by Earl
Harrington nodded. His expressionless face could not be taken as a gauge of the thoughts revolving in his mind. He turned to look squarely at the overseer.
“Mr. Soderstrom, if you were to get your permanent leave, who would take your place?”
Soderstrom hesitated only a moment. “Harvey Wood. . . . the missing mineralogist.”
Harrington had not taken his eyes off the face of the overseer. “Mr. Soderstrom, I think it about time to get down to business. You know who I am, Richard Harrington of the S.I.S., sent here to investigate the disappearance of Harvey Wood, your foremost mineralogist. You, of course, will help me all you can.”
Soderstrom’s face had become slightly clouded as his visitor spoke of his mission, but he hastened to assure him that he would do all in his power to aid in the work.
“Tell me first the details of Harvey Wood’s departure from here and any other significant data.” Harrington’s tone was very compelling.
“Well. . . . Wood left Station No. 7 five days ago. We regulate our days exactly as on earth, you know. His exploration trip was to be to the southeast in the direction of the Riphaean Mountains. Mineralogists are a very independent sort and come and go almost as they please, except they are responsible to me. As I say, he left five days ago. . . . and never came back. I sent out several men to see if they could locate his body, but, of course, here on the moon with its countless craters, valleys, ravines, and such, its a thousand-to-one shot, and they reported not hair nor hide of him.”
l The agent thought a moment. “Did he speak to you of his plans before he left?”
“No, not that I can remember.”
“Does he have any means of communication with Station No. 7 while he is out on duty?”
“Yes, he carried a radio in his suit, as they all do.” Harrington was very deliberate with his questioning. He would slowly and carefully ask the question and then search the other’s face closely and disconcertingly, while he made his answer.
“Did he radio back at all after he left?”
Soderstrom felt sudden resentment toward this calm, cool man as he plied him with questions, but he smothered it as the reflection came that he was one of the S.I.S., and that meant no tomfoolery or stubbornness. Their word was a law unto itself.
He hesitated before he answered. “Yes. . . . that is, he told us he had made a find and. . . .”
“Did he say what kind of a find? Good or bad?” Harrington shot this at him before he had a chance to finish.
“Why . . . ah . . . ah . . . he said. . . . just another find. You know, the majority of claims are nothing out of the ordinary; we seldom hit those valuable claims that make this business a paying proposition to the U.S.R.” The overseer finished up with an authoritative tone.
“I see,” Harrington made the other drop his eyes with the intensity of his stare, and the overseer wondered what it was that he saw.
“And that was all the word you got from him?”
“Yes,” answered the overseer, now somewhat on edge. He dropped his honest eyes again as those of the agent languidly fixed themselves on his face.
They sat for a full moment in silence, except for the noise of the typewriter in the other room. Harrington seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep, while the other found it hard to sit still and yet harder to break the strained silence.
“Ah. . . . Mr. Soderstrom.” The overseer looked up with concern at the tone of voice to meet again those keen eyes. “Will you kindly get me a map of the Riphaean Mountains and surrounding region?”
With relief, the master of Station No. 7 rummaged in his drawer and pulled forth the required map. He spread it on his desk.
Harrington lazily arose and sauntered over to the desk and bent over the paper. “Show me, Mr. Soderstrom, just where you think Harvey Wood went five days ago.”
With a fat finger the overseer traced a course from Station No. 7 across the Mare Nubium to a plateau region of the Riphaean Mountains.
“He went somewhere in this circle of about five square miles. Just where, of course, it would be impossible to say.”
Richard carefully scrutinized the map. It showed not only the “seas” and mountains and other surface markings, but also the positions of nearby stations, both of the U.S.R. and the M.M.
“What is this. . . . ‘Kranto’ ?”
“The Martians have always given their stations names whereas we of earth use only numbers. ‘Kranto’ is simply the name by which that Martian station is known in all official records.”
