by Hal Clement
JACK IMBRIANO hesitated, and frowned.
“It’s true that I don’t like him very much,” he admitted finally, “but I don’t think that’s what had given me the idea. It’s the whole set-up. He came back from a trip, which he’d made alone, well past our normal exploring range, with these specimens of lichen—or pseudo-lichen if you prefer. He had taken pictures of the site, but he says he took them after collecting the specimens, and the pictures certainly don’t show any of the plants. They hardly could, of course, since the plants themselves are so small. He objects to going back to the site to find more . . .”
“He didn’t object. I did,” Kinchen pointed out. “We have just so much working juice for ground travel, and Ingersoll used too much of it as it is. We could draw a little from the main tanks, but I don’t want to cut our return allowance too fine.”
“All right, you objected. But he also said there was no use going back, because he’d collected all he could find in the vicinity. That’s ridiculous, on several counts. First of all, they’re so small he couldn’t be sure he’d found all that were there, any more than you pick all the raspberries from a patch the first time through. Secondly, he shouldn’t have done it. Even a geologist leaves some of his material in site so that his work can be checked, as a standard working procedure. Under the circumstances, I want to go back to that region and hunt for more of what he found—if he found it.”
THE DIRECTOR pondered for a minute or so.
“Your point is well taken, but the fuel question remains,” he said at last. “We can do it, of course, though it means cancelling some other part of the program. Aren’t there any more checks you could make right here, first? How about the rock the stuff is attached to? Don’t lichens have some effect on the stuff they grow on—stick roots into it, and so on? How about checking that with the microscope.”
“Lichens don’t have true roots . . .”
“Stop quibbling. They keep from being blown and shaken off rocks and trees somehow.”
“You’re right—but these were growing on the dust layer, according to Ingersoll. He brought some of the dust with him, but it’s not possible to say whether or not it’s the original substrate of the plants.”
“Well, if, as you imply, he brought them from Earth with him, there should be traces of Terrestrial soil mixed in with the things. Can’t you identify that?”
“I can’t. We have geologists here, but who thought we’d need a soil specialist?”
“True enough. All right—how about this? Put some of the plants outside, and see whether they live, and grow. You say they’re alive now.”
“They seem to be—as nearly as one can tell with a lichen. There is protoplasm, or something like it, in their cells. And it shows streaming at times.”
“Then do what I suggest. Ask Ingersoll whether he found them in full sunlight or in shadow—so he can’t say you didn’t reproduce conditions properly—put them out for a few hours, and see what happens.”
“A few hours wouldn’t produce detectable change in one of our lichens. Most of them take years to do much growing, as I remember.”
KINCHEN chuckled. “I’m just an astronomer and ballistics engineer,” he said, “but I’ll bet that a few hours of this environment will do something detectable to any Terrestrial life form. If that thing is still alive, after a few hours outside, then it’s genuine—whether it shows any growth or not. I know people have talked for years about lichen-like growths being possible here, but I never heard a competent man say that actual Terrestrial lichens themselves could stand it. They’d be cooked, irradiated to death, and desiccated in a matter of minutes, and you’ll have a hard time convincing me otherwise. That’s why I doubt that Milt could possibly be trying a fake. He’d know there are too many easy ways to check on him.”
“Why would he know it? He’s just a geologist.”
“Why would I know it? I’m just an astronomer. I don’t see how anyone sharp enough to make a name for himself any one science can be completely ignorant of the rest.”
“But Ingersoll hasn’t made much of a name, even in his own profession.”
“Then how come he’s with us here?”
“How come I’m here? I passed a Civil Service exam.”
“Hmph.” Kinchen might have been impressed; it was hard to tell. “Get on with your check, anyway. If those things stay alive outside, I’ll authorize another trip to the place he found ‘em—where was it? Other side of Short, somewhere, didn’t he say?”
“Right.” Imbriano was already on his way down the hatch from the “main” deck.
At an observation port beside the main airlock there was a microphone, which was tied to the suit-frequency transmitter. The doctor snapped it on. “Milt? You read me?”
“Clear enough. What is it?” Ingersoll’s voice came back instantly.
“I was wondering whether you’d found these plants in sunlight or shadow. It’s a rather small sample, and it occurred to us that if we put some of them back outside—planted ‘em, you might say—we could grow more before we have to leave, and learn more about them at the same time:”
“I SEE.” THERE was a pause, and Imbriano wondered whether the other was pursing his lips in his usual pontifical manner when asked a question, or trying to decide what answer would suit the situation best. “They were in sunlight when I found them,” he said after a moment, “but I can’t remember whether they were in spots which had been out of shadow for long, or not. None of them was very far from some sort of shadow—but of course nothing is, in this part of the moon. It’s as rough on a small scale as it is on the large one of astronomical photographs.”
“That’s true.” The doctor was suspicious of the answer—it sounded like hedging to him. Of course, almost any other answer would have been equally suspicious, and Imbriano might have been broad-minded enough to admit this if someone had taxed him with the idea.
