“I’ve got one, too,” said Fowler. “It’s all around us. Let’s call Earth.”
They moved over to the radio. Fowler turned the volume high and Mcintosh hit the On switch. Almost immediately they heard a voice, mounting swiftly in loudness. “Station Number One to Moon Station. Station Number One to Moon Station.” Over and over it repeated the words.
Mcintosh touched a microphone to his helmet, flipped the Transmit switch and said, “Moon Station to Station Number One. We hear you. Over.”
“Thank God,” came the voice. “Listen. The Leonid meteor swarm may hit you. Find cover. Find a cave or bridge and get out of the open. Repeat. Meteor swarm may hit you. Find cover. Over.”
At the word “meteor” Mcintosh swung to face Fowler. The two moved closer together to see into the faceplates. Each face broke into a smile of relief at the knowledge of what was happening.
Mcintosh touched the microphone to his helmet and said, “We’re already in it. There is no cave or other shelter within forty miles. How long do you expect the shower—”
There was a thunderous explosion and a brilliant flash of light, that seared the eyeballs of both men. Something heavy dropped on them and gently clung to the spacesuits. They struggled futilely against the softness that enfolded them. Mcintosh dropped the microphone and flailed his arms. Fowler sought to lift off the cloying substance; he dropped to one knee and fought it, but it would not give. Both men fought blind; the caressing enfolding material brought complete blackness.
Mcintosh felt something grip his ankle and he lashed out with his foot. He felt it crash against something hard, but something that rolled with his kick and then bore back against his legs and knocked him over. His arms were still entangled in the material but he tried to flail the thing that crawled on top of him. With a superhuman effort he encircled the upper portion of the thing with layers of the soft material and began to squeeze. Through the thickness of the material he felt the familiar outline of a helmet with a short flexible antenna reaching up from the back. And he realized he was fighting Fowler.
“Mac, it’s me. The dome’s punctured and fallen in on us. You hear me?”
“Yes,” said Mcintosh, gasping for air. “I didn’t know what happened. You all right?”
“Yes. Let’s get out of here. Shoulder to shoulder ‘til we find the lock. Let’s go.”
They crawled side by side, lifting the heavy leaded plastic in front of them. They bumped into the drafting table and oriented themselves. They passed out through the useless lock and stood up outside and looked at the dome. It is a terrible thing when a man’s home is destroyed. But on Earth a man can go elsewhere; he has relatives, friends, to turn to. His heart may be heavy, but his life is not in peril.
Fowler and Mcintosh looked at their collapsed dome and doom itself froze around their hearts. They stood alone on a frozen, shadow-ridden, human-hating world. They stood hand in hand with death.
They looked at the collapsed dome and the way it lay over the equipment they knew so well, softening the sharp angles, filling in the hollow spaces in the interior. The equipment outside looked stark and awkward, standing high, silhouetted against the luminous grayness. The antenna caught Mcintosh’s eye.
He swallowed heavily and said, “Let’s radio Earth and give them the news. We were talking to them when we got hit.”
Fowler dumbly followed him to a small box on the far side of the sled and watched him remove the mike and receiver from a small box. Mcintosh faced out from the sled and held the receiver against one side of the helmet and the mike against the other. Fowler slipped behind him. They stood back to back, helmets touching, Mcintosh doing the talking, Fowler operating the switches and listening to all that was said. The receiver was silent when Fowler turned it on. Earth was listening, waiting. He switched to Transmit and nudged Mcintosh.
“Moon Station to Space Station Number One. Over.”
In five seconds a voice came back. “Pole Station to Moon Station. Space Station Number One is out of line of sight. What happened? You all right?”
“Yes. Meteor punctured dome. We’re outside. Over.”
It was considerably more than five seconds before the voice came back, quieter but more intense. “Can you fix it?”
“We don’t know. We’ll go over the damage and talk to you soon. Out.”
Mcintosh dropped his hands and Fowler turned the switch off. “Well,” said Mcintosh, “we’d better see how bad it is. They may want to call the whole thing off.”
Fowler nodded. Getting the sled and dome and equipment to the Moon had called for prodigious effort and staggering cost. It could not be duplicated in a hurry. Their replacements were already on the way. The dome had to be operating if they were to stay. And the spaceship could only carry two men back.
“Let’s look it over,” said Fowler. As they turned to climb up on the sled a fountain of dust sprang up ten feet to their right. They looked out over the sullen moonscape; the meteors were still falling. But they didn’t care. They climbed up on the sled and carefully picked their way on top of the collapsed material to where they had been standing when the meteor struck. They pulled out several folds and found the hole. They inspected it with growing excitement.
The hole was a foot in diameter, neatly round. Around the perimeter was a thick ridge charred slightly on the inner edge where the thermoplastic material had fused and rolled back. The ridge had strengthened the material and prevented it from splitting and tearing when the air in the dome rushed out. The hole in the inner layer measured about eighteen inches in diameter and the encircling ridge was even thicker.