Harrington stretched his thumb and forefinger first between Station No. 7 and the place of Wood’s disappearance, and then between the latter and Kranto. Kranto was much nearer! Soderstrom wondered what was coming next.
Harrington wandered away from the desk, hands in his pocket, eye to the ceiling of rock. “Mr. Soderstrom. . . . ah. . . . could Harvey Wood in any way. . . . mind you. . . . in any way. . . . come in contact with the Ginzies. . . . pardon me. . . . Martians?” It was always considered impolite to use the term “Ginzie” except in familiar company.
“Well. . . . by mutual agreement between the two governments, there is supposed to be a standing invitation to either side to visit any of the other’s stations in cases of emergency or necessity.”
“Which means . . .?”
“Which means that if a Martian finds his air supply low, too low for him to make it back to his own station, he has the perfect right to drop in on any nearby station, be it Martian or Tellurian, and replenish his supply. Or if he has any other pressing reason. . . .”
“Enough,” the S.I.S. man cut him off. “Now, if your Harvey Wood had decided to drop in on Kranto for any reason at all, no doubt he would radio you first . . . right?”
“Perfectly,” Soderstrom eagerly continued. “But he said no such thing. As far as I know, he had no intention of going to Kranto.”
There followed a period of silence while Harrington idly walked about the room and eyed the pictures with seeming interest. He turned to the overseer.
“Who takes the radio calls from your mineralogists?”
Soderstrom started up angrily. “Now, look here, Harrington, this is going too far . . . are you trying to implicate me in this unfortunate accident? The man died an unknown death out there in the vacuum. There’s a dozen different hazards that make it a gamble to even walk around. About all you can do is go and look for the body yourself, instead of asking a lot of questions of me. I can’t . . .”
Soderstrom suddenly stopped. Realization of the rank and authority of the man to whom he was laying down the law came as a bucket of cold water.
“Well . . . er . . . pardon me, Mr. Harrington, I’m not trying to tell you what to do . . . I . . . ah . . . I’m just a bit nervous, you know, it’s . . . it’s this life on this dead, inhuman world . . .”
Harrington had not changed countenance during the outburst of the irate overseer, had merely stared at him mildly, and now nodded and turned away as if he had forgotten about it. Soderstrom looked at that broad back and wondered if he were a fool or . . . one who keenly wormed out information by cunning conversation.
Harrington turned a blank face to the overseer after yawning behind his hand. “I’m due for a long sleep, Mr. Soderstrom. I can’t seem to think anymore. Been on the go for thirty-five hours since I left the home planet. This is a puzzling business, I must admit, and maybe by tomorrow I’ll plan some course of action. This part of the moon is just beginning a fifteen-day long moon-day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, there will be about thirteen earthly days of sunlight in this latitude from today on.”
Harrington looked at the clock on the wall. “I see it’s eight o’clock in the evening and this is Monday . . . correct me if I’m wrong.”
“No corrections necessary.”
“Well . . . it’s rather early to go to bed, but due to the lack of diversion, I guess that’s the thing to do. Will you kindly conduct me to my sleeping quarters, Mr. Soderstrom?”
CHAPTER III
Kranto
l The draft of cold air blowing across his face from the “awakener,” one of the standard earth types, brought Harrington from dreamland to the problems of wakeful life. He called a lazy “come in” to the knock at the door as he finished shaving.
Soderstrom entered with a cheery morning salutation and a joyful smile on his guileless features.
“Hope you passed a restful night here in these poor quarters, however the best I can offer.”
“Quite well, thank you,” returned Harrington as he rubbed the talcum about his chin. “And you?”
“Very well, thank you.” Soderstrom turned away petulantly as his guest closely studied his face. He wondered if the S.I.S. man could see the marks of an almost sleepless night.
“Mr. Soderstrom, could I presume on you to conduct me through Station No. 7? I feel I ought to see as much of it as I can; I may never have the opportunity again of being in one of the moon mines. It will be something to brag about back home.”