“Certainly they’d been in the sun for hours, anyway, and maybe days,” the voice from the radio resumed. “I guess your stunt is worth trying. From what little I know of lichens, though, they won’t do much in the few hours the ship will be in the sun. Remember, we came down just about south of the central peak of this crater, and we’ll be in its shadow before long.”
“That’s true. Well, the few hours will do for an initial test—maybe I’ll be able to find out how the plants keep from drying out in this pressure and temperature, anyway. I’ll be out shortly.”
Imbriano broke the connection without waiting for an answer, and went back to the main deck. The specimens were on the small table which served him for a laboratory. He had distributed them, together with the lunar dust which had been brought in with them, over several plastic Petri dishes. He glanced over these, picked up two which seemed to have healthy cultures in them, and carried them back down to the air-lock deck. There he suited up, tested his gear, picked up the dishes again, and went through the air-lock.
Getting down the ladder with his burden took some skill, the gripping attachments of the suits being what they were, but he managed it at last. Ingersoll’s suited form was fifty yards away, still working over one of the tractor-trailer combinations; he did not seem too interested in the doctor’s work. They exchanged a brief word over the suit radios, but the geologist did not leave his job.
IMBRIANO looked around for a suitable place to expose the specimens. The neighborhood of the ship was littered with gear which had accumulated during the five days of their stay so far. Some of it was apparatus which would have to be returned to Earth; some, like auxiliary fuel tanks, was doomed to stay on the moon. He thought of setting the dishes in sunlight on top of one of the tanks, where it could easily be found again; then he remembered that the radiation equilibrium temperature of the polished metal was a good deal higher than that of the lunar rock, and he would hardly be duplicating natural conditions.
He finally selected a spot about thirty yards north of the ship, a small open area floored with the omnipresent lu
nar dust, set the dishes down, and removed their covers. He watched them for a minute or two; they showed no visible change, and he finally turned back toward the ship. He was startled to find Ingersoll just behind him, though he certainly shouldn’t have expected to hear him coming.
“Hello, Milt,” he greeted the geologist. “Does that seem an adequate replica of their growing conditions? You said they were on dust when you found them.”
“That’s right. I don’t suppose the dishes will make any difference. Why did you have covers on them, before?”
“The general idea is to keep foreign spores from settling in a culture. I was reasonably careful about that, and of course there won’t be too many drifting around in the ship anyway—they’d have been cycled through the purifying plant too many times by now. I suppose that spores from the algae in the plant itself might be loose, but I don’t think the danger’s very great. Anyway, if your specimens have been contaminated, they’re getting well sterilized now.”
“How’s that?”
IMBRIANO gestured around them. “This environment. Temperature and pressure would combine to dry out any Earthly life form in minutes. Creatures which formed spores might have time to do so, but the spores would die of ultra-violet irradiation quickly enough—no Terrestrial life has natural immunity, as far as I know. Those of us who can take it do so by virtue of a relatively opaque protecting layer of dead tissue. That’s one thing which interests me enormously about your plants—they must obviously have some other protection, or else a genuine immunity to ultra-violet light. That’s why I want to grow more of them. There aren’t enough now to spare for experiment. They’re amazing enough things as it is.”
“How come?” Neither Ingersoll’s voice, nor the face which could be seen inside the helmet, seemed unduly perturbed by the information which the doctor was deliberately providing.
“How come? Because even though they’re adapted to the moon, they survived the pressure and oxygen concentration inside the ship. They were definitely alive when I examined them in there microscopically.”
“Hmm. That is funny, now that you mention it. How do you account for it?”
“I don’t yet. With more information, I suppose ideas will suggest themselves. I’ll bring one of these dishes in just before the shadow of that peak reaches us, half a day or so from now, and leave the other one out to cool down in the dark. I’ll settle on when to bring it in after I’ve examined the first one. That seems like a sensible program?”
“I’d say so. Let me know what you find out, will you? I’m a bit curious—after all, I found the things.”
“Don’t worry. It will be remembered to your credit.” The doctor wondered whether he had worded that answer badly, but Ingersoll gave no evidence of thinking the remark at all odd. He turned with Imbriano and started back toward the ship.
“Finished your work?” the doctor asked.
“Not yet. Can’t stay in a suit forever, though. It’ll be nice, to get back to a place where they can spare air for smoking.”
Imbriano chuckled. “It isn’t that we can’t spare it, but that the algae in the ‘fresher are too sensitive to tobacco smoke. If you really want fame, breed a variety with comparable photosynthetic efficiency which can stand a few impurities of that sort. The submarine boys will probably give you an honorary commission.” The conversation broke off here, as climbing the ladder to the air lock took too much of a man’s attention for other matters to intrude.
THE TWO reached the main deck together, so there was no opportunity for those already there to ask the questions they would have liked; but the doctor made the general situation clear easily enough.
“We put the dishes out in the sun, and I’ll bring in the first one just before the shadow gets here. Until then, I guess there’s nothing to be done.”
