,” he said as he sipped. “The United States, from Maine to Alaska, covers some one hundred five degrees of longitude. Right?”
“Yeah . . . I guess so.”
“And, according to international law and custom, any nation owns everything that lies under or over it from the center of the Earth to the heavens above.’ ”
“Now wait a minute, Judge. No nation ever claimed that it owned a man-made satellite that passed over it.”
“Quite true, my boy, and for good reason. Any such claim would have been a legal fiction. It couldn’t be enforced, so the law can take no cognizance of it.
“But the Moon is not a man-made satellite. Look here.” He drew two diverging lines from the center of his big circumference so they passed on either side of the small circle. “Let’s say those lines pass through the eastern tip of Maine and the western tip of Alaska. While the Moon is above its horizon, therefore, the United States can claim ownership by right of discovery.”
“But while the Moon is above the one hundred eighty degrees or so of longitude covered by the Soviet Union, it has the right to claim ownership!” Gerry’s jaw dropped.
“Correct. And claim to prior discovery has nothing to do with the case.”
“But that’s impossible, sir. Surely, international lawyers have seen this coming and worked out some solution.”
“Oh, we’ve tried. We’ve tried.” Gavin lit a long pale cigar. “A committee on space law has been holding meetings regularly over the past ten years to consider the matter but it has never reached agreement.”
“Does the UN know about this legal tangle?”
“The Court so advised it. That was one reason why the United States and the Soviet Union reached a tentative agreement, back in 1963, that celestial bodies were not to be subject to national appropriation by claims of sovereignty, by means of use or occupation, or by any other means.’ That also was one reason why President Kennedy proposed his joint Moon venture.
“But that agreement was sabotaged in the UN General Assembly. Why? Because the boys who run the space shows for Moscow, Washington and London were all overconfident. Their intelligence services told each of them that the others were way behind schedule. The joint venture was sidetracked and this silly race was cooked up instead. Each group of ‘experts’ knew its ship was bound to win. The others wouldn’t get off the ground.”
“Like an amateur poker player trying to draw two cards to fill a straight.” Gerry grinned. “But only one card dropped when the British ship conked out. So why, when a dead heat developed, didn’t we split the pot with the Russians?” He stopped, fork halfway to mouth. “Why, that . . .”
“Exactly.” The jurist sipped black coffee. “Brown won by a nose and grasped a golden opportunity to play Cortez.”
“What a crazy grandstand play. Why didn’t the President countermand it?”
“He would have, I’m sure, except for the fact that Brown staged his coup just before radio contact was lost. Then it was too late. The flag-raising became a fait accompli. The President couldn’t slap down a hero who couldn’t talk back. He would have wrecked his party and ruined its chance of winning the election. Be your age, son.”
“You mean our twerp on the Moon has set American policy?”
“He has set world policy. Ivanovna took the only possible counteraction. A fast thinker, that girl. Brown must be raving.”
“This can mean a revival of the cold war, or even the start of a hot one.” Gerry groaned. “Surely something can be done.”
“What would you do if you were in Brown’s boots?”
“Me?” The reporter’s eyes grew dreamy. “I’d go over to the red ship and try making love to Ivanovna, bless her pretty nose. Afterward, we might sign a detente. But Horrie is not the wolfish type. He’ll shoot it out instead.”
“I don’t think so. He can’t attack the Russians during the hours that they own the Moon. That would be piracy according to international law and unthinkable with all the world watching. And they can’t attack him while he owns the Moon. Impasse!”
“You’re wrong, sir. There are four hours or so every day when the Moon is over the Atlantic Ocean or Western Europe and nobody owns it. What happens then?”
“A moot question. A very moot question.” Gavin pulled at an ear in deep thought. “We’re playing an interstellar game of ticktacktoe. A great pity that the British are out of it.”
