by Hal Clement
“I wouldn’t know. I’m afraid I didn’t mark it.” He went to the port overlooking the site of his misfortune, and pointed down to the tracks, clearly visible in the dust. “Does anyone here remember crossing that area—making those particular tracks—in the last twelve hours? Judging by their loneliness, it’s only happened once. I should think you’d remember.”
THE REST of the group crowded around the port, and one by one denied having driven over that spot. All of them were certain; all were able to describe their work of the last half day in sufficient detail to show that their memories were trustworthy. As the evidence came in, Imbriano glanced more and more grimly at Kinchen.
“I think Milt will have to do some explaining,” he said at last. “He knew that I put the stuff there—saw me do it, and talked to me about it. Where is he now?”
“I’d still go easy on demanding explanations, Doc,” the leader answered. “Remember, it’s his own discovery you’re accusing him of destroying, to put it at the very least. What you’re really claiming, I don’t like even to think. I admit that sort of thing has happened, but I still can’t believe that Milt could possibly be so—well, unbalanced, as to try it. Will you please be careful if you must discuss it with him? Or better, let me do it?”
Imbriano frowned. For a moment, he was on the verge of asking whether that were an order, but he was adult enough to realize that the question would not make matters any better.
“All right, Ray,” he said. “Please try to find out though. This business has wasted enough of our time already.” There was a faint chuckle phrase “our time,” and the doctor started to whirl around with a hot remark on his lips; but once again he got the better of his emotions, and said nothing. Kinchen tried to fill the awkward gap.
“Why don’t you put out a couple of more plates, while Milt’s away? He won’t know anything about it, and you can find some spot a little farther from the ship where accidents won’t happen.”
“All right.” The doctor stepped across the deck to the table which was considered his private domain, and then spun to face the others, fury showing plainly on his face.
“Unless someone has a really original sense of humor, there’s been another accident,” he remarked, keeping his voice under much better control than his features. “The dishes with the lichens are gone. I’ll be as objective as I can, to keep our good commander happy, so I’ll start by saying—this is far too serious for a joke, practical or otherwise. Did anyone borrow, or otherwise remove, from my table, here, six Petri dishes? Each containing some rather crumbly—looking bits of lichen?” There were no answers for a moment, then a collection of negatives. Imbriano looked at the commander. “How about it?”
KINCHEN was extremely uncomfortable. He had been uncomfortable ever since the doctor had first hinted at the possibility of a Piltdown on Ingersoll’s part. There was no point in delaying the issue by asking questions about opportunity; Ingersoll had served his turn on watch, alone in the ship, for more than an hour since the dishes had been set out. He could have done it. Why he should have was not quite so obvious. The astronomer thought for a moment, wishing as he did so that he been able to come as an astronomer rather than leader of men, which had never pretended to be. He finally began asking questions.
“How many of you heard directly from Milt of his discovery of plant life?” was his first question. The doctor started to say something, but closed his mouth again. Kinchen glanced at him. “I’m not changing the subject, or postponing the issue, Doc,” he added quietly. “How many, please?” Four hands went up.
“How about you, Al? Did you hear about it at all?” Kinchen asked the only one who had not responded—the doctor had made no move, but the answer was already known in his case.
“Bill told me,” Detzel answered. “I was asleep when Milt came in. I had the impression he was telling everyone, and had just missed me by chance.” The commander nodded.
“So we all knew it,” he said slowly. “Then Milton knew about Doc’s test, since Doc carefully told him. And he knew, furthermore, that the test would show up any Terrestrial organisms. If he were actually trying to pull a Piltdown, what would he do?”
“Destroy the evidence, first of all!” answered the doctor promptly. Kinchen looked at him thoughtfully.
“What good would that do?” he asked. “We all knew of the discovery. If we knew it was faked, then . . .”
“But, in a way, we don’t know—or, at least, you refuse to admit that it’s proved. And you’re right, of course. With the specimens gone, there’s no proof. We could never even make the charge.”
“IF THAT were all, I’d be quite relieved,” Kinchen replied. “However, if he had really done this, and then destroyed the specimens, the fact would be bound to come out among us almost immediately. Either he’d make no more mention of the discovery, which would be a confession in, itself, or . . .”
“Or he’d be as surprised and disappointed as anyone at the disappearance of the specimens, and insist that some enemy had done it to ruin his reputation. And how would we prove differently?” cut in Imbriano. Several pairs of eyes met as their owners considered this aspect of the matter.
The commander was silent for some moments. “I must admit I hope that’s what happens,” he said at length.
“Why, for goodness’ sake?” snapped the doctor.
“Because then I will simply send two or three pairs of searchers to the area where he claims to have made the find, and really cover it. If we find more similar specimens, well and good. Milt’s charge will have some stuffing—but personally I’d be inclined to keep the matter quiet. If we don’t, then we just keep quiet about the whole thing, and Milt is deprived of discovery rights. He can submit his report, but he’ll be taking his chances on belief, of course. What’s happened to the specimens is certainly unbelievable. That would get the whole thing out of my hands, where I’d much prefer it to be. If, on the other hand, he’s sufficiently unbalanced to feel that he’s given himself away completely to us—this is now assuming that he’s really guilty—I see two courses of action open to him.”
