Corley looked up. “But I won’t get to talk to Hastings!"
Bowles said very gently: “As I said, that isn’t important in the long run."
Barnes said, “Stow it, Red. Don’t get downhearted, Doc — there is a good chance that some other station will beam us. Keep trying, Mannie."
“Will you guys please shut up?"
He did keep trying over and over again; in the intervals he listened, not only to the beam frequency of NAA, but all over the dial.
More than eight hours later the last faint arc of Earth had vanished. No one had thought to eat and Traub had not left his post for any purpose.
They went on preparing to leave, but their hearts were not in it. Corley stayed at his desk, except for snatches of sleep, trying to make up by effort for the lack of fine tools. He set the departure ahead to, give him more time.
The aching, cloudless lunar day wore on and the sun sank to the west. They planned to risk it just at sundown. It was admitted by Corley — and by Barnes, who checked his figures — that the situation theoretically did not permit success. By the book, they would rise, curve around the Moon, and approach the border where the fields of Earth and Moon balance — but they would never reach it; they would fall back and crash.
It was also agreed, by everyone, that it was better to die trying than to wait for death. Bowles suggested that they wait a month until next sight of Earth, but arithmetic shut off that chance; they would not starve; they would not die of thirst — they would suffocate.
Bowles took it serenely; Traub lay in his bunk or moved like a zombie. Corley was a gray-faced automaton, buried in figures. Barnes became increasingly irritable.
As a sop to Corley, Bowles made desultory readings on the instruments Corley had not had time to use. Among the chores was developing the films taken on the flight across the back face. It had been agreed to keep them, they weighed ounces only, and it was desirable to develop them to prevent fogging by stray radioactivity. Barnes assigned Traub the task, to keep him busy.
Traub worked in the airlock, it being the only darkroom. Presently he came poking his head up through the hatch. “Mr. Barnes?"
“Yes, Mannie?" Barnes noted with satisfaction that Traub showed his first touch of animation since his ordeal.
“See what you make of this." Traub handed him a negative. Barnes spread it against a port. “See those little round things? What are they?"
“Craters, I guess."
“No, these are craters. See the difference?"
Barnes tried to visualize what the negative would look like in positive. “What do you think?"
“Well, they look like hemispheres. Odd formation, huh?"
Barnes looked again. “Too damned odd," he said slowly. “Mannie, let’s have a print."
“There’s no print paper, is there?"
“You’re right; my error."
Bowles joined them. “What’s the curiosity? Moon maidens?"
Barnes showed him. “What do you make of those things?"
Bowles looked, and looked again. Finally he asked, “Mannie, how can we enlarge this?"
It took an hour to jury-rig a magic lantern, using a pilfered camera lens. They all gathered in the airlock and Traub switched on his improvised projector.
Bowles said, “Focus it, for cripes’ sake." Traub did so. The images of his “hemispheres" were reasonably distinct. They were six in number, arranged in a semicircle — and they were unnatural in appearance.
Barnes peered at them. “Red — you were a bit late when you claimed this planet."
Bowles said, “Hmmm —" Finally he emphatically added, “Constructions."
“Wait a minute," protested Corley. “They look artificial, but some very odd formations are natural."
“Look closer, Doc," Barnes advised. “There is no reasonable doubt. The question: were we a year or so late in claiming the Moon? Or millions of years?"
“Eh?"
“Those are pressure domes. Who built them? Moon people, long before history? Visiting Martians? Or Russians?"
Traub said, “Mr. Barnes — why not live Moon people?"
“What? Take a walk outside."
“I don’t see why not. As soon as I saw them I said, 'That’s where those flying saucers came from a while back."
“Mannie, there were no flying saucers. Don’t kid yourself."
Traub said, doggedly, “I knew a man who —"
“— saw one with his own eyes," Barnes finished. “Forget it. That’s our worry — there. They’re real. They show on film."
“Forget Martians, too," Bowles said gruffly, “and any long-dead Moon people."