The overseer offered his willing services and together they traversed the caves and corridors that composed Station No. 7. Harrington looked with wonder at the wells which were sunk to great depths to bring up the breathable air which had been imprisoned within the moon from long ages back. These pockets supplied the moderate needs of the small community of humans that labored in this rock-bound world. Then there were the versatile machines which performed the greater part of the mining operations; the ponderous ore-carriers; the rock-crushers; the rocket-driven drillers; the scoops and scrapers; and so on down the line. He marvelled at the amount of ingenious engineering expended in the task of extracting ores on the surface of an airless world. It was astonishing in its scope. The storerooms of the graded and assayed ores were full of their respective products. Every five days a large space ship carried the valuable minerals to earth to be there refined, accompanied by a powerfularmed warship; there were pirates to contend with and sometimes . . . hostile governments.
Overseer Soderstrom was greeted on all sides by the men at work. Harrington could see that his generally jovial character made him popular with those he was master of. Although the working hours were longer here on the moon, the work was easier by virtue of the lesser gravity. They passed through the industrial section and came to the living quarters. Here Harrington saw some of the women, wives of the miners and mechanics and chemists, busily (sometimes not so busily) bustling about their apartments in true earthly fashion.
He wondered how well these women stood the colorless unexciting life of cooped-up inactivity. He was not surprised to hear from the overseer that the average period of a workman’s willingness to stay on the moon was something less than a year. There were new recruits constantly coming back with the emptied ore-ship to replace those who had resigned and returned to earth. The U.S.R. was very sympathetic with these people and it was considered no breach of socialistic doctrine at all to ask for permanent leave.
Harrington, satisfied with what he had seen of the inner workings of a typical mine of the moon, made known his desire to return to the main office to the overseer.
After seating themselves, Richard quietly spoke.
“By the way, Mr. Soderstrom, you haven’t answered a question of mine I asked yesterday.”
The overseer flushed. “Didn’t I? I can’t recall . . .”
The other was relentless. “Who takes your radio calls from mineralogists?”
“Ordinarily my secretary does that, he’s in the other room.”
“Did he or you take the call from Harvey Wood?”
“Well . . . I did.” Soderstrom looked up carelessly.
“I see,” came from the S.I.S. agent as he watched the overseer. “Mr. Soderstrom, we S.I.S. men work a lot by hunches. I am going over to Kranto after dinner. How long does it take to walk there?”
Soderstrom had started slightly as Harrington announced his intentions. His voice had studied indifference as he answered.
“It takes about five hours of steady walking. But may I make a suggestion?” At the other’s nod he continued, “No doubt you are acquainted with the . . . what shall I call it? . . . frigidity of the Martians to an earthman. Well, here on the moon, it is intensified to a greater degree by the rivalry in our aims, so it may be a useless and embarrassing visit.”
“This,” Harrington pointed to the invisible seven-pointed star on his forearm, “is all the security I want that I shall be favorably welcomed, if not in spirit, at least in actions.”
Soderstrom shrugged his shoulders. “I will have your oxygen tanks examined and filled and you can start anytime you please.”
“Thank you. Expect me back within twelve hours.” Harrington walked out of the office. Once the door was closed, he put his ear up against it and strained to hear what was going on inside. After a stretch of silence, when he was about to leave, he heard the overseer arise, and walk to some other part of the room. He seemed to hear a noise as of a hinged lid being raised, and then Soderstrom’s voice, muffled and wholly unintelligible. Harrington walked away with a slight smile on his lips.
l Six hours later he saw before him the portal of Kranto, the Martian station nearest the spot where Harvey Wood was last known to be. The five-hour walk in the uncomfortable, hampering suit had about consumed the patience of the earthman, and he longed to take it off. The endless vista of towering cliffs, sharply relieved by the stationary sun with shadow and blinding sunlight, had somewhat taken the zest out of the walk. It compared so unfavorably with the warm, softened scenery of beloved earth, or even of more barren Mars, or even of humid Venus. Richard wondered how the moon-miners could even stand a year’s worth of this blighting, harsh world, where not even a flower broke the monotony of rock and sand. The gibbous earth shone brightly in the black sky, her topography easily visible, even at this great distance.