“And those are?”
“To kill himself, literally or figuratively—that is, actually destroy himself, or go back to Earth with no reputation, which I for one would find trouble doing—or kill us.” The last phrase came so abruptly that no one grasped it completely for several seconds. Then there was a babble of voices.
“He couldn’t” was the concensus which made itself most clearly heard after the first few seconds. With that comforting thought, the noise died down; but Kinchen shook his head slowly.
“YOU’RE wrong. He could. Any one of us could. Have you really failed to grasp how completely each of us has been depending on the others for his life? Each of us has been alone in the ship time and again. Each of us has been in complete charge of food, drink, air, and the transportation back to Earth. You know as well as I that one man could fly this bucket home. Take-off orders are already in the tape, the only variables of noticeable magnitude are due to libration, and those are small enough to be handled by remote control from the computers on Earth—as they were planned to be handled. Your need for me ended when we touched down here. This machine could be started for home at any minute, by any man, and make it.”
This point was digested in an even deadlier silence. This time no one looked at anybody else.
“I think that’s one possibility we’d better dispose of right now.” The quiet voice which broke the silence was that of Tick Wesley. “There are three obvious means of getting rid of us, granting that he wanted to. The food, the drink, and the air. Let’s check them. Doc, you’d better find whether any of your drugs are missing.”
“That won’t take long,” Imbriano answered. “Just a moment. You might as well hold off on the other checks. If there’s nothing missing, there’s not much he can have done to food or drink.”
The check of his medical supplies took a scant five minutes, and was encouraging. “All acc
ounted for,” he said at last. “Better check the air plant, though I don’t see what he could do about that without involving himself in the result.”
DETZEL and Wesley examined the intricate little pump-and-tank assembly—more intricate than seemed necessary at first, since it had to bubble air into water and get it out again in free fall as well as with weight to keep the liquid separate—but could find nothing. The lights were sound, the circuitry intact, the algae healthy. They returned with this news to the others.
“Then as far as we know, Milt is sincere,” Kinchen said with visible relief. “And I can’t believe he’d be idiotic enough to leave without taking care of us in some way, after what Doc told him . . .” Several of the others were shaking their heads; and he remembered. “That’s right. There’s still the path of straight denial open to him. But that’s all right—it’s the one I’d like best to have him take. Frankly, I’ll be happy as long as there’s reasonable chance of his innocence, no matter what unpleasant possibility that will imply about someone else. Let’s forget this for the moment and eat. The shadow will be past in a few hours—we’re pretty close to its tip—and there’s a lot of work to be done.”
“Ben and Hans are coming in with their tractor,” someone called from one of the ports. “Better get food ready for them, too. They’ll be hungry.”
“All right.” Frake, whose turn it was to get the meal, disappeared toward the galley, several decks below the air lock level.
“I still would like to know where Milt is and what he’s doing,” remarked Imbriano. “I thought it was customary to check with someone—no matter who—before going out, in the interest of safety.
Kinchen shrugged. “He didn’t, but he’s gone. That is, unless a gremlin made off with one of the tractors. He didn’t tell us on the other trip, either, remember. I nearly had heart failure when he didn’t turn up for fifty hours and I didn’t have the slightest notion which way to search. I suppose he’ll be back with another discovery.” The doctor glanced at him, but made no comment on this closing speech. Perhaps he might have, but he had no chance.
A VOICE came echoing up from the lower levels.
“Commander! Doc! Everyone! Come here!” The voice was that of Frake, and there was quite a jam at the hatch before the six men who rushed for it got themselves sorted out. Imbriano was first out of the tangle, Kinchen last. By the time the commander reached the galley deck, everyone else was staring at what Frake had to show. This, as it turned out, was practically nothing—a fact of some interest, since it should have been their food supply.
“We’re—we’re cleaned out!” Frake said. “There isn’t a day’s grub left, for the lot of us. How, and where, did it go?”
“Search the ship!” was Kinchen’s instant order.
“That will be a waste of time,” predicted he doctor. “He could have moved it out with no trouble at all. Instrument and data containers have been going in and out the airlock in a steady stream, practically all the time. None of us would notice the details of anyone else’s gear, any more than we notice in particular when someone takes off with a tractor to do his part of the job. We’ve been too busy to pay attention to other people.” There was no humor at the “We” this time.
“Make the search, anyway,” the commander repeated. “Everyone but Doc, and Al.” The others scattered, their faces serious; the two who remained with the astronomer were even grimmer.
“What is it, sir?” asked the engineer, when they were alone. “You wanted me for some special reason.”
“Yes, Al. Taking our food was pointless, unless something else was done, too. Remember we could get to Earth in a hundred hours. Check the power plant—every cubic centimeter of it that’s not too hot to be touched. I’ll bet you find something before the rest do,” he added rather grimly. Detzel nodded, and disappeared downward. Kinchen turned to Imbriano, and eyed him thoughtfully.
“As, you say, Doc, I’m a hard man to convince—or didn’t you quite get around to saying it? No matter. You seem to be right. Now we’ll have to figure out where he is, catch him . . .”