“I take it you go for Russians?" Barnes commented. “I simply know that those films must be in the hands of military intelligence as soon as possible."
“Military intelligence? Ah, yes, on Earth — a lovely thought."
“Don’t be sarcastic. I mean it."
“So do I."
From willingness to die, his mission accomplished, Bowles became frantic to live, to get back. It made him bitter that he himself had insisted on landing — with all-important new evidence even then latent in the ship.
He sweated out a possible scheme to get the films back to Washington and seized a time when Traub was out of the ship to propose it to Barnes. “Jim — could you get this ship back by yourself?"
“What do you mean?"
“You checked the figures. One man might make it — if the ship were lightened by the other three."
Barnes looked angry. “Red, that’s nonsense."
“Ask the others."
“No!" Barnes added, “Four men came; four go back — or nobody does."
“Well, I can lighten ship, at least. That’s my privilege."
“Any more such talk and it’ll be your privilege to be strapped down till takeoff!"
Bowles took Barnes’ arm. “Those films have got to reach the Pentagon."
“Quit breathing in my face. We’ll make it if we can. Have you anything left to jettison?"
“Jim, this ship gets back if I have to drag it."
“Drag it, then. Answer my question."
“I’ve got the clothes I stand in — I’ll jettison them." Bowles looked around. “Jettison, he says. Jim Barnes, you call this ship stripped. Bye God, I’ll show you! Where’s that tool kit?"
“Traub just took it outside along with other stuff."
Bowles jumped to the microphone. “Mannie? Bring back the hacksaw; I need it!" He turned to Barnes. “I’ll show you how to strip ship. What’s that radio doing there? Useless as a third leg. Why do I need an autopilot display? Yours is enough. Doc — get up off that stool!"
Corley looked up from his closed world of figures. He had not even heard the row. “Eh? You called me?"
“Up off that stool — I’m going to unbolt it from the deck."
Corley looked puzzled. “Certainly, if you need it." He turned to Barnes. “Jim, these are the final figures."
Barnes was watching Bowles. “Hold the figures, Doc. We may make a few revisions."
Under the drive of Bowles’ will they stripped ship again, fighting against their deadline. Rations — all rations — men do not starve quickly. Radios. Duplicate instruments. Engineering instruments not utterly essential to blasting. The hot plate. Cupboards and doors, light fixtures and insulation; everything that could be hacksawed away or ripped out bodily. The ladder from control room to airlock — that was kicked outlast, with three space suits and the rope ladder.
Bowles found no way to get rid of the fourth pressure suit; he had to wear it to stay alive while he pushed out the last items — but he found a way to minimize even that. He removed the instrument belt, the back pack, the air bottles, the insulating shoes, and stood there, gasping the air left in the suit, while the lock cycled from “vacuum" to “pressure" for the last time.
Three hands reached down and pulled him through the hatch. “Stations!" Barnes snapped. “Stand by to blast!"
&nb
sp; They were waiting for the count off, when Traub reached up and touched Barnes’ arm. “Skipper?"
“Yes, Mannie?"
Traub looked to see if the other two were noticing; they were not. “Are we really going to make it?"
Barnes decided to be truthful. “Probably not." He glanced at Bowles; the Admiral’s features were sunken; his false teeth had gone with the rest. Barnes grinned warmly. “But we’re sure going to give it a try!"
The monument where the proud Luna once stood is pictured in every schoolroom. Many trips followed, some tragic, some not, before space transportation reached its present safe operation. The spaceways are paved with the bodies and glorious hopes of pioneers. With accomplishment of their dream some of the romance has gone out of space.
-Farquharson, Ibid., Hi: 423
The Year of the Jackpot
Galaxy Science Fiction, March 1952
Chapter One
At first Potiphar Breen did not notice the girl who was undressing.
She was standing at a bus stop only ten feet away. He was indoors but that would not have kept him from noticing; he was seated in a drugstore booth adjacent to the bus stop; there was nothing between Potiphar and the young lady but plate glass and an occasional pedestrian.