Fowler held the hand-powered flashlight on the material surrounding the holes while he examined it carefully. “Mac,” he said, “we can fix it. We’ve got enough scrap dome plastic to seal these holes. Let’s see if the meteor went out the bottom.”
They moved the holes around on the floor of the dome and found a four-inch hole through the plastic floor. Looking down it, they could see a small crater in the Moon’s surface half-filled with a white solid.
Mcintosh said, “It went through one of the batteries, but we won’t miss it. We’ve got some scrap flooring plastic and some insulation around. We can fix this, too. Our make-up air is in good supply. Don,” he stood up, “we’re gonna make it.”
“Yes,” said Fowler, letting the light go out. “Let’s radio Earth.”
They went back to the set and Fowler reported their findings. They could hear the joy come back in the man’s voice as he wished them luck and told them an extra rocket with make-up air would be on the way soon. “What about the meteor shower?”
Fowler and Mcintosh looked around; they had forgotten the meteors again. They could see the spurts of moondust clearly against the gray and black shadows.
“They’re still falling,” said Fowler. “Nothing to do but sweat them out. Call you later. Out.” And he and Mcintosh sat down. A nation sweated it out with them. An entire people felt fear strike at their hearts at the thought of two men sitting beside a collapsed dome amidst a shower of invisible cosmic motes traveling at unthinkable speeds. But there was no way for anyone to be of the slightest aid to the two men on the Moon.
Quiet they sat and dumb. The meteors, forgotten for a moment, were now a challenge to the very presence of men in such a place. A mere light touch from a cosmic pebble, and a human life would snuff out. A touch on the hand, the foot, is enough; it would take so little. They were something apart from the human race, men, yet not men. For no man could be so alone, such a speck, a trifle, a nothing, so alone were they. Quiet they sat and dumb. But each man’s heart beat thick and quick like a madman on a drum. And the meteors fell.
“Mac.”
“Yes.”
“Why do we sit here? Why don’t we fix it?”
“Suppose it gets hit again?”
“Suppose it does. It’ll be hit whether it’s collapsed or full. At least we’ll have these holes patched. Maybe it’ll be easier for the next team�
��”
Mcintosh stood up. “Of course,” he said. “We can get that much done no matter what happens.”
Fowler stood up and began to turn to the sled to climb up. A tiny spot of brightness suddenly appeared on Mcintosh’s left shoulder. With a feeling of blackness closing in on his body, Fowler flung himself at Mcintosh and clamped a hand over the spot where the glow had been. The weight of his body knocked Mcintosh down but Fowler clung to him, kept his hand pressed firmly against the spot where the meteor had hit.
“Mac,” said Fowler with the taste of copper in his mouth. “Mac. Can you hear me?”
“I hear you fine. What’s the matter with you? You like to scared me to death.”
“You got hit. On the left shoulder. Your suit must be punctured. I’ve got my hand over it.”
“Don, I didn’t even feel it. There can’t possibly be a hole there or I’d have felt the air go, or at least some of it. Take a look.”
They got to their feet. Fowler kept his hand in place while he retrieved the flashlight. He got it going and quickly removed his hand and showed the light over the spot to look. At first he saw nothing, so he held his helmet closer. Then he saw it. A tiny crater so small as to amount to nothing beyond a slight disturbance of the shiny surface of the suit. Smaller than the head of a pin it was and not as deep as it was broad.
He let the light go out and said in a choked voice, “Must have been a small one, smaller than a grain of sand. No damage at all.”
“Good. Let’s get to work.”
* * * *
They cut out two four-foot squares of dome material and several chunks of flooring plastic. They filled the bottom of the hole in the floor with five inches of insulation. They plugged in a wedge-shaped soldering iron and melted the plastic and worked it in to the top three inches of flooring, making an under-cut to seal the hole solidly. And the floor was fixed.
Fowler pulled over the squares of dome material while Mcintosh adjusted the temperature of the iron to that just below the melting point of the material. Fowler placed the first square inside the hole in the inner layer. He ran the hot blade around the ridge of fused plastic. It sealed well; the thick, leaded, shiny, dome material stiffly flowed together and solidified. Fowler sealed the patches in place with a series of five fused circles concentric to the hole and spaced about three inches apart. The inner hole was hard to work with, for he had to reach through the outer hole, but he managed it. The outer hole went fast. And when they finished they were certain that the dome was as good as ever.
They stood up from their work and looked around. Out onto the moonscape they looked long and carefully. And nowhere could they see one of the dread dust fountains. Slowly and carefully they walked to the edge of the sled and dropped off. They sat down and looked some more, carefully preventing their imaginations from picturing things more fantastic than what was already there. After ten minutes there was no doubt about it, the meteor shower was over.
“Let’s blow her up,” said Fowler.
Mcintosh checked the heated outlet from the air cylinder and then passed current through the coils that heated the cylinder itself. At his O.K., Fowler cracked the valve and air began to flow into the dome. They watched it carefully as it rose, looking for the tell-tale white streams that told of a leak. There were none detectable in either layer. And in half an hour the dome stood full and taut with a good five pounds pressure inside. They went in through the lock together.