“Why catch him?”
“I’m sure it will turn out he’s taken some essential part of our flight equipment with him, to prevent our simply heading back for Earth and leaving him behind. I’ll admit he may be unbalanced, but I still can’t picture him as a moron. Wait and see—there’s not too much point chasing him until we know what we’re looking for.”
III
VERY LITTLE happened in the next hour. The two men who had been seen approaching came in, and were told of the state of affairs. They had nothing to contribute; they had seen neither Ingersoll nor the missing tractor. No trace was found of the missing food.
Neither of these facts surprised the commander in the least. One which aid, however, was Detzel’s failure to find anything whatever wrong with the reactor or any of its auxiliary gear. So far as he could tell, they could have strapped in and left the moon on ten minutes’ notice. Kinchen was slightly tempted to do it, but his eternal uncertainty kept him from acting. He thought for a while, then ordered the group to make a check on which trailers, and what kinds, had gone with the tractor presumably containing Ingersoll.
This was accomplished quickly enough, and the conclusion reached that the fellow must have made off with what amounted to a freight train. Four of the heavy-duty trailers had disappeared, in addition to the extra “fuel” carrier. It was easy to see where the food must have gone. It was less easy to see what, other than abandoning the man on moon, was to be done about it. The group gathered around Kinchen, hoping he’d come up with a decision but quite willing to express ideas of their own if asked. The commander did his own deciding, this time.
“We give twenty-four hours to a search for Milt, with the object of bringing him back if at all possible. We have just one tractor for the purpose. Those who don’t go on the search will wind up their various jobs as well as they can without long distance transportation. Volunteers for the search?”
“I’ll go!” Imbriano said emphatically. “I’ll probably be needed, anyway.”
“Maybe—though I hadn’t heard you were a psychiatrist. You’re probaby right about going, though. Let’s see . . .” he glanced over the raised hands. “Al and Bill, you go with Dr. Imbriano. Do your best to catch Milt without hurting him. It seems important to me that we find out whether this has been caused by something about the moon, whether or not you care about Milt himself. Try not to get yourselves hurt, and for Pete’s sake don’t get both tractors crippled a hundred miles from here. There must be a limit to how far a man can walk in a space suit, even on the moon, but I’d rather not collect data on just what it is right now. Al, before you could you turn up the heat a trifle? This ship is getting positively chilly.”
“It’s been that way for some time,” Frake remarked, “but I didn’t like to say anything.”
“What do you expect, in the shadow of a mountain on the moon?” Imbriano asked, with a slight trace of superiority in his tone.
“I’d expect to be cold,” Frake said calmly, “but your crack seems irrelevant. We’ve been in shadow only about ten minutes, and I’ve been cold longer than that. Maybe it was psychological.”
“Save it!” snapped Kinchen. “Al, run up the main thermostat as I asked. Then get suited up with Doc and Bill and get going.”
TWENTY minutes later, the tractor was rolling. There were two clues to follow; occasional tracks in. the dust, and the likelihood that Ingersoll would take his former course, which he had mapped and reported—truthfully, they hoped.
For some time, at least, the two sources of evidence agreed. It seemed likely that the fugitive would be forced to travel slowly, since he was carrying a long train of trailers. These would not only be a heavy load for his turbine, but might also prove a maneuvering problem if he got into any tight spots. If this proved not to be true, catching the fellow would probably be impossible; he had quite evidently taken an extra supply of turbine juice, using for the
purpose the only spare carrier adapted for the stuff. If the pursuers did not sight him before reaching their range limit, they were out of luck.
Sighting the other vehicle was also likely to be a problem. In full sunlight, of course, the metal would glint and be recognizable over vast distances; but in shadows, where the only illumination was reflected light from the surrounding peaks, the problem was different. They carried a snooper—an infra-red viewer intended to help map the crater in terms of equilibrium-temperature variations as a clue to dust depth and petrological differences, but its field was narrow. Detzel used it on every deep shadow they passed, while Frake drove and Imbriano used his eyes; but no sign of the other tractor appeared, except occasional tread marks.
THEY WERE heading south and a trifle east (not the selenographer’s east, but left of south) toward a spot where small crater breaks Moretus’ southern rim. Here, according to Ingersoll’s report, he had found a pass out of the walled plain which was possible for the tractors. The pursuers reached the area in a reasonable time, and found no difficulty in tracing the path, though there was no way of being sure, whether the tracks had been left on the original trip or only a few hours before. The driving was hard on the nerves; grades were steep along the way, and steeper to either side. They eventually reached the top, skirted the five-mile crater, made a last radio check with the ship, and were about to break line-of-sight contact with their friends when Kinchen suddenly interrupted Wesley’s routine acknowledgement of their call.
“Al!” his voice came through clearly, with no attempt to cover its owner’s anxiety. “We’ve found what was done to the ship. You may have to come back—listen. The upper manual safeties and the main tank were both opened—we can’t tell when—and left that way. We don’t know how much water we lost from evaporation, and we can’t get the valves closed. Any ideas?”
Detzel matched the microphone from the doctor, who had been handling communications.