Nevertheless he did not look up when she began to peel. Propped up in front of him was a Los Angeles Times; beside it, still unopened, were the Herald-Express and the Daily News. He was scanning the newspaper carefully but the headline stories got only a passing glance. He noted the maximum and minimum temperatures in Brownsville, Texas and entered them in a neat black notebook; he did the same with the closing prices of three blue chips and two dogs on the New York Exchange, as well as the total number of shares. He then began a rapid sifting of minor news stories, from time to time entering briefs of them in his little book; the items he recorded seemed randomly unrelated-among them a publicity release in which Miss National Cottage Cheese Week announced that she intended to marry and have twelve children by a man who could prove that he had been a life-long vegetarian, a circumstantial but wildly unlikely flying saucer report, and a call for prayers for rain throughout Southern California.
Potiphar had just written down the names and addresses of three residents of Watts, California who had been miraculously healed at a tent meeting of the God-is-AII First Truth Brethren by the Reverend Dickie Bottomley, the eight-year-old evangelist, and was preparing to tackle the Herald-Express, when he glanced over his reading glasses and saw the amateur ecdysiast on the street comer outside. He stood up, placed his glasses in their case, folded the newspapers and put them carefully in his right coat pocket, counted out the exact amount of his check and added twenty-five cents. He then took his raincoat from a hook, placed it over his arm, and went outside.
By now the girl was practically down to the buff. It seemed to Potiphar Breen that she had quite a lot of buff. Nevertheless she had not pulled much of a house. The corner newsboy had stopped hawking his disasters and was grinning at her, and a mixed pair of transvestites who were apparently waiting for the bus had their eyes on her. None of the passers-by stopped. They glanced at her, then with the self-conscious indifference to the unusual of the true Southern Californian, they went on their various ways. The transvestites were frankly staring. The male member of the team wore a frilly feminine blouse but his skirt was a conservative Scottish kilt — his female companion wore a business suit and Homburg hat; she stared with lively interest.
As Breen approached the girl hung a scrap of nylon on the bus stop bench, then reached for her shoes. A police officer, looking hot and unhappy, crossed with the lights and came up to them. “Okay," he said in a tired voice, “that’ll be all, lady. Get them duds back on and clear out of here."
The female transvestite took a cigar out of her mouth. “Just," she said, “what business is it of yours, officer?" The cop turned to her. “Keep out of this!" He ran his eyes over her get up, that of her companion. “I ought to run both of you in, too."
The transvestite raised her eyebrows. “Arrest us for being clothed, arrest her for not being. I think I’m going to like this." She turned to the girl, who was standing still and saying nothing, as if she were puzzled by what was going on. “I’m a lawyer, dear." She pulled a card from her vest pocket. “If this uniformed Neanderthal persists in annoying you, I’ll be delighted to handle him."
The man in the kilt said, “Grace! Please!"
She shook him off. “Quiet, Norman — this is our business." She went on to the policeman, “Well? Call the wagon. In the meantime my client will answer no questions."
The official looked unhappy enough to cry and his face was getting dangerously red. Breen quietly stepped forward and slipped his raincoat around the shoulders of the girl. She looked startled and spoke for the first time. “Uh — thanks." She pulled the coat about her, cape fashion. The female attorney glanced at Breen then back to the cop. “Well, officer? Ready to arrest us?"
He shoved his face close to hers. “I ain’t going to give you the satisfaction!" He sighed and added, “Thanks, Mr. Breen — you know this lady?"
“I’ll take care of her. You can forget it, Kawonski."
“I sure hope so. If she’s with you, I’ll do just that. But get her out of here, Mr. Breen — please!"
The lawyer interrupted. “Just a moment — you’re interfering with my client."
Kawonski said, “Shut up, you! You heard Mr. Breen — she’s with him. Right, Mr. Breen?"
“Well yes. I’m a friend. I’ll take care of her."
The transvestite said suspiciously, “I didn’t hear her say that."