“Listen to him!” groaned one of the men. “Nothing to be done! Whoever planned this junket accounted for every minute of every man’s time—except, of course, that of the good old M. D. I see him sitting around a good deal.”
“You don’t look too occupied yourself, Tick,” retorted Imbriano. “That chair you’re in seems pretty comfortable.” This remark left him wide open, since all the “chairs” were bucket-seats fastened firmly to the frame of the rocket. The crewman ignored the opportunity, however.
“I’m sitting;” he said, “because it’s easier than standing while my suit tanks get charged. I brought in a trailer load of specimens half an hour ago. Al and someone else immediately refuelled the tractor and took it out again with a different trailer. As soon as my suit is ready and I’ve had a chance to digest the sandwich I just ate—I’ll get into my suit again and, with such help as I can get from anyone whose time isn’t planned, I’ll unload and catalogue the said specimens. If I should finish that before it’s time to sleep . . .”
“All right, you’ve made your point. I’ll help with your cataloguing, if it doesn’t take any more knowledge of mineralogy than I possess, and if no one develops a cold I have to treat in the meantime.”
“WHO’S BEEN sick so far? It’s disgusting, how some people get paid for their vacations. I’ll use your help. It doesn’t take any brains.”
The conversation wandered from that point, and both talk and labor bore little relation to the Ingersoll discovery for some hours afterward. Most of the time, the people were outside; all the work, or practically all of it, lay there. Even the physical measurements which did not actually demand samples of the moon were usually better made away from the metal of the hull. One man always remained aboard, as a safety measure, but this duty was taken in turn.
Tractors and trailers came and went; the trailer system permitted almost continuous use of the powered vehicles. The trailers were light affairs, having three pairs of very low-pressure balloon tires, with interchangeable bodies. They could be used for hauling equipment or specimens of virtually any sort; and of course at least one always carried “fuel”—working fluid for their nuclear turbines.
Theoretically, one tank of the fluid should last indefinitely, since the turbine exhaust was condensed and recycled; practically, there were always losses—the fluid was ordinary water, which was decomposed quite rapidly in the reactor. Also, occasional use of “emergency power” demanded a cycling rate greater than the condensers could always handle, since they could only get rid of heat by radiation. At such times automatic valves opened the condensers briefly to “outside”, and fluid would be lost. One trailer tank could usually be counted on for three or four hundred miles of ordinary travel, but no one took the figure too much for granted.
There were pairs of investigators radiating in all directions about the crater. The central peak was receiving particular attention; it was one of the highest on the moon, a peculiarity of Moretus, and central peaks in general were still being used as ammunition in the perpetual fight between the meteoriticists and the endogenecists over the question of Lunar crater origin. A topographic map of the crater, with five-foot contour intervals and complete geological information on what underlay the contours, was the group’s aim; while the mapping itself would not be done on the site, a fantastic amount of measuring had to be.
The photographic technicians had hardly been seen since the landing; they had been eating and sleeping in their laboratory, which had been set up in one of the used fuel tanks away from the ship.
As a result, not even Jack Imbriano gave a thought to the lichen specimens, or even to his ugly suspicion about Ingersoll, for a good many hours. When he did, the recollection was forced on him; the shadow of the mile-and-a-half-high central peak was nearing the pillar of the rocket, and most of the teams were coming in—the first time since the start of the project that so many had been in together. Recalling his plan for the plant specimens, the doctor suited up and went after them himself—he was not going to let anyone else touch them.
Unfortunately, he was a trifle late. It was a little hard to identify the remains of the Petri dishes and plants in the layer of dust
where they had been left, and which had subsequently been traversed by the treads of one of the tractors.
II
IMBRIANO stood and thought. True, he had not put up a flag, or issued any other general warning to the crews about his little experiment; that he had to admit. On the other hand, the spot was unusually close to the ship, and the changing of trailers was usually accomplished in one area a little distance away. It was not impossible—for an objective mind, it would not even have been unlikely—for a tractor to cross the spot, but Imbriano was suspicious. He raked through the dust once more, seeing a few fragments of plastic glint in the sunlight, but found nothing clearly recognizable as part of one of the plants; and with a frown behind the face plate of his helmet he turned and headed rapidly for the ladder.
On the main deck, six of the ten members of the expedition were waiting when he arrived. Most of them were unconcerned, enjoying one of the rare periods of relaxation—Tick Wesley had not been exaggerating about the constant occupation of the group. The missing three were a pair of petrologists who were “chasing” the shadow, trying to get measurements of any spalling effect from the quick cooling and heating as it passed, and the stratigrapher, Milton Ingersoll. Kinchen was watching the hatch, evidently for the doctor’s arrival; and the whole group fell silent at the expression on the newcomer’s face.
“What’s the matter, Doc? Someone catch cold and put you to work?” Detzel, fuel system expert who doubled as tractor operator while not in flight, put the question. Though only a few of the group had heard the doctor’s suspicions about the life discovery, he did not take time to explain in de tail, but addressed Kinchen directly.
“The specimens I had out are gone. Someone drove a tractor over the site.”
“Accidentally?”
