by Earl
Harrington, usually emotionally stable, chuckled out loud as he remembered the frantic entreaties of the exporters to let the shipment of radium go through.
“But now here I am again. In one day I had heard all the news, in two visited all my friends, in three ready to die of ennui. . . .”
Harrington mentally reviled the restrictions under which he lived. Free to come and go over the face of the earth at will, something few other people ever hoped for, he chafed that he could not speed out into space in search of the new, the exciting. But an S.I.S. agent must be within beck and call of the government that managed things for the good of all, at the slight cost of the personal freedom of the individual.
Richard had often wished he lived three centuries before when space travel had first come into being and before the advent of the U.S.R.[5] In those days, he told himself, a man got up in the world by his own ambition, not by the learned help of the Bureau of Employment. Richard, as is common with most discontented men of any age, had an idealistic conception of the “good old days” when a man was his own master.
l But it was not often that he got himself into such an unhappy, dissatisfied mood as on this night. Ordinarily the Bureau of Adjustment of the U.S.R. kept him busy to the saturation point of even his active nature. By dint of his extraordinary powers of sagacity, diplomacy, and ingenuity, each of which he was blessed with to a great degree, he had become one of the Service’s most trusted and demanded agents for those tasks of adjustment in the affairs between the three worlds which required careful investigation. His weekly income of credits, translated into the money system of an earlier age, would have meant hundreds of dollars.
Harrington, about driven to distraction for want of suitable employment, was suddenly galvanized to attention. A buzzing had interrupted his hand as he was about to try again the visovox for entertainment. In a trice he leaped to his private telephone.
“Harrington speaking.”
“This is headquarters. Report to Chief Wilson within the hour.”
“Righto!”
With a slight smile on his calm face, Harrington, suitably dressed for an audience with his chief, left his rooms and headed for the “tubes.” At the central terminal he mingled with the crowd taking a through train to the central part of Chicago. His apartment hotel was located far along to the north on the shore of Lake Michigan. With hardly a sound, the express gathered speed and shot southward. Through towering building after building it sped, never getting closer to the ground than the fortieth story, beneath which the locals hummed. Swinging idly in his compensating seat, Richard conjectured as to what the call was for.
“Must be something important. Never had a call on such short notice before. . . . usually give me a day or so. Wonder what they’d have done if I had been someplace else than here in Chicago?. . . . sent for me by special rocket service?. . . . maybe.”
l In fifteen minutes he stepped out of the “tube,” almost bowled over a tall Martian, and raced for the elevator to take him to the ninetieth floor. In more minutes he stood before his chief. After a brief bow, which always made Harrington feel humiliated, returned by a nod of the chiefs head, he seated himself opposite the desk.
Chief Wilson of the Special Investigation Service of the Bureau of Adjustments of the United Socialistic Republic, to give him his full title, received his orders direct from London, in other words he was a “big shot,” London being the seat of the central government of the U.S.R. Tall and spare, he had the demeanor of a hawk. Beady, black eyes peered from a shrewd face. Quick in all his actions and words, he kept an alert mind on the responsible activity of his agents. The Chicago Branch (number 3) of the S.I.S. had a world-wide reputation, largely due to Wilson’s masterful supervision and the faithful services of such men as Harrington and others like him.
“Glad to see you, Harrington,” the chief opened the conversation. “Hope you enjoyed yourself in the last two weeks.”
“Well. . . . call it enjoyment, Chief, but. . . .”
Chief Wilson smiled. He knew his men, the man before him in particular. He was young, a mere twenty-five, but invaluable in the Service.
“Richard, I’ve got a commission for you. . . . of course. It’s a little different from most of them. No doubt you have heard of the Moon Mines?”
“I have, Chief, although my complete knowledge of them can be compressed into the words: there are mines on the moon.”
The chief nodded his head. Very few people knew much of anything about them.
“You will soon be gathering first hand data on that, Harrington. It’s this way. The metals on the moon are chiefly of the platinum and rhodium series, with some gold. Consequently, the mines are valuable holdings. To familiarize you with your task there, I think the best thing to do will be to start from the beginning.”
The chief composed himself more comfortably in his chair, and cleared his throat.
“Although there has been space travel now for three centuries and over, our own satellite was almost untouched till within the last fifty years. The first people to see commercial possibilities in mining on the moon, strange to say, were the Martians. They established themselves there quite firmly despite the terrific handicaps of a lack of atmosphere and the train of hazards which are a result of that lack of air. Forty years ago, at the close of the Two-World War, the military forces of our world decided to drive them off our rightful property. The armistice was signed before this was accomplished, but by agreement with Mars, the moon became unattached territory, to be exploited at will by either world.
“Today we find both the M.M.[6] and the U.S.R. operating there. Various stations have been set up by both governments, from which their respective mining operations originate. By mutual written arbitration, a section of moon-land is considered free for the taking till it is ‘claimed.’ Claims are filed and accepted by the joint interworld Moon Mines Council only upon submission of ore samples which prove the claimed territory to be valuable. The number and size of the claims are also limited. This, as is easily seen, prevents either government from annexing territory indiscriminately.