“The Russians must be building their base right now,” Gerry exclaimed. “Let’s say they set up several pressurized huts before moonset over East Germany. Then, when the Moon rises over Maine, Horrie and his crew will march over and tear down those huts. According to your advisement, the Russians will have no cause to object.”
“Correct. You’ve missed your calling, son.”
“But later, when the Moon goes down over Alaska, the Russians march over to the U. S. camp that Brown will have started and . . . Glory! What a mess!”
“That’s why I told Ambassador MacGregor to keep his money. Neither of our sandcastle builders can set up a permanent base under international law as it stands today. They can only keep interfering with each other until their supplies run out and they have to hit for home. After that, when both sides bring their squabble before the Court, we judges will have to say, with Alexander Pope:
“ ‘Luxurious lobster nights, farewell,
For sober, studious days.’ ”
“Look, sir.” Fortesque gulped coffee and stood up. “I’ve got to find someone who’ll let me quote him, and get this story on the wires. What say we meet at the club at noon and see how much hell has broken loose?”
“I’m seventy-five and need my sleep,” Gavin replied as he removed the tip of a napkin from his collar. “We’ll meet here at this time tomorrow. I’ll be cantankerous as all get out by then, I warn you.”
“You can poke me in the eye, if you wish, in return for this scoop.” Gerry grinned at him before hurrying out into the Plein.
“You’re late,” the judge roared when Fortesque entered the crowded restaurant promptly at 8:00 a.m.
“Sorry, sir. I’ve been on the jump since I left you. The New York UPI office has . . .”
“Stop jumping and sit down. That witch of an Ivanovna has pulled another fast one. Listen to her!” Gavin pointed his finger at a TV set in one corner of the room.
“. . . Fully aware that the American imperialists would destroy any structure that we might build,” the girl was saying as she sat, relaxed and smiling, at the Soviet vehicle’s control panel, “we voted not to attempt any construction. Instead, we spent the time when we were in uncontested possession of the Moon on exploration. We are proud to report that the Moon has a very tenuous atmosphere but one that can be compressed sufficiently to support human life. A plentiful supply of water can be extracted from the rock strata. The coating of pumice, while treacherous in spots, is not impas
sable. When the Moon is internationalized it can be turned into a green world.”
“Churchill was right.” Gavin licked parched lips. “ ‘Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.’ ”
“We shall continue our explorations and report our findings each day to the United Nations and the world television audience,” Ivanovna went on, first in Russian and then in a clipped British accent. (Was Moscow transmitting a simultaneous translation? Gerry wondered. No, the lip movements were perfectly synchronized. The girl knew English.) “Naturally,” she continued serenely, “we shall use our daily period of Moon ownership to block any American attempt to construct a base here in flagrant defiance of international law. Daspedanya.”
“Where does it leave Horrie?” Gerry breathed as Ivanovna’s image faded.
“Up the well-known creek,” Gavin snorted. “What can he do but out-explore her? She has scooped him, as you would say.”
“Don’t underrate our champ,” said the newshawk. “Wait till he comes on the air.”
“Maybe you have something there,” said the judge. “I’m about to jump out of my skin. Let’s take a long walk. Help me up, confound you. My legs are shaky.”
Hand on his friend’s arm, Gavin tottered out into the Plein, which is The Hague’s central square.
“It’s poetic justice,” he said after a time, “that the Czar of all the Russias put this place on the map by calling the first peace conference here in 1899. That conference was to usher in the millennium. It didn’t.
“There was another peace conference in 1907; but it wasn’t until 1922 that the Czar’s dream, a Permanent Court of International Justice, held its first session. That court died an ignoble death in 1945, along with the League of Nations.
“There’s the Permanent Court’s mausoleum—the Temple of Peace built by Andrew Carnegie with money he sweated out of his steel workers. As added tourist attractions, The Hague boasts a cannon factory and a statue of Spinoza, its philosopher who discovered that man is an animal, albeit a social one.”
“The Permanent Court must have done some good,” Gerry said.
