Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Jim, that’s sophistry."

  “So? That’s my decision. We’ll try everything else first. You don’t know you can’t get a message through. Why don’t you try?"

  “When we’re not in line-of-sight? Don’t be silly."

  “Earth is not far down behind those mountains. Find a place that is line-of-sight."

  “Oh. Now you make sense." Bowles looked out at the mountains. “I wonder how far away they are?"

  “Tell you in a moment," Traub offered. “Wait till I swing the soup bowl around." He started for his couch.

  “Never mind, Mannie!" put in Barnes. “No — go ahead. It won’t hurt to know. But I wasn’t talking about the mountains, Red. They are too far away. But if you scout around, you may find a spot from which the mountains are low enough to let you see Earth. Or you might find some hills — we can’t see all around from inside here. Mannie, is it possible to take out the radio and use it outside the ship?"

  “Outside? Let me see — The transmitter is unpressurized; I guess I could jigger it. How about power?"

  Bowles said, “Doc, how much cable can we dig up?" Barnes cut in, “Find your spot, then we’ll see what’s needed."

  “Right! Jim, I’ll go out at once. Mannie, come with me and we’ll find a spot."

  “Outside?" Traub said blankly.

  “Sure. Don’t you want to be the first man to set foot on the Moon?"

  “Uh, I guess so." Traub peered out at the blazing unfriendly surface.

  Corley got an odd look; Barnes noted it and said, “One moment, Red. Doc is entitled to the honor of being first. After all, the Corley engine made it possible."

  “Oh, sure! Doc can be first down the ladder. Let’s all go."

  “I’ll go later," Barnes decided. “I’ve got work to do."

  “As you wish. Come on, Doc."

  Corley looked shy. “Oh, I don’t have to be first. We all did it, together."

  “Don’t be modest. Into our suits — let’s go!" Thoughts of military policy seemed to have left Bowles’ mind; he was for the moment boyishly eager for adventure. He was already undogging the hatch that led down into the airlock.

  Barnes helped them dress. The suits were modifications of high-altitude pressure suits used by jet pilots — cumbersome, all-enclosing skins not unlike diving suits and topped off with “goldfish bowl" helmets. The helmets were silvered except for the face plates; a walkie-talkie radio, two oxygen bottles, and an instrument belt completed the main features of a suit. When they were dressed but not helmeted, Barnes said, “Stay in sight of the ship and each other. Red, when you shift from tank one to tank two, git for home and don’t dawdle."

  “Aye aye."

  “I’m going now." He gasketed their helmets, leaving Corley to the last. To him he said softly, “Don’t stay long. I need you."

  Corley nodded. Barnes fastened the doctor’s helmet, then climbed up into the control room and closed the hatch. Corley waited until Barnes was clear, then said, “Check radios. Check instruments."

  “Okay, Doctor," Traub’s voice sounded in his earphones.

  “Okay here," added Bowles.

  “Ready for decompression?" They assented; Corley touched a button near the door; there came a muted whine of impellers. Gradually his suit began to lift and swell. The feeling was not new; he had practiced in their own vacuum chamber back at Mojave. He wondered how Traub felt; the first experience with trusting a Rube Goldberg skin could be frightening. “How are you doing, Mannie?"

  “All right."

  “The first time seems odd, I know."

  “But it’s not the first time," Traub answered. “I checked these walkie-talkies in the chamber at the job."

  “If you gentlemen are through chatting," Bowles cut in, “you’ll note that the tell-tale reads 'vacuum’."

  “Eh?" Corley turned and undogged the outer door.

  He stood in the door, gazing north. The aching, sun-drenched plain stretched to a black horizon. On his right, knife sharp in the airless moonscape, was the wall of mountains they had grounded to avoid. He lifted his eyes and made out the Big Dipper, midnight clear above a dazzling, noonday desert.

  Bowles touched his arm. “One side, Doc. I’ll rig the ladder."

  “Sorry."

  Bowles linked the ends of a rope ladder to hooks outside the door. Finished, he kicked the ladder out. “Go ahead, Doc."