Mcintosh started the light tube while Fowler began a check of the gauges. In ten minutes it was apparent that things were in order. The dome was warming up too, so they took off their helmets, keeping a wary eye on the gauges. Soon they took off their suits.
The radio was still on, so Fowler called in to Earth that everything was in order. The voice was warm and friendly, congratulating them on their work and passing on the reassurances of men everywhere. They learned that their replacements were on schedule, so far.
The two men looked up at the patch on the ceiling, with its corners dangling downward. They looked at each other and Fowler started to make tea. Mcintosh walked to a window and as he got there his feet started to slip out from under him. He caught himself and bent to see what he had slipped on. He found a thin sheet of ice on the floor.
“Where’d this come from?”
Fowler looked over and smiled. “That’s, from the cup of tea you dropped when you saw the first meteor. Remember?”
“Oooh, yes.” And Mcintosh chipped it up and put it in the waste pot to be purified and used on the pottet.
They had their tea, and they slept long and restlessly. They picked up their work schedule, and very soon they could see the brightness on the mountain tops to the west. The sun was coming back.
But it brought no joy. They were beyond any emotional response to night or day. Bright gray or dark gray, it did not matter. It was still the Moon.
On the second Earth-day of sunlight they spoke to the approaching spaceship and made preparations to leave. The laundry was all done and ready for use. The dome was tidy. Their last job was to brew tea and put it in the thermos to keep hot for their replacements.
They donned their spacesuits for the last time on the Moon and went out the lock together to watch the little flame in the black sky grow larger.
The ship landed and the dust settled immediately. Fowler and Mcintosh walked slowly toward the ship; they did not hurry. The door in the side opened, a ladder dropped out, and two suited figures climbed awkwardly to the Moon’s surface.
Before they had a chance to look around, Mcintosh called, “Over here. The dome is over here.”
The four men came together and shook hands noisily. Fowler said, “You can see the dome.” He pointed to it a half mile away. “We’ve left some hot tea for you there. The terrain is pretty rough so watch yourself moving around for a few days. Good luck.” They shook hands. The replacements headed for the dome while Fowler and Mcintosh went to the ship and climbed in without looking back. They dogged home the lock, removed their suits, stretched out on the acceleration bunks, and called “O.K.,” into the intercom.
“Right,” said the pilot from his compartment. “Welcome aboard and stand by.”
In a moment they felt the acceleration, steadily mounting. But it soon eased off, and they slept. For most of the five-day journey they slept. And if they had thought to look at each other during their few waking hours, they would have seen nothing unusual—a few incipient, almost invisible lines around the eyes, nothing more. Neither Fowler nor Mcintosh had the far look.
The ship reached the space station and tied to it. Fowler and Mcintosh transferred to the shuttle and swiftly dropped toward Earth. They heard the air whistle as it thickened.
* * * *
The television cameras first picked up the ship as a small dot. People the world over craned forward to watch as the bellyskids touched the sand—people who did not know that the ship carried two Moon men who did not have the far look. The people watched the ship skid to a halt amid a slowly settling cloud of dust.
And as they watched, the door amidships swung in. The sun slanted in through the door and showed two figures standing there. The figures moved to a point just inside the door and stopped. They stood there motionless, looking out for what seemed an interminable period.
As Fowler and Mcintosh looked out the door, they saw the shimmering sands of the New Mexican desert. But they saw more than that. They saw more than home. They saw the spawning-place of the human race. In a roaring rush of recognition, they knew they had done more than simply return to Earth. They had rejoined the human race. They had been apart and were now one again with that brawling, pesky, restless race in which all were brothers, all were one. This was not a return to Earth. This was a return to the womb, to the womb that had nourished them and made them men. A flood of sympathy and heart-felt understanding poured through them as they stared out at the shimmering sands. The kinks and twists of personality fell away and left men of untrammeled mind.
Fowler and Mcintosh looked at each other, nodded, and jumped out the door. They fell to their knees in the unaccustomed gravity. They quickly arose, knocked the dust from their clothes, and started walking to where the helicopters were waiting.
The zoom lenses on the television cameras went to work and the faces of Fowler and Mcintosh side by side flashed across the country.
And the eyes were different. A network of deep tiny creases laced out from both corners of each eye. The crinkled appearance of the eyes made each man appear older than he actually was. And there was a look in those eyes of things seen from deep inside. It was a far look, a compelling look, a powerful look set in the eyes of normal men.
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* * * *
BIG SWORD
by Paul Ash
He was taller than the tallest by nearly an inch, because the pod that hatched him had hung on the Tree more than twenty days longer than the rest, kept from ripening by all the arts at the People’s command. The flat spike sheathed in his left thigh was, like the rest of him, abnormally large: but it was because he represented their last defence that they gave him the name, if a thought-sign can be called that, of ‘Big Sword.’
Spectrum 5 - [Anthology] Page 24