“The filing of claim applications, without going into detail, involves the exploration of the chosen spot by a mineralogist, assay of the ore samples he brings back, and accurate mapping. After the claim is acknowledged by the Council here on earth, work is begun in the tedious, dangerous way that obtains on that dead satellite.
“Four days ago a mineralogist left Station No. 7 on the Mare Nubium and never came back! We got the report by radio this afternoon.”
Harrington, keenly alert now that he was engaged in a commission that held much promise spoke as Wilson paused.
“If the moon is such a dangerous playground, why should the disappearance of one man cause any uproar?”
The chief squinted his eyes. “Harrington, you’re going to the moon to investigate the death or disappearance of Harvey Wood, their best mineralogist. . . . mind you, their best. . . . and it may be possible that the Ginzies are mixed up in this.”
Richard Harrington was no fool. He could tell in the chiefs tone that he was sure the Ginzies were connected with it.
“Now, Harrington, in the last three months there were three claims filed by our men and in each case there was found to be a Martian claim applied for a few hours before, just enough to beat out the U.S.R. applications!”
“And I am to find out if that is merely coincidence or. . . .?”
“Exactly. Now, Harrington, let me remind you that as matters stand today between Mars and Earth, any little entanglement is liable to result in bad feeling and perhaps. . . . WAR! That means you must do two things: rectify the claim-jumping, and. . . . keep out of trouble in this matter of rectifying.”
The trusted agent reflected a moment before speaking.
“Apparently there must be some underhand work going on, chief, not only by the Ginzies, but also in Station No. 7. Am I right?”
“Yes, except that there is no lawful communicati
on channel between the Martians and our men supposed to exist. That, too, will bear investigating.”
“I am to go as far as my duty demands without straining the thin web of a weak relationship between our two worlds.”
“Right again.” Wilson was tapping on the desk with a nervous finger. “Harrington, if ever you used diplomacy before, be sure to handle it with gloves in this matter. The M.M. is still touchy about that Foreign Rights on Earth affair, and it would be a blot on the name of the S.I.S. forever if war came of this.”
“Then the M.M. is prepared to back up its interests on the moon?”
“Yes, even as the U.S.R. is prepared to back us up, Harrington, up to a certain limit. . . .” The chief’s tone was apologetic and Richard knew that the delicate state of affairs betwen the worlds was bothering Wilson in no small degree.
“Is the head man of the U.S.R. moon mines . . . is he. . . . ah. . . . is there any possibility of his being connected in any way with the discrepancies?” Harrington hated to cast suspicion against a man he knew nothing about.
“Algaard Soderstrom, Overseer of Station No. 7, has held his position for over three years. His record is as yet untarnished. His zealous work has been all that a son of socialism can do to show his faithfulness to our government. More I cannot tell you.”
“O.K. chief,” said Harrington suddenly after a period of silence. “When do I start?”
CHAPTER II
Suspicions
l From the side port Harrington gazed with something akin to awe in his habitually placid features at the view he commanded of the luminary so much treated of in poetry and prose. Thirty hours before he had left earth with a song in his heart. His commission smacked of something he liked most. . . . danger. Once out in space, the space he loved so well for the promise of adventure it held, his boredom had dropped from him like a cloak, and the zest of life took its place. The sun’s corona, the velvet-black sky, the unblinking stars; they were old friends of his. His tried and true ship carried him with unerring accuracy to his present goal. Thirty hours for a space trip is a short time, and Harrington was mildly surprised when he hove near the moon just as he had comfortably settled himself, so to speak.
After an admiring survey of the mottled surface he gazed upon for the first time in his life, at this distance, he backed away from the port and engaged in the important task of finding the location of Station No. 7. It was sometime before he managed to match the map spread before the engine panel with the topography visible to him, the while he kept a weather eye on the instruments to correct his deceleration at intervals. He easily located the Mare Nubium, once he oriented himself, and a half hour later found his ship just above the supposed location of Station No. 7. He landed his ship nearby the five-mile high precipice marked on the map as a landmark to that station.
He looked out of the ports on either side. To his left rose the precipice of which he could not see the top, its shiny surface dazzling in the brilliant sunlight. To his right the sands of an ancient sea stretched as far as the short horizon extended. To his right, but more toward the back, he could see the sharply-outlined peaks of a vast mountain range. Hardly an inviting scene thought the S.I.S. agent to himself as he carefully donned his vacuum suit.
He took one last look at the air gauges and heat indicator before he entered the little air lock next to the exit. As he opened the outer door, he heard the outrushing swish of the air, and then there was perfect silence. He jumped to the sand, careful to keep in the shade of his ship. He glanced at the air gauge embedded in the back of the gauntlet of his suit, adjusted the sun-shades before his eyes, then stepped away from his ship. Curiously he watched the thermometer which was next to the air gauge. From absolute zero it almost leaped up and up till it registered 375 degrees absolute.
The second lining of the vacuum suit radiated away the rest of the burning deluge of fiery rays from the unhampered sun; the inner lining, most peculiar of substances, “stepped up” the heat rays, which came to it, to unfelt rays on the borderline between those called “heat” and “radio” waves. Inside his insulating suit, the earthman could feel nothing of such terrific changes of temperature, although he realized he was but a half inch away from frigid cold and burning rays and vacuum.