Her companion said, “Grace — please! There’s our bus."
“And I didn’t hear her say she was your client," the cop retorted. “You look like a —" His words were drowned out by the bus’s brakes, “— and besides that, if you don’t climb on that bus and get off my territory, I’ll … I’ll …"
“You’ll what?"
“Grace! We’ll miss our bus."
“Just a moment, Norman. Dear, is this man really a friend of yours? Are you with him?"
The girl looked uncertainly at Breen, then said in a low voice, “Uh, yes. That’s right."
“Well …" The lawyer’s companion pulled at her arm. She shoved her card into Breen’s hand and got on the bus; it pulled away.
Breen pocketed the card. Kawonski wiped his forehead.
“Why did you do it, lady?" he said peevishly.
The girl looked puzzled. “I … I don’t know."
“You hear that, Mr. Breen? That’s what they all say. And if you pull 'em in, there’s six more the next day. The Chief said —" He sighed. “The Chief said well, if I had arrested her like that female shyster wanted me to. I’d be out at a hundred and ninety-sixth and Ploughed Ground tomorrow morning, thinking about retirement. So get her out of here, will you?"
The girl said, “But —"
“No 'buts,’ lady. Just be glad a real gentleman like Mr. Breen is willing to help you." He gathered up her clothes, handed them to her. When she reached for them she again exposed an uncustomary amount of skin; Kawonski hastily gave them to Breen instead, who crowded them into his coat pockets.
She let Breen lead her to where his car was parked, got in and tucked the raincoat around her so that she was rather more dressed than a girl usually is. She looked at him. She saw a medium-sized and undistinguished man who was slipping down the wrong side of thirty-five and looked older. His eyes had that mild and slightly naked look of the habitual spectacles wearer who is not at the moment with glasses; his hair was gray at the temples and thin on top. His herringbone suit, black shoes, white shirt, and neat tie smacked more of the East than of California.
He saw a face which he classified as “pretty" and “wholesome" rather than “beautiful" and “glamorous," It was topped by a healthy mop of light brown hair. He set her age at twenty-five, give or take eighteen months. He smiled gently, climbed in without speaking and started his car.
He turned up Doheny Drive and east on Sunset. Near La Cienega he slowed down. “Feeling better?"
“Uh, I guess so. Mr. — 'Breen’?"
“Call me Potiphar. What’s your name? Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,"
“Me? I’m … I’m Meade Barstow."
“Thank you, Meade. Where do you want to go? Home?"
“I suppose so. I — Oh my no! I can’t go home like this." She clutched the coat tightly to her.
“Parents?"
“No. My landlady. She’d be shocked to death."
“Where, then?"
She thought. “Maybe we could stop at a filling station and I could sneak into the ladies’ room."
“Mmm … maybe. See here, Meade, my house is six blocks from here and has a garage entrance. You could get inside without being seen." He looked at her.
She stared back. “Potiphar you don’t look like a wolf?"
“Oh, but I am! The worst sort." He whistled and gnashed his teeth. “See? But Wednesday is my day off from it." She looked at him and dimpled. “Oh, well! I’d rather wrestle with you than with Mrs. Megeath. Let’s go."
He turned up into the hills. His bachelor diggings were one of the many little frame houses clinging like fungus to the brown slopes of the Santa Monica Mountains. The garage was notched into this hill; the house sat on it. He drove in, cut the ignition, and led her up a teetery inside stairway into the living room. “In there," he said, pointing. “Help yourself." He pulled her clothes out of his coat pockets and handed them to her.
She blushed and took them, disappeared into his bedroom. He heard her turn the key in the lock. He settled down in his easy chair, took out his notebook, and opened the Herald-Express.
He was finishing the Daily News and had added several notes to his collection when she came out. Her hair was neatly rolled; her face was restored; she had brushed most of the wrinkles out of her skirt. Her sweater was neither too tight nor deep cut, but it was pleasantly filled. She reminded him of well water and farm breakfasts.
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