  “Uh, thanks." Corley felt for the first rung. It was a clumsy business in the pressure suit. Finally he knelt, grasped the threshold, got a toe in and started down.

  It was awkward, rather than hard work. Suit and all, he weighed less than forty pounds. He found it easier to lower himself by his hands alone. He could not see below his chin, but the shape of the ship let him know his progress. Finally he was even with the jets. He lowered himself a bit more, felt for the ground — and kicked his toe into the lunar soil.

  Then he was standing on it.

  He stood there a moment, his heart pounding. He was trying to realize it, take it in, and found himself unable to do so. He had lived the moment too many thousands of times in too many years of dreams. It was still a dream. A foot brushed his shoulder; he stepped back to avoid being stepped on by Traub. Soon Bowles joined them. “So this is it," the Admiral said inanely and turned slowly around. “Look, Mannie! Hills! Not far away."

  Corley saw that Bowles was looking under the jets to the south. The plain was broken there with a sharp eruption of rock. Corley touched Bowles’ arm. “Let’s get away from the ship. Here where the jets splashed is probably a bit radioactive."

  “Okay." Bowles followed him; Traub brought up the rear.

  Chapter Nine

  Columbus had one motive; Queen Isabella had another

  — Farquharson, Ibid., III: 421

  On climbing back into the control room Barnes did not immediately get to work. Instead he sat down and thought. For the last — two days, was it? three days? four days, really — he had had no chance to collect his thoughts, drop his public mask and invite his soul.

  He felt unutterably weary. He lifted his eyes to the mountains. There they stood, tall and forbidding, witnesses that he had accomplished his driving purpose.

  To what end? To let Corley explore the dark outer reaches of science? To help Bowles insure the safety of western civilization — or perhaps hasten a new crisis?

  Or to make orphans of four kids whose old man was “a very domestic type guy" but could be shamed into coming along?

  No, he knew it had been because Jimmy Barnes had been small for his age, clumsy with his fists, no decent clothes — so he had to make more money, boss more men, build faster planes than anyone else. He, James A. Barnes, had reached the Moon because he had never been sure of himself.

  He wondered about Mannie’s kids and his stomach was a rock inside him.

  He threw off the mood and went to the radio controls, keyed the walkie-talkie circuit and called out, “This is Jim Barnes, kiddies, coming to you by courtesy of 'SLUMP,’ the Super soap. Come in, come in, wherever you are!"

  “Jim!" Bowles’ voice came back. “Come on out."

  “Later," Barnes answered. “Where’s Doc?"

  “Right here," Corley answered. “I was just coming back."

  “Good," said Barnes. “Red, I’ll leave this switched on. Sing out now and then."

  “Sure thing," Bowles agreed.

  Barnes went to the desk and began toting up mass reserves. An orbit computation is complicated; calculating what it takes to pull free of a planet is simple; he had a rough answer in a few minutes.

  He ran his hand through his hair. He still needed that haircut — and no barbers on this block. He wondered if it were true that a man’s hair continued to grow after his death.

  The hatch creaked and Corley climbed into the room. “Whew!" be said. “It’s good to get out of that suit. That sun is really hot."

  “Wasn’t the gas expansion enough to keep you cool?"

  “Not cool enough. Those sui
ts are hard to get around in, too, Jim — they need a lot of engineering."

  “They’ll get it," Barnes answered absently, “but reengineering this ship is more urgent. Not the Corley engine, Doc; the controls. They aren’t delicate enough;"

  “I know," Corley admitted. “That poor cutoff — we’ll have to design a prediction for it into the autopilot, and use a feedback loop."

  Barnes nodded. “Yes, sure, after we get back — and if we get back." He tossed his fingers at the scientist. “Hum that through."

  Corley glanced at it. “I know."

  “Red won’t find a spot in line-of-sight with home; those mountains are infernally high. But I wanted him out of the way — and Mannie. No use talking to Red, he’s going to get a posthumous Congressional Medal if it kills him — and us too."

  Corley nodded. “But I’m with him on trying to contact Earth; I need it worse than he does."

  “Hastings?"

  “Yes. Jim, if we had enough margin, we could blast off and correct after radio contact. We haven’t; if we get off at all it will be close."