With a glance all about him, Harrington started to walk in the direction of the gigantic cliff near which he had landed. He knew that somewhere in the direction he was going, he would find the door leading to the caverns of Station No. 7. With more than half his weight lost[7] by reason of the lesser gravity, he moved rapidly across the sparkling gravel and sand of the dead moon, like a malformed gnome. He stopped once to adjust the air pressure which had become too high. There was nothing in the surrounding scenery to attract his attention, so he moved forward at a fast pace.
Finally he came upon signs of living things. Scattered here and there were various discarded mining implements, empty cans, piles of rocky ore-discards, and even rags and paper, all lying exactly as they had been placed or thrown, and doomed to lie thus till moved by human agency. Harrington was struck by the odd positions of some of the papers, unmolested as they were by winds of any sort. When he kicked them off the ground, they fell back like plummets and became again absolutely motionless. Richard shook his head. He had not experienced anything like this in his numerous sojourns on inhabited worlds. A short time later he saw the entrance to Station No. 7.
This entrance was cut into the perpendicular face of the precipice in a circular form. Indented from the rock was the steel door which sealed off the outer vacuum. As he approached the door, he looked for the handle his chief had informed him of. There it was to one side. He read the legend chiseled into the hard rock: “PULL THIS HANDLE FOR ENTRANCE. LOSE NO TIME IN ENTERING AS THE SEAL AUTOMATICALLY CLOSES IN TEN SECONDS.”
Harrington, feeling like a knight of old challenging a strange castle’s inhabitant to come out and fight, pulled the handle. Almost as quick as thought, the eight-foot steel section rolled aside to reveal a black hole in the cliff. He stepped in and seconds later the door rolled back into position. He was about to snap on his breast lamp, when before his eyes a neon sign leaped out of the darkness.
“CAREFUL! DO NOT REMOVE YOUR HEADPIECE YET. WAIT FOR THE SIGNAL!”
Of a sudden there was a rushing sound and Harrington knew that air was flowing into the lock. The sign faded and was replaced by one which read:
“WHEN THE DOOR OPENS WALK INTO THE NEXT CHAMBER.”
Again a door rolled aside and Richard stepped into a lighted room with a painted sign on the wall of black rock:
“REMOVE YOUR VACUUM SUIT AND HANG IT UP.”
l Back of him the second seal had closed. Harrington hung his suit beside the many that hung on the one wall. He pressed the button which was marked for the attention of visitors to Station No. 7.
Several minutes later a door opened and a man entered the room.
“Sun shine upon you, sir,” smiled the newcomer in the universal greeting of the time.
“Fortune favor you,” answered Harrington with a short bow. “I’m Richard Harrington. I presume Overseer Soderstrom is expecting me?”
“Yes, follow me, please.”
They stepped out of the vestibule, as it may be called, into a long corridor cut from the living rock, as was all of Station No. 7. There was no other soul about. Some ways down the corridor, the man stopped before a doorway labeled “OVERSEER,” pressed a button, and waited. When a little pilot light flashed above the door, he opened it.
The attendant announced him and then left the chamber by another door. The overseer of Station No. 7 arose from his desk and warmly greeted the visitor from earth. He was a large, jovial-faced man with a quiet voice. His almost obese body was clothed in a leathern outfit of fine quality and texture. His curly black hair fell over his forehead.
“Welcome to the moon, Mr. Harrington, but first of all let us proceed with the necessary ceremony of identification. You understand. . . . duty demands. . . .”<
br />
“Quite right, Mr. Soderstrom.”
Harrington approached the overseer, bared the back of his left forearm, and gently blew his breath about midway between elbow and wrist. With startling clearness a blue seven-pointed star appeared on the skin, and Soderstrom turned away satisfied. Only the chemists of the S.I.S. possessed the formula of the ink which was colorless except under the influence of a person’s breath. All S.I.S. agents carried this mark of identification on their left arms.
“And now have a seat, Mr. Harrington.”
The other complied and glanced appraisingly about the small office. Except for the desk and several chairs, the place was devoid of furniture. However, it did not lack for pictures, drapes, and other beautifying articles arranged to suit the taste of the overseer. From the open door of the other room came the clacking of a typewriter. “Cozy here. Especially in comparison to outside.”
“Yes,” laughed Soderstrom. “We are a very home-loving people, we miners on the moon, because there is so little to attract us out there.”
“Quite so,” murmured the visitor. “Don’t you get a desire to go back to earth occasionally. . . . to see again a world of life and warmness, Mr. Soderstrom?”
The overseer’s face became serious. “To tell you the truth, I do. I guess we humans are all alike; we like to be among our own. That urge has been getting stronger lately, and, in fact, I’m already forming plans to apply for permanent leave.”
“This position pays, I imagine, quite highly?” Harrington knew as well as the other did just what it paid.
Soderstrom looked at him with guileless blue eyes. “Yes, very high paying position, but not out of reason to the amount of hazard and danger. The vacuum outside, you know, is like a ravenous beast, and now and then it takes its toll.”