“Good old earth,” muttered Harrington, the same Harrington who had longed, not two days before, to leave her for a place of boredom and idleness. “But before I go back to you, I’ve got to solve the mystery of the Moon Mines, which has turned out to be a bigger thing than I realized from what Wilson told me. Soderstrom? . . . well . . . time will tell about him. The immediate thing is ‘where is Harvey Wood?’ ”
The outside seal of the Martian station, unlike that of No. 7, swung open outwardly in two halves. The routine of getting to the aired room was essentially the same as at No. 7, except that the signs were all in Martian, which bothered Richard not in the least.
“Now for the damned Ginzies,” he muttered as, his suit off, he pressed the attention button.
“Sun shine upon you,” iterated the bony Martian who answered the bell.
“Fortune favor you,” answered Harrington. “I come to see your overseer, Sul Minto Pruma.”
The Martian looked suspiciously at him for a moment and then said, “Follow me.”
In the overseer’s office, Harrington was confronted by the master of Kranto. Sul Minto Pruma was a typical north country Martian; eight feet tall, bony, spindle-legged, fur-faced. His deep set eyes stared out at the visitor with the usual Martian haughtiness. In a glance the earthman knew that he was of the lower class of that world of cold, austere people. Judging that he probably knew little or nothing of Tellurian speech, Harrington opened the conversation in Martian, the gutturals and sticking consonants of which he had mastered to a degree of excellency little below that of a native of Mars.
“Sun shine upon you, Kruno Pruma. I am Richard Harrington of the U. S. F.”
“Fortune favor you, Kruno Harrington.” The formality of greeting over, the Martian changed his tone. “And what, may I ask, brings you here?”
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Incensed at the unwelcome tone, Harrington said “cursed boorish Ginzie” under his breath, the while he answered, “I come in behalf of the U.S.R. to . . .”
“By what authority?” burst in the Martian with obvious scorn.
Harrington calmly pulled up his sleeve, breathed upon his arm, and held it out that the other might see the S.I.S. emblem.
Pruma grunted and offered his visitor a seat. An S.I.S. man was not to be trifled with, even the most proud Martians knew that.
“And now, Kruno Harrington . . .?”
“Kruno Pruma, I merely come to ask you a few questions which I am authorized to ask by virtue of the seven-pointed star.” The Martian nodded slightly. “Kranto, this station, is very near the Riphaean Mountains. In the foothills of these mountains was sent an earthman to look for claimable territory. His name is Harvey Wood. He was last heard of there. Due to the nearness of Kranto, I have entertained the idea that he may have dropped in upon you. That was five earth days ago. Did you see this man?” Harrington’s tone was mild and polite.
“Of course not!” exploded the Martian.
“If he did apply for entrance, this fact would come to your ears, no doubt?”
“Certainly. But I have told you once, he did not come.”
“You will swear to that?”
“I will swear to nothing.” Pruma arose in anger. “My word is all the security that you should need, and don’t persist in throwing implications at me or . . .”
“Or what, Kruno Pruma?” Richard’s voice was suave and low, like a flute compared to the hoarse bellow of the enraged Martian.
The overseer spluttered, bethought himself of the rank of the earthman before him, and took his seat begrudgingly.
“You have heard my answer. Do with it what you will.”
“All right. I take your word for it as the integral word of a Martian, for, of course, no Martian would think of lying to an S.I.S. man who are of that breed that ferret out truth to the detriment of any teller of false tales.” The Martian squirmed under the sugared threat. “Now, Kruno Pruma, do your mineralogists very often meet those of our people when exploring the open reaches of the moon in search of claims?”