  “I know. I spent our ticket home, when I made that extra blast."

  “What good would it have done to have crashed? Forget it; I need Hastings. We need the best orbit possible."

  “Fat chance!"

  “Maybe not. There’s libration, you know."

  Barnes looked startled. “Man, am I stupid!" He went on eagerly, “What’s the situation now? Is Earth swinging up, or down?"

  The Moon’s spin is steady, but its orbit speed is not; it moves, fastest when it is closest to Earth. The amount is slight, but it causes the Moon to appear to wobble each month as if the Man-in-the-Moon were shaking his head. This moves the Earth to-and-fro in the lunar sky some seven degrees.

  Corley answered, “It’s rising — I think. As to whether it will rise enough — well, I’ll have to compute Earth’s position and then take some star sights."

  “Let’s get at it. Can I help?"

  Before Corley could reply Bowles’ voice came over the speaker: “Hey! Jim!"

  Barnes keyed the walkie-talkies. “Yes, Red?"

  “We’re at the hills south of the ship. They might be high enough. I want to go behind them; there may be an easier place to climb."

  On the airless Moon, all radio requires line-of-sight — yet Barnes hated to refuse a reasonable request. “Okay — but don’t take any chances."

  “Aye aye, Skipper." 'Barnes turned to Corley. “We need the time anyhow."

  “Yes," Corley agreed. “You know, Jim, this isn’t the way I imagined it. I don’t mean the Moon itself — just wait until we get some pressurized buildings here and some decent pressure suits. But what I mean is what we find ourselves doing. I expected to cram every minute with exploring and collecting specimens and gathering new data. Instead I’ll beat my brains out simply trying to get us back."

  “Well, maybe you’ll have time later — too much time."

  Corley grudged a smile. “Could be —"

  He sketched out the relative positions of Earth and Moon, consulted tables. Presently he looked up. “We’re in luck. Earth will rise nearly two and a half degrees before she swings back."

  “Is that enough?"

  “We’ll see. Dig out the sextant, Jim." Barnes got it and Corley took it to the eastern port. He measured the elevations of three stars above the tops of the mountains. These he plotted on a chart and drew a line for the apparent horizon. Then he plotted Earth’s position relative to those stars.

  “Finicky business," he complained. “Better check me, Jim."

  “I will. What do you get?"

  “Well — if I haven’t dropped a decimal point, Earth will be up for a few hours anyway three days from now."

  Barnes grinned. “We’ll get a ticker-tape parade yet, Doc."

  “Maybe. Let’s have another look at the ballistic situation first."

  Barnes’ face sobered.

  Corley worked for an hour, taking Barnes’ approximation and turning it into something slightly better. At last he stopped. “I don’t know," he fretted. “Maybe Hastings can trim it a little."

  “Doc," Barnes answered, “suppose we jettison everything we can? I hate to say it, but there’s all that equipment you brought."

  “What do you think I’ve been doing with these weight schedules? Theoretically the ship is stripped."

  “Oh. And it’s still bad?"

  “It’s still bad."

  Bowles and Traub returned worn out and just short of sun stroke. The Admiral was unhappy; he had not been able to find any way to climb the hills: “I’ll go back tomorrow," he said stoutly. “I mean after we’ve eaten and slept."

  “Forget it," advised Barnes.

  “What do you mean?"

  “We are going to have line-of-sight from here."

  “Eh? Repeat that."

  “Libration," Barnes told him. “Doc has already calculated it."

  Bowles’ face showed delighted comprehension. Traub looked puzzled; Barnes explained it.

  “So you see," Barnes went on, we’ll have a chance to send a message in about seventy hours."

  Bowles stood up, his fatigue forgotten. “That’s all we need!" He pounded his palm exultantly.

  “Slow down, Red," Barnes advised, “our chances of taking off look worse than ever."

  “So?" Bowles shrugged. “It’s not important."

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake! Drop the Nathan Hale act. Have the common decency to give a thought to Mannie and his four kids."

  Bowles started to retort, stopped — then went on again with dignity. “Jim, I didn’t mean to annoy you. But I meant what I said. It’s not important to get back, as long as our message gets through. Our mistakes will make it easier for the next expedition. In a year the United States can have a dozen ships, better ships, on the Moon. Then no country would be so foolhardy as to attack us. That is important; we aren’t."

  He went on, “Every man dies; the group goes on. You spoke of Mannie’s kids. You have no children, nor has Corley. Mannie has — so I know he understands what I mean better than you do." He turned to Traub. “Well, Mannie?"

  Traub looked up, then dropped his eyes. “Red is right, Mr. Barnes," he answered in a low voice, “but I’d like to get home."

  Barnes bit his lip. “Let’s drop it," he said irritably. “Red, you might rustle up some supper."

  For three days, Earth time, they labored. Bowles and Barnes stripped the ship — cameras, empty oxygen bottles, their extra clothing, the many scientific instruments Corley had hoped to use — Wilson cloud chamber, Geiger counter, a 12" Schmidt camera and clock, still cameras, the autocamera, ultra-and infra-spectrographs, other instruments. Corley stayed at his desk, computing, checking, computing again — getting the problem in the best possible shape to turn over to Hastings. Traub overhauled his radio and lined up his directional antenna to the exact orientation at which Earth would appear.

  The hour finally crept up to them. Traub, was in his couch at the radio controls while the rest crowded at the eastern port. What they needed to say had been made one message: A formal claim to the Moon, setting forth time and place of landing, a long and technical message to Hastings, and finally code groups supplied by Bowles. Traub would send it all out as one, many times if necessary.

  “I see it!" It was Corley who claimed the distinction. Barnes stared at the spot. “Your imagination, Doe; a highlight on the peaks." The sun was behind them, “afternoon" by local time; the mountains were bright in the east.

  Bowles put in, “No, Jim. There’s something there." Barnes turned. “Start sending!"

  Traub closed his key.

  The message was repeated, with listening in between, time after time. An arc of Earth slowly, terribly slowly, crept above the horizon. No answer came back, but they did not despair, so little of Earth was as yet in sight. Finally Barnes turned to Corley. “What does that look like, Doc? The part we can see, I mean."

  Corley peered at it. “Can
’t say. Too much cloud."

  “It looks like ocean. If so, we won’t get a jingle until it’s higher."

  Corley’s face slowly became horror struck. “What’s the matter?" demanded Barnes.

  “Good grief! I forgot to figure the attitude."

  “Huh?"

  Corley did not answer. He jumped to the desk, grabbed the Nautical Almanac, started scribbling, stopped, and drew a diagram of the positions of Earth, Sun, and Moon. On the circle representing the Earth he drew a line for the Greenwich meridian.

  Barnes leaned over him. “Why the panic?"

  “That is ocean, the Pacific Ocean." Bowles joined them. “What about it?"

  “Don’t you see? Earth turns to the east; America is moving away — already out of sight." Corley hurriedly consulted his earlier calculations. “Earth reaches maximum elevation in about, uh, four hours and eight minutes. Then it drops back."

  Traub pushed up an earphone. “Can’t you guys shut up?" he protested. “I’m trying to listen."

  Corley threw down his pencil. “It doesn’t matter, Mannie. You aren’t ever going to be in line-of-sight with NAA."

  “Huh? What did you say?"

  “The Earth is faced wrong. We’re seeing the Pacific Ocean now, then we’ll see Asia, Europe, and finally the Atlantic. By the time we should see the United States it will have dropped back of the mountains."

  “You mean I’m just wasting time?"

  “Keep sending, Mannie," Barnes said quietly, “and keep listening. You may pick up another station."

  Bowles shook his head. “Not likely."

  “Why not? Hawaii may still be in sight. The Pearl Harbor station is powerful."

  “Provided they have rigged a beam on us, same as NAA."

  “Well, keep trying, Mannie."

  Traub slipped his earphone back in place. Bowles went on, “It’s nothing to get excited about. We’ll be picked up anywhere." He chuckled. “Soviet stations will be listening to us shortly. They will be broadcasting denials at the same time stations in Australia are telling the world the truth